Earthly Delights (5 page)

I love baths. I ran one and sprinkled in Body Shop bath milk with a liberal hand. No, with a generous hand. The
original meaning of that word has been lost. By the time I finished my eleven hour day I was always filthy. I lay there feeling like the Queen of Sheba. Dark blue dolphins danced along my frieze. Horatio sat on the edge. He balances beautifully. Vaughan Williams’ ‘The Lark Ascending’ was playing. Bliss.

The CD finished and I finally arose from the foam, dried myself and put on my favourite garment. It is a floor length house gown of heavy dark purple silk figured with chrysanthemums, the only present I ever liked or kept among those my ex-husband James brought back from his travels. Though I sort of regret throwing out those toys from the sex museum in Amsterdam. Who knows what that strange object did when filled with warm milk as the directions suggested? Probably nothing good. I loved this part of the day. With my Esky in one hand and my cat in the other, I ascended to the roof garden like a goddess.

The roof garden design has remained unaltered from the original, partly because when the building was unfashionable, someone had chained the entrance and the vandals didn’t know it was there. It has gazebos. It has pergolas. It has bowers. Horatio led the way to the rose bower, his favourite. I sat down on the wicker love-seat, concocted a gin and tonic from my Esky, added ice, and leaned back contentedly.

No one here, except Mrs Pemberthy and her little doggie, Traddles. I don’t like dogs very much. They have no self control. But Horatio had obligingly taught Mrs Pemberthy’s yappy little mop-dog a measure of healthy fear and he usually never came near us. Mr Pemberthy was talking to Trudi near the lilac trees. A light shower of rose petals fell down on my dress as a starling landed on the bower. Horatio watched interestedly. The starling eyed Horatio. I drank my gin and tonic.

The city was full of people who were working hard, and I wasn’t one of them. It is a lovely feeling. I closed my eyes for a moment. Horatio climbed onto my knee and curled up into a loaf shape, paws folded under. We drifted off into a light doze.

When we woke someone was kneeling in front of us. I jumped and spilled the drink and Horatio, in keeping his balance, stuck a few claws into me. Every cat owner knows that this is not malicious. Which doesn’t mean that it doesn’t hurt.

‘Sorry,’ apologised the kneeling person. I blinked myself awake. Trout pool eyes looked into mine.

‘Daniel? How did you get in?’

‘I met one of your girls, the one with green hair, in the street. She let me in and said you were up here. What a lovely place,’ he said.

‘Isn’t it? Would you like a drink? I’ve only got one glass,’ I said.

‘We can drink it sip for sip. You look very different in that gown,’ said Daniel, sitting down beside me and holding the glass while I poured the gin.

‘My ex brought it back from China. It’s my favourite dress.’

‘I can understand that.’ Had he stiffened a little when I said ‘ex’ ? I poured tonic and offered him first sip. He accepted. He sipped very neatly. His chin and jowl were darkened. I wondered how often he shaved.

‘I didn’t realise you had such unusual eyes,’ he said. ‘That’s the trouble with dawn, there are no colours. They’re grey, really grey. Sea-grey eyes,’ he said, handing me the glass. Our fingers met. I couldn’t think of anything to say. His fingertips were calloused, as though he worked at a manual trade. I didn’t know anything about him. But who cared? He began, ‘Would you—’ and just at that moment the starling dropped down to the grass, Horatio leapt off my knee and swiped at it and Mrs Pemberthy’s
bloody dog decided to join our little
conversatione
. The world was suddenly full of yapping (the dog), squawking (the starling), hissing (Horatio, who had quite lost his composure) and yelling (me and Mrs Pemberthy). It took some time to sort out the mêlée and after that the moment, if it was a moment, had passed. We sat down again. Horatio washed. I refilled the glass.

‘What brings you to Australia?’ I asked lamely enough.

‘I was born here,’ he said, taking a healthy swig of the drink. ‘I went back to Israel with my parents and joined the army, and then I came back here. I work on the Soup Run for fun. I’ve always been nocturnal.’

‘Like Horatio,’ I said, pointing out my fearless hunter, who was sitting with his back to us, washing in a very thorough fashion. One got the impression that Horatio would have blushed, if he hadn’t been a cat.

‘Cats and lovers love the dark,’ he said, which sounded like a proverb. ‘What about you? You didn’t start off as a baker, I can tell.’

‘How can you tell?’

‘Trade secret,’ he grinned. He had very white teeth. I still didn’t know anything about him.

‘What trade?’

‘That would be telling,’ said Daniel. ‘There, we’ve finished our drink. I’d better collect the bread and get going.’

‘Start by collecting the cat,’ I said, feeling frumpish and cross. Daniel went over to Horatio and said something, and Horatio climbed onto his shoulder and draped himself across the leather-clad neck. He looked like a very elaborate fur collar.

My apartment is called ‘Hebe’. It shows a rather curvy girl in a slipping tunic pouring out nectar for a series of reclining gods. The builder decided that the shop apartments should be
dedicated to the attendant gods. Thus we have the Pandamus family, who run the Cafe Delicious, living in Hestia, goddess of the hearth. The software company Nerds Inc live in Hephaestus, smith of the gods. And Meroe lives in—I swear—Leucothea, the white goddess, who is also called Hecate, Queen of Witches. She says it was Meant. With a capital letter. And it probably was.

I let Daniel in and went to my kitchen to fetch him the bag of bread. This was not how I had foreseen our next meeting. Also, I had stinging puncture wounds across my thighs from Horatio’s abrupt take-off. That cat can accelerate upwards like a Harrier jump-jet. I sat down heavily. I folded back the silk to inspect my wounds and Daniel came in, soft footed, and caught me.

He contemplated my half-naked state, drew in a breath, and went into the bathroom. When he returned he sat down on his heels and smoothed anti-sting into each little puncture. It was one of the sexiest things I had ever felt and I shivered.

‘You’re beautiful,’ he said. Then he stood up. ‘I must go,’ he said. ‘Can I come back tomorrow?’

‘For more bread?’ I asked. I let the dress fall and stood up before him. He was tall. My nose collided with his second shirt button. I smelt that elusive spice scent again. My body seemed to be magnetically attracted to him.

‘That too,’ he said cryptically, took the bread, and went.

‘Someone thinks I am beautiful,’ I told Horatio. He gave me a measuring look, went to his dish, and suggested dinner. That was another problem. I had to go to bed at eight or before. Did I have enough energy to get dressed and go down to Cafe Delicious for an early dinner of luncheon leftovers or was I going to settle for free range boiled eggs and toast soldiers? No contest.

I fed Horatio and the Mouse Police and ate my soldiers and eggs. They were very good. I read the
Wiccan Times
absently as I wondered about Daniel. He was gorgeous, yes. I was not, that also was true. But he had said that I was beautiful. He wouldn’t be saying that just because of the bread. I moved my thighs. I could still feel those warm, sure fingers shifting over my flesh. Flesh that was awake and alert and suggesting that there were lots of things we could do with Daniel that did not involve bread. I knew that. I told my flesh to pipe down until I could get Daniel into a space which did not contain anything other than human mammals, excluding all cats, birds and dogs, and read on.

This really was an odd newspaper. It had an article on Wiccan men which made them sound extremely desirable. There was the sacrificial consort, who seemed to be the summer king from Arthurian legend. One elected a monarch in spring and when the year began to fail, one killed him and got another next spring. I suppose it saved feeding him over the winter. Which made for a short reign but an extremely merry one, as the summer king would probably pollinate himself to a state of collapse if he was to die in autumn. Lot to be said for a willing sacrifice. I had already heard the definition of an ideal lover: one who turns into a pizza at three am. That sounded sacrificial to me.

There was Poseidon, god of the sea—we had an apartment called Neptune, the Roman form of Poseidon. Occupied by Jon, a travelling exec who only stayed a week or so, distributed strange sweets and trinkets marked, ie Made in Cambodia, and went off again. He worked for some aid agency and could tell riveting stories if you caught him between assignments. Kylie thought he was wonderful and had hopes of an affair, but whenever she steeled herself to seduce him, he wasn’t there. This
rather put a damper on the whole thing, but the article said that Neptune was cyclical and would be back with the tide. Then there was Pan, the old god, master of woods and darkness, father of goats. He sounded agreeably rustic and rather dangerous. But you always knew where to find him. Just follow the goats.

I finished my supper, cleared the table and read the last of the article with my nightcap, a cup of Ovaltine, the sleep drink of my childhood. Osiris, lord of the dead, father of occult wisdom, dark and mysterious, who came by night.

I closed the
Wiccan Times
and took myself off to bed. Horatio was already reposing next to my pillow. I have a bed big enough to sprawl in and I sprawled, stroking Horatio and thinking, as I fell asleep, that Osiris and Daniel might have had a lot to say to each other …

I didn’t wake until the alarm clock exploded at four am and the fans came on. In my sleep I had crooked an arm around Horatio and was holding him close. He was bearing this like a good cat but the moment I woke he removed himself and jumped down. My arm was stiff. I must have been hugging poor Horatio all night.

I got up and did my exercises. I do these when I wake up feeling stiff. I managed to get my elbow uncreased and restore the blood supply to the fingers which held the coffee cup. Then I put on my trackie and went down to start breakfast and the usual routine of the day. I had forgotten to keep any bread for myself so I ate biscuits and marmalade with my coffee and turned on the TV for company.

Not a good idea. All the international news was as bad as expected and I am, personally, sick of being stuck with a government which gives not one flying … er … fur for the opinions of the people. It’s not as if I voted for Mr Goodcardigan
(Leunig’s description) and his band of merry warriors. But he ignores me just as if I did.

Nothing like a healthy dose of mistrust to start the day off with a bang. I went downstairs moodily. I gathered the ingredients for my olive bread and set the mixer going. Heckle and Jeckyl arrived at their usual pace, shoulder to shoulder like players in that strange sort of American football where they wear armour. Gridiron, that was it. I checked the night’s harvest. Four mice and three rats; we might be getting the rat problem under control at last. I checked the cats over for rat bites, rewarded them, disposed of the corpses, washed my hands, and began making seed bread.

This is my secret recipe. You need seven kinds of seeds; I use kibbled wheat, oats, poppy seed, dill, fennel, caraway and coriander. It’s a basic rye bread dough and the extra seeds are poured in while it is mixing, so that they are evenly distributed. The final result is a dense, chewy bread studded with seeds and terribly good for you. Or so I am told. What I find attractive about it is the taste, which is divine, especially with blue cheese. But the proportions have to be exact. I measured and poured carefully. By the time the olive bread was coming out of the oven, the seed bread was ready to go in and I heaved a sigh of relief. The rest of it was easy. I did the usual pasta douro for the Greek restaurant, made double for the shop, and was peacefully mixing Health Loaf by six am. Then it was just the rye bread, which I can make in my sleep (and often have) and the muffins.

They are curiously easy to make and have largely replaced most other cakes in general consumption. Fashion is a strange thing. I used to have to throw my carrot cake into the pig bin, because although it was succulent and moist and had a very tasty yogurt icing, no one would buy it. Make the same
mixture into a muffin and the shelf would be bare by ten am. Odd. ‘No accounting for tastes, the old woman said when she kissed the cow’ as my grandmother used to say. Come to think of it, that was an odd thing for her to say …

Nearly done. I opened the door into Calico Alley very carefully, in case there was another junkie on my grate, but there was no one there. Heckle and Jekyll strolled out to sniff the air and perhaps walk along to the Japanese food bar, which often had scraps of fish left. Which they would donate to a poor hard-working feline if he sat there looking winsome enough. It is hard for Heckle to appear winsome, what with his street-fighter ‘I could beat you with a steam iron tied to my tail’ air, but for raw tuna, I have seen him manage it. I stood at the door, inhaling the dawn. Bakers see a lot of dawn. I was glad that I had changed my profession. I like sunrise.

The Japanese cafe rises early to get to the fish market. Kiko waved at me from there, putting out a plate of scrap fish on which Heckle and Jekyll dived as if they hadn’t been fed for a week. I don’t feed them fish more than twice a week, it isn’t good for them, but a treat is good for everyone. ‘A bit of what you fancy does you good.’ I was quoting Grandmother Chapman a lot this morning.

I was grateful to her because she had taken me in when my parents had finally taken leave of their senses. She had just come and collected me one night when I was five and they hadn’t tried to stop her. ‘You’re not fit to have a child!’ she had said. She was right. They had no idea how to look after a child. Grandma had to teach me how to use a knife and fork, how to wear shoes, how to switch on an electric light. My parents had believed in going back to the land, and that meant candles. And an earth-closet. Oh, that pit toilet, how it stank. And no shoes, even in winter. When I thought of them I only
remembered being cold, always cold. They were still in Nimbin and I devoutly hoped they stayed there. I was a great disappointment to them, which was fair enough, because they were a great disappointment to me.