The Adventures Of Una Perrson

by Michael Moorcock

  Catherine stroked the back of her naked neck. 'Don't make me feel embarrassed. Mum. There's lots of girls have Eton crops now. Lots of society people, and actresses and that.'

  'Yeah . . .' said Mrs Cornelius darkly. With only the remains of yesterday's make-up her face had a pale, pitted look, a dignity not normally distinguishable. She began to sip the cup of lukewarm tea Catherine had left on the littered bamboo table beside the bed. 'Well, there's 'ores wearin' more than yore wearin'. It don't mean everyone's gotta start 'angin' abaht Piccadilly, does it?' She cast a cold eye over the beige rayon frock, copied by Catherine from an original Molyneaux she had seen in last month's Vogue. 'Yer show it all, gel, and there's nuffink left ter offer 'em.'

  'What,' said Catherine mockingly, 'the customers at the flower shop?'

  'And where is th' flah shop?' Her mother matched her tone, bettered it. 'Eh? In Shepherd's bleedin' Market! When I arsked Edna ter give yer the job I also bloody arsked 'er ter keep a bloody eye on yer, an' all! Y'should 'ear the stories she's told me!’

  'I have, Mum. Don't worry. I'm not the only girl in the world wearing short frocks these days.'

  Mrs Cornelius began her morning cough. Taaah! Kar! Kar! Yaaaah! Kar, kar, kar!' Catherine called goodbye and ran down the stairs, out onto the damp, bright pavements of Blenheim Crescent. She pulled on her coat as she walked to the corner, turning up Kensington Park Road, past Sammy's pie shop (not yet open), keeping pace with two totter's carts which had emerged from the mews running behind the Cornelius flat, where all the rag-and-bone merchants had their stables. Catherine was barely aware of the strong smell of mildew and manure the carts bore with them, for she had known the smell ever since her family had moved here at the end of the Great War. The carts turned off at Elgin Crescent, heading towards the richer parts of Bayswater, and she hurried on up the hill to Netting Hill Gate, to catch the tram which would take her to Mayfair.

  Although her Auntie Edna (not a blood relation) was already opening the shop when Catherine arrived no mention was made of her lateness. Monday mornings were normally fairly slow and gave the staff a chance to assess and arrange the stock, ordered that morning by Edna Bowman and delivered from Covent Garden. All along the paved court of the Market other shopkeepers were opening up. 'Lovely day, dear, isn't it? Spring's 'ere, at last.' Auntie Edna was a tiny, cheerful woman, rather heavily made up, who had known her mother since the early days in Whitechapel. Edna had done quite a bit better for herself than had Mrs Cornelius; she had received the capital for her shop from an admirer, long-since dead, of whom she had been particularly fond. As Catherine went to the back of the shop to hang up her coat, Edna called: 'You're the first to arrive. Nellie 'asn't turned up. Get Ted to 'elp you with them boxes. Like your 'air-do.'

  'Glad someone does.' Catherine put her coat on the only hanger. 'Mum thought someone would take me for Ted.'

  Edna shouted with laughter. Ted himself appeared, wheeling his big black delivery bike through the court. He wore a fresh apron, a striped blazer and moleskin knickerbockers. Although only fourteen, he was nearly five foot ten, fat and ruddy, with a faint black moustache and a permanently morose expression belying a sharp sense of humour.

  'Morning, Ted,' said Auntie Edna, still laughing.

  'Morning, Mrs Bowman.' His large eyes regarded her with considerable gravity. Tou really shouldn't start before they open, you know. It's bad for the liver.'

  'Cheeky blighter,' said Auntie Edna affectionately. 'Give Cath an 'and with the big boxes will ye'. Nellie's not 'ere yet.'

  'Probably married 'Is Lordship over the weekend,' suggested Ted, letting down the bike's iron stand with a clang. It was a familiar joke. Mr Stopes, the dignified butler from the Cannings' house in South Audley Street and popularly known in the Market as His Lordship, was sweet on Nellie, who thought a butler beneath her. Nellie was not merely an assistant in the shop. She was, she said, a Floral Artiste. Sometimes she would go to customers' houses and arrange their flowers for them. As a result she had seen how the other half lived and had set her sights on having nothing less than the best for herself.

  Catherine and Ted began to carry the cardboard boxes of irises into the shop. Outside, Auntie Edna passed the time of day with the owner of the ironmonger's next door. They were talking about a man who had assassinated somebody in Germany and who was now on trial for murder. The ironmonger, apparently, had known the murderer when he had been a prisoner of war in England. ' 'E was a meek little blighter, too.'

  When all the boxes were empty and the flowers transferred to pots and vases Catherine, now in a green overall, began to arrange them. Auntie Edna finished her conversation and came in. 'You've got a knack for it, Cath—better than Nellie, really. That's a very tasteful arrangement.' She moved a daffodil, thought better of it, replaced it where Catherine had originally put it. 'Where could that silly girl 'ave got to?' A customer entered. It was the old lady who looked after the Member of Parliament whose flat was in Curzon Street. 'Good morning, Mrs Clarke.' Auntie Edna raised her voice a fraction. 'Lovely, isn't it?'

  'He's coming up from his constituency today, you see.' Mrs Clarke frowned, staring hard at Catherine as if trying to determine her sex. Catherine snapped a stalk too short and sighed. 'So I thought I'd get him a bunch or two of nice spring flowers. What have you done to your hair, dear?'

  'It's the Eton crop,' said Auntie Edna, 'isn't it, Cath? The latest fashion.'

  Catherine became conscious of a slight flush on the back of her freshly shaved neck. She continued to arrange the flowers.

  'Well I never,’ said Mrs Clarke. 'How much are the daffs?'

  'Sixpence a bunch this morning I'm afraid.' Auntie Edna shook them in their vase and removed a few to show her.

  'Give us two, love,' said Mrs Clarke.

  As Mrs Clarke left and Auntie Edna put the shilling in the till Catherine glanced through the shop's window and saw someone looking in, his face partially obscured by the broad leaves of the aspidistra and the feathery foliage of the ferns used for display. She knew, by the way he began to study the tulips, that he had been looking at her. She began to move towards the back of the shop, wondering if Mrs Clarke was outside soliciting opinions about recent hair fashions. The man remained at the window. Then he was gone. He stood in the entrance to the shop, the light behind him. He was good-looking, middle-aged, dark. He was dressed in formal but slightly old-fashioned clothes: grey frock-coat and trousers, grey waistcoat, grey homburg. He had a wing-collar and a yellow cravat with an amber pin in the shape of a moth. He carried a black, silver-headed stick and, as he entered the shop, she saw that he wore light tan shoes with spats. He had the air of a foreigner who had spent some years in England. Catherine had never seen him before but Auntie Edna recognized him with pleasure. 'Oh, good morning, Mr K! Just back in London, are you?'

  'From my island retreat, yes. I returned recently.' He had a deep, soft voice, with an accent. 'You have no orchids today?'

  'I'm afraid not. I could order you some for tomorrow.'

  'If you would, Mrs Bowman.'

  Because he did not look in her direction Catherine became convinced that he was probably aware of her attention. She turned her back and began to clip the ends off some irises. 'There's not a very big selection at this time of the year, really,' Auntie Edna was saying. 'They had some roses in the market, but I didn't fancy them. Forced flowers never last, do they?'

  'No, indeed. Then let us have a great many beautiful English spring flowers, Mrs Bowman. Give me three bunches of everything. I shall turn my apartment into a celebration of the season.'

  'Your flat'll be more like Kew Gardens, Mr K!' Auntie Edna giggled. 'When shall I have them sent round?'

  'This afternoon. About three o'clock. And I will need somebody to arrange them for me.'

  'Oh dear. Well, Nellie's off today. She might be in later, but. . .' Auntie Edna called: 'Miss Cornelius!'

  Catherine was forced to face her aunt and the foreigner. 'Yes, Mrs Bowman.' They were always
formal in front of this kind of customer.

  'D'you think you're up to arranging some flowers for Mr K?'

  'Well, if Nellie can't do it. . .'

  'She's got a lovely touch,' said Auntie Edna to Mr K. 'I think you'll be satisfied. Can you go round with Ted at three, love?'

  'Of course, Mrs Bowman.' She continued to be embarrassed. She made herself lift her chin, to look back at him, but luckily he was already turning, smiling at Auntie Edna

  Thank you.' He raised his hat as he left, causing Auntie Edna to stare fondly after him. 'He's very gentlemanly, that Mr K. Ever so polite, Cath. And one of our best customers.'

  'What does he do?'

  'He's Greek. Owns a lot of ships and stuff. He's got flats all over the world, but he prefers to live in London most of the time. It's his favourite city, he reckons. They say he's a millionaire. You'll do well this afternoon. Nellie once got a quid for arranging his flowers for him. He loves flowers. Has fresh ones every day he's in London. I could keep going on his custom alone when he's here, but, of course, he has to travel a lot. I think he's got a wife in Paris, but he never brings her with him. Maybe they're divorced. He took a fancy to you, you could tell. Kept looking at you while you were arranging them irises. He might tip you more than a quid, who knows?'

  'He seemed very nice.' She thought she flushed again, though Auntie Edna didn't seem to notice. The back of her head felt so vulnerable since she had had her hair cut.

  'You'd better do his flowers as soon as you've had your lunch, Cath. Three bunches of everything.'

  'All right. Auntie Edna.' She wished that Nellie were here, to do the arranging. Nellie had a brashness, a self-assurance which could carry her through a situation. Besides, Nellie relished intense stares from dark-eyed millionaires: her hopes for the future depended on them. Mr K did not seem a bad sort and she was sure he had no real interest in her—he had probably also been trying to guess if she were a girl or a boy in her short hair and overall—but she was afraid that she would be awkward if he was there when she was arranging the flowers, that she might let Auntie Edna down. She tried to stop worrying; after all, the odds were that he wouldn't want to hang around while she was working. He probably had too much to do.

  By lunch-time she felt better, was even amused by her own nervousness, but when she and Ted set off for Hertford Street she was abstracted and hardly heard what Ted was telling her about his dad's having gone for a job as a baker only to find, when he got there, that the bakery was kosher. Ted was balancing the flower boxes on his bike and she was carrying four big cellophane-wrapped bunches in her arms, wishing that she had remembered to wear her overall, or at least her coat, for she could feel water running down her right knee.

  Ted stopped outside a house with a black door. The paint looked fresh. There was a brass plate on the wall beside the door: Koutrouboussis and Son. ‘Is that Mr K?' she asked. 'Koutrouboussis.'

  'Bit of a mouthful, eh?' said Ted. ‘I think the old man's dead or gone back to Greece. This is his son.'

  A maid opened the door at Ted's ring. 'Ah, the flowers.' She was small and Chinese. Catherine thought she had never seen a more beautiful girl. She was dressed conventionally, in a black and white uniform. 'We go upstairs, please.' Catherine and Ted followed the maid up a fairly narrow staircase. Judging from the look of the doors on the ground floor, Mr Koutrouboussis's business was conducted there. The maid came to a door at the top of the stairs. She opened it and led them into a wide hall. The hall was furnished opulently with slightly unfashionable chinoiserie, although the preponderance of lacquered wood and black-framed mirrors was not overpowering and, against this setting, the maid no longer seemed incongruous.

  ‘Isn't it lovely,' whispered Catherine.

  It was not to Ted's taste. He said nothing as he wiped his boots on the mat. They followed the maid into a large sitting room, also furnished in a mixture of oriental styles and art nouveau, again giving an impression of lightness. Catherine thought it was probably more like a Japanese room than a Chinese one, though she could not have defined the difference. It was odd to see, through the large French windows which opened onto a balcony, the familiar Mayfair street.

  The maid handed something to Ted as soon as he had set his boxes down. This is for you, thank you.'

  Thanks very much, love,' said Ted. He lumbered from the room. 'See you in a little while, Cath.'

  'Yes. Cheerio, Ted.' Her voice sounded feeble in her own ears. She looked helplessly at the maid. 'Where do you want me to begin? In here? Are there some vases?'

  With Ted gone the maid's manner seemed to change. She was no longer brisk. Her voice became at once more intimate and virtually inaudible. 'I will fetch pots, miss.'

  Alone in the sitting room, Catherine bent and removed the lid from the nearest box. It was full of daffodils. She began to look for suitable surfaces on which to place the vases, wishing that she had some idea of Mr Koutrouboussis's preferences. The door opposite opened. He was smiling, wearing a dark brown quilted smoking jacket over the waistcoat and trousers he had worn when he had come to the shop. He was smoking a cigarette in a holder. 'Ah, the little girl from Mrs Bowman's. What shall I call you, my dear?'

  'My name's Catherine Cornelius, sir.' She suppressed a strong satirical urge to lisp and curtsy and wondered almost with horror where such a notion could have come from, particularly since she felt so nervous. For his part he bowed, with an air of light mockery. 'I am honoured to make your acquaintance, Miss Cornelius. Your beauty outshines the beauty of the flowers you bring me.' His tone had the effect of relaxing her almost too much. She smiled in return as he held out his hand for hers. His soft lips, his moustache, touched her knuckles. She became gay. 'Where would you like me to start, Mr Koutrouboussis?'

  He was evidently pleased that she had pronounced his full name. 'There is a large vase which the maid will bring. I think a selection of all the flowers could go in that, on top of that cabinet there, where they will catch the light. What do you think? Women have a better sense of these things.'

  'I think it would look very well there,' she said. She was flattered. The maid came in, carrying the large fan-shaped vase. 'Thank you,' said Mr Koutrouboussis. 'Put it on the cabinet, please.' As the maid left to fetch another vase he said, 'You think it unusual, a Chinese girl for a maid?'

  'Unusual in these parts, sir.'

  'I brought her with me from Hong Kong. I love feminine things, you see. And Chinese women are the quintessence of femininity. I celebrate femininity where most men, particularly men of business, try to banish it. We are born of women. I refuse to deny my mother's blood.'

  For a moment Catherine wondered if he were trying to tell her that he was a pansy, so that she should not be afraid of being in the room alone with him, but he continued:

  'These days everyone is trying to stop women being women. It was the war, I suppose. Or perhaps it is fear of emancipation. If women are to have the vote, they say, then let us force them to become masculine—then we shall not be afraid of them.'

  Catherine was now certain that he disapproved of her hair. She became confused again. 'I'm not at all sure, Mr Koutrouboussis.' His laughter calmed her. 'Oh, I am sorry. Miss Cornelius. I am not referring to your delicious hairstyle. It is lovely. It displays an exquisite neck, draws attention to a perfect face, a delightful figure. Your femininity, I assure you, is emphasized. Your presence gladdens my heart. You must come to arrange my flowers every day.' The scent of the anemones she had been holding now seemed very heady and she wondered if the room itself were perfumed. Perhaps, being foreign, he was wearing perfume himself. A thought came to her, that it was his praise which made her feel so dizzy, but she decided it was, after all, the anemones. Thank you,' she said.

  The maid returned with two tall vases on a tray. At her master's instructions she placed the vases on a small table standing before the French windows. She seemed to be smiling, although her eyes remained directed downwards. 1 will fetch more pots,' she said.

&nb
sp; 'I'd better be getting on with my job, sir,' said Catherine easily. 'Mrs Bowman's a bit short-handed today.'

  'Of course.' He waved her towards the large vase. 'Will it embarrass you if I watch? I admire skill, particularly those skills at which women excel.'

  She smiled. 'I'll probably make a terrible job of it now. It's my first time, you see. In a house, I mean. I've only done the arrangements in the shop up to now.'

  'If it seems to me that I am making you shy I will leave, I promise you.'

  She drew a deep breath and nodded. 'All right, sir. It's a bargain.'

  He seated himself in an armchair with a padded oval back. He drew a small table with an ashtray on it towards him.

  Although she felt self-conscious, his flattery had given her confidence. She felt rather like a dancer who knows she has an appreciative audience, and the ambience in the apartment, cool, comfortable and slightly erotic, also helped to put her at her ease. As she worked she was hardly aware of his presence. The arrangement came easily and was finished quickly. 'There. Will that do?'

  'You are an artist. Miss Cornelius.' He rose to admire the display. 'You have studied this sort of thing?'

  'Studied?'

  'Flower-arranging. In Japan . . .'

  'Oh, no. I like doing it. It's what I enjoy most about working for Mrs Bowman.'

  'And what do you do, other than working for Mrs Bowman?'

  She selected some more flowers and approached the first of the tall vases. The maid entered, carrying a round pewter vase, decorated with semi-naked ladies wearing flowing drapery which, with the stylized lilies and water-lilies, made up the main design. 'Well, nothing really,' she replied.

  'You do not paint?'

  Catherine was amused. 'I never thought of it. I haven't any talent.'

  'Oh, I think you have the talent. You should go to art school.'

  She smiled, saying nothing. She snipped some of the longer stems of the tulips. The maid left the room again. He walked to the window and looked out. 'What a beautiful day it is. Will you dine with me tonight. Miss Cornelius?' She was taken aback and yet at the same time the question came as an inevitable one so she answered 'Yes' without thinking, then she hesitated, the scissors in one hand, the tulips in the other. 'I'm not sure. I mean . . .'