Honey, Cinnamon, Lemons Ch. 09-10

He swung open a heavy low door and ducked inside; Tim followed him into the darkness. The interior was cool and its acoustics were completely dead. 'It's lined with thatch on the inside for insulation, to keep the cold in. It's obviously not really needed for that any more, but I keep it maintained for the acoustics; it's the deadest place I've ever worked, and soundproof too. But, you can roll back the thatch in sections and control the acoustics. I do a lot of vocals in here. It's cable-linked to the main control room indoors and there's a tunnel too! Come on, prepare to be impressed.'

Just beside the doorway was a trapdoor in the floor, which Paul lifted easily and without noise. 'It's all counterbalanced: weighs a fuckin' ton, but you wouldn't think so.' As the trap rose, a light came on below and Tim could see steps descending: Paul led the way down to a stone vaulted tunnel which headed off into darkness. A narrow-gauge track ran along the tunnel floor, and a flatbed car stood there waiting for them, big enough for four or five standing passengers, open-topped but with a waist-high guard rail. Paul hopped on and Tim followed. The thing was obviously electric, as it moved off almost silently, with just the swish of muffled wheels. The tunnel lighting was arranged to follow the car, so they moved from darkness to darkness in a pool of their own light.

'Original track; they used it to take ice to the kitchens. New car with rubber wheels; new lighting system of course. They used dogs to pull the car in the old days. Pierre the Gross used to bring women down the glaciere for a bit of fun on the ice blocks. Dressed himself as a bear and shagged 'em on the blocks till they stuck there, then left them. Nasty old bugger!' Tim shuddered.

'Take a few down there myself, but I treat 'em good. Some love being ravished in the dark where no-one can hear you scream. Got loads of recordings! Anyway, next stop Kew Gardens.'

They halted, dismounted and climbed a steep staircase which led up to the inside of a huge hothouse, thirty or forty feet high at the apex, framed with a filigree of white-painted metal ribwork which stood out vividly against the dark sky above; the place was filled with palms and exotic plants. 'Come and see my beauties!' They weaved their way along a network of narrow pathways through a damp rankly-aromatic jungle, and suddenly emerged into a clearing containing a cannabis plantation. The plants were waist-high, heavy with fragrant foxtail buds sticky with resin. The smell was overpowering and heady.

'Specially bred for strength and quality, and very quick to mature. More than I need of course, but it's fun working with them. Beautiful plants! Feel the resin.'

He picked a budded stem, rolled it between his palms, then held it out on his hand; he swivelled his wrist and the bud hung below his palm, stuck there by the resin. 'Can't get better than that!' He shook the bud off his palm into a revolving wire cage which was slowly tumble-drying a kilo or so of cropped flower heads. 'Come and see this.'

Tim followed him up an elegant white-painted iron spiral staircase to a high walkway through the canopy. They waded through the hot, humid air, past bunches of dripping bananas and fat black grapes within hand-reach; there were pineapples far below, hummingbirds drinking nectar from large exotic flowers, insectivorous plants growing directly from tree trunks, and once a brightly coloured snake.

'Watch out for those babies. Some of them are venomous. Here, 'ave a banana!' He pulled two thumb-size bananas from a nearby bunch and passed one to Tim, who looked at it dubiously. 'Go on! They're delicious,' and he peeled his own and popped it into his mouth. 'And a grape. Black Hamburg.'

'They're very good. I'm impressed by all this; you've done well.' Despite himself, Tim was enjoying his tour. It was astounding to see the power of money at close quarters.

'Done well? See all this? It don't mean shit! All illusion. Under it all I'm an old man! I eat and shag and shit and that's what life is till you kick the bucket. I get older every day. You and me, we're the same. Two old men who're gonna die soon. In fact I envy you your simple life. All this is responsibility, I'd be happier without it.'

'Well, in that case will you buy my painting for a million pounds?'

'Fuck off! You're good but not that good! And if I did, I tell you something; you would not be happy. Money does not bring happiness, it only brings pain!'

'You're full of bullshit!'

Paul laughed out loud and started to sing, 'Bullshit makes the world go round, world go round, world go round. Bullshit makes the world go round, cos that's the way it is.' He broke off and spoke normally again. 'Come on, mate, let's hie thee to the feasting hall, I'm hungry!' He looked at Tim sharply, 'And don't be too cheeky to your elders and betters, young man!'

#

They walked back to the chateau above ground, through heavy air which made their feet drag as though wading through water. The sky was darkening as deep purple-grey cloud advanced from the south; at ground level the air was strangely still, although the cloud above was moving in fast. As they crossed the lawn leading to the rear facade, both sweating heavily, they were spotted by a man stationed on the terrace, who immediately darted inside, doubtless to warn the servants that the master was approaching and would need feeding, and that he was bringing the English guest with him. Two red Labradors came running up, all white teeth, purple gums and long red spittle-flecked tongues, and accepted a neck-wrestle from Paul and a handsniff from Tim, then galloped off together.

#

The 'feasting hall' was a large room with high windows looking out onto the gardens. There was a minstrel gallery at one end and a high vaulted ceiling decorated lavishly with gilt and paintings of flowers, meadows full of livestock and bewigged French aristos posing with their women or mounted on elegant horses. Over the gallery there were aristos posing with horses and mounting elegant women: the French seemed to have been quite open about their world and its wealth and the pleasures it bought.

All this leisure, pleasure, decadence and indulgence looked down onto an enormous oak table which ran the length of the room and was overhung by three wide crystal chandeliers which were already lit against the darkening of the afternoon sky. Against the wall opposite the windows another long table was laid with silver platters covered by silver domes. The feasting table was laid for two at one end, with embroidered place mats, silver cutlery, fine china, and crystal glasses for wine, water and brandy. An ornate flower arrangement gave a burst of tropical colour, and six bottles of wine were laid out on table holders, these having the form of naked women lying on their backs, holding the lower end of the bottle between their thighs and the necks in their outstretched hands. Six bottles of Fullers London Pride beer sat in ice in a champagne bucket, with a full punchbowl alongside.

As they sat down, three men appeared, all dressed in jeans and open-necked shirts. 'Ah, the three musketeers! What delights have you for us this evening, gentlemen?'

Another huge clap of thunder shook the room, and the chandeliers dimmed and flickered for a moment. Rain suddenly began to drop like stair-rods, bending the trees and shrubs under its pressure. Nobody but Tim seemed to notice.

'Well, patron, the English is vegetarian, so we have cauliflower cheese, macaroni cheese, cheese omelette, salade Niçoise, pissaladiere, pizza, egg curry, or crepes. And you, boss?'

'I'll have the usual, Jean-Marie. What about you, young man? Can you take fish? And eggs? Dairy?'

'Yes of course.' He turned to his musketeer. 'Salade Niçoise, please. Is there tuna in that?'

'Yes, monsieur; anything you like. Salade maison.'

'I'll just take it as it comes. Thank you.'

'And, boss, one egg or three?'

'Two. And don't forget the Daddy's.'

'Of course, boss. And to drink?'

'What would you recommend?'

'For your meal, boss, something forceful. Chateauneuf du Pape? And for monsieur, perhaps a young Beaujolais, or Chablis. It is for you to say, sir, white or red? Or perhaps a rosé?'

'Oh, Beaujolais would be fine. Thank you.'

'Well, I'll have a beer while we wait.' Paul grabbed a bottle and knocked the top off against the edge of the table, which had been fitted with a metal strip for the purpose. He slurped straight from the bottle. 'Oh, excuse me, old boy, would you like one?'

'No thanks. Actually, I wouldn't mind a drop of dry rosé as an aperitif.' One of the musketeers opened a tall glass-fronted wine cupboard by the food table, eyed the bottles, then chose one and brought it to Tim, wiping off the condensation and removing the cork skilfully as he approached. He poured a half glass and raised an eyebrow. Tim motioned that it was enough, and the bottle was left at his elbow.

'Good stuff, that. Unlabelled; made for me personally in the Loire valley. Chateau vintage. Go on, have a taste.'

'Thank you. Mmmm, very good.'

Two of the musketeers fetched silver-domed platters from the food table; Tim was served his salad, and Paul a plateful of bubbly golden fritters, two fried eggs and a heap of baked beans. A bottle of brown sauce was set beside his plate, and he poured it liberally over the fritters and sprinkled the whole lot with salt.

'That's the stuff. Double egg, smacks and beans.' He shovelled a smack into his mouth then gasped and blew to cool his lips and tongue, holding the smack between his teeth.

''uckin' 'ot!'

'What are the smacks?'

'Sliced potato, dipped in batter and deep-fried. Speciality of the frozen north. My Nan came from Bolton. 'Ave one.'

'Too much cholesterol for me. They do sound good though.'

'Oh fuck the cholesterol! What's the point of living if you don't enjoy it? When you gotta go, you gotta go! You eat your salad and I'll eat my instant death!'

By now he had brown sauce on his cheeks and his musketeer deftly wiped it away: Paul didn't seem to notice the gesture.

'Smacks. Simplest of all dishes, and one of nature's best. Just potatoes, flour and water. At least that's how Nan made them; I'm not sure what he puts in them. Ask him for me.'

'A mix of wheat flour, buckwheat and cornflour, with a little chickpea flour and a touch of rice flour; milk, beaten egg, a spoonful of Dijon mustard; a pinch of powdered cumin, and a little liquid cream; black pepper but no salt -- he adds that himself as you see.'

'Flour and water, just like your Nan used to do it.'

'Fuck off! He said more than that. Well I don't care, they're fuckin' good.'

Paul called for bread and his musketeer split and buttered half a baguette, into which Paul stuffed three smacks; he dipped it into an egg yolk, then bit greedily, causing melted butter to run down his fingers. When he had finished he held up his arms to be wiped. They finished their dishes in silence apart from Paul's chomping, both swigging red wine to wash down the food. Finally Paul leaned back to have his face and fingers wiped again, sighed and said,

'Now, my friend, I think we should have a little chat. What did you think of your wine by the way?'

'Very good.'

'It's made specially for me, that's why it isn't labelled. The grapes are trod by village girls; they're supposed to be virgins, but they can't get them any more. It's a sight for sore eyes, up to their tits in black slush, gives it a special flavour. At least that's how they did it when I was there; can't really trust the buggers I s'pose, they might shove it through a fuckin' mangle when I'm not there to check. But it still tastes good, you're quite right, obviously a man of taste like me.' He waved for another bottle of beer, swigged noisily, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

'Let me tell you a bit about my early life; I don't often talk about it, but I get a good vibe from you and we're the same age; we can understand things that younger people don't get. Yeah?'

'Yes, I'd be interested.'

'I started off studying architecture, in Bedford Square. It was lovely round there in those far-off days of my golden youth; wide roads, not too much traffic; plane trees, sunshine, freedom. Not like today, it's a shithole now, that's why I'm here. Well, I fell in with a bad crowd! Ha! Got into music, the Blues, and left college, and the rest is history. Hard work at first especially after the first single; lots of touring, up and down the M1, then later the M6; service stations; kipping in the van; loads of chicks. You know, we used to keep scores in the band, for a prize - top dick of the week! Bwana Dick, as Frank would say. One for a handjob, two for a gobble, three for a fuck, four for a sandwich, and five for a jungle bunny. Oh lord, dear old Bunny! I'm very fond of her you know, and I ain't even fucked her. You got one up on me there you old devil! We were drawing ten quid a week each for the first year! Unbelievable!'

'It all sounds very exciting.'

'You've no idea, my friend; no idea. Not in your wildest dreams. And I'm only telling you the decent stuff! Garçon, brandywine for my good friend! Here, 'ave a drop of that; it's the finest that money can buy.'

They both swirled and sniffed the golden liquid, then sipped, swished, chewed and swallowed. The hot trickle down his throat and the rising fumes at the back of his nose made Tim's eyes water.

'But, believe it or not, for all the chicks and fucking I wasn't happy. Not a happy bunny. Too much sensory overload. No real connection with any of them. A man needs connection with a woman, and I don't just mean with his dick! Excuse me, I'm being philosophical; I can't help it, I studied a lot of philosophy over the years. Laing, Sartre, that other bloke - Greek, wasn't he? And I tell you this for free, my friend, all you need is love; well not just that, but the Beatles were on to something, the cunts. Like Noel Coward said, "nothing as important as a cheap tune." And then I met her.'

Tim blinked and sipped again; he nodded encouragingly, although he wasn't sure he wanted to hear more.

'She was common as muck! Archimedes! That's who it was! No, no, it wasn't Archimedes. Anyway, I don't mean common as muck, the other thing—ordinary! No, that's not it. She wasn't into music and she didn't give a shit who I was or how we were charting. She was aloof. A right little loof! Ha! Only five foot nothing; well, not a midget, but not tall like the models were. But I tell you this my friend, don't go thinking she was ordinary; she was very special. First time, I met her at a party in Earls Court and we ended up with me driving her home in the old E-type, all the bloody way to Willesden! Semi-detached suburban little house. Father waiting at the front door looking like fuckin' Hitler! If looks could kill!'

Tim stared at Paul unbelievingly, and spun his glass by the stem between his fingers. His musketeer obediently topped them both up and Paul knocked back his glassful and beckoned for more.

'I couldn't get her out of my mind. She had a very beautiful face; high cheekbones, thick hair, luscious lips, and to set it all off a little black beauty spot on her cheek. I tell you I was smitten.' He paused and frowned. 'Absolutely smitten. Afterwards I could visualise her face, couldn't forget it. I got an eidectic memory, you see, remember images with perfection like looking at a photo in my mind's eye. I couldn't do that with her body cos I hadn't seen it at that stage; I mean I knew it was reasonably normal, not fat but with all the right bumps. But she wasn't really on the circuit, not on the scene, and I didn't see her around. Eventually, I drove to Willesden and hung around where I could watch her house. It took three days before I saw her, half past eight in the morning, trotting off to work like a little admin assistant or something. Three days hanging about in the street; they'd call that stalking nowadays! But I was obsessed. You wouldn't understand, you never saw her.'

Tim sipped, swallowed, and cleared his throat. 'Oh, I think I can understand. What happened?'

'Aristotle! That's the bloke! Greek philosopher. Rhymes with bottle! Gaston, Pernod and ice-water silver plate!'

He took his Pernod with a tiny splash of water, just enough to make it milky; Tim had the same measure of Pernod but more water with the idea of trying to stay sober, but immediately realised that it didn't really work like that.

'What happened about the girl?'

'Polly! Pretty Polly I called her. She didn't like being called that, I tell you. Pretty Polly, like a parrot. She must be an old gel now; or dead I suppose.' His bottom lip twitched and he wiped his nose with a napkin.

'Well, I kerb-crawled until she got embarrassed and let me drive her to work. We chatted in the car; I wanted to find out about her. She said her dad was a bastard, she worked for a solicitors, filing and stuff, and she had a little boyfriend, a fuckin' artist.'

Tim was feeling the effect of the Pernod, and his forehead was cold with beads of sweat. The rain suddenly stopped and the garden began to steam under the returned sun. Thunder growled in the distance off to the north.

'I want me pudding! Bread pudding! And me gravy! But, yellow sweet gravy, not the brown stuff!' He sang a snatch of a Bowie song, 'I'm starving for me gravy.'

The pudding arrived on a covered silver salver, and they were each given a portion and a silver jug of steaming custard. Paul slopped custard over his helping then gestured for a cigarette. Tim tried to wave away the pudding, but his musketeer bent and murmured that monsieur should take some out of politeness; his garlic breath was hot on Tim's ear.

Paul sucked his cigarette with full wet lips, inhaled deeply, then leaned back to squirt grey smoke up towards a hunting party on the ceiling. 'A fuckin' artist! Like you, my friend. What about that then?'

'Oh I'm not an artist, I just paint for my own amusement.'

'That is a luxury, my friend, to do something for your own amusement. I can't remember the last time I did that. I'll tell you something, though, your "granddaughter" is the spitting image of my Pretty Polly. With the beauty spot, of course.' He looked at Tim with half-closed eyes through a cloud of smoke. 'And what did you do with yourself in the sixties? In London at all?'

Tim sipped his Pernod before replying. 'Yes, I was at art school; lived in Earls Court Square. And I agree that London was better then, cleaner, less crowded; seen through the eyes of youth I suppose. Mind you it was still London. A man was hacked to death with an axe just round the corner from us.'

'Yeah, I seen a lot of death in my time. I worked in a mortuary when I was sixteen, handling stiffs all day. Heavy scene, but you get used to it.' He frowned and took another deep drag at his cigarette. 'You know it took three weeks for me to get access to her bodily delights! She was a right little tease; virtually had to force her in the end, but she loved playing hard to get, wanted to be raped like a lot of 'em do. You know what it's like.' He tossed his half-smoked cigarette into his custard.

Tim knocked back his Pernod, and his musketeer made to refill his glass, but Tim waved him away. 'No, I don't, actually. I hate violence, especially against a woman.' He reached for his long-stemmed wine glass and drained the red dregs; as he fiddled with the empty glass there was a sudden crack and a sharp pain in his finger; the glass bowl fell onto his bread pudding and he was left with the stem in his hand, and a dark red ooze welling slowly from his finger. His musketeer whipped out a tissue and quickly wrapped it round the cut, then unexpectedly produced a plaster from his pocket and neatly completed the dressing; did he often have to deal with incidents like this? Minor injuries at the dining table?