Cuckoo (7 page)

He walked through a dirty corridor into a jungle of a kitchen. ‘Coffee or tea? Except there isn't any tea.'

‘Look, Mr Bradley, I make it a rule never to mix business with pleasure.'

The near-naked chest collapsed with laughter. ‘Do you know, I never knew people actually said things like that. Let alone laser-sharp girls with eyes like damn great sapphires. And I bet you don't take sugar.'

‘No.' Well at least it was a monosyllable. He was so relaxed and easy, he made her feel ridiculous. She was safe enough, really. There were people upstairs and it was still broad daylight.

He was searching for the coffee, which he found at last in an empty Campbell's soup can. ‘I had to pinch the jar for bait. Do you find you're always needing empty jars?'

‘No.' Another monosyllable. She was still keeping to the rules.

‘I suppose you're not a fisherman?'

Frances picked her way through an assortment of empty cardboard boxes. ‘Fisher
woman
. Or would it be fisherperson?'

Ned turned round and grabbed her arm. ‘Are you one? How absolutely incredible. Do you know, I only ever met one woman who fished, and I think she was pretending. To be a woman, I mean. Coarse or sea?'

‘I beg your pardon?'

‘Well, do you fish in rivers or in the wide open brine?'

‘I'm sorry to disappoint you, Mr Bradley, but I don't fish at all.'

‘Oh, just my luck. Why did you say you did, then? Never mind, I expect you're a scuba diver or a Black Belt, or something just as worthwhile. Black or white? Don't say white, until I've sussed out the milk situation.'

The kitchen clearly contravened the requirements of the Health and Safety Act. An overweight black cat was sitting in the larder gobbling the remnants of a greasy chicken carcass. The cooker was tangled with dangerous-looking wires, which trailed, unsheathed, across the dirty floor. Every surface was covered with what appeared to be the contents of a jumble sale – a broken bird cage, a tea-stained set of Shakespeare's tragedies, a left slipper, a right gumboot, a stack of broken 78s, and three-quarters of a bust of Cardinal Newman.

‘Sit down.' Ned cleared a space on a home-made pine bench. Frances sat, gingerly. A second cat sprang on to her lap, turned round three times and settled down with a sigh.

‘Rilke,' he announced. ‘I can't introduce you, as you've only got a surname and cats prefer people to have Christian names.'

She stroked the silky fur. At least he must be educated if he called a cat Rilke. One gold star – she couldn't grudge him that, and perhaps her Christian name as well.

‘Happy to meet you, Rilke,' she said. ‘I'm Frances.' The cat closed its eyes and purred.

‘Amazing what they do for a cat. It's like Jim, People go on their knees for Jim, reveal their whole life histories, lend him a fiver. Alas, I'm only human.'

If she grinned like that at everything he said, it would give him ideas. She pretended she was smiling at the cat, though she didn't much like cats. They were unhygienic and left hairs on your clothes. Still, she had to admit Rilke was rather a charmer, with his long swishy tail and appreciative purr.

‘My kingdom for a cup!' carolled Ned, searching the breadbin, but finding only a packet of mortar mix. ‘There's never a cup in this kitchen. Do you mind drinking out of a vase? You do mind. I can see it on your face. Right, a cup it shall be. Hold on a minute, I might have a mug in here.' He opened the fridge and Frances peered in, under his arm. It was almost empty, save for two or three glass jars. The coffee jars. Except they weren't coffee. Frances clutched her stomach.

‘There's something – er –
moving
in your fridge.'

‘Yes. King rag and Dungeness lug, that's all. Bait for the thirty-pound cod I plan to catch each week. I keep it cool in there.'

Frances stared into the cruel hooked mouth of a twelve-inch worm with a myriad little legs. A second worm was writhing in the sand at the bottom of its jar.

‘Look, Ned … (if she used his name, at least it would sound less rude). Please don't bother with the coffee. I never drink coffee after five, anyway.' She didn't want to offend him, but it was crazy risking some lethal disease – fish poisoning or dysentery – for the dubious benefit of a vaseful of Maxwell House.

He didn't look the least offended. ‘Tell you what, we'll have tea at the Poly. They flavour it with cyanide and have the cheek to charge 12p – and that's subsidized – but at least you get a mug. In fact you get a real cup and saucer, and I can see you're a cup-and-saucer girl. A matching cup-and-saucer girl, in fact.'

‘A Minton china matching cup-and-saucer girl.' It was quite a fun game to play and he laughed so nicely when she joined in.

‘Right, coffee cancelled, sheep reprieved. Cats fall out, Frances follow.'

He marched out of the kitchen into another, far less tangled room. She did follow, amazed at her own submission. The room was almost elegant, with its high moulded ceiling and dove-grey walls. In front of the sofa stood a flock of paper sheep, fleeces white and woolly, noses black and shiny. A large green cardboard tree soared above them, heavy with white lace blossom, and a Dresden shepherdess smirked through her frills, brandishing a gold-foil crook.

‘Oh, isn't it gorgeous!' Frances fell on her knees in front of it, caressing the curliest of the sheep.

‘'Course it is. I made it. Now wait a tick. It all folds into itself, for easy transportation, as they say in the blurb. Here, give me a hand with that tree, will you. It's losing half its leaves. Gently does it. I hope you've got a big car.'

Frances hardly heard him. She was still bewitched by his handiwork. ‘So you're an artist?' That would explain the shambles. Artists were always bohemians – it was one of Charles' rules.

‘Oh no, I'm not, my love. I'm a part-time lecturer in Media Studies, whatever those may be.'

‘Then how …?'

‘Oh, just a sideline. I've always loved making things. It's the Poly dance tonight – end of term rave-up. This is just part of the decorations. We're having a pastoral theme – green fields and dreaming spires, you know the sort of thing. The Poly's such a bloody ugly building, the poor deprived students have to invent their cardboard fantasies. Another bloke's bringing Morris dancers – plastic ones, of course.'

‘But it's perfect. And so beautifully made. You've really got talent.'

‘Thank you, I'll be blushing in a moment. Now perhaps you'll allow me to address you by your name?'

‘Well, I …'

‘Thanks, Frances. Nice name, it suits you. But what on earth are you doing, driving a mini-cab?'

She wished she knew herself. ‘Look, aren't you going to be late for this dance affair?'

Ned dismantled the shepherdess's crook and tucked it under one arm. ‘Horribly. I promised to be there hours ago, to fix this lot up. Not that they'll miss a few sheep. There are plenty of other lazy sods to help lay out the drinks. Hold on a tick, I suppose I'd better grab a jacket.'

She was glad to see the jacket matched the trousers. Rather unusual, a suit in pale blue corduroy. It would have looked better cleaned and pressed, but a man who was so clever with his hands could perhaps be forgiven for neglecting his clothes. Though the purple vest was definitely a disaster.

Ned wolf-whistled the car and settled himself in front. She couldn't object – the sheep needed every inch of grazing space at the back.

‘Know the way to the Poly?'

‘'Course.' It was back to monosyllables. She should definitely control herself if she'd started taking an interest in his vests. He talked enough for both of them and, somehow, he kept turning her monosyllables into jokes, and then she had either to laugh, or to defend herself, and either way she was using far more words than one. She was amazed when they reached Southmead. There was still a lot of traffic and it should have taken the best part of an hour, but they seemed to have arrived in seconds.

The building was long, low and so ugly, it was almost endearing; the foyer crowded with students who overflowed into the concrete garden outside.

‘Cash or account?' said Frances. It was high time she got back to a business-like approach, and back home, too, while she was about it.

‘Account? You must be joking! A penniless teacher like myself? I cadged a lift with a friend today, but he let me down, the swine. Medfield was only a very last resort. A lucky one, though, I must admit.' The greenish eyes had a deplorable knack of knifing right into her when she was off her guard. ‘And I shan't give you a tip, unless you help me with my sheep. You can park the car just here in front.'

‘Well, I can't be long. I …'

‘Ned! Thank Christ you've arrived. We're knee-deep in nymphs and shepherds, and not a bloody sheep to be seen.' A large, bearded man who looked like Christ's bigger brother almost capsized Ned with a friendly slap on the shoulder. Ned dropped the tree and showered himself with white lace apple-blossom.

‘Get off, you brute! And say hello to Frances.'

‘Who?'

‘Frances Parry something. She's a deep-sea angler, and incidentally the best woman driver I've ever met.'

‘Hi. I'm John.'

Nobody appeared to have a surname. Charles was most punctilious about introductions. Both names repeated twice, distinctly, plus a brief description of the person's job, interests and station in life. Well, Ned had done almost that, even if he'd got it all wrong. Another gold star. Somehow, she liked awarding him gold stars. She held on happily to two furry legs, while Ned and John manipulated the rest of the sheep through the door and up the staircase. They were assaulted by the wailing vibration of a group and vocalist, performing at the back of a large, dark hall, which was crowded with students and dizzy with revolving lights. Although it was early and still light outside, the party was full-blown. Paper flowers were festooned across the ceiling, and five and a half lopsidedly curvaceous dryads sprawled along one wall. A huge cardboard sun blazed in one corner, with golden paper streamers lurching from its centre, some already torn and trailing. John dodged a herd of dancers and a clump of polystyrene marigolds, and began to nail the sheep in place, just above the bar. Frances clung on to a woolly tail, while Ned made minor adjustments to the shepherdess's undergarments.

‘Great!' said John, standing back and surveying the pastoral idyll. ‘Absolutely great! I'm only sorry I couldn't come and fetch them. Car blew a gasket.'

‘I'm remarkably glad it did.' Ned's strange marbled eyes looked almost black in the darting light. ‘How a blown gasket led me to True Love. Read next week's enthralling instalment as the Ice Maiden of Richmond prepares to walk out in high dudgeon …'

He made it sound so ludicrous, she had to walk right back again, even smiled to show she hadn't meant it.

‘Have a drink before you go.'

‘Thanks. A gin and Italian.'

‘Sorry, love, it's warm beer or Algerian plonk in this hell-hole. But you do get a plastic glass. And they don't go in for lugworm.' This time, they grinned together.

‘Do you teach?' asked John. She could see he was trying to be civil, distracting her from the worst of Ned. She wasn't sure whether she wanted to be distracted.

‘No, I …' She broke off. It was all so confusing. What
did
she do, and who was she? She'd no business to be there at all, at this most peculiar party, where everyone was dressed alike in tattered blue jeans. In her and Charles' set, there were rules for party dressing, and if you were brave enough to resist the regulation dark suit or long skirt, the least you could do was to sport a velvet jacket or a kaftan and be classified as ‘arty'. Of course you owned blue jeans – they were regulation too, but expensive ones, kept clean and pressed, and worn only for a strictly defined period on Saturday mornings, after shopping and before golf.

This mob looked as if they'd slept in theirs, and their accents were so slovenly. In her day, students wore neat grey flannel trousers and respectable tweed jackets, and didn't sound like garage mechanics every time they opened their mouths.

‘Ned, I simply must get back …' Charles was phoning early with details of his return flight. She never missed his phone calls.

‘What? You'll have to shout.'

It was impossible to speak against the din, even more impossible to sneak away. She was interred in a cage of shrieking sound. Every time she tried to squeeze between the bars, the music closed her in tighter and tighter, so that she was trapped between flickering ceiling and vibrating floor.

‘Want to dance?'

‘No, I …'

Her voice was dashed to pieces by the drums. She was a tiny pebble pounded by thundering waves of music, waves coloured scarlet by the third glass of plonk which had somehow disappeared down her throat.

‘Come on, then.'

Ned dragged her into the centre of the room and she was suddenly part of the stamping, thumping harmony of blue jeans, hearing the music now from the inside out. Her arms and legs didn't know what to do with themselves – she was more accustomed to dancing the slow foxtrot at one of Charles' black-tie affairs. She was stiff like a piece of driftwood, stranded like flotsam thrown up by the tide. She envied the students now. However shabby, they were so much freer than she was. They weren't worried about ruining their Russell and Bromley patent leather shoes in the spilled beer on the floor, or agonizing because the assistant English lecturer split his infinitives. They just let go and poured themselves into their bodies. She glanced at the girl beside her – eyes closed, head thrown back, torso moving to some wild inner rhythm. Her partner was hurling himself from side to side, hands clapping, feet stamping, no spoilsport mind to tame or censor him. All around her were jostling bodies, setting up vibrations between them, like electric currents. Somehow she had to switch herself into them – turn off the harsh, glaring light in her head, and lose herself in the darkness.