Ladies From Hell (9 page)

The daylight faded, finally. The eyes of the Convolvulus King turned to darker spots of blue that glimmered and went out. In the dark, she reached stealthily for the can. Then she froze. There were strange sounds; shufflings, and a scrape. A light flared, became steady. She stared at the little flame, fascinated.

“It’s a nightlight, honey,” said the gentle voice. “Just a little candle. You seen one before, you must have. You just relax now, it ain’t going to hurt you none. And I’ll tell you some more about the dog. I bet you ain’t ever seen a dog …”

She listened to the voice, and to the crickets that chirred all round about, just as if nothing had happened. The Jugs still passed, rumbling; but in ones and twos now, with spaces in between. It was as quiet as the bank ever got. In time the candle flame seemed to fade. The light reduced itself, flaring and spangling; bars grew across her vision and she passed, without transition, into dreaming.

The dreams were varied and rich. She saw the stream again and the bridge that crossed it, the tall plants that grew along its banks. Later there was the garden with its beds of flowers, yellow and orange and red, a house that seemed filled with sunlight. In the house was the Warm One; her mind shied away from giving her another name. She clung to her skirts, laughing, while the Warm One clattered dishes at a high stove, its top a shiny black. Grass grew on the floor of the room in which she stood, even on the table top. She liked the grass; she wished it would grow up round the stove and coat it, make it spring with flowers. She stared up; and the grass had indeed spread, coating the dish rack with shaggy green. Worms dropped from it to wriggle among the burners, warming their pink skins by the thin blue flames. She laughed at them; then suddenly she became afraid. She began to scream; but more came, and more. They poured from the stove top; and she arched her body, fighting to get away. Hotness jetted from her; before she woke she knew she had wetted the bed. She screamed that she was sorry, she hadn’t meant it; and the Warm One came
to scoop her into her arms, stroke her hair and laugh. “It doesn’t
matter
, Baby,” she said. “It’s all right, it doesn’t
matter …
”

She opened her eyes. The mattress was soaked and nasty. She sat up, staring round. Her fingers twitched, but the big knife had gone.

The American girl smiled at her. “I put it away for you,” she said. “Which was just as well. Honey, you sure have had some night …”

She rubbed her face. There
was
the stove, just like in the dream, blue flames hissing under sizzling pans. But no grass grew round it. Instead a rich smell was in the shack. The American girl began scooping food onto shiny round plates. “I done my best with the fritters,” she said, “but your stockpile don’t give a sight of choice. These are mushrooms, honey. There’s millions, up by the old steak house. Don’t you ever pick ’em? I’ve known folk go a hundred miles, for a fresh field mushroom …” She walked across with a plate, set it down by the bed. The Rural huddled away; but the scent was overpowering. She grabbed, suddenly, cramming her mouth with the strange hot food; then she stopped. The American girl had seated herself cross-legged on a packing crate, a plate on her knee. Above the plate, regularly, moved a little bright stick. She watched it, fascinated; and the other paused. She said, “What’s the matter now, honey? What’s wrong?”

Almost it was as if the dream switched back on. She held her hand out, mewing; and the Warm One laughed. She said, “Sure you can, Babba. Look, Jack, look at that. She wants to be a grown-up girl …”

She blinked; and the American was standing staring quizzically down. She said, “You want to eat with a
fork
? OK, honey, you go right ahead. Here …” She held her arm out. The Rural pressed back against the wall; and she laughed. “Oh, no. You want it, you take it from me. Come on. I ain’t going to bite …”

The shiny stick poised tantalizingly in the air. She stared, at it and the plate; and her fingers went out and snatched. The American girl watched, fascinated. She said, “Honey, I just can’t figure you out …”

The thing was awkward at first; the food skidded away, the
plate all but overturned. Then it was as if an old, forgotten skill came from somewhere. She broke the food with the side of the tines, pressed with the points. A morsel came up, on the fork; and she transferred it to her mouth. She ate steadily, her eyes on the other’s face, till the plate was cleared.

The American watched closely, head on one side. She said, “Are you just copyin’? Or …” She shrugged. “Anyways, it don’t make no odds. As my old Prof used to say, ‘Build on what you’ve achieved …’” Very deliberately, she took a cloth from her pocket, damped it with a little water and wiped her mouth and chin. Then she walked forward, keeping a wary eye on the fork still gripped in the other’s fist, laid the cloth on the bunk edge. She turned her back, busying herself with the breakfast things; but she knew that, clumsily, the Rural followed suit.

The American poured water from a kettle into a bowl. “What we could use,” she said, “is a little soap. You got any soap?” She peered at the great mound of boxes and cartons that filled the back of the little place to head height. “What you got in there? Soap, I wouldn’t wonder. You just store anythin’, don’t you? Anythin’ that rolls down. Like the butane cylinders. You didn’t know what they were. But you fetched ’em in anyways.” She stacked the dishes beside the little stove. “You got any clothes here?” she said. “That thing you’re wearin’ ain’t fit to be seen. What’s left of it. Started out white, I shouldn’t wonder. Come to that, so did you …”

She put her hands on her hips, surveyed the tiny place critically. “You know,” she said, “this could be OK. Needs a scrub-out with carbolic, ain’t nothin’ else going to save it. But they pay for fishin’ shacks smaller’n this in the States. Needs a hammer, some nails, fix up that window … We’d be like bugs in a rug. Or maybe that is an unfortunate choice of phrase …”

She started hauling at the crates and bales, lifting them down, peering inside, setting them behind her in a growing stack against the wall. The Rural watched, baffled, from her bunk. “I guess you’re wonderin’ about me,” said the American girl. “Well, sometimes I get to wonderin’ about myself. I’ll tell you somethin’ now for a start. I could have killed you yesterday,
straight off. No bother, no fuss. Splat, just like that. ’Stead of talkin’ myself hoarse all day, losing most of a night’s sleep. Wanna know why I didn’t? You don’t? Well, you’re goin’ to anyways.” She yipped. She said, “Well, Goddam. Cigarettes. Gauloises too. How the Hell’d you come by
them
…” She tore a packet open, felt for her matches. “I guess they’ll burn like horse droppin’s,” she said laconically. “But a smoke’s a smoke …” She inhaled, critically, blew through her nostrils and shrugged. She said, “Well, I tasted worse …” She laid the cigarette down, and went on with her task. “Quick killin’s a lot better’n what
they
do,” she said. She nodded in the direction of the invisible but ever-audible embankment. “But I guess I just don’t have a taste for it. Leastways, not till I have to. Like the old guy and the dog. You know, I ain’t got a sight of brains; and I don’t go for no God-talk and such. But Hell, there’s you sittin’ up and takin’ notice, ’stead of layin’ out there stiff as a board, it’s like you come
back
to life. And we ain’t finished yet, we ain’t half-started …”

She took another drag on the cigarette, and narrowed her eyes. “You know,” she said, “sometimes I get to thinkin’. And you know what it’s like? It’s like everything we do, every little thing, all gets itself wrote down somewhere. First to last, right through. Don’t matter none, ain’t nobody goin’ to do anythin’ about it. Ain’t nobody there
to
do anythin’. But it’s all there, just the same. And we can’t none of us call it back. So if I can win somethin’, anythin’; even a little thing, something like you … well, that goes on the record as well. Sort of an eternal good act. It’ll still be there, come the next million years. Even though it don’t matter.” She glanced across at the Rural. “That make any sense to you? No? Well, I guess that’s OK too. It don’t make sense to me, most of the time …”

She wrenched up a box lid, began setting cans of meat and vegetables out beside the stove. “I guess I talk too much anyways,” she said. “Always was my trouble. Only you ain’t got no option but to listen …” She stubbed the cigarette. “It’s sort of like a philosophy I guess,” she said. “Shoulda done more of it at school. Saved myself a whole piece
of headwork later on. You know what a guy told me once? It was this idea I’d got, worked it out all for myself, about nobody ever really belongin’ to anybody else. You know, marryin’ and all that bein’ a phoney. And you know what he said? ‘That’s Plato,’ he said. ‘That’s straight outa the Republic …’ ‘Well Goddam,’ I said, ‘there just ain’t nothin’ new’ …” She turned the cans, approvingly. “These need usin’,” she said. “They’re gettin’ all rusty. Honey, for lunch we are going to have one hell of a stew …”

She turned back to her task. “Tried once on a time studyin’ Zen,” she said. “You know about Zen? The sound of one hand clappin’, all that stuff? But I guess you never come across that. It ain’t in your line …” She stopped what she was doing then, to stare at the Rural; and quite suddenly her eyes moistened and softened. “How the Hell should I know?” she whispered. “Maybe that’s all you hear. All day, and all night too …”

She shook herself briskly, took down another box. “And that’s what comes of philosophisin’,” she said. “End up scarin’ your own pants off. What the hell …” She drew from the box a tall, brightly-coloured can. She held it up, and began to laugh. “Aerosols,” she said. “What in tarnation did you make of
them
?” She fizzed, experimentally. “What shall we have?” she said. “Forest Flowers, or Summer Fragrance? Maybe even a breath of Pine …” She squirted round her in a vigorous arc. “Take more’n that,” she said. “All that’s doin’ is addin’
harmonics
. But I guess we can put it down as a gesture …”

By the time she called a halt the end of the little place was piled high with crates; and the Rural, intrigued, was no longer cringing by the wall. She was kneeling on the bunk edge, intently following every move.

The American girl opened tins, slopped their contents into a saucepan and picked up a small round plastic tub. “As I live and breathe,” she said. “Garlic salt … Honey, I just rechristened this place. The Crossways Hilton. How’s that? Sounds great, don’t it …”

The Rural’s nostrils widened at the scent from
the saucepan. She gazed at it longingly. The stranger had turned her back. She gauged the distance from the bunk, tensing. A quick dash, that was all that was needed. Just a quick dash …

The American girl swung round at the cry of pain, dropping into an odd little half-crouch. The other was pressed to the wall, eyes wild. Her knuckles were to her mouth; in her other hand was a jagged-edged tin.

The American relaxed, slowly. “Honey,” she said, “that was neither friendly nor smart. I could find it in myself to be disappointed in you …”

She crossed the shack, slowly, squatted down in front of the Rural. She said, “Give that thing here now, you don’t need it. And let’s see your hand …”

She was inside critical distance. The tin was raised, menacingly; and she extended her own hand, an inch at a time, palm flat. She said gently, “You did it yourself. I didn’t hurt you, was nothing to do with me. Stoves are hot, you know that now. Now come on, honey. Give it here. You ain’t going to do nothing with it. Just put it down …”

She reached for the tin, carefully. “And this,” she said, “is where I get carved but good. For which I shall have none but myself to blame …”

Her fingers touched the rim. She pulled, gently; and quite suddenly the Rural relinquished her grip. A strange expression crossed her face; she pressed her other hand to her mouth, eyes wide.

The American let her held breath go. She said, “That is a very, very good girl. Now come on, show me. Let’s see …”

Strange, to touch the Rural’s fingers. They were warm, and unexpectedly soft. The American girl drew the hand down, slowly. She said, “What, that bitty little mark? You been holdin’ out on me honey, ain’t nothing there at all.” She prolonged the contact, rubbing the grimy nails gently with her thumb. She said, “You sure do set up a howl over nothin’ …”

She drew away, finally. It seemed the other relinquished the grip reluctantly. “I guess,” she said, “we crossed a real big hurdle there. You ain’t scared no more now, are you? Not
any more …”

One of the valuables she had unearthed had been a small folding table. She set it up, placed a pair of crates beside it. “Now,” she said, “having got you off that stinking bunk, the aim’s goin’ to be to keep you off. That thing’s goin’ outside, but fast. You got enough blankets to make up a bed for the night. Least they’ll be clean …”

Once more, gently, she took the other’s hand. The Rural pulled back, resisting; then it seemed she understood what was required of her. She scrambled to her place; and the American wielded a ladle, placed a steaming dish in front of her. “Don’t go burnin’ yourself again,” she said. “Now, this thing here’s a spoon. It’s OK, you got one your side too. You just watch what I do, you’ll be OK …”

The other ate rapidly, her eyes under the matted tangle of hair flicking forward and back to the American’s face.

“I wonder how much you know?” said the American girl. “Just who you
really
are … I still reckon there’s something phoney about you, honey. Because you catch on too fast. You didn’t build this place for yourself though, that’s for sure …”

She pushed her own plate away, reached for cigarettes and matches. “
Do
you know what happened to you?” she said. “Do you know
anything
that happened? Dissolution of the Lords? Invitation to the TUC to send delegates to an Upper House? Eviction of foreign nationals, the Sterling Crash? The First Peoples’ War?”

The other made no response; and she shrugged and blew smoke. “Maybe that’s just as well too,” she said. “It’s all in the history books, honey. Only they ain’t been written yet …”