Whistling for the Elephants (28 page)

John
turned a table lamp to look at her. He pulled her quite roughly to him and ran
his fingers over the grooves and welts that had once been her face.

‘So
you’re home but I don’t know you. My wife won’t know me and I don’t know you…
Miss… Strange. Shall we make money from you, Miss Strange, shall we exhibit
you?’

Grace
began to cry. Softly, tears spilling unbidden from her torn and damaged eye.
John pulled his handkerchief from his pocket and wiped them.

‘Milton
would have loved you. He liked anything different. Those fat-lip Ubangi women,
Anna, that giant woman with the moustache, the Fiji cannibals. He would have
loved you.’

Grace
began to sob. John Junior took her in his arms. He rocked and rocked her until
at last he laid her down on the carpet. He moved the light to see only her
damaged side and then he made love to her.

The
autumn of the great stock market crash, Billie delivered her child. Grace too
was pregnant by then but the house was silent about it. John Junior only slept
with Grace that one time and after that he didn’t much talk to her or anyone. He
kept spending money right up to the end and the house was still host to some
strange characters. Sweetheart did her best to keep control but really it was
impossible.

It
was the morning that the temple from India arrived that Helen was born.
Sweetheart was dealing with eighty tons of stone, shipped like a giant jigsaw
in 250 crates, which had been deposited on the lawn. The crates were
accompanied by an almost equal number of Indian artisans whom no one could
communicate with. The noise and babble meant no one heard Billie’s cries as she
produced her beautiful daughter. She called her Helen for Helen of Troy and
handed her over to Harry.

‘I
can’t do babies,’ she said, and turned her head to the wall.

Harry
brought the child down to find its father. He carried the baby carefully and walked
with slow precision to the dining room. John Junior and Jack Riddell, a soldier
turned ivory poacher, were in there, taking it in turns to jump the huge table
on horseback without disturbing the crockery.

‘She’s
come,’ said Harry, holding the child out.

‘I
didn’t order it. Get out. Give her to Sweetheart,’ snapped John and moved his
horse for another attack.

Billie
didn’t live long enough to see Grace’s child. She knew about it but she didn’t
seem to care. One morning, shortly after Helen’s birth, she just got up and
went and drowned herself in the pool. Harry found her. It was Harry who brought
her out. John had the place drained and locked. Sweetheart made all the
arrangements. John gave everything to Grace and left for Africa. He never came
back. Three weeks later Grace gave birth to Judith, defender of the people. No
one even mentioned that Ellen and Toto had also been delivered of a daughter.
Sweetheart named her Artemesia.

The past swirled around us
and the drink flowed. Too much drink flowed. After a while Miss Strange started
making speeches. I had never seen her so worked up. The more she drank the more
speeches she made.

‘No, I’m
angry,’ announced Miss Strange, standing up to make her point. ‘We’ll beat him.
You see, we…’ her withered arm moved to include us all,’… are Amazons. It’s
from the Greek
a,
meaning “without”, and
mazos,
meaning “breast”.
Which is particularly suitable for me. I am without my breast here, you see.’

She
opened her shirt. The right side of her chest was a mass of scar tissue. There
was no bulge. She didn’t need one of Harry’s corsets. All those years later it
still looked painful. Red and raw, and yet it seemed to me to be so very
female. She didn’t need a breast. She was strong like some great fighter. She
wasn’t trying to be anyone but herself and I thought it was the most wonderful
thing. I wanted to hug her. Wanted to have her enfold me to her side in a way
Mother never did. No one said anything. Embarrassed, I moved away and climbed
up the stairs to the balcony above the room.

‘Did
you know,’ she continued, her shirt draped loose about her, ‘that it was a
woman dressed as an Amazon who led the attack in the storming of the Bastille? Théroigne
de Méricourt — a most gifted singer who trained in London and Naples. It was
women who led the bread march to Versailles. And the assault on the Tuileries. Théroigne
commanded a battalion of Amazons. The women of the French Revolution knew what
they were doing,’ boomed Miss Strange out the window, where Gabriel could still
be seen working in the distance. ‘The women stormed the National Assembly and
the bishop shouted, “Order!” and do you know what the women shouted? “We don’t
give a fuck for your order!”‘

Miss
Strange began to sing.

‘My country, ‘tis of thee

Land of grape juice and teal

Of thee I sing.

Land where we all have tried

To break the laws and lied!

From every mountainside

The bootlegs spring…’

Cosmos
was also somewhat the worse for wear. She had wandered off from the entrance
hall and returned dragging a large cabin trunk. ‘Look what I found.’

‘Africa!’
cried Miss Strange. ‘We shall all go to Africa.’ She poured herself another
drink as Aunt Bonnie came back from putting Perry to bed. Sweetheart looked
exhausted. She sat next to Judith on two of the French reproduction chairs.
Judith had stopped crying and just sat stroking Troilus. Aunt Bonnie set to
knocking back the wine. Helen sat on the stairs with Sappho and watched.

‘It’s
the real McCoy. I met him once, you know, smelled of salt water.’ Miss Strange
nodded to herself ‘Here in the house, I met him with Billie and Phoebe.

‘Oh, we don’t give a damn

For our old Uncle Sam.

Way, oh, whiskey and gin!

Lend us a hand

When we stand in to land.

Just give us time

To run the rum in!

‘I
think the greatest elephant keeper of all time was Mary Sparks. You remember
her, Sweetheart? She died while she was working at the Ringling farm in Willston,
Florida. One of the bulls knocked her down and stomped her. It was a shame
because she had a great trained-goat act and was a hell of a giraffe jockey.’

Up on
the balcony, I sat down at the ivory keys of the Aeolian organ which hardly
anyone had ever played. Downstairs, Cosmos was starting to dress up.

‘Look
at these.’ Cosmos had opened the trunk and was pulling out the contents. It held
the most beautiful dresses and ornaments, all ready for a wondrous journey. A
staggering array of silks and satins. A parade of feminine frippery from
another age. Cosmos tried on hats and scarves, necklaces and bangles, the
accessories of a wealthy woman. From the bottom of the trunk, folded in tissue
paper, she pulled out a gown of the palest blue and purple silk. The shimmering
colours blended from one to another in a rainbow spectrum. It was stunning.
Cosmos held it to her and began to dance across the room. The gown flowed with
a Ginger Rogers life of its own, its hem brushing the women as Cosmos flew
past. Miss Strange began humming some air or other and Sweetheart began to join
in. At last Cosmos came to a halt in front of Helen. The others stopped humming
and Cosmos looked down at her squatting friend. Cosmos made a slight bow and
put out her hand to raise Helen to her feet.

She
stood as if she had been mesmerized by the dance. In her brown cardigan, brown
corduroy pants and brown shirt she seemed an unlikely candidate for a princess’s
ball, but that is what transformation scenes are about. Cosmos moved the dress
to rest on Helen’s shoulders. Miss Strange moved toward Helen and slowly she
and Sweetheart began to remove her clothes. Helen didn’t move, and soon all her
garments lay in a single brown pile on the floor. Completely naked she looked a
different woman. Not all curled up and cocooned but rather lovely. Like one of
the statues in the garden. She wasn’t young any more but she was still pale and
perfect. An untouched woman. Cosmos and Miss Strange took the extraordinary
gown and lifted it into the air. It seemed to float by magic over Helen’s naked
form and down across her shoulders. She was swathed in silk. Butterfly colours
rained down on her and she was beautiful. A great wave of material attached to
the wrists and up under the arms hung down like expectant wings. The dress
reached almost to the floor and in her bare feet Helen looked like one of her
beloved floating fancies. The dress seemed to intoxicate her. She began to run
slowly and then faster round the huge, square entrance hall. I understood it. I
knew how clothes could change a person. I knew I had grown up since donning my
T-shirt and shorts. From my haircut to my knee-high pants, I had become myself.

I began
to play the one tune I knew on the organ. A little Beethoven emerged from the
pipes and slowly the others began to dance. Faster and faster. At last I was
doing it right.

‘Spread
your wings, Helen, or you won’t survive,’ called Miss Strange as she opened the
front door and released Helen to the air. She ran across the lawns, past the
windows of the house and on to the field, raising her arms so that she seemed
ready to take flight. The bonfire roared now and the field was lit in oranges
and reds. Gabriel stood watching the blaze as Helen appeared before him. I don’t
think she saw him at first. She was too busy with her own release. Round and
round the fire she danced, like a blue morpho butterfly attracted to the light.
She grew taller and more majestic as we watched. Gabriel had no choice. He
moved toward her. In the dark there was no age difference between them. I knew
now what would happen. She would do her courtship dance until he showed
interest. Then she would hold her wings ready for him to land alongside her and
spread his scent. They would tap each other with their antennae and remain
locked for moments or maybe hours. It was the way of the butterfly.

The
women all stayed at the window in silence but I couldn’t watch. It wasn’t for
me to see. I felt a great choking in my chest. Something was happening that was
about more than grown-ups having sex. I didn’t understand. I wanted my mother
back but I knew she wouldn’t come. Even if she had it wouldn’t have been right.
I wanted to know where I was in the cosmos but I didn’t actually know what that
meant. I felt terribly confused and alone. I slipped away, meaning to go home.
That’s how I was at the gate when they arrived. Despite all the preparation it
was kind of shock. We weren’t really ready for Artemesia, and we certainly
weren’t ready for her to bring family.

Chapter
Twelve

We had talked a lot about
size. I mean to do with the elephants. We had probably built the world’s
strongest enclosure out of the old train tracks but I still don’t think we were
ready. Well, I wasn’t. I stood there watching three men unload the elephants
from a large truck. Artemesia came first. The truck had rough slats as a
walkway for her to come out of the vehicle so her feet were kind of at my eye
level. At least it’s what I noticed first. This massive animal walked almost
silently. The only noise came from the creaking wood as she swayed down toward
me with incredibly precise footsteps. A silent walk with the track of her hind
legs coming to rest precisely in the spoor of the front. Her sole spread out to
take weight at each step. It was slow and deliberate. As she lifted her foot I
could see the cracks and ridges underneath. Like the grip on a great pair of
sneakers. Then her foot would descend again, its built-in shock absorber of
fatty fibrous tissue cushioning the impact. It was so neat.

Her
feet had shiny round toenails. A smart lady out for the evening. She could have
followed a dance card on the floor, this elegant, shimmying thing. So slow and
precise and so silent.

As she
got closer I moved up to her legs. They were tall, straight columns which
supported her massive bulk, and she was big. I expected the vast expanse of
gnarled skin. I knew from Helen’s reading that she was a pachydermata. It came
from
pachys,
meaning ‘thick’ and
derma,
‘skin’, but I didn’t know
so much of it would be so soft. A great deal of it was like upholstered leather
— a patchwork quilt. I reached out, completely unafraid. Her sides were
prickly to feel — covered in short, stiff hairs. I moved my hand toward her
head. She was mostly coarse and grainy to touch but some places were pliable
and spongy, like around the loose baggy pants above her back legs. Endless
rivers of wrinkles stretched above my head. A great Ordnance Survey of life
across leather skin. The lines almost made grill marks across her sides and
flanks, but it was at her head that I fell in love.

Artemesia
looked at me. She had a constant, shy smile. There was not a wicked bone in her
body. Mother would have said that the hair all round her mouth and chin looked
like it needed plucking, but I loved it. It was a full and fearless growth. Her
eyes seemed small for the size of her head and they had long lashes Judith
would kill for. Soft brown eyes fringed with lashes as long as a hand. Her
ears, the shape of Africa, flapped slightly in the warm night air. At the outer
margins of her ears you could just see vast rivers of blood vessels surging
with her life. Inside her ears and around her mouth, her skin was paper thin
and delicate. I reached up to touch her face and she bent down to help me. I
put my hand behind her ears and felt a place as soft and cool and smooth as
silk. Something happened in my stomach. I didn’t know, but I suspected it was
my first encounter with sheer passion.