Trick or Treat Part 8

I helped myself to a large spoonful of the fairy salad. Marvellous. We kept eating until most of the food was gone and I was nibbling the end of the garlic bread. Meroe was sipping her austere gla.s.s of tap water.

'I never got around to looking up Exodus,' I said idly. 'There's quite a lot of Exodus. Can you give me a reference?'

'Twenty-six, I think,' she said. 'Or twenty-eight.'

I got the Bible and leafed through it, holding it at arm's length and squinting.

'Twenty-six is about the building of the temple. Goats' hair curtains, that would have kept out the heat and dust. And linen in purple, scarlet and blue.'

'The most expensive dyes,' said Meroe. 'Blue would have been woad or indigo, both of which had to come from very far away. Purple from conch sh.e.l.ls, traded with the Roman empire. And scarlet was probably madder.'

'Rough on the madder plant,' I observed.

'But a very beautiful colour,' said Meroe. 'The makers of the temple wanted the best for their G.o.d.'

'So they did. "A veil of blue and purple and scarlet and fine twined linen of cunning work: with cherubims shall it be made". Sounds like we'd need to ask Therese Webb how to embroider cherubim.'

'She'd know,' said Meroe comfortably. 'And she could probably find us twined linen. And her work is always cunning.'

'That's true.' I scanned further. 'Aha, here we are. "Thou shalt make a breastplate of judgment with cunning work . . . foursquare shall it be... and thou shalt set in it settings of stones, even four rows of stones: the first row shall be a sardius, a topaz, and a carbuncle: this shall be the first row. And the second row shall be an emerald, a sapphire, and a diamond. And the third row a ligure, an agate, and an amethyst. And the fourth row a beryl, and an onyx, and a jasper: and they shall be set in gold in their inclosings...and the stones shall be with the names of the children of Israel twelve... and thou shalt make upon the breastplate chains .. . and rings on the two ends . . ." Meroe! That sounds very like that flat jewelled plate that Barnabas had in his hands last night.'

'Had briefly in his hands,' she corrected me. 'Yes, it was an ephod. Part of a high priest's regalia.'

'And have you any idea what it was doing in the sea off Williamstown, Victoria, Australia?'

'Not a lot,' she said.

'What?' I was confused.

'I mean, I don't for a moment believe that it was there in the first place.'

'You suspect Barnabas of the old "the quickness of the hand deceives the eye"?'

'I do,' she said. 'Much as I am loath to accuse a fellow witch of chicanery, I feel that in this case...'

'Indeed. Anyone that big and jovial almost has to be up to something.'

'I shall investigate further tonight. Bella is already preparing.'

'Bella? Your cat? How is she preparing?' I asked, then wished I hadn't.

'She is entering her deepest trance state,' said Meroe, getting up and picking up her empty basket.

'You mean she's asleep?' I asked. My witch gave me her most inscrutable smile, compared to which the Mona Lisa's is a broad grin.

'You could call it that,' she said. She kissed me on the cheek and left.

I washed the dishes and put them away. I wiped the table. I finished my book and made myself a nice cup of Ovaltine, awarded Horatio a saucer of milk, and put myself to bed early.

It seemed the sensible thing. Whatever Meroe was doing, I wanted to be safely asleep before she did it.

And I slept all night without stirring and didn't wake up until eight am, scandalously late. And only then because someone was tapping on my door.

I stumbled out to open it. There was a delivery person, with a box to be signed for. I signed. When I brought it inside, it contained a note-'Corinna, sweet Slug-a-bed, how I adore you!'-and four fresh, hot croissants au naturel from the only French bakery left in Melbourne which can make them. Someone loved me...

I went to make coffee and find the cherry jam with a lighter heart than a woman who faced an empty day and a difficult evening engagement should expect. Breakfast was very pleasant. The croissants were so good that I ate two, saving the rest for lunch. Then I did a little housework; greeted, paid, and farewelled my grocery deliveryman, and put away the shopping. The Mouse Police, freed for the day from rodent operative duties, joined Horatio on my balcony for a little day-long snooze with breaks for grooming.

Sweet Slug-a-bed? Wasn't that one of those cavalier poets? I went to my bookcase to scan my prized collection of secondhand poets. The books were second-hand, not the poets, who were as fresh as the day they were born. Cheeky boys, all of them . . .

I found the reference. Robert Herrick. 'Corinna's going a-Maying': Get up, get up for shame, the Blooming Morne Upon her wings presents the G.o.d unshorne See how Aurora throwes her faire Fresh quilted colours through the aire: Get up, sweet-Slug-a-bed, and see The Dew-bespangling Herbe and Tree.

That sounded like good advice. I put on some clothes and went forth to the Flagstaff Gardens, found a tree with deep shade, and sat down to read my book and watch the people going past. It being Sat.u.r.day, there were a lot of children and dogs, but I could put up with some rough company for the pleasure of the sun, the open air, and the red and gold of the Flagstaff cannas, which almost hurt the eye and left orange after-images on the retina.

I walked back into the city and decided to buy my lunch at Uncle Solly's New York Deli. Solly was not there, but several of his charming nephews were. They bore a family resemblance: tall, slim, darkish, and very friendly.

'Corinna!' one hailed me. 'You looking for lunch? How about some of Solly's salt beef, fresh sliced, on a bagel, and maybe a little pickle or three?'

'Sounds good,' I agreed. 'Are you John?'

'You're confusing me with my cousin,' he said. 'I'm Yossi. How's Daniel?'

'Largely absent,' I said frankly. He looked concerned, which was nice of him.

'You don't have to worry about that Daniel,' he told me, handing over the bagel and adding a free extra pickle. 'He's all right. Just busy, is all. I bet.'

'I hope you're right,' I replied.

I took the bag, and went out. Back, this time, to Insula, where the roof garden had several lunchers. The rose bower was bursting into blossom with Cecile Brunner thornless pink flowers. I sat down with my paper bag near Therese Webb, who laid aside her tapestry to welcome me and pour me a cup of chai. She makes it with milk and sugar in the Indian manner and it's superb, rich and fruity and spicy.

'So how's Daniel?' she asked.

I was getting tired of the question. 'I don't know,' I said, as crossly as one can while drinking the questioner's chai.

'He didn't look well when I last saw him,' she explained.

'I'm dining with him tonight,' I answered, to deflect further enquiry. 'How's the tapestry business?'

'Doing well,' she said.

I felt a cool nose touch my hand. Carolus, the regal King Charles spaniel, was requesting a little of my salt beef. I detached a small piece. He ate it with condescension and returned to his cushion. He is not a greedy dog.

'Carolus, really,' said Therese. 'A dog with your lineage, for shame.'

'One small bit of salt beef in homage,' I said, stroking the silky ears. Carolus is exempt from my usual strictures on dogs. He is more like a feline than a canine, anyway. He is a perfect pet for a craft worker, being all colours of autumn and furred in the very best plush.

'Corinna, have you felt...well, odd, lately? In Insula?' asked Therese.

'Yes,' I said. 'As though there's someone watching. But all my bolts have been bolted and all my locks have been locked. I think it's the high magical ambiance that's making us uneasy. Meroe's got a hundred witchy relatives visiting.'

'I suppose that could be it,' she said doubtfully. 'Carolus always barks if there's someone at the door, and he hasn't barked, so...'

'There's no one there,' I said bracingly.

'And I keep hearing this little song,' she confessed.

'Wa.s.sail, wa.s.sail?'

'Yes, how did you know?'

'I've heard it too. Out in the alley, early in the morning. But when I look for the singer they aren't there. And I don't think it's supernatural. It's one of those acoustic effects you get in cities. I have no doubt that the singer is a human.'

'You've heard it too, that's a relief,' said Therese, picking up her tapestry. It was red waratahs on a green field, very eye-catching. 'I thought I was going mad.'

'If you are, I'm coming with you.'

'Always delighted to have your company, my dear,' she said comfortably. 'I was thinking of this for Cherie Holliday's room, what do you think?'

'She's still in love with pink,' I said. 'And going into interior design on her own account. It would suit the Prof's Roman couch, though.'

'And Nox would look very decorative asleep in the middle,' said Therese.

A tiny black kitten, Nox ruled the Professor with an iron paw, not even bothering to conceal it in a velvet glove. She had begun life in the roof garden where her mother Calico had dined on rats, then spent a distressing week in the air conditioning ducts, subsisting on condensation and mice. Once rescued, she had clearly formed the resolution that the rest of her life was to be lived in luxury and was enforcing this with an uncompromising view on cheap cat food and substandard accommodation. Which meant she ate only gourmet treats and slept under Professor Monk's chin, not in the padded cat bed which Meroe had lent him.

He, of course, loved it. He had bought her a little red harness into which she allowed him to strap her for her daily const.i.tutional in the garden. She had already given Mrs Pemberthy's rotten little doggie Traddles such a look when he came barking up to her that he had retreated behind his mistress's lisle-clad ankles and whined, while she shrieked at Professor Monk to call off his nasty cat. Nox was a familiar, like Belladonna, and such animals are formidable.

I wandered down to my apartment for a shower and to dress in nice clothes for Daniel's dinner. What to wear? I could not compete with long legs and curls. Finally I found loose black trousers, a white kurta, and a filmy cobweb drape which Therese had made of fine feathery thread in silver and purple. It had a tendency to shed but it looked beautiful. And after all, it wasn't going to be shedding in my house, but that grotty flat of Daniel's, which could do with some colour in the decor.

I found a bottle of cab sav, a wine suitable for any food, and one of white and loaded them into my backpack. I fed Horatio and the Mouse Police, watched the news, which was no worse than usual, watched the other news, which was even worse than usual and full of North Korea and snipers and climate change, and then I could delay no longer. I dragged my unwilling feet out into the lane and set off for Elizabeth Street and Georgiana Hope's dinner party. I didn't want to, but I went.

CHAPTER EIGHT.

Perhaps it might not be as bad as I feared. In fact, unless she stripped naked and ravished Daniel in front of my eyes, it couldn't be as bad as I feared. I climbed the stairs of the Buildings slowly, carrying my backpack with my two bottles of wine, moving like someone invited to the deathbed of a dear friend.

The office had been cleaned, but it still looked agreeably rumpled, as though Sam Spade had just clapped on his fedora and gone out with the mysterious woman diffusing a Parisian scent. The mysterious woman, however, emerged from the other room wearing, I swear, higher heels than last time, the tightest of blouses in lime satin, a simply schoolgirl grey bubble skirt and the first pair of seamed stockings I had seen since I caught Audrey Hepburn on the Late Late Late You Are Severely Insomniac Movie Show.

'Danny! Corry's here!' she called over her shoulder, not greeting me at once. 'And you said she wouldn't come!'

'Not so lucky,' I murmured, handing over my bag.

She peeked inside. 'Oh, Australian wine,' she said.

100.

101.

'This is Australia,' I replied firmly. 'This is your vin du pays, if you are staying.'

'Of course,' she said. 'Do come through. I'm just putting some finishing touches to the food. Danny can entertain you.'

'h.e.l.lo, Danny,' I said, not without a touch of malice. 'Why not entertain Corry by opening this bottle?'

'Why not?' he answered.

He had dressed up for the occasion, I saw, in the charcoal-grey shantung suit which Kepler had coaxed a Chinese tailor into making for him. The distressed artisan had complained the whole time that he did not have any patterns for giants, just ordinary sized men, but Kepler had persisted and Daniel was worth dressing. The Mandarin collar outlined his smooth throat and I had to fight down the urge to fling myself into his arms and kiss him so thoroughly that it might take weeks to reach his toes. I could tell that he was thinking the same thing. I began to blush. I touched his cheek.

'I miss you,' I whispered, which was not at all what I had been going to say. I forgot what I had been going to say, something sharp and modern and sa.s.sy, I have no doubt. Possibly even feisty.

His smile, which had warmed, warmed further and he reached out a hand to me just as Madame ankled back into the room and called us to the table.

Said table was laid with a new white cambric cloth. A new set of David Jones' pure white dishes, ditto Flatware new cutlery, Bistro One new gla.s.ses, and salt cellar and pepper grinder just out of the box from House. If Daniel was paying for all of this, she had set him back a couple of thousand dollars, which I didn't know that he had. I had never, in fact, asked about his finances. It didn't seem to be any of my business and it still didn't, so I sat down, opened my crisp white (new, double damask) napkin and said, 'Smells good!'

'I quite like your market,' she replied, 'but there's nowhere to match the Food Hall at Harrods, or even Sainsbury's, here,' she commented. I refrained from a shriek of outrage on behalf of Myer, David Jones and multiple remarkable food shops within easy staggering distance, because she was putting down a serving dish (new, white) full of prawns which looked like they'd had the same sort of day as I had: enough to make you curl up and lose your head. I took one. There was a dipping sauce which had a suspiciously familiar green tinge.

'Wasabi?' I asked. I looked at Daniel. He knows I can't stand the stuff. He shrugged.

'I'm sure you'll like this,' said Georgiana. 'There's only a little touch of wasabi in it. Do try,' she coaxed.

I tried. It was the same old wasabi, which exploded in my mouth and abolished my tastebuds. I m.u.f.fled my scream of pain and swallowed, mopped my streaming eyes, then ate the rest of the prawn naked. It had an odd, gra.s.sy taste.

'I've been having such fun with all these new spices-bush foods, they call them,' she informed me brightly. 'That one is lemon myrtle. Perhaps you might like the lillipilli or bush pepper ones better.'

I tried all three. They tasted foul. Bush spices are a condiment, not a food group. To be used sparingly. By the taste, I might have been chewing a branch. I wondered what to say but didn't need to comment, because Georgie was enthusing about the dear old dead days in London with Daniel, and Daniel was replying. He tried to drag me into the conversation, but every time I said something, Georgie would block me out again.

The second course was contained in a perfectly round 103.

white (new) cup: three broad beans, a measure of greenish stock and a dollop of something white which I took to be yogurt. I swallowed the soup. The white substance was not yogurt or sour cream but horseradish, which scalded my mouth afresh. I wasn't going to count this dinner as one of the great culinary delights of my life, I could tell.

I drank another gla.s.s of my good Otways sauvignon blanc and plotted dark poisonings. Georgie first, of course, but after that, how about the proprietor of Best Fresh? I still hadn't met him, her or them, and I really ought to go and say h.e.l.lo. All bakers together, after all. They couldn't be less amusing than Georgie's conversation about London galleries. Which I knew, as it happened, a lot better than she did.

The next course was salmon, which had clearly died hard before being undercooked, smothered in a sauce made of pesto and kiwi fruit and wrapped inside a banana leaf. Kiwi fruit and fish? Well, it might be delicious...

It wasn't. I noticed that this was clearly the slimmer's version of dinner. I had already put a ritual curse on the inventor of cuisine minceur, so I didn't need to do it again. Each tiny offering-three snow peas, three fanned leaves of radicchio, a transparent slice of fish-was laid with grave solemnity in the middle of a great big plate, as though that made them any bulkier. Or was this some comment on my weight? Surely even Georgiana Hope wasn't that cra.s.s. No potatoes, avocado, nothing starchy: no bread of any kind.

Then came a salad. In a sparrow's nest of leaves were three thin slices of rare steak. The dressing was a Thai concoction so hot that I had another gla.s.s of wine while trying to put out the fire. Meanwhile the conversation went on and I had had enough of it. 'No, it's in the Courtauld,' I said, rudely interrupting her discourse on Italian naive painting. 'It's the large marriage chest, in the third room. You'll recall that it has an icon of Christ Pancrator over the door? That room.'