Leathery heart shaped leaves slid in and out of focus, and trailing tendrils groped sinuously along the ground, coiling around the trunks of neighbouring trees. It was the bush's flowers, however, that had halted his purposeful stride through the woods: pink hand-sized blooms with thick fleshy petals folded together in a vertical calyx, each nestling a bed of densely packed leaves. He found himself transfixed, looking from one flower to another, held by a force he could not explain.
And the flowers seemed to react to his attention. The petals trembled and swelled, becoming turgid and beginning to open. Something touched his legs and pulled at his left arm – it was the plant's tendrils, coiling around him like the tentacles of some carnivorous sea-creature. A particular flower now drew him, a large bloom growing at waist height. Slowly but inexorably the petals spread under his fascinated gaze to reveal the purple heart of the flower, a smooth throated orifice that glistened with clear nectar. When the flower was fully open, the whole plant began to tremble. He felt warm honey trickle down his spine and the tendrils pulled more firmly, dragging him forward.
His fascination was a slimy thing that slithered around in his skull like an overexcited mollusc. As the open flower throbbed with turgidity the nectar dripped off the petals in great wet globs. The honey pooled in his belly and he felt strangely weak, unable to do anything but stare into the drooling flower. He was trapped, as surely as a shrimp in the tentacles of a sea-anemone.
'Come on, girls, don't dally now!'
It was a woman's voice, not far away and coming his way. The shock snapped his trance and he pulled back from the plant. Burning with sudden shame, he started tearing the tendrils off his arms and legs. But it was too late; trotting down the path towards him came two Cavalier King Charles spaniels dressed in miniature school uniforms – grey pleated skirts, white blouses, lime-green blazers with orange piping – with their owner a few paces behind. Crawling with embarrassment, he stood with his back to the plant, trying to hide the spread-open, dripping flowers.
'Good afternoon!' he said, forcing a broad breezy smile, 'Such a lovely day, isn't it?'
She was a large and buxom woman, late fifties with her greying hair in a tight bun, wearing a matching tweed skirt and jacket. She eyed him quizzically, but did not return his greeting. His smile became foolish and fixed. The dogs were sniffing around his feet, their tails wagging happily under their skirt hems. He brushed away a tendril which was reaching around his shoulder, hoping she wouldn't notice.
'For the time of year, that is,' he bumbled, 'The weather, I mean.'
She strode up to him, standing too close. She had a strong, determined face, the face of a woman who would stand no nonsense. He squirmed, avoiding her eyes.
'It's your pollen they're after,' she said, in a confidential stage-whisper.
'What?' he said, almost too surprised to speak. He tried to back away, but she pressed closer, almost touching his face with hers.
'The flowers – they suck it out of you.' She spoke slowly, carefully enunciating each syllable. 'Every last drop.'
She stepped back, allowing him to digest her words. One of the dogs had found a fallen log and was sniffing at a toadstool growing vertically out of it.
'You should let them, you know. Does them good.' She had noticed the toadstool – a huge thing, with a thick white stalk and a black oily cap – and a strange smile spread across her face. 'My husband says so. He always lets them.'
'Er… that's nice.' He wasn't certain, but he thought the fungus quivered slightly as she stepped towards it. Soft paws padded at his knees; the other dog was jumping up at him, wanting attention. He leaned down to pat her head, being careful not to dislodge her hair-band. The bush thankfully seemed to have lost interest in him and the remaining tendrils were now draped limply around his ankles.
'Marvellous shirt, by the way,' said the woman, 'Matches the blazers.'
She bent down and caressed the enormous toadstool. This responded by pushing up at her with a series of tiny excited squeaks, its cap glistening with moisture. The jacket lining clung to his arms like dead skin and he wriggled uncomfortably.
'The what?'
She hitched up her skirt and swung her leg over the log. The toadstool was now going frantic, throbbing and squeaking, oozing black slime from its cap. He tried to look away but seemed to lack the will.
'The blazers – the girls' coats.'
'Yes, of course,' he said vaguely.
With a smile of quiet contentment, she lowered herself onto the log. The toadstool's excited little squeaks reached a crescendo – before being muffled to silence. The dog wagged its tail and yelped with excitement, enjoying the game. A clammy shudder crawled over his skin as his discomfort reached a climax of its own.
'Um – it has been nice talking to you.' He kicked off the last plant tendril. 'But I really must be off.'
'The other way,' she said, as he started up the path, 'I told you before.'
'Sorry?'
'I've already told you: that way.' She raised herself a few inches off the log and pointed to the path down which she herself had come. 'Then ask at the village.' Closing her eyes, she lowered herself again, sighing deeply. The dog scampered around her feet, pawing at her knees.
'Ask what?'
Three quick moans but no reply.
'About the woman.' He started with surprise – the voice was female, but it came from near his feet, from the second dog who was sitting on the path, looking up at him.
'The Woman Who Looks Both Ways,' she added, with a significant smile, and then trotted over to join her sister and her mistress.
The One Who Is Two (Book 1 of White Rabbit) Page 14
