by Ruth Edwards
‘Oh, dear.’
‘Well you may say “Oh, dear.”’ She took a generous sip of Rioja. ‘What a wuss! And to think this is the guy who gave us all hope in the early days of his reign when he took on that bombastic poseur Cornel West…’
Pooley raised an enquiring eyebrow.
‘Then Professor of Black Studies at Harvard, a mountebank, amateur rapper, and crowd-pleasing activist, who went off in a huff to Princeton because he thought Summers was showing insufficient respect by questioning his dodgy scholarship and his tendency to inflate his students’ grades sky-high.’
‘Black Studies is big at Harvard, is it? I’m surprised.’
‘Big? It’s mega. Just like Women’s Studies. And now Queer Studies.’ She snorted. ‘Excuses to avoid anything rigorous.’
‘You get more and more like Jack every day, Mary Lou. You’ll have to curb your opinions a bit now you’re a celeb.’
‘I’m only a D list celeb, darling. And that probably won’t last long. I’ll try hard not to offend the tender PC sensibilities of the BBC, but we’re alone and I can rant a bit. It’s just that Jack going into the jaws of danger has stirred me up. I’m afraid she’ll be lynched. From all I read and hear about American universities these days, you can prance around almost nude shaking your fanny at the athletes and screwing night and day under the bushes, you can accuse George Bush of being worse than Hitler or sneer at your country as the Great Satan and no one will even tut-tut, but cause quote offence unquote to the greatest asshole on the campus because of an innocent remark that could be construed as having racist or sexist overtones or reflect on someone’s gender orientation, and you’ll be fucked quicker than a frat-whore.’
She saw Pooley’s perplexed expression. ‘Sorry, Ellis. It’s all those campus novels I’ve had to read: I’m falling into the vernacular. A frat-whore is a fraternity-house groupie.’
Pooley sighed. ‘Things have moved on since my generation thought “Animal House” was cutting-edge, I suppose.’
‘Compared to now, “Animal House” is “The Waltons.”’
She pushed her plate away. ‘I look at Jack and I see a lawsuit waiting to happen. And I can tell you that it’ll be no defence that she’s female, bisexual, or that one of her best friends is black. Or African-American as I’m striving to teach her to say. She’s a walking dictionary of inappropriate words. And inappropriate words don’t come cheap in my old country.’
‘Mary Lou,’ said Pooley, reaching across the table to take her hand, ‘it’s not that I’m not interested and it’s not that I don’t care about Jack, but we are on our honeymoon, it isn’t long enough anyway, and I’d like to change the subject.’
She leaned across the table and kissed him enthusiastically. ‘OK,’ she promised, ‘consider me back on your wavelength.’
***
From: Commander Jim Milton
To: Detective-Inspector Ellis Pooley
Sent: Fri 24/03/2006 21.11
Subject: The usual
I expect you’re back by now and hope Madrid lived up to expectations. Sorry I had to leave your wedding early, but another murder of a scum-bag by other scum-bags called me away. Things are hotting up seriously here and I’m short-staffed so can you call me at home on Sunday so I can let you know what’s most urgent for Monday? Prepare to be at the Yard at sparrow-fart.
Love to Mary Lou. I did warn her not to marry a cop.
***
From: Mary Lou Denslow
To: Robert Amiss
Sent: Tue 25/04/2006 11.15
Subject: Thank heaven it’s all over
I hope now you’re at peace and far out of reach of predatory baronesses. Your wedding was a triumph. Rachel was elegant, you were soigné, Hannah looked like a woman who had never in her whole life thrown a wobbly, the ceremony was moving, the food was great and not too ethnic, no one could have faulted the speeches and Jack was on her best behaviour. Her only lapse, I think, was enthusiastically hailing Hannah as Rachel’s Yiddisher Momma. It’s not quite how a Hampstead psychiatrist might be expected to visualise herself, though considering how Hannah’s been behaving over the last few months, it serves her right.
I’ve been having anguished calls from Jack, who has had serious problems on the parrot front, owing to complications caused by airline precautions against avian flu. I shall definitely not fill you in on the detail, but she has bullied her way around officialdom and pulled strings shamefully, so I think Horace is being transported as diplomatic baggage. It’s beginning to dawn on me that Horace is likely to run into trouble on the PC front too. ‘Who’s a pretty boy?’ surely constitutes sexual harassment. And singing ‘Onward Christian Soldiers’ could cause offence to secular and religious alike.
She grumbled a bit about you two being in a rut and refusing to accept a challenge, so I assume you’ve remained unbending. Perhaps when she and Horace hit Hicksville, Provost Fortier-Pritchardson will live up to expectations and you will be surplus to requirements. But something tells me that this bird has an eye to the main chance and that Jack is no more to her than a titled trophy.
Still, I’ve decided to stop uttering warnings and giving advice as it’s a complete waste of time and energy. Jack’s in tunnel-vision mode and if she had a hearing aid, it would be switched off. I will confine myself to listening to complaints and delivering her and Horace to the airport next week.
Ellis is part of a team in hot pursuit of a very unpleasant gang of Albanian sex-traffickers. He remarked the other night that it’s a poor look-out when you can’t even say ‘You’re under arrest’ without the help of an interpreter. He seems nostalgic for the days when the worst linguistic challenge for a copper was cockney rhyming slang and no one was expected to be culturally sensitive.
Aren’t we all?
Since Ellis and I went back to work we’ve seen each other slightly but only slightly more than we used to when we lived in different cities, but at least we sleep in the same bed and we’ll always have Madrid. You, on the other hand, you lucky people, will have the whole of Europe to store in your memories for the bad days when you are both proper wage-slaves again. Make the most of it and don’t come back until you have to.
Much love from us both to you both, ML
Chapter Three
‘Beverages!’ cried the flight attendant.
‘What a raucous voice,’ said the baroness loudly to the tall, broad, white-haired man in the next seat, as she put the in-flight magazine back in the rack. ‘She sounds just like my parrot. Though with a more limited vocabulary.’ She leaned into the aisle. ‘I wish she’d hurry up. What’s taking her so long?’
‘A few other thirsty customers to attend to, I expect, ma’am,’ he said, in a soft Southern accent.
The baroness settled herself back in her seat with a grunt.
‘’Scuse me, ma’am, but does that box in the seat next to you contain your parrot?’
‘It does indeed.’
‘So that explains why you were talking to your baggage at the check-in.’
She beamed. ‘You spotted me earlier, then.’
‘You’re hard to miss, ma’am. That was a very striking hat you were wearing.’
The baroness smirked. ‘No point in hats unless they’re striking.’
‘So what kind is your parrot?’
‘Horace is an African grey.’
‘He must be a very special little bird if he gets a first-class seat.’
‘I’m the special bird. He’s along for the ride. And someone else is paying.’
‘Does he talk?’
‘Nineteen to the dozen, when he’s on form, but I’m not encouraging him right now. He’s here on sufferance so I’ve asked him to mimic a Trappist monk. I don’t want the airline refusing to let him make the return journey. I’ve put that black cloth over the crate to make him think it’s bedtime.’ She snorted. ‘Unbelievable palaver finding an airline that would take him, getting him certificated and training him to put up with a crate. I even
had to prove he’d served his time in quarantine. You’d think parrots were in the habit of taking a couple of mates down to the pub on a Friday night.’
‘So he won’t be talking on board. That’s a shame. I’d enjoy hearing what the little guy had to say.’
‘He might talk later. I’ll have to feed and water him at some stage. But I won’t be encouraging him to get chatty.’
‘Beverages!!’
‘Yes,’ called the baroness loudly. ‘I want a beverage.’
The flight attendant, who was three rows away, looked down towards her and glared. ‘You’ll be served when it’s your turn and not before. Beverages!’
‘So why are you offering beverages at the top of your voice then?’
Her neighbour touched the baroness on the sleeve. ‘If I were you, ma’am, I wouldn’t get into an argument with Rosa. It’ll do no good and she’ll only take it out on you.’
‘You mean she might deny me beverages?’
‘Sure. Rosa knows how to bring us to heel.’
‘Is she really called Rosa? Seems too nice a name for someone who looks and sounds like a bad-tempered serial killer.’
‘Oh, it’s not her real name. That’s Joan, but I don’t think anyone’s keen to get on first name terms with her. Rosa’s what some of us frequent flyers call her behind her back—after Rosa Kleb from the James Bond movie.’
‘Well she’s certainly old and ugly enough to have been in the KGB,’ grumbled the baroness. ‘Whatever happened to attractive young air hostesses? On Far East airlines they’re as young and beautiful as cherry blossoms.’
‘Anti-discrimination laws, ma’am.’
‘Ridiculous! The whole point of air hostesses is supposed to be that they do the job for a few years until they find a rich husband. Means they’re always agreeable as well as easy on the eye. What’s the point of having someone who’s so sick of her job it shows in her face.’
‘Beverages!’
The trolley and Rosa arrived.
‘I’ll have a….’
‘Not your turn,’ said Rosa and directed her gaze left. ‘Whaddayawant?’
‘Please help this lady first.’
‘’Gainst the rules.’
‘I’ll have bourbon on the rocks then,’ he said.
Crashing bottles and glasses, Rosa prepared his bourbon and handed it over. She stared with loathing at the baroness. ‘Whaddayawant?’
‘Dry martini. Straight up.’
‘Can’t.’
‘What do you mean you can’t? Martini is the American national drink. Has this airline no sense of national pride?’
Rosa said nothing.
‘You have gin. You have vermouth. I’ll make it.’
‘No vermouth. Just gin.’
The baroness locked eyes with her. ‘Vermouth is listed in the in-flight magazine.’
‘Noneonthetrolley.’
‘Then I suggest you search the galley.’
‘Whaddaythinkthisis? A cocktail bar?’
‘No,’ said the baroness coldly. ‘I think it’s a first-class cabin for access to which your employers charge a stack of money. I want vermouth. And a martini glass.’
‘No martini glasses,’ said Rosa. As she stumped off the man gazed with interest at the baroness. ‘Boy,’ he said, ‘you’re something.’
By the time Rosa came pounding down the aisle with a bottle, the baroness had commandeered the trolley, filled a glass with ice, shaken it several times until she thought it acceptably chilled, emptied it and almost filled it with gin.
‘Whatchadoin’?’ shouted Rosa.
‘Your job.’ The baroness leaned forward, took the bottle from Rosa, added just a couple of drops of vermouth, handed the bottle back and sat down. ‘Now I want a twist of lemon.’
‘No twists. Only slices.’
‘Then please cut some rind off a slice and bring it to me.’
There was another face-off, after which Rosa took a slice of lemon to the galley and returned with some rind, which she dropped haughtily into the baroness’s glass. ‘Beverages!’ she shouted at the next row of passengers.
The baroness had her first sip of martini, smacked her lips approvingly, and turned to her companion. ‘The seat’s uncomfortable, the décor is shabby, and they don’t know how to make a martini. If this is what it’s like in first class, what’s it like in economy?’
‘I’m too rich to know, ma’am.’ He held out his hand. ‘Edgar S. Brooks of Jackson, Mississippi, at your service.’
She shook his hand vigorously. ‘Jack I. Troutbeck, presently of Cambridge, at yours.’
***
‘I’d better see to Horace,’ said the baroness, two hours into the journey, extracting from her capacious handbag two small dishes, some pellets, and a bottle of water. Brooks watched with interest as she opened the crate and cooed at its occupant. After Horace had lost interest in the contents of his dishes, he emitted an ear-shattering sequence of wolf-whistles, which not only attracted the attention of everyone in the first-class compartment, but brought Rosa out of the kitchen. ‘Who’s making that noise?’ she shouted.
The baroness stood up. ‘It’s my parrot.’
‘Ohmigod,’ said a large woman two seats behind. ‘We’ll all get bird flu.’
‘Rubbish,’ said the baroness. ‘Even if my parrot had avian flu, you couldn’t catch it unless he bit you or you ate him.’
‘Who said you could bring a parrot on board?’ asked Rosa threateningly.
‘Your employers,’ said the baroness icily. ‘In exchange for a lot of money.’
‘Pieces of eight, pieces of eight,’ cried Horace.
‘How do we know it hasn’t got bird flu? And how do we know we won’t catch it from breathing the same air,’ cried the large woman.
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ said the baroness. ‘Why would I travel with a diseased bird?’
‘You might be a terrorist.’
‘Oh, for God’s sake, woman,’ began the baroness, as Horace launched into ‘God save the Queen.’ Brooks tugged at her sleeve. ‘Leave this to me, Jack.’ She sat down; he squeezed past her and stood in the aisle. ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he said soothingly, ‘y’all have nothing to worry about. This parrot hasn’t met another bird in two years, he’s been given the all-clear by his vet, and he’s got less chance of having bird flu than I have. This lady I’m travelling with is an aristocrat and a member of the British parliament and is a fan of our great country, so let’s all give her and her smart little parrot a warm American welcome.’ There was a small ripple of applause which turned to laughter as from Horace’s crate came a rasping cry of ‘Beverages! Beverages! Beverages.’
‘He’s certainly talented,’ said Brooks as he sat down. ‘He’s picked up an American accent in no time. Pity it’s from the Bronx.’
***
‘And remember to tell them that chicken was rubber. When something’s made of rubber, I want it to be natural rather than synthetic. Preferably, it should come from a plantation in Malaysia.’ As Rosa shot her the dirtiest of dirty looks, the baroness nodded at her reprovingly and walked out of the plane.
‘You never let up, Jack, do you?’ said Edgar Brooks, half in admiration and half in weariness.
‘Not knowingly,’ she grunted. ‘Anyway, that’ll teach her to be sarcastic and ask me if I’d any more complaints. I could have made a much bigger fuss than I did. The pasta wasn’t fit to be served to a horse and my favourite cat would have had harsh words about that excuse for fowl.’
‘Your life must be a constant battlefield.’
‘I enjoy battle.’
‘I can see that.’
They walked along in companionable silence for a few minutes until Brooks stopped. ‘This is goodbye, Jack. I’m going thataway to collect my bags and you’ll be heading thataway to catch your connecting flight.’ He handed her the crate he had insisted on carrying. ‘That trip was a lot of fun.
‘Now remember what I told you. Get sassy with immigration or
customs and you could be dead or on your way home in no time. And any problems at Freeman—just give me a call.’
They embraced and then began their separate marches down the long long corridors of the enormous Chicago airport.
***
‘Whatyougotthere, lady?’
‘My parrot.’
She thrust some documents at the customs official. ‘You’ll find these are in order.’
‘Thasfurmetosay, lady. Open up the box.’
The baroness summoned up her failing reserves of patience. ‘Do I really have to? He’ll be distressed by the light and the noise.’
‘Open.’
Grimly, the baroness undid the buckles, opened the lid slightly, said, ‘There, there, Horrie, everything’s fine,’ and then half-opened the lid so the official could peer inside.
‘He talk?’
‘A bit.’
There was a whistle from inside the carrier and then Horace shouted at maximum volume, ‘Pass the ammunition.’
The official froze. ‘What?’
‘Pass the ammunition,’ repeated Horace obligingly.
‘You come with me, lady. We’re gonna visit with Homeland Security.’
‘You cannot be serious, Officer. Are you suggesting my parrot is a terrorist? Where about his person do you think he would conceal explosives?’
‘He ain’t a terrorist. But he cuddabeen keeping company with some. He’s certainly saying some funny things for a parrot.’
The baroness struggled to keep her temper. ‘“Pass the ammunition” is just part of an American phrase, Officer. I taught him to say “Praise the Lord and pass the ammunition,” but he often forgets one bit or another.’
‘So it’s profane as well as threatening, is it?’
‘It was said by a U.S. chaplain during the defence of Pearl Harbour.’
‘Oh, yeah? Well, we’ll see what Homeland Security thinks.’
‘I’ll miss my connecting flight.’
‘That’s your problem, lady. Mine is the defence of the good ol’ U.S. of A. Follow me.’
***
Pushing a laden trolley, the baroness emerged exhausted out of Indianapolis airport more than three hours later. Her red velvet Tudor cap was slightly askew, so the pheasant tail-feathers stuck out at a strange angle. With a mixture of relief and disappointment, she spotted a large piece of cardboard reading LADY IDA TROUTBECK, behind which was a tiny blonde in micro-shorts and flip-flops with a t-shirt reading I ♥ FREEMAN U.
