Bertie and the Hairdresser Who Ruled the World (20 page)

‘Well I'll be damned – it's a cat flap!' laughed Celeste. ‘Doreen, you were right, and I apologise for my earlier scepticism. The cat flap has swung it for me! That's so unlikely it has to be true. I'm in!'

‘I'm in!' repeated Bertie immediately.

Mama caught her breath at the pronouncement and Doreen's eyes blazed. Cutie clapped her hands and grinned. ‘There, Gaia, woman and bird, together as one, just as the Pythia predicted.'

‘Is there nothing this bloody Pythia doesn't know?' muttered Celeste. ‘I feel trapped, like I'm on a runaway train.'

‘You'll get used to it.'

‘I'm not sure I will.'

‘Actually, you're going to have to get used to it whether you like it or not,' said Doreen firmly.

‘Why? What's going on?' Celeste's suspicions instantly surfaced again. ‘What do you mean? I want an explanation right now!'

‘She doesn't know yet, does she?' said Cutie. ‘You've kept it from her so she could make up her own mind, come in of her own free will. Clever, clever Gaia!'

‘Tell me!' demanded Celeste. ‘Now!'

‘Calm down, Celeste, there's no need for anger. You're going to need our help to defeat those awful men who are attempting to destroy James's career, and you're going to need our help to promote this refreshing new democracy that he's ignited. You've already figured out that these men will now target you and Bertie after their failed attempt at corrupting your husband, and there's every chance they're already moving against you.'

‘I know all that, so what's Cutie talking about?'

‘You have to understand that the complete genealogical record of Helen's descendants is held here,' explained Doreen. ‘We can trace her bloodline through one hundred and sixty-four generations, mother to daughter, to the present day. In all that time the line has never failed in its strength and although many Gaias have been related to Helen, in one of those historical oddities that occasionally occur, our most recent Gaias have not. Kate Hepburn was not of Helen's line. Neither was Clementine Churchill before her, nor Agatha Christie before Clem, but Annie Scott Cook most definitely was, and although she is unrecorded by history, she worked wonders restoring the Sisterhood after Emmeline Pankhurst's aggressive leadership. We were nearly discovered then, and Em had to resign when her radical politics contradicted Sisterhood policy. We've always worked behind the scenes, you see, but the poor woman was far too feisty to take a back seat. As I said, most Gaias in our long history have been descended from Helen, but not all, and when there is doubt in the succession, the Pythias have always advised the Sisterhood to go back into the bloodline to select our next Gaia.'

‘Don't you see? That's why Kate Hepburn came to see me,' said Doreen firmly. ‘I am Gaia because of my ancestry, and when the time comes, I shall step aside and you will take my place!'

‘Me? Why me?' exploded Celeste, a look of dumbfounded outrage on her face.

‘Because we need you as much as you need us – and now you'll see why.' Doreen loosened her colourful scarf and pulled it from her head. Her bobbed hair fell free. There was no thinning caused by chemo; the thick locks shone with copper brilliance in the subdued light. It was identical in hue to Celeste's.

‘This colour is the fabled Flame of Sparta. You and I, Celeste, we're both True Daughters of Helen of Troy!'

CHAPTER ELEVEN

‘Now wait just one minute,' exclaimed Celeste, shaking her head from side to side in vehement denial, more shocked than angry. ‘I'm not liking this. I'm not liking it one little bit.'

‘Why not?' asked Cutie with all the innocence of a child. She may have reigned supreme amongst her books and possessed a deep knowledge of classical languages, but she was still inexperienced in many ways. ‘What could be more thrilling than to find you're related to the greatest woman who's ever lived?'

‘The girl is right,' interposed Martha unexpectedly, taking charge. ‘I've made special studies of the lineage and there's no doubt. No doubt at all. Look at Gaia. Look at her hair. Have you ever seen such a distinctive colour? The particular gene that creates the Flame of Sparta is now incredibly rare, but when it does appear it is still strong and vital. Tell us, Celeste, have you ever, in all your days, met anyone with the exact hair tint you have?'

There was a long, telling pause.

‘There you are, your silence is entirely understandable. That's because there are just nine women alive today who carry this gene in its purest form. Nine! Out of a total world population of over three billion women. The bloodlines bifurcate and recombine continuously, so as each generation is born there are only a very few who carry the true blood of Helen. Three of the nine are in this Temple right now: Gaia, yourself, and Little Miss Serious here!' Cutie grinned and waggled her fingers at Celeste. ‘Of the remaining six, four currently live in Britain: two are still children, even younger than Cutie; one is a nun and therefore beyond reach and reasoning by us; and the last is Alice, who has unfortunately suffered a serious mental breakdown and now roams the streets of London accompanied by her pet pigeon. What a sodding tragedy!' Martha's suddenly bitter tone surprised Celeste. ‘The remaining two who live outside Britain are twin sisters from Finland. We keep a close eye on them. Twins are always exciting genetically. We have high hopes for daughters from those two in the years to come.' Martha regarded Celeste with a steady eye. ‘You're still not convinced, are you. Well, we can always show you the bloodline. Would you accept that as proof?'

Without waiting for an answer, she bustled over to one of the thick marble shelves, old-fashioned skirts swishing, peered myopically at the tomes through her half-moon spectacles while running a finger along a row of leather book spines, then pulled out a great volume and placed it on her desk under the pool of golden sunshine. ‘Here's an abridged family tree of the House of Sparta. It follows the strongest line only, the primary line. The numerous branches are dealt with elsewhere and a surprising number reappear at a later date to combine once again with the dominant line. Here is Helen and her daughter, Hermione. Now follow the red path as I turn the pages.

‘These are the centuries of Blessed Lycia, here we have Cleopatra, hair as red as blood and a strong Gaia, here the removal from Patara to Rome, then to Britannia. The Dark Ages follow. There's Eleanor of Aquitaine.' The pages turned one by one. ‘The line's now passing through Tudor and Georgian England and eventually we reach your great-great-great grandmother. This is where it gets really interesting. Gaia?'

‘Thanks, Martha. As I said before, Celeste, you and I are related to each other, but only very distantly. Five generations ago, in the middle of the nineteenth century, twin sisters were born, Sarah and Emily Blackwell. Here they are.' Doreen tapped at the page with her manicured nail. The details were recorded meticulously in copperplate. ‘They both married and the bloodlines separated again, but you actually have a greater claim to be Gaia than I do since my branch of the family is descended from Emily and has the recessive gene, while the primary line followed Sarah. Yours is the dominant line. How do I know this? Well, unlike my hair, yours will not go grey. Ever!

‘You will carry your colour to the day you die, you lucky, lucky woman. You can also see it in the eyes – yours are pure malachite green. They are Helen's eyes, whereas mine are much less … vibrant. A sure indication of the recessive gene. Cutie's likewise. Her hair is also a subtly different shade and, although she would undoubtedly make a fine Gaia, her real value to the Sisterhood is as Guardian of the Temple.

‘So, from Sarah came the next generations of your family until we reach your mother, Barbara. I realise this has come as something of a surprise to you, but the archives cannot be doubted. We have a complete and detailed record of your family tree right here.' Doreen placed her palm on the page as if to emphasise her point. Bertie bobbed his head up and down beside her, craning his neck to see what was going on. Celeste had long ago accepted his need to be involved and, without thinking, stroked his violet blue crown and ran a hand gently down the blue feathers covering his broad back. ‘Look, Bertie, books,' she murmured.

‘Yes. Books. Old books.' His cogent reply startled Martha.

Doreen continued. ‘Ray, your father, had an unusually high number of relatives on the distaff side who were secondary daughters of Helen, while Barbara, your mother, was a natural redhead and secondary daughter in her own right. We watched closely when they married, hoping for a girl, and were delighted when you were born. The combination of two lines of secondary daughters always produces a pureblood True Daughter. Always! In you, the bloodline has emerged once again as strong and vital as ever. If you doubt what I'm saying just look at the colour of our hair. Even Cutie – a pureblood True Daughter of Helen herself – even she doesn't have the same rich tints you and I have. This is the extraordinarily rare red-copper Flame of Sparta, the bronze that drove men wild.

‘Helen wasn't some ditzy blue-eyed blonde with big tits and pouting lips, like those favoured by Hollywood directors. She had red hair and blazing green eyes – why the hell do you think the Athenians went to war over her for ten years? Fair-haired women were two-a-penny in those days, no one would fight for a decade over some airhead with a peroxide mop, but a green-eyed redhead – a Goddess – now that was another thing entirely. Her blood flows in your veins as sure as spring follows winter, and you will be the next Gaia after I retire.' There was such passion in Doreen's voice, such daunting force, that even Celeste, accustomed as she was to exercising power herself, felt thoroughly intimidated. Doreen seemed to sense this and suddenly relaxed, a quirky smile hovering on her lips. ‘It is your destiny, Luke!' she added mischievously.

‘It might seem amusing to you, but I'm really struggling with this,' muttered Celeste. ‘It's just too weird to be talking about history and destinies and priestesses. Will I have to wear hessian underwear or something?'

‘Not unless you want to. Listen, I'm trying to make light of a matter so serious that most people would run a mile. It's only natural you should be disturbed, but that will pass. Running the world's not actually that complicated. Despite our joking, most world leaders are reasonably competent. They just need a nudge here and there to keep them on the straight and narrow. Despite what feels like crushing responsibility on that front, I still spend more of my time covering up grey roots or poodle perming. Kate also found she had plenty of spare time and continued to make films nearly right up to her death.

‘Look, my throat's getting dry from the atmosphere down here so shall we go upstairs and have a nice cup of tea and we'll try to answer any more questions you have?'

‘Yes. Thanks, that's just what I need.' Celeste slipped on her gauntlet and called Bertie. He sidled across the top of the chair and hopped onto her arm.'

‘Hello, Mummy,' he said brightly. ‘I love you.'

‘I love you, too, Bertie,' replied Celeste, kissing his head. Doreen noted she did not patronise the bird by using an infantile sing-song voice. She spoke in a normal tone, replying as she would to any human. To Celeste, Bertie was an equal, to be treated with courtesy and respect – however, he did allow himself to enjoy some affectionate neck petting which resulted in something quite unexpected. Curiously, he began to purr. Loudly. Doreen nodded, remembering the Pythia's bizarre prophesy. ‘The blue bird that purrs,' she murmured to herself. ‘Well I'll be damned!' She opened her mouth, but Celeste cut her off.

‘Don't ask! It's a long story and I'll tell you some time, but at the moment I'm the one who needs explanations.' They all headed for the tunnel leading back to Temple Hall above.

‘There's another thing you have to consider as well,' mused Doreen as they crossed the polished marble floor.

‘How can there possibly be more?'

‘There's lots more, but this is a simple observation, one even a person as shell-shocked as you can appreciate.'

‘All right. Go on.'

‘It's obvious when you think about it – you've been drawn to live in Gloucestershire. This is not an accident. A convoluted path has led you here, from Oakham to Brazil to London to here. We thought we'd lost you in South America, but the Pythia urged patience and she was right, as always. Generations of Gaias have lived here, drawing comfort and strength from this Temple and its unique position within the Earth. Even Kate, as staunch an American as you could find anywhere, visited constantly, drawn back time and again to recharge her emotional batteries and watch you grow from that gawky ginger-haired adolescent into a confident, superbly capable woman. It's no coincidence the library ended up here and that I'm here. Now you. Why is that?

‘This area of Britannia, the old Roman province, has always had a special attraction. The earth's magnetic field is strong here. Ley lines cluster in this part of the world. Huge amounts of energy flow back and forth through the land, drawing us even though we're unaware of it. Stonehenge is a mere stone's throw away and on the same ley line as this Temple, and there are more barrows and burial mounds around here than you can shake a stick at!'

‘Sounds a bit too New Age for me,' observed Celeste, slowly climbing the long flight of stairs.

‘Me, too,' agreed Doreen. ‘But in today's modern, technologically developed society, just ask yourself one question. Why on earth do you think GCHQ ended up in Cheltenham? The answer is simple – the radio reception's phenomenal. Best in the Northern Hemisphere. If an organisation as important, committed, sane and clever as that acknowledges the influence of the area, then there must be something in it.