Chapter 4 - Tuesday

A small nose was twitching in the undergrowth. Small paws were turning a crumb so that little teeth could gnaw at it. Miniature ears twitched back in response to a quiet noise. The noise stopped - all was silent. A flash of black fur and yellow claws and the small creature was gone. All that remained were a few stray hairs. For some, breakfast comes early.

* * *

Jack adjusted his tunic and pulled his green school jumper over the top. School had finished for the summer over a week before, but his parents did not have the foresight to send his clothes to the new house. Despite his small frame, at eight years old he was fiercely independent (with the exception of alcohol, on which he was wholly dependent). His round-framed eyeglasses magnified his chestnut eyes to frightening proportions and these he had now donned. Had he bothered to look in the dressing table mirror he would have seen that his bob-cut hair was dishevelled by sleep and his highlights had grown out by a good inch and a half, but it was the summer and he didn't have to worry about his appearance.
Preparations for his holidays had begun, as ever, in his absence. Whilst Jack had been studying for the end of term exams, his parents had decided to invest in a country house that was, in the parlance of estate agents, a "home improver's dream". Thus, in a series of hasty phone calls from airports on both sides of the Atlantic Ocean, Jack's mother informed him that his Aunt Hilary would be looking after him in the new house "which you're bound to love, Jackie darling."
Jack made his way downstairs, half hoping that his aunt was still asleep.

* * *

To Jack, the kitchen was much like the one in the staff wing of his school. He only had to root around in the cupboards until he had everything he needed for breakfast. Everything, that is, except for the knowledge of how to transform the ingredients into food. Eggs were easy though, weren't they? He'd start there. He hefted a large frying pan up onto the stove and pulled a chair over from the kitchen table. Right. What to do now? He cracked an egg on the outside of the pan and watched as the contents slid gracefully off the work surface and onto the floor. Obviously there was a knack to be acquired. After one more attempt he managed to get an egg, plus a few pieces of shell into the pan. Then there was the question of heat. He knew that that was an essential part of cooking and had only to figure out the controls. Luckily for all concerned, it was an electric stove and Jack had only to turn a few dials before something glowed red and he placed the pan above it. After what seemed like a long time the egg began to sizzle.

* * *

In the potting shed, beneath a pile of sacking, something stirred. It then rose up, coughed and spat into a corner. This something was known as Charlie. He raised himself to his feet and brushed the dust from his faded corduroys. Charlie was the gardener and this was his shed. When he was first engaged to look after the lawns and shrubberies he was a happily married young man with a house in the village. He would cycle to work early in the morning with a packed lunch strapped on his pannier. His life had been perfect - in his eyes at least. However, after an unpleasant incident in which his wife had called the police, he had been forced to move into the potting shed. His employers, if they had noticed, did not mind this change. He kept his bicycle clean and every day leant it against the wall in a different position - for the sake of appearance. His own appearance certainly showed a lack of feminine attention and his hair grew long and lank over his grimy collar. That he had not starved was thanks to the housemaid, who brought him the odd plate of lunch, and a small vegetable garden that he cultivated behind his shed, out of sight of the house. After the incident with the police he had become persona non grata in the village pub and so made do with a foul concoction distilled from fermented fruits, vegetables and sugar stolen from the kitchen. Whilst this in part made up for the lack of a toothbrush by sterilising his mouth, its flammability had claimed his eyebrows on more than one occasion. Now he only drank it by the light of his bicycle lamps.
Charlie stretched, to the sound of his joints clicking, and took up his pruning shears.

* * *

Hilary woke, showered, dressed in jeans and came downstairs to find her niece standing on a chair at the stove.
'Morning, dear.'
'Good morning, Aunty Hilary. Would you like some eggs?'
'Not just yet, thank you, Jackie.'
'I've made some coffee over there,' Jack pointed with an eggy spatula.
'Wonderful. You're a god-send.'
Hilary pursed her lips as she smelled the coffee and sat at the kitchen table.
'What are we going to do today, Aunty?'
'Don't call me Aunty. It's just Hilary, remember?'
'Okay... Hilary. What are we going to do today?'
'Well. We need to get this place looking decent.'
'More tidying up?'
'Yes. Sorry. And then we can drive into the village for milk and food.'
'And clothes.'
'Of course. Some new clothes for you. How could your parents send you here without any clothes?'
'Mother's not very good at organising things.'
She never has been, Hilary thought. After a brave effort to drink the undrinkable coffee, she took over the responsibility of cooking from Jackie.

* * *

The rest of the morning was spent in checking over the house and making sure that all was ship-shape. Hilary gave Jack instructions to “look out for dust and tell me if anything smells damp.” Jack took the opportunity to have a rummage around, but he found nothing of interest. At eleven o'clock Hilary deemed it time to venture into the village. With only a little apprehension she loaded Jack into the car and set off, map balanced on her knees.

* * *

Up in his attic study, surrounded by dust and pipe smoke, the professor adjusted his glasses upon his nose and tried to concentrate on his book. Whilst he was always used to the gentle murmur of conversations echoing up the chimney stack to his book-lined haven, things seemed to have got worse in the last few days. Too much noise altogether. And, to top it off, he could not remember the last time he had eaten. Pretty soon he was going to have to fetch some food for himself. Can you imagine? As though he did not have more important things to worry about. His research, the fruit of decades of detailed study, had been his sole preoccupation for so long now that he hardly gave thought to anything else. Washing, sleeping, nourishment - all these had taken a back seat. Particularly so, now that he could feel his work coming to its fruition. All the same, a somehow distant grumbling - which he took to be his stomach - kept pulling him back to matters of the body. He had a few bottles of Malvern water that Alice had brought up during a run of dry heat, but man was not built to run on water alone. Just give it a few more hours and then he would see what was keeping Alice.

* * *

Hilary turned off the engine and she and Jackie got out of the car. The village seemed quiet for a Tuesday morning. They seemed to have the street to themselves, apart from a cat that lay dozing on a bench. Overhead, the sky was filled with tall white clouds.
'Hold my hand, Jackie.'
They walked a short way up the road, past a row of houses, until they came to a newsagent's. Stepping inside felt like taking a trip back in time. The shop was like the one Hilary had visited as a child to buy sweets. The wall behind the counter was filled with jars of confectionery, the prices given in imperial measurements. The wall nearest the door had wooden racks going up to the ceiling holding magazines of every sort. Hopefully Jackie would not be able to see the ones on the top shelf.
'Can I help you?'
A shopkeeper had appeared behind the counter, looking sexless in a maroon apron.
'Good morning,' said Hilary, 'I was wondering: could you tell us if there's a clothes shop in the village?'
The shopkeeper paused, weighing possible answers. She settled on:
'Yes.'
'I need to buy a few things for my niece here.'
'It's further up the road here. Past the Mad Duchess.'
'Mad Duchess?'
'It's the pub. On the corner. You can't miss it.'
Sensing that they were over-staying their welcome, despite having only been in the shop for a few minutes, Hilary led Jackie outside. A breeze had started up outside and was blowing leaves along the road. Hilary and Jackie walked a short distance until they found the Mad Duchess pub with its bottle-glass windows and disturbing pub sign. The sign depicted a nightmarish woman with red eyes and a pointed chin. They crossed the road and went into "The Boutique".
Outside it was beginning to rain, but inside the little clothes shop the only sound that could be heard was coming from a small stereo system in the corner. Hilary wasn't sure if the music was reggae or hip-hop, but found it intrusive. At the till a young woman was reading a magazine and listening to a walkman - she hadn't looked up when they came in.
'Let's find you some clothes then, Jackie.'

* * *

Cruising along the motorway at a leisurely 80mph, Cynthia started to hum a tune, then - thinking better of it - slammed an old mix tape in the stereo. An outré blend of eurobeat and plainsong thumped out of the dashboard, she accelerated slightly as the Sun reached its zenith. On the vacant passenger seat a small suitcase vibrated in time with the engine. Ever since she decided, fifteen years previously, that she would rather be thin than happy, Cynthia's clothing requirements had been lightweight, if not modest. Within the small case were six summer dresses, all of which had been adjusted to accommodate her new breasts. Those at least were not a fashion accessory, but rather a compensation for the ravages of early middle-age. In the footwell, three pairs of designer heels knocked together. In the small compartment behind the two seats were her vanity case and a travelling typewriter - both Armani.
Her editors had been so understanding about her need for a holiday that Cynthia wondered if she would still have a job when she returned to the City. In any case she had too many useful friends to have to worry about such things. She had looks and brains. All she needed to succeed was a little luck.

* * *

Jack hated and feared clothes shops. Partly from the natural fear all children have of change (and getting changed), but also because, in his heart of hearts, he knew that he should be wearing trousers and t-shirts like all the other boys. His enforced gender-bending had begun when his parents hired a nanny to take care of him. Olga was Roumanian and Olga was insane. Pat and Ooma had not noticed this because they got her from an agency and never bother to interview. Olga had decided that Jack was Jackie and nothing could change her mind. Being a four year-old, Jack had not been in a position to argue. If his parents had had the time to notice that their son was being put into dresses and patent leather shoes, instead of shorts and trainers, then they wouldn't have hired Olga in the first place.
At first this was no big problem. The Victorians had dressed young boys in dresses and it never did them any harm. But, when Jack was old enough to attend school, his teachers had asked him about his clothes. The other pupils had asked him about his swimming costume.
'Let's see how you look in this.' Hilary was holding up a flowery dress.
'I don't like it.'
'Just try it on for me. Do you need any help putting it on?'
'No.'
Jack pulled the curtain in fromt up him and changed. Hilary stuck her head inside the booth and held out a pair of patent leather shoes. They had small silver buckles.
'Try these with it.'
Jack looked at his reflection and saw something out of Alice in Wonderland. He hated it.
'These shoes hurt and the dress is silly.'
'No it isn't. You look lovely.'
'My feet hurt.'
Hilary did her best impression of a shoe shop assistant and pressed at the shoes.
'There's plenty of room for your toes. You just need to break them in. Now. How about this?' She held out a paint of dungarees with a large butterfly embroidered on the pocket.
Jack sighed and drew the changing room curtain around him once more.

* * *

After Hilary had paid for the clothes they went to the mini-market over the road and stocked up on food. Hilary bought fish and a chicken and the other essentials. She also picked out some air fresheners. The only ones she could see all had unusual names, but smelled pungent enough to do the job. She chose one 'Summer Explosion,' one 'Winter Crust' and two of the type called 'Black Arabia.' Jack said they smelt funny and insisted that she bought a tub of ice cream. They carried the groceries outside where a few drops of rain were starting to darken the pavement.

* * *

It never failed to amaze Charlie just how much he enjoyed horticulture. Granted, the gardens had gone a little to seed of late, but they were Charlie's pride and joy. He was busy hoeing his vegetable patch when a cat sauntered out of the bushes and started rubbing itself against his legs.
'Oh, it's you again, is it?'
He leant down to stroke the cat, which redoubled its efforts to push its head into his calves. Looking up at the sky he could feel the rain coming on. He pulled up a few scrawny carrots from the patch and retired to his shed for lunch. It wasn't much of a meal, he reflected, hunched down on his sackcloth bedding. The sound of tyres on the gravel drive and a rhythmic thumping noise drew Charlie's attention away from his midday meal.

* * *

What me talkin' 'bout?
What me talkin' 'bout?
What me talkin' 'bout?
What me talkin' 'bout?
Jamaica!

Cynthia's car drew to a halt on the drive and she turned off the stereo. She had prepared herself for some disappointment as Ooma's bad taste was legendary. Including her taste in her family. Cynthia believed that you could choose both your friends and your family. This was just as well, as she had been forced to disown both in the past. However, the house seemed to be adequate: tall windows flanked by trellises (we'll ignore what's on them), a porticoed door. No garage, but then life is different out here. Fearing for the patent leather of her shoes, she crossed the gravel drive and opened the front door (she had given up knocking on doors aged twelve).
It was cool indoors, out of the sun, but smelled musty. The house was eerily quiet and without noise from inside or out. Cynthia shuddered at this and decided to make her own noise.
'Anybody home?'
She went back out to the car to fetch her sparse luggage and carried it up the stairs. She had been lucky not to arrive any later as the weather was starting to turn. How glad she was for little pieces of luck like that.

* * *

The rain had seemingly condensed out of nowhere and was coming down steadily in neat, vertical lines. Thunder was coming from a distance with its blue flashes barely visible in the daylight. The sun-roof was stuck open.
'Jackie? Cover your ears, dear. Covered? Good.'
Hilary swore a bloody oath, kicked the driver's side door and climbed into the puddled seat.
'Aunty Hilary? My bum's all wet.'
'Mine too, Jackie. And please don't call me "aunty," remember?'
Hilary revved the engine and drove out of the village as fast as she dared, the whole time feeling water drip onto her left shoulder. By the time that they got back to the house they were half-soaked.
'Whose car is that?'
Jack pointed to the dark green convertible sitting in the drive with its roof up.
'I don't know. John isn't due until tomorrow.'
'He might have come early.'
They got out of the car and gathered their new clothes from the back seat. Hilary opened the front door and the two of them stood, dripping in the hallway.
'What have we here?'
Cynthia appeared in the hall, smoking a cigarette. She extended her hand to Hilary.
'I'm Cynthia. Ooma's friend.'
Hilary shook hands, spreading the rain.
'You're both soaked. Let me get you some towels.'
Cynthia swished up the stairs.
'I guess that's your mummy's friend.'
'She's very pretty,' Jackie said as she took off her shoes.

* * *

'Ooma told me that she'd bought a pad in the country and so I've come to do a feature on rural living.'
'Really? Who for?'
'Oh, well, the highest bidder,' Ooma waved this away with a laugh, 'I mostly work freelance, but it'll end up wherever an editor has room for it. Most of my work has been for Jaune and London Mode.'
Hilary had heard of these magazines from the younger women at work, but had never bought them herself. She pretended that fashion was something that happened to beautiful people with stunted souls. Being confronted by the full force of Cynthia's blithe separation made her uncomfortable. They were in the living room; dry now and drinking tea. Cynthia had set her typewriter in the bay of the window, facing the garden. She sat sideways behind it, facing the others.
'This place is a bit of a tip, isn't it?' said Cynthia, recrossing her legs.
'You should have seen it before,' Jack butted in. 'There were cobwebs everywhere.'
'I dare say.'
'I suppose I better make a start on lunch,' Hilary said. 'Is pasta okay with you, Cynthia.'
'Oh, thank you. But no. I don't eat lunch.'
'Why not?' asked Jack.
'Because I don't want to be fat. I'll just sit here and see if I can get some work done.' She patted her typewriter.

* * *

The afternoon drifted by without incident. Hilary and Jack ate in silence in the kitchen and Cynthia smoked away at her typewriter. Hilary thought about asking Cynthia to help with the cleaning but couldn't find the right words. She and Jack mopped and scrubbed and eventually got the downstairs as clean as they were going to; as clean as it could get without hiring builders. Then Jack got out his paints and went in search of flowers in the garden. Hilary went to take a nap before dinner.

* * *

Dinner was a fairly subdued affair. Hilary poached three trout in white wine and served them with a tomato couscous. Jack complained about the fish's eyes, so Hilary took it back to the kitchen and removed the head for him. Cynthia pecked at the fish with her fork, but ate very little.
'Is John coming tomorrow?' Jack asked the table, concentrating on his food.
'John?' Cynthia asked.
'He's a friend of mine. More of an acquaintance, really. He'll be here tomorrow.'
'A bit of holiday romance?' Cynthia reached out and touched Hilary's shoulder. 'You are a dark horse.'
'Oh no. It's not that.' Hilary flustered, her face feeling hot.
'No need to be embarrassed. It sounds fun. What's he like?'
That was the last question Cynthia asked that evening. The rest of it was spent with her relating various tales of sexual escapades and high-society scandal, interspersed with unhelpful pieces of advice.
'I always wear Versace when I want to seduce a man. It's trashy, but not too trashy...
'You must get some scented candles, these air fresheners always smell a bit cheap...
'I accidentally flashed the hotel manager and ended up locked in my room with Belgian quintuplets. They just wouldn't take no for an answer...'
Hilary sent Jackie to bed before the monologue became too risqué and made her excuses not long after, whilst she still had some of her self-confidence left.
* * *