Sisteria (13 page)

‘Doing Norwich.'

‘I bet you were. The crap wigs scam moves on to East Anglia, then?'

‘Sorry, I am not understanding. I am doing Knowledge. Knowledge, Myel-vin. You know. To be cabbie. Every day I am driving round London on my moped - to learn routes. I think maybe I sell business. I make more money driving cab.'

Christ, why had he even bothered phoning? Vladimir had gone bust, hadn't he?

‘Thing is, in your country it's such bloody fucking big deal to become cabbie,' Vlad was saying. ‘My cousin Viktor - brilliant man, research chemist, you know - he is now driving a cab in New York. Making thousands of dollars. There it's no studying.'

‘Well, you see, Vlad, in this country we have this strange custom. We expect our cabbies to know the way. Bizarre, I know, but there you are. That's Brits for you. Now about the toupees...'

‘But in America it's simple,' Vlad was continuing. ‘If you don't know way, you ask passenger. On-the-job training, Myel-vin. On-the-job training. Much quicker. Much better...'

‘OK, fine. Whatever. Now, please, let's talk about these bleeding toupees you flogged me.'

‘Toupees? You have problem with toupees?'

‘Come on, cut the crap, Vlad. They're shedding. I've examined every one you sold me. You've only got to pick them up and the hair starts falling out.'

‘Funny,' Vladimir said, ‘I had no other complaints, but because it's you, my friend, I take your word. Listen, Myel-vin, it's no problem. I return your money.'

‘You will?' Melvin said, utterly gobsmacked.

‘Sure I will. I run my business like your Marks and Sparksers. You don't like what you buy. I give you cash refund. Simple. I'll be round in Impala in half an hour with your money.'

‘You will?' Melvin said again.

‘Of course, my friend. Myel-vin, we've known each other since we were students. You think I would cheat you?'

‘No, no. Of course not, Vladimir,' Melvin blustered. ‘Thought never crossed my mind.'

‘Right then. I'll be with you in a few minutes.' He paused for a couple of beats. ‘Unless of course you would like me to let you in on ground floor of amazing new deal.'

‘No thanks, Vlad, really. The money will be fine.'

‘But hear me out. Just hear me out.'

‘Vlad, honestly,' Melvin said, ‘I just want the money back. I need it urgently, you see. Personal reasons.'

‘You got bad debts? Trouble with loan sharks, maybe? Listen, I get Russian Mafia to put on the scarers, yes?'

“That's frighteners, Vlad. Thanks for the offer, but I'm OK really. It's nothing like that.'

‘OK, if you're sure. But listen, my friend, I have way you could turn five thousand into a hundred thousand in a matter of weeks.'

‘Oh God, Vlad, no more dodgy deals,' Melvin said with a sigh. ‘Just let me have the money. Please.'

‘OK, if you're sure.'

‘I'm sure,' he said categorically.

‘You sure, you're sure? 'Cos I got plenty of people who would kill to get in on this.'

‘OK, so what is it this time?'

‘Don't mock, Myel-vin. I tell you. I have just pulled off tip-top secret deal.' Vladimir lowered his voice.

‘OK, go on,' Melvin said with weary suspicion. ‘Let me have it.'

‘Well, for Mir - you know, Russian space station - they have just developed this new anti-snoring device...'

‘Anti-snoring device,' Melvin repeated, barely concealing his contempt. ‘For Mir?'

‘Ssh, don't say too much. We don't know who might be listening. The Americans are very interested in it. Snoring was big problem on space station. Three men sleeping in confined space. At night, they all keep each other awake. But not now. Now they have the cure.'

‘The cure,' Melvin repeated, distinctly underwhelmed.

‘Myel-vin, believe me. According to my contact Professor Sergei Kalashnikov of Novosibirsk Sleep Research Institute, this incredible invention is about to become big news. And since many years ago we are in Party together, and we have a few little deals then, now I have the world exclusive rights to new device.'

‘So if you've got this amazing deal, how come you're doing the Knowledge?'

‘Back-up plan, Myel-vin. In Red Army, we always taught must have back-up plan.'

‘So, how do they work, these things?' Despite himself, Melvin was becoming interested.

‘Nobody knows. It's tip-top secret. All Sergei would tell me is that they fit inside the ear. Sounds crazy, I know. But apparently they are the donkey's bollocks, Myel-vin. Donkey's bollocks.'

‘Dog's bollocks.'

‘I'm sorry. My English. Anyway, I can do a special deal just for you to say sorry for the toupees and because I don't like to let you down. What do you say?'

‘Thanks, Vlad, but I don't think so,' Melvin said, scratching under his chin.

‘Listen. You take out huge advertisements in all the top-notch classy papers. You know, the
Economist
,
Newsweek
, the
Exchange and Mart
. “End to snoring guaranteed,” you say. “Money back if old lady still kick you out of bed.” I tell you, every man in the country will buy one.'

Melvin thought for a minute. He could just feel himself caving in. The anti-snoring devices were, he thought, probably a wiser bet than putting the five grand on a horse. Though with Ylad the Impala's track record of supplying duff merchandise, there couldn't be much in it.

‘I must be mad - totally stark staring bloody mad. OK, I'll give you one chance to make amends. I'll buy five grand's worth - if you agree to split the advertising cost with me.'

‘Done. It's deal, my friend,' Vladimir shot back, sounding, Melvin thought, a tad too eager for comfort.

‘I'll be round with a hundred gross in half an hour,' Vladimir went on. ‘You won't regret this, Myel-vin, I promise.'

***

The moment Rochelle left, Beverley stood by the front door, prodded her stomach and grimaced. So much for her sodding diet. Because she'd wanted to give it a chance to work, she'd resisted weighing herself for more than two weeks, but she could hold out no longer. The time had come.

She went to the deep freeze, took out the bathroom scales and put them on the floor. Using her big toe, she kicked the still frosty electronic mechanism underneath the front of the scales and waited for the row of brightly lit zeros to appear. As usual they came to life a little sluggishly, as the mechanism recovered from its polar storage conditions.

After a couple of seconds she took a deep breath and looked. Nine stone eleven. Nine stone bloody eleven.

Naked she'd be nearer nine eight. Yes! Joy shot through Beverley like squid ink through water. The diet, combined with Naomi having walked back into her life and promptly turned it upside down, was clearly causing the pounds to drop off. She patted her stomach. It seemed quite flat all of a sudden. What could have possessed her to think she'd put on weight?

Beverley picked up the scales and virtually skipped back to the deep freeze.

‘Beverley, what on earth are you doing?'

She swung round to see her mother coming into the kitchen.

‘Oh, hi, Mum. You startled me. I wasn't expecting you back till this evening… What do you mean, what am I doing?'

‘The scales. Darling, you're putting a pair of bathroom scales in the deep freeze.'

‘I am? Oh, God. So I am.' She had to come up with an explanation fast. ‘I... er... I just made a cheesecake - that's it - and I was about to freeze half of it. Must have picked up the scales by mistake.'

‘Beverley, tell me, how could you have thought the scales were cheesecake?'

‘I didn't think they were cheesecake,' Beverley said defensively. ‘I've got a lot on my mind just now and I made a mistake, that's all.'

She came over to the breakfast bar with the scales and sat down.

‘So, Millie's better, is she?'

‘Much. She'll be back at the day centre next week.'

‘Great.'

‘That's how mine started, you know, Bev - with bouts of confusion.'

Queenie checked there was water in the kettle and switched it on.

‘Sorry?' Beverley said. ‘That's how your what started?'

‘You know.' Queenie paused and pointed to her lower abdomen.

‘The change of life.' Rather than say the words aloud, Queenie mouthed them.

‘I tell you, Bev, you want to get to the doctor and get some hormones inside you fast. You'll be shoplifting next, if you're not careful.'

‘Mum,' Beverley said, doing her best to stay calm, ‘I happen to know that the average age women start the menopause in this country is fifty-one. I am forty-two. That means I still have nine years to go. What is more, I still get through a pack of Tampax Super every month and I have yet to use a tube of KY jelly. And since we're on the subject of my fertility, there's something I have to tell you. Look, leave the tea and come and sit in the living room.'

Beverley got up from her stool.

‘Omigod, you're not...?' Queenie squealed.

‘No, not exactly.' Beverley began walking to the door.

‘How do you mean, not exactly?' Queenie said, trotting after her. ‘Either you are or you aren't. A person can't have a bit of pregnancy, like they have a bit of indigestion.'

Once Beverley had started to explain about the surrogacy, Queenie went silent. For the two or three minutes it took Beverley to tell the story and explain how the children and Melvin had taken it, her mother said not a word. Finally, Beverley sat back in her chair and waited.

‘I tell you, Bev,' Queenie said, smiling and gripping her daughter's hand, ‘Naomi doesn't deserve to have you for a sister. Not after the way she's treated you. Let's hope you're right and she has changed. I have to say that when I spoke to her the other day she sounded happier than I'd heard her in years. So, now my other daughter's about to make me a grandma too. I can hardly believe it. Maybe now we can start being a family again.'

Beverley nodded slowly.

‘But, sweetheart, have you thought it through? When the time comes, will you really be able to give up this child? After all, he or she will be your baby.'

‘Mum, I think about little else. But yes... I think I will.'

Queenie looked at Beverley and smiled.

‘She's lucky, Naomi,' she said with a sigh. ‘So lucky. She'll have her career and her baby.'

‘I know. That's the way most women do it these days. They want both.'

‘I always wanted both, you know,' Queenie said with a trace of bitterness in her voice. ‘Before I met your father, I had dreams of running my own business - a gown shop, I thought. You know, something really posh. Then Daddy and I got married and he wouldn't let me. My father even offered to lend me the money to set me up. But Lionel put his foot down. No wife of his was going out to work. And that was that. So I stayed at home and had babies.'

So she'd been right all along, Beverley thought. Queenie had been mad rather than bad, and her father was partly to blame.

‘Mum, you must have felt so trapped.'

Queenie shrugged.

‘Don't get me wrong,' she said, pulling a scrunched-up bit of tissue out of her cardigan pocket and wiping her eyes. ‘It wasn't that I didn't want you. I did. I loved you both, but I just wanted something for me as well. There was all this frustration and resentment burning inside me. After Naomi was born, I think I went a bit loopy with it all… People didn't go to see psychiatrists back then either. I am sorry, you know. About how I neglected you. All these years I've tried not to think about it. Can't face the guilt, I suppose. Bev, can you forgive me?'

By now there were tears streaming down Queenie's face. Every time she mopped them up, more came.

Beverley never thought she'd hear her mother say those words. Whenever she'd tried to bring up the subject of her and Naomi's childhood in the past, Queenie had always refused to discuss it. Realizing just how brave she was being now, and how much emotional pain confronting the past was causing her, Beverley got up, sat herself on the sofa next to her mother and hugged her.

‘Ssh, Mum, it's OK,' she said, blubbing too. ‘'Course I forgive you. Let it go now. It's all in the past. You don't need to say any more. I think I understand how it must have been. But will you do me one favour, Mum?'

‘What, darling?' Queenie sniffed.

‘Will you tell Naomi what you've told me? I think she needs to know.'

Queenie nodded.

While Beverley was in the kitchen making tea, Queenie remembered she'd invited Naomi and Tom for Christmas Day. She would speak to her then. And come to think of it, she must mention inviting them to Beverley. Some time.

Chapter 11

Having finished his regular early-morning Lettice-inspired wank, Benny lay on his back waiting to get his breath back. For no reason in particular, he turned his head towards the bedside table. Something had changed, but he couldn't for the life of him work out what. His alarm clock was precisely where it had been ten minutes ago when it went off. His copy of
Popcorn
was lying open and face down, next to it. Then he realized that his glass of water, which had been on the table all night, had been replaced by his ancient Sonic the Hedgehog mug, full of hot steaming tea. Beside the mug lay a couple of digestive biscuits.

Humiliation didn't come close to describing Benny Littlestone's emotions as he heard his mother plodding down the stairs.

Beverley put her son's empty glass in the sink, sat herself down at the breakfast bar and continued reading the wonkily printed instructions.

‘On a waxing moon place two acorns, an orris root, a tablespoon of goat's rue and two tablespoons of hyssop oil in a cauldron and heat gently...' Beverley snorted as she imagined going into Brent Cross Waitrose and asking where she would find the goat's rue.

She had barely taken her eyes off the instructions since tearing them from their brown envelope a few minutes ago. They'd come through the letterbox just as she was passing the front door with Benny's morning tea. (Until recently, she would make tea for the entire family, but Benny was the only one who drank it. Everybody else would let it go cold and leave it.)

For the second time in just over a fortnight, a letter had arrived which again was clearly not a bill. As before, she had been unable to resist opening it immediately. In the time it had taken Beverley to go up to Benny's room, fail to notice him masturbating, put the mug of tea on his bedside table and go back downstairs to the living room, she had read two of the half-dozen printed sheets.

‘Look, don't laugh,' Naomi had said a couple of afternoons ago when they met at Brown's, to discuss when and where the first insemination should take place. ‘Fallopia Trebetherick specialises in boosting women's fertility. Di, Demi, Fergie, the Grimaldi women - they all called her in when they wanted to get pregnant. She flies all over the world.'

‘On her broomstick, I presume,' Beverley said, only half joking.

‘No, usually by private jet. Look, Fallopia's a wonderfully successful healer and natural therapist... OK, I admit it, she's into a bit of magic.'

‘So I'm right, she is a witch then.' By now Beverley's voice had developed a distinctly nervous edge.

‘All right, all right, she is a witch, but an exceedingly fashionable one.'

‘Who happens to have this amazing knack of getting buns in covens.'

‘Funneee... Look, Bev, Fallopia Trebetherick doesn't come cheap, but I think we should use her. I mean, you're forty-two now and you may not find it so easy to get pregnant. Look, I know I should have discussed it with you first, but I rang her yesterday. Anyway, she said if we wanted to turn the insemination into a full-scale pagan ceremony she'd be happy to preside.'

‘And of course you said thanks, but no thanks,' Beverley said.

‘Not as such... Look, she said because it's me she'll do it for half her normal fee. You have no idea, this is the most amazing coup, Bev. I mean, Fallopia is always booked up for months ahead. Says she's got some tart out of
EastEnders
pencilled in that night, but she'll put her off. Anyway, I thought a bit of incense and meditation might relax us all - you know, get us into the right spiritual mood. I mean, what harm can it do?'

‘Oh, not a lot, I suppose,' Beverley said casually. ‘So long as we're not bothered about me ending up spread-eagled naked and dead on top of some tombstone in Highgate Cemetery.'

‘Oh, come on, Bev. You're over-reacting. Look, witchcraft, or Wicca as Fallopia prefers to call it, has nothing to do with devils and demons and pervy satanic rites - it's all about worshipping nature and using herbal remedies and a bit of magic to help people. Just see it as a form of complementary therapy - a bit like acupuncture.'

‘So where's she from, this Trebetherick woman - Cornwall?'

‘No, Cricklewood. The pops always refer to her as the Cricklewood Crone.'

‘Great,' Beverley said, imagining some bent, warty woman with no teeth, and filthy matted hair, wearing a necklace of dried bat's intestines round her neck. ‘So in no time she'll have me howling at the moon with a dead toad and a head of garlic shoved up inside me? I tell you, Naomi, I'll be a Wicca basket case by the time I get pregnant.'

‘Now you're being daft. Look, I've told you, the royals use her...'

‘And I take it Tom's OK about ejaculating into a jar while this woman stands over him chanting and sprinkling him with newt droppings?' Beverley asked.

‘Fallopia has assured me the whole thing will be perfectly respectable and dignified. I haven't actually mentioned it to Tom yet, but I'm sure once she's explained everything to him, he won't have a problem with it. He knows how much becoming a mother means to me. I know he'll do anything I ask him... Meanwhile, Fallopia said she'd send you the instructions. And there are some crystals coming too. If you keep them in your pocket, they'll help balance your chakras. Please say yes, Bev, please. It really would mean such a lot to me.'

Beverley said nothing for a few moments.

‘You're bonkers,' she chuckled eventually. ‘You do know that, don't you? Totally bonkers.'

Naomi grinned.

‘So you'll do it then?'

‘OK, but on the strict understanding that if we get a whiff of anything remotely pervy, we leg it. Understood?'

‘Understood.'

Just before they left Brown's, Naomi reached across the sofa they'd been sharing and hugged her sister.

‘I still can't believe you've agreed to carry my baby for me, Bev,' she said, leaning her head on Beverley's shoulder. ‘Every time I think about it, I have to pinch myself. You will never know how grateful I am and how happy you've made me. Never. Thanks, Bev. Thank you so much.'

Beverley patted her sister's back and pulled away gently from her embrace.

‘It's OK, my pleasure,' she said, smiling and wiping a tear from Naomi's cheek.

***

Back in her kitchen, Beverley was reading the last page of Fallopia's Iinstructions. Shaking her head and chuckling, she got the pages together, tore them in half and half again, went over to the swing bin and threw them and the crystals in it. She'd never needed bits of old plant or crystals to get pregnant in the past and doubted very much she needed them now.

There was one thing she did need now, and that was confirmation that Fallopia Trebetherick wasn't completely barmy. Despite Naomi's, not to mention Rochelle's, assurances that there was nothing remotely sinister or demonic about the woman and that alternative-therapy-wise she was the most fashionable thing since ginseng, Beverley wanted to make certain for herself. She went back to the bin and pulled out the torn-up instruction sheets. Fallopia's address and telephone number had been printed at the top of the covering letter. Having located the relevant piece of paper, she took it with her to the phone.

She picked up the receiver and hesitated as she tried to decide if half eight was too early to phone. Even though it was a weekday, she thought it would be more polite to wait until it was something to nine. At eight thirty-five precisely, she picked up the phone again.

When the voice at the other end answered with a curt ‘Yup,' Beverley was convinced she'd dialled some military establishment by mistake. She was just about to apologise and put the phone down when the voice demanded to know who was calling. Feeling too intimidated to refuse, Beverley announced herself.

‘Ah, yes... Littlestone, B., Mrs,' the voice boomed down the phone, instantly causing Beverley to move the receiver several inches away from her ear. ‘Got you down for a Ritual Seeding, on the ninth of the eleventh, at seventeen hundred hours.'

‘I'm sorry,' Beverley said, her confusion and terror growing by the second, ‘I wanted to speak to Fallopia, Fallopia Trebetherick.'

‘She speaks,' the woman barked impatiently.

‘What... sorry... you are Fallopia?'

‘Good God,' the woman muttered, ‘I've got a right whisky alpha lima lima yankee here.'

‘'Fraid I'm not quite with you...'

‘You could have fooled me.'

Beverley heard Fallopia tut.

‘Now then,' she said, ‘let's start again. You are Beverley Littlestone. I am Fallopia Trebetherick. Now what can I do for you?'

***

It took Fallopia less than five minutes to deliver her clipped, succinct summary of what the Ritual Seeding ceremony would involve.

‘It's done with complete decorum,' she said finally. ‘All I do is a bit of ceremonial during which I raise the cone of magic and call upon the goddess to put your ovaries and uterus on red alert. The rest you do in a private room while I carry on chanting outside.'

Having decided the woman was batty, but probably harmless, Beverley's curiosity about Fallopia's distinctly unwitchlike manner began to get the better of her. She had expected if not a cackling hag with warts on her nose, a dotty, merry soul. Fallopia, however, seemed to resemble the hockey mistress from hell. Finally Beverley plucked up the courage to ask about her background.

It came as no surprise to Beverley to discover the woman had spent twenty years as a flight lieutenant in the RAF.

‘Stationed down in Cornwall, at RAF St Mawgan,' she explained when Beverley asked her how she became a witch. ‘Fell out of a Sea King on a rescue, and me coccyx went for a burton. Kept giving me gyp on and off for months. Went straight to the MO, of course. He could do bugger all. Ruddy shower, doctors, if you ask me. Finally things got so bad that they invalided me out. Then one day I took a drive to Totnes, and while I was having a nose around, I happened to notice a postcard in a newsagent's window placed by one of these alternative healer types. Thought I might as well give it a go. She sorted me out with a few herbal remedies in a matter of days. Turned out she also practised the old religion. Of course, I told her it was a load of old codswallop, but she insisted I went along and met the members of her coven. Nothing like I expected. Jolly decent bunch. Very down to earth. Very soon, my healer friend took me under her wing and became my mentor - taught me everything I know about healing and magic. Then after she died on me, I discovered I had a bit of a gift when it came to helping women conceive, and the rest you know.'

***

They were saying cheerio when Beverley realized she hadn't asked Fallopia where she was planning to hold the ceremony. Fallopia insisted on doing it outdoors.

‘Much better ch'i - that's energy flow to you - than you get inside. Forget anywhere public. Someone might spot me and your sister together and tip off one of the papers. Before you know it, Bob's your whatnot and we spend the next six months repelling a whole load of tabloid flak. Your back garden will do.'

***

The moment she put the phone down, Beverley realized their back garden would be out of the question. Although she would have to let Melvin know when the insemination was happening, she couldn't bear the thought of it taking place at their house. It would be desperately hurtful to Melvin - a bit like having an affair and using their bed. What was more, if he found out that a witch was popping round beforehand to perform a quick pre-insemination spell over her nether regions, he'd have every right to think she and Naomi had gone off their mutual chumps.

Beverley's thoughts were interrupted by the front door slamming. Suspecting Natalie's moods were in full swing once again and that she'd left for school in another of her strops, she went into the living room, pulled back the net curtains and looked out of the window. Disappearing into the distance, his school bag slung over his shoulder, was Benny. In all the four years he'd been at secondary school, he'd never left without kissing her goodbye. For the life of her she couldn't think what she'd done to offend him.

She walked back into the kitchen, her thoughts returning to the conversation with Fallopia, and the garden question. It took her no more than a few seconds to come up with the answer. Mitchell and Rochelle were off to Aruba the week after next, the day before the insemination. She would ask to borrow their house and garden.

Once again she picked up the phone.

***

‘No problem,' Rochelle said groggily. It was now well after nine, but Beverley had clearly woken her up. ‘I'll leave you the keys. Can't believe I'm going to miss meeting Fallopia Trebetherick and the gorgeous Tom. You'll get to meet him before the insemination though, won't you?'

‘Probably not. Fallopia can only do the ninth and he's in Newcastle filming until the eighth. Goes against my better judgement, but I guess I'm just going to have to take Naomi's word for it that he's a wonderful man and that he will make an equally wonderful father.'

‘Oh, I've no doubt he will. Naomi may be a lot of things, but she's not stupid. I'm sure she'll have made a wise choice in Tom. Stop worrying.'

***

But she couldn't help it. She was starting to worry about so much lately.

For a start there was Melvin. He was clearly still having trouble coming to terms with the surrogacy plan. He was permanently tense and preoccupied. She was also aware that he wasn't sleeping. What was more, although she had nothing to go on other than a gut feeling, she couldn't help thinking he was planning or hatching something behind her back, but every time she put it to him that he was keeping something from her, he denied it. Last night he'd actually woken her with his tossing and turning. Each time she'd rolled over to his side of the bed, put her arms round his middle and begged him to talk to her.