Earthly Delights Part 6

I left them to it, slas.h.i.+ng some baguettes to pieces and laying out b.u.t.ter, pickles, a packet of ham, some red English cheese and a bunch of Meroe's organic salad, the most delicious leaves in the world. She says that they aren't actually picked by the pixies and wafted to her shop on a pinch of fairy dust, they just taste like that. That was all I had in the fridge, apart from a couple of emergency frozen chicken b.r.e.a.s.t.s and a lot of cat food. I usually do the shopping on Sat.u.r.day. Daniel didn't seem to mind. He accepted a gla.s.s of chateau collapseau (rouge) and ate bread and cheese with what looked like relish.

Of course, I should have thought, anyone with a grandpa who talked about mitzvahs was probably not going to eat ham for lunch.

'I shouldn't have offered you ham,' I said. He raised his eyebrows. They were straight.

'You can offer whatever you wish,' he said. 'That just shows your generous heart. It is up to me whether I accept or refuse. In the case of ham, I refuse. In the case of ...'

He leaned forward and took my hand. He lifted it to his lips and kissed my work-worn knuckle very gently. I dragged in a deep breath.

Then my bell began to ring frantically, Horatio jumped onto Daniel's shoulder, Daniel let go of my hand and I swore.

's.h.i.+t! Now what?' I went into the parlour and pressed the intercom b.u.t.ton.

''S'me, Goss, you locked me out and you got my mobile, I need it,' said a fast, angry voice.

'Can't you do without it?' I demanded 'Spend a weekend without a mobile? Duh,' she sneered.

It was true. Goss was as wedded to her mobile phone-her whole social life revolved around it-as Tom was to Jerry, Marge to Homer, or Princess Leia to Han Solo.

'Go to the bakery door,' I sighed. 'I'll come and let you in.'

'Whatever,' she snarled, which meant 'yes, and this is all your fault for making me put the phone under the counter while the shop is open. If you let me carry it in my hand this would never have happened', which is quite a lot for one trisyllable to carry. It managed. I turned to look at Daniel and Horatio, who had come to the parlour door.

To my surprise, Daniel was laughing. He had a pleasant, infectious chuckle and I found myself laughing too, despite wondering how long it would take to wring Goss's neck and where I could conceal the body. Horatio, who would never allow himself to smile, seemed gently amused. Well, I hoped it kept fine for them.

I clattered down the stairs to the bakery, clean and sweet smelling, into the shop, unlocking as I went. I found the wretched phone and opened the bakery door to discover Goss jumping up and down with impatience. I thrust the phone into her hands and she clasped it to her bosom (such as it was) with a gesture that would have been considered overdrawn on 'The Bold and the Beautiful'.

'I might have missed a call!' she complained, giving me an accusing look. Then she saw Daniel behind me. Her mouth opened and I knew that she was about to make a declaration as to why I had shut her out of the shop. I reminded her that she had calls waiting, closed the door, and leaned on it.

Then I looked at Daniel and he looked at me and we started to laugh so hard that we ended up sitting on the steps, clutching each other and practically crying. Every time I started to regain some control he would make a most endearing snuffling noise and set me off again. We sat there for some time. Horatio, confronted with the essential irrationality of humans, had mounted to the parlour and was enveloped in slumber.

'We're alone,' said Daniel huskily.

'Alone at last,' I agreed. 'We had to resort to sitting on cold stone steps but we did it.'

'So before someone else rings the doorbell, calls out fire or reports a landing of Martians on the roof garden, I am going to kiss you,' he declared, and did.

He was strong and tasted spicy and his mouth was softer than silk. I had to pull away to draw breath. I was close enough to notice that his eyelashes were fringed and absurdly black. Beautiful Daniel. And with all the thin gorgeous girls in the world, he was kissing me.

And doing it d.a.m.n well. Important parts of me were melting when we finally drew apart. I could feel his handprints on my back. My whole body protested when I was no longer in contact with him.

'Well,' he said pleasantly. 'That settles that question.'

'Which question? You never asked a question,' I mumbled.

'Do you kiss as well as I thought you would?' he said. 'Not possible to answer without empirical data. Can we stop sitting on the steps now?'

'I think we should,' I said, and led the way upstairs to the parlour, beyond which was my bedroom with a bed quite big enough for two humans and Horatio ...

But now it came to it I couldn't. Not yet. I didn't know enough about him, just that I wanted him. I knew that I wanted him badly, but I hadn't had a lover since James and I split, and I had what was either a sudden failure of nerve or an attack of common sense.

Daniel sensed that I had backed off and just sat down with me on the sofa. It is a large overstuffed sofa and very comfortable, though after a few hours one has to be extracted from it by crane. He held out his arms again.

'Not rus.h.i.+ng into anything, ketschele,' he said quietly. 'I haven't had a lover since Sarah died and I don't even know if I can remember ...'

'How long ago?' I asked, snuggling back into his em-brace. His skin, under the s.h.i.+rt, was hot against my cheek. This man would have been in great demand in the cave during the Ice Age.

'Four years. A suicide bomber took her with him. InTel Aviv. I wasn't there and they wouldn't let me see her when I returned. Then I came back here. I like Australia. What about you?'

'Not since James. We split and I sort of lost confidence. And I was busy. Bakers don't keep disco hours, if I ever went to discos, which I didn't. I'm sorry about your wife.'

'I was only married a couple of months. We didn't ever get to know each other. It would have been nice, getting to know her,' he said.

I didn't reply but cuddled closer. This was the first real hug I had had since so long ago that I don't remember. Grandma Chapman hadn't gone in for physical affection much.

Presently we got up and finished lunch. Then Daniel went away and I put Horatio and me to bed for the rest of the afternoon. It had been an emotional day, and emotion makes me sleepy.

CHAPTER SEVEN.

On Sat.u.r.day morning I woke promptly at four and then did one of my favourite Sat.u.r.day things. I turned over and went straight back to sleep. Below, the city might wake and the Mouse Police pursue their avocation, but Horatio and I were fast asleep and firmly remained so until about ten am, when we felt that we had slept all that we could usefully sleep and got up in search of some breakfast and maybe a little look at a novel. I was giving up news for Lent. If it wasn't Lent, I was giving it up for Pa.s.sover. Or something. I had had enough of the world. It could go its way and I could go mine and we just wouldn't notice each other, like two cats on the same roof.

Besides, I had the grocery shopping to do, a little light housework to complete, and-eek!-clothes to choose for the evening. What on earth was I going to wear to dine at the Venetia with James? I'd ditched all my office clothes with cries of relief. A nice quiet suit with a flamboyant scarf or pashmina was the right thing to wear, and I didn't have them. I owned a good collection of t-s.h.i.+rts and track pants, and it was almost

87.

worth wearing them to the restaurant in order to catch the maitre d' as he fainted, but I am not a cruel woman.

First, the breakfast of apricot jam, cafe au lait and someone else's croissants (the French artisan boulangerie in Little Collins Street makes the best) and a few chapters of the newest Jade Forrester. Romances with a twist. She specialises in heroes who are small, blond and ugly, and she makes them desirable. There is a lot to be said for tall dark and handsome, however. The Mouse Police came upstairs for a conference with Horatio and they all adjourned to sleep in the sun on my balcony. Nothing is more soothing than watching cats sleep. I had a very comfortable morning.

I was hauling home the grocery shopping (cat food weighs a tonne. I have pointed this out to the cats and they are not at all grateful), thinking of Daniel and approaching my own front door when Meroe caught up to me and relieved me of a canvas bag. Before I dropped the lot. It's a matter of balance.

'What have you been buying? Lead shot?' she asked.

'Cans of Kitty Dins,' I said, opening the door. 'A couple of packets of kitty meat and a big box of dry food. The rest of the stuff is for me,' I added, stepping inside.

Then I skidded on something, dropped an armload of stuff, and landed hard on my backside. With the noise of my fall, or even before, all available cats had vanished with a whisking noise. I greatly admire the way that they are never there when anything happens. I recall watching Mistinguette, the aged grumpy grey cat who preceded Horatio, walking along the mantelpiece and deliberately edging a big mirror towards destruction-just because she felt like it (as I said, grumpy). I actually saw that mirror fall and when it hit the ground, the lounge room had shattered frame, shards of broken mirror and seven years' bad luck in it, but a complete absence of cat. She emerged later from the kitchen, claiming that she had been there all the time, waiting for her inefficient staff to bring her afternoon milk, and was far too old to climb mantelpieces even if she should wish to do so. Which she didn't. It was the most barefaced piece of cheek I had seen before or since, apart from the children overboard affair.

And that was politicians. I groaned, sat up, rubbed various parts of my anatomy and started to gather up my scattered shopping. Meroe, luckily, had the eggs, the milk and the frozen peas. Frozen peas spread like lava and you keep finding them only after they unfreeze.

What had I slipped on? I retrieved a tin of pineapple from under a chair and found it, a flat sheet of paper, which on my polished tiles had acted like an ice-skate.

'Prepare to meet thy doom, unchaste woman!' the paper said. 'Corinna Chapman, you must die!!'

I handed it to Meroe without a word. Now it was personal. And our very own pet lunatic knew where I lived. Meroe produced one which said 'Witches must burn! Prepare to die, Miriam Kaplan!!'

Meroe, my stalwart Meroe, was actually shaking. I had a cold hollow where my stomach used to be. Immediate measures had to be taken. It didn't matter that it was only four in the afternoon and the sun had not even approached the yardarm. I sat Meroe and me down in the kitchen, that ancient female refuge, and poured us both a large gla.s.s of brandy. And wonder of wonders, the woman who lectured me on my dull chakras lifted the gla.s.s and downed the spirit in one gulp.

'He knows where we live,' she said in her dark brown voice, coughing a little. 'And he knows my real name.'

'You're Miriam Kaplan?' I asked, coughing over my brandy in turn.

'I haven't been Miriam Kaplan for years and years,' she said. 'Twenty years, at least. Meroe is my craft name and I don't know anyone now who even knows that my name was Miriam. How did he find out? Who is this creep?'

'Maybe the curse will kick in,' I suggested, a little disconnected by the brandy.

'It has,' she said firmly. 'It's working. Everything he does will go amiss. Therefore these are clues which may lead to his undoing and we ought not be so scared.'

'I'm not feeling any better for hearing you say that,' I told her.

'But you're an unbeliever,' she answered gently, pouring another shot of brandy. 'I ought to have faith in my own karma,' she said, sipping rather than gulping. 'I do have faith,' she added. 'But I'm scared, all the same.'

'Hey, me too. Gimme that bottle.'

I put the groceries away. Routine is calming. Meroe and I began to talk about ordinary things, to give ourselves time to recover a little. I wondered aloud why the makers of the stoutest and most admirable cat food container made the cat food that Horatio will not eat. She wondered whether cats could be weaned onto a vegetarian diet and I riposted that this would merely cause them to regard their owner as either (1) a large carnivore who was meanly keeping all the meat for themselves or (2) dinner.

Horatio and the Mouse Police crept back into the kitchen, looking wary. Was I going to do that again, in which case this kitchen was no place for a delicately nurtured cat (or even those who had been dragged up in the gutter, like the Mouse Police)? If I was not intending to do that again, considerable cat food was required to a.s.suage the shock of seeing one hundred kilos of woman and shopping hitting the floor without warning. The Mouse Police rushed to Meroe with cries of greeting and allowed her to stroke their nibbled ears and their heaving flanks. Horatio levitated onto the table, sniffed my gla.s.s, curled a whisker and returned to the balcony, where the last rays of sun were still warming the tiles.

'We need to tell that police officer,' I said. 'We need to check with Mistress Dread in case she's got one too. And, oh G.o.d, what about Goss and Kylie?'

'I'll go and talk to them,' offered Meroe. 'You get Mistress Dread.'

'She gave me her mobile number, I'll ring her,' I said, unwilling to leave the bright kitchen with the sun on the balcony. Meroe went out and made me lock the door behind her. I rang Ms Dread and found that she had also received a letter though she was strangely unwilling to tell me about it. It sounded the same as ours, with escalating exclamation marks. Sure sign of an unhinged mind, my old English teacher used to say. Not a comforting thought at this juncture. Senior Constable White had been contacted and was expected soon, and told us to try not to handle the letters (some hope!) and to keep them in a plastic folder. I fetched one from my desk and slid both letters into it. Meroe's also had been slipped under her door without an envelope.

Meroe came back to tell me that both the girls were out but she had managed to slide their letter from under their door and with luck they would never know about it. I added it to the plastic sleeve. It said the same as ours: 'Gossamer Judge and Kylie Manners, you are unchaste temptresses, you will die!!!'

Three exclamation marks this time, and both full names. Meroe sipped some more. She had dropped her shawl and was staring into s.p.a.ce. Then she began to talk, without prompting.

The brandy was loosening my abstemious friend's tongue and she plunged straight into biography.

'I was born at the fairground in Geelong,' she said. 'My parents came from Poland. No one cared for us, everyone persecuted us, from Hitler onwards.'

'You're a gypsy?' I asked quietly.

'Half gypsy. My father rescued my mother from a border guard who was going to rape her. Her family was dead. She was trying to get out of Poland and that was frowned upon. He was an Australian aid worker. These Australians, they are everywhere. Walk into any pub in the world and there's an Australian behind the bar, my father said, nice blokes and good sheilas, work hard, and always go home. Boomerangs. They still call Australia home, eh? So my father came home with my mother and he tried to live like a gypsy but he couldn't, poor man. Too hard, too bare, too dirty. My mother really loved him so she went to try to live like an Aussie; too soft, too clean, too distant from the earth and the road which was always calling her. So they split and I lived half the year as a good little schoolgirl and half the year as a barefoot gypsy.'

'That must have been hard,' I said, wanting her to keep talking.

'Yes, but good. Most gypsies don't know another life, most Aussies don't either. I knew both so I could choose. And here I am. Neither. If you're a witch you have to find your path yourself; it isn't either your father's or your mother's. For me it was Wicca. I knew some of the old spells, some of the old rituals, I knew about tarot because a Romanian woman taught me to read cards when I was twelve. The old magic is self limiting, just a crude attempt to manipulate the world in accordance with will, as Crowley said. But Wicca isn't all that old. Gardner largely invented it in the nineteen twenties. It is wholly of the light. Some of Mamma's magic goes back a lot further than that, and some of her rituals belong to the dark.'

'And you belong to the light?' I asked.

'Not by preference,' she said, grinning suddenly with her white teeth. 'I am a daughter of darkness and I know I'd be good at the left-hand path, so I don't usually do it. I don't even do the small, mild curses which most Wiccans allow themselves. When I was mixing up Mamma's All Things Amiss spell, I could taste its potency, I knew that it was gaining power through me. It's still gaining power.'

'Good,' I told her. 'In this case I think you can make an exception. This guy has it coming.'

'So do lots of people,' she said, her gaze dropping to her hands clasped around the gla.s.s. 'I shouldn't have done it. I was afraid that this would happen. I'm really, really good at curses.'

'If I can give up smoking you can give up curses,' I said. 'I loved smoking. It was lovely. I'd pull the smoke down into my lungs and feel an instant effect; cleverer, more focused, less tired, less hungry. I still miss it and I don't do it, so neither will you.'

'You still have the occasional cigarette,' she told me.

'And you can do the occasional curse, when it would do most good,' I riposted. 'Now, are you going to tell the lady cop about the curse?'

'No,' said Meroe.

'Then let's talk about this stalker. He's got access to the building so it has now become officially serious. Let's a.n.a.lyse. He's using a lot of biblical quotes,' I began.

'Yes. A fundamentalist Christian, perhaps,' Meroe agreed.

'You could say the same of Savanarola,' I said.

'Yes, and he deserved a curse as well,' argued Meroe. I felt cheered. She must be feeling better about her dark side.

'And he hates all unchaste women and witches,' I said. 'So far it's just the unchaste and the occult, right?'

'a.s.suming that Mistress Dread is considered an unchaste woman.' Meroe sipped more brandy. I wondered how much she was going to drink and where I was going to store her while I went out to dinner. She would probably enjoy the couch and the cats would enjoy having a nice unconscious body to repose upon. But she still sounded perfectly coherent, while I was deciding to knock off the spirits or I wouldn't enjoy my very expensive dinner.

'Any more unchaste women in the building?'

'Mrs Pemberthy,' she suggested. We both went into what can only be described as a giggling fit about Mrs Pemberthy's chances of unchast.i.ty, especially since Traddles would take grave exception to anyone approaching her.

'Probably not,' I said.

'And so far all he has done is send letters,' said Meroe. 'We'll just have to keep the doors locked and stay alert.'

'And alarmed,' I agreed. 'But I need your advice on a far graver matter.'

'Which is?' she arched an eyebrow.

'What am I going to wear to dine at the Venetia tonight?' I wailed.

Having someone else sort through your wardrobe is always humiliating. She will find, for instance, your Robert Smith t-s.h.i.+rt, the three pairs of jeans with holes in the crotch, the lime green dress you unwisely thought might look less ghastly in sunlight, the red jacket which doesn't fit anymore but is nevertheless the very jacket in which you began university, the shabby black you wore during a brief period of being cool, and the b.u.t.tonless, zipperless, damaged clothing which lurks pathetically in the basket for me to have a sewing binge. Which I do every six months or so.

But Meroe was in a mellow mood and in any case not one of fas.h.i.+on's most notable victims. She sorted out a pair of respectable black trousers and flat black leather slippers, a kurta, still in its packet, which my mother had sent me for Solstice, and an outrageous purple chiffon wrap (with sequins) which I had found at an op shop and had meant to make into a cus.h.i.+on cover. I protested at the combination, but Meroe just told me to try it all on and it looked-well. It looked chic. I am not used to being chic. The Indian s.h.i.+rt was soft black cotton, not too hot, and it hung loosely over the trousers. It was a combination I would never have come up with in a thousand years.

But Meroe was not finished yet. She found me small silver earrings and dragged my hair up into a very sophisticated knot, secured with a silver slide which someone had brought back from Greece. Then she painted my face, very swiftly and surely, with such cosmetics as I had, and my eyes were dramatic and my mouth was purple and, really, I felt like Mistress Dread, someone masquerading as someone else. But it was perfect.