‘Is it far?’ I ask quizzically.
‘Half an hour. I could borrow a friend’s Land Rover. We’d need to time it well, though, to get there for dusk, otherwise you miss all the best of the action.’
La Roux has caught up by now, and brightens visibly at the idea of the starlings. So much so that he invites Jack to come swimming with us. Lucky for me he has some other stuff to do, and slouches off like a big, moribund bullock to slowly get on with it.
Perfect
.
The Mermaid Cove lies at the bottom of a steep, rocky incline. It’s circular, slate-bottomed, and ebbs and flows with the sea. To get in there you need to clamber down a badly excavated stone stairway (no safety rope, it’s rotted away) which is slippery as hell when it’s wet. But as luck would have it, it’s dry today.
La Roux loves the cove. He’s never ventured here before. He enjoys the cormorants on the cliff-tops, and the tufts of heather and the wild daisies crowned and kissed by frantic spring bees, and the verdant clumps of early clover.
On the way down he finds a huge, hairy caterpillar which he pokes with a twig and then moves off the pathway (‘for its own safety’, he tells me, solemnly).
Once we reach the bottom I throw down my towel and point to the far end. ‘Do you see in the deep section where the water looks paler?’ I ask.
He nods. He sees it.
‘Well, that’s actually a kind of bandstand. It’s a huge, flat rock in the water, and Jack told me how, in the old days, in the 1930s when they built the hotel, they sunk the rock there so that during summer parties this tiny band could stand on it and serenade the swimmers and the people on the lawns above, drinking cocktails before dinner. Great idea, huh?’
La Roux likes this notion very much indeed.
‘It’s a couple of inches under now. I guess the water levels must’ve risen slightly, over the years.’
‘How deep does it get, though,’ he asks, ‘before you can climb up there?’
‘When the tide’s starting to go out, like it is now, it can’t be more than five and a half foot or so. You could probably make it if you stand on tippy-toe.’
‘Okay,’ La Roux shrugs, pulling off his balaclava. ‘I’m keen to try it if you are.’
He starts wading. The water is cool but it’s wonderfully inviting.
(And yes, there’s a method to my madness: because of the steep rock walls all around us, if Patch is to clearly witness this tantalizing saga unfolding from the privacy of an upstairs window, I will need to be standing slightly higher than the water level.
‘The old bandstand’, she explained to me earlier, over the kitchen table, ‘will be like an ancient stage on which you’ll re-enact your masterful revenge like some kind of exquisitely formal, pre-Oedipal Greek drama.’ She seems to simply
love
this idea.)
There are reasons – which for the sake of modesty I can’t go into here – why my wade over is not as easy and trouble-free as it might be. But thankfully nothing too disruptive or disastrous happens on the way.
La Roux chatters amiably the whole time (ignoring my distractedness) about how cold the sea is off the Cape coast because of the Antarctic current, and how stormy it can be, and how treacherous, and how fine I look in my bikini (Is he mad? Or blind? Or just too easily pleased to be
human
?).
At one point he even thinks he feels something slippery under his big toe, but then he realizes it’s just a stray piece of seaweed.
We reach the rock basically intact. I take my time pulling myself on to it (La Roux chuckles uncontrollably when he espies my bikini bottoms – heavy with water – slipping off my rump, but I rectify this situation immediately). Then I politely give La Roux a hand.
He’s in his element. I silently observe how what little remained of his cheek-bite make-up has now been all-but washed away (and this, if anything, strengthens my resolve).
‘If ’twere done, Medve,’ I counsel myself quietly, ‘’tis best ’twere done quickly…’ So while La Roux stands – his hands on his hips in a saucy manner like he thinks he’s Sir Edmund Hillary or somebody – looking like a soggy but anaemic ginger stick-insect, I turn my back on him, give a little yell, then start yanking frantically at my bikini knickers.
‘What’s the matter?’ he asks, almost instantly panicked.
I hop about a bit, on one foot, and then on the other. ‘What’s
wrong
?’ he repeats, anxiously surveying my little war-dance. I don’t answer him directly. I just pant maniacally and prance around.
‘What’s
happening
?’ he bellows, taking an apprehensive step closer.
‘I think… I
think
,’ I finally stutter, ‘I think there’s something
horrible
up inside my knickers.’
And that, dear friends, is when I do it. I yank them down to knee-level, I turn around, I bend over, I insert my hand into the approximate, intimate parameters of my vaginal area, and then, from its soggy and protesting confines, I remove a five inch, red-coloured, jelly-textured, thirty-seven-scraggy-legged centipede.
La Roux is
not
a happy-chappie. He gives a yell, and then a scream (I kind of hoped he’d fall backwards, into the water, but instead he slips over and lands flat on his coccyx).
I turn, I whoop, I chuck that rubber fucker into the air, I yell, ‘You thought you’d got one over on me, you little
shit
, but I
knew
about the capped tooth and the make-up and
everything
!’
La Roux doesn’t utter a single word back at me. He just shakes his head, gingerly fingers the waistband of his swimmers and breathes deeply. He’s plainly considering
vomiting
as an option.
I glance up, grinning, towards the Chaplin Suite, and do my utmost to squint in through the window. The sun’s reflecting quite strongly, so at first I can’t see anything, but eventually I’m able to distinguish… not Patch.
Not
only
Patch, I mean, but
four
faces. Staring down at me. Big and Patch and
Poodle
and little Feely (presumably balanced on a chair). And Patch’s fat face is puce with the gloating satisfaction of her low-down and dirty
scheming
little victory.
I guess, as I stand there, that I’m pretty much up shit creek without a paddle. And, frankly – I suddenly start thinking – panties might actually be a rather useful addition down here.
The bitch is
back
but with an
Eton Crop
– it’s a hairstyle,
stupid
– and tits like torpedoes (I know it’s not a particularly
original
assessment, but under the difficult circumstances of her sudden return, how fucking
snappy
do you expect me to be?).
And I fear I’ve really gone and outdone myself this time. There’s no shrugging it off or wriggling out of it; I’m in Double Trouble with a capital D. T.
‘It’s been a long while coming, Medve,’ Big announces ominously, when he finally catches up with me (my hair’s still wet. I’ve not even
changed
yet), ‘but your day of reckoning is finally here.’
He’s not
angry
or anything, just
disappointed
(oh God, how I hate it when parents pull this manoeuvre). He says I’ve confused and confounded him, that he thought I knew
better
, and where, oh
where
, he wonders, in cacophonous conclusion, is my natural-born
dignity
?
‘Well it’s certainly not hidden inside her vagina,’ Poodle intervenes, bitchily, from her roost in the far corner, ‘because we’ve all had a pretty good look up
there
today.’
‘Oh
shit
!’ I gasp back at her, in phoney-teen-retaliatory amazement. ‘Perhaps it might’ve taken some brief refuge in the gaping chasm where your sense of
humour
’s meant to be.’
(She doesn’t like this. Nor does he.)
‘Learn some manners,’ Big snaps.
‘But where the fuck
from
?’ I ask indignantly.
Oh dear. Three weeks of washing-up duty suddenly lie ahead of me.
Poodle.
Back again – with no fair warning, either – and the sudden proud possessor of these two
huge
breasts which nobody’s allowed to mention under pain of decapitation. But even little Feely seems hypnotized by them. (And he’s
never
been a breast man. He was fed by bottle, all the way.)
The same applies to Mr La Roux, who, when he finally meets Poodle face to face (he’s been keeping out of harm’s way for as long as is decently feasible) acts about as green as a debutante at her coming-out party. He blushes and floor-watches and almost bloody
curtseys
. Well that’s sodding
men
for you. Slam-dunked by beauty.
Unfortunately, Poodle seems to have it in for him from the very beginning. The first thing she says after they exchange greetings (and, in fairness, she does actually direct this snide comment towards me) is, ‘If I find out who taught Feely that pathetic burping habit I’m going to stitch up their rectum and then feed them molasses.’
(My older sister means business. She’s hard as enamel.)
The next thing she says is, ‘What the
fuck
is that smell in here?
’,
and after sniffing the air like a beautiful bloodhound barks. ‘It’s tea tree oil! I’d recognize its rotten, antiseptic scent
anywhere.
’
(Ah, so this solves
that
mystery.)
La Roux and I – as part of my Draconian Punishment Regimen – have now been formally forbidden from spending time together. We are not to be trusted alone under any circumstances, and the only words we are permitted to utter must either be completely uncontentious or absolutely necessary (like
‘Fire!
’, or ‘Pass the ketchup’, or ‘I think Feely’s hyperventilating’, which he does after supper. Too much burping, apparently).
Naturally I corner Patch in the kitchen later that same evening and quietly prepare to kick her head in. But – believe it or not – La Roux (who has ears like a whippet) comes storming on in at an inopportune moment and literally, physically drags me off her.
‘Violence is no solution, Medve,’ he tells me (thereby violating every punitive penalty I am currently labouring under) ‘to this fine mess you’ve got us into.’
‘Wanna
bet
?’ I bellow, and then I pause for a second. ‘Hang on. Who the hell do you think you
are
? Oliver fucking
Hardy
? The fine mess
who
got us into, anyway?’
He shakes his finger at me. ‘I think you probably heard me the first time, young lady.’ (Young
lady
? What a
dweeb.
)
And do you think the fat brat is grateful for his muscular intervention? Is she
heck
! Not a jot of it! ‘I can fight my own bloody battles,’ she yells, then marches off brazenly.
Is it just me, or has Poodle gone and soured
everything
?
When supper is over (a monosyllabic occasion – La Roux and Feely staring, as if hypnotized, at Poodle’s sweet-scented and expensively encased bazookas, Poodle wincing at La Roux’s eating habits, Big inquiring constantly about Mo and Bob Ranger, Poodle evading him fairly ineffectually… ‘Yeah, they’re working very
hard
together…’, Patch and me still both sulking competitively: and guess who’s
winning
?) Poodle comes downstairs to help me with the washing-up.
As soon as she thinks everyone is out of earshot, she throws in the towel and pulls out a chair. ‘Okay, Medve,’ she tells me, ‘we’ve got to get the South African out of here. And I mean yesterday.’
I turn and glare at her. ‘Why?’
‘It’s nothing personal, but his father’s sending Mo money and that’s the only reason she can currently afford to stay in America. The way I see it, we really need her home again.’
‘But I thought she was doing pretty well out there?’
Poodle growls exasperatedly. ‘She’s
this
fucking close, you moron,’ she flashes me an inch gap between her pretty fingers, ‘to leaving him.’
I blink. ‘Leaving
who
?’
Her huge eyes widen. ‘Our poor
father
, stupid! Why the hell else would I decide to come back here? You honestly think I don’t have other places I’d much rather be?
‘And
anyway
,’ she continues, ‘Big could get into serious trouble if he’s found guilty of giving shelter to an illegal immigrant. He’s the last person in the world who needs visa problems at the moment. Something like this could be a major black mark against him…’
I think she’s exaggerating, but before I can say anything I hear gentle steps on the stairway, so tip my head and
shush
her.
Five seconds later Big appears, and he’s beaming.
‘I’ve been speaking to Jack,’ he tells us, ‘and he was saying he’d had this great idea of taking us as a family to see a parliament of starlings. He’s borrowing a friend’s Land Rover tomorrow evening. It’s a very kind offer. Are the two of you interested?’
Poodle shrugs (she’s not much of a nature lover) and I nod.
‘Great. Then I’ll go and tell him.’ He prances off again.
‘I still can’t believe you got your breasts done,’ I snipe, returning to my washing-up duties (still in quite a tizzy about the South African dilemma). ‘How much did they cost you? I bet that ancient, leather-faced travel agent put his hand to his pocket.’
‘You know what?’ she oozes back at me. ‘I really can’t
believe
you’re still growing. Just a couple more months and that huge, fat head of yours will be scraping the ceiling.’
Oh
God
, how I hate her.
Big loves this girl
so
dearly that it is literally
sickening
to watch him around her. She makes him happy. He finds her funny. They go on special little walks together. They talk about the progress he’s making in the shrubberies and with his pathetic Yank crochet wall-hanging.
She confides in him about her surgery and how much having it done
meant
to her. And he tells her how he thinks it’s the person
inside
that really matters, so in his book she’s always been perfect
anyway
.
Can you believe all this clap-trap?
Yeah. So I won’t bother denying how hard it is having my beautiful older sister back home again. (I’m feeling like the outcast crow who never receives an invite to the fox’s cheese dinner.)
Suddenly,
Poodle
’s the one Feely wants to read him a bedtime story. And Black Jack turns and stares after
her
when she totters past him in her expensive lizardskin heels and flying jacket (like she’s a gentle thief who’s stolen his eyes away). Even La Roux. Even
he
jumps on the bandwagon.
Over breakfast (on the morning after her arrival), he asks her courteously whether he can pour her more coffee (yes, we’re all drinking coffee now because this is Poodle’s brand-new beverage of preference). He’s stopped wearing his balaclava. His hair is oiled and shiny. His nails are clean. He’s even stopped
smelling
, temporarily.
It’s just too much disappointment for a single, ugly, gangly, envious girl giant to handle. So I spend the morning fishing, on my own. Thinking.
I mean, perhaps La Roux
would
be better off leaving. And perhaps Mo
should
come home again. And maybe Barge
is
a talented painter. And perhaps Big
isn’t
as small as he seems…
And maybe Feely
should
stop burping. And perhaps I really
ought
to start considering acting my age instead of my shoe-size (although the two – strictly speaking – are virtually identical).
Surprise
surprise
. The damn fish aren’t biting. I don’t catch a thing. But I
do
overhear an extraordinary conversation – on my return home for lunch – strolling through the foyer. Voices from the Ganges Room.
Poodle and La Roux. And she’s quietly and calmly asking him to
go
.
‘I don’t expect you to understand,’ she tells him, ‘but there are certain personal, family problems which only your leaving can rectify.’
La Roux doesn’t speak a word.
‘Big could get into trouble if the authorities find out you’re here. And the situation with Medve at the moment isn’t ideal, either. Anyhow,’ she wheedles in that awfully sweet but horribly
direct
way she’s perfected to an art form over the years, ‘I’m sure there must be people back in South Africa who are missing you terribly.’
‘The thing with Medve,’ La Roux intervenes, ‘just got a little out of hand…’
Poodle ignores him. ‘Big was telling me that you were a medic in the army,’ she slithers, ‘which I thought was
wonderful
.’
La Roux is silent again.
‘And the point is,’ she continues, ‘if you really didn’t want to go back for some reason, with the political situation as it is out there, I’m sure you could say you had
moral
objections to fighting in the war. Or that you were actively opposed to apartheid or something. I’m certain they’d buy it if you were sufficiently convincing…’
When La Roux next speaks, it is in a strange, dark voice. ‘I could
never
,’ he whispers hoarsely, ‘I could
never
do that. It would be wrong. It would be cowardly. It would be cheap and weak and
underhand
.’
Oh dear. This is turning nasty. And I’m seriously thinking about sticking out my small chest and sticking in my big beak, when I suddenly hear footsteps, behind me, coming my way, so I turn on my tail and scarper, determining to corner Poodle later and have my bloody say.
After lunch – a sedate affair in the dining-room, with Poodle presiding – La Roux passes me on the stairs. We’re heading in opposite directions. ‘I have nowhere else to go,’ he whispers. Then he slowly continues descending, as if he hasn’t even spoken.
Patch has quite lost her glow. I don’t know how or why exactly, but she’s suddenly awfully pale of face and full of lethargy. Later that afternoon, when we’re all preparing to head off and see the starlings, she says she feels under the weather and asks to stay at home instead.
La Roux – he’s back wearing his balaclava again, which I presume must be a good sign – kindly offers to stay with her, but she shakes her head and mutters how she’d much rather be alone. At which point Poodle steps in and won’t take no for an answer.
She pulls off her coat and says she’s not particularly interested in seeing a pack of noisy, greasy starlings flying around anyway. So that is
that
, then.
Much as I expected, the starlings are further away than Black Jack anticipated. We drive for fifty minutes, Feely, Big and me crammed on to the front seat, La Roux sitting alone in the open back, his balaclava off, his hair flying in the slipstream, and he’s sneaking the odd opportunity – when the impulse takes him – of hanging his head over the side and howling like an uptight, ill-trained, overexcitable puppy.
When we finally reach our location – a strangely flat, isolated and marshy area with extensive reedbeds concealing angry coots who yell from their hidden corners when we first arrive like irritable feathered fire alarms – the sky is grey and dusky. It’s also pretty damn
empty
.
Black Jack parks the car and we all clamber out. Nobody says anything. Silence. The odd coot shouts. Silence again. After fifteen minutes Big starts getting impatient. Are we in the right place? Is it the proper season?
‘Hang on a minute,’ La Roux says, spinning on the spot, ‘can’t you hear something?’
We all hold our breath and listen. At first I hear nothing. And then, a kind of windy noise, a swishing.
Wings.
Beating.
They’ve
come
. In their thousands. Like a hurricane. But silent, and ghostly. Not a stray tweet or an angry twitter among them. They arrive like a plague of feathers. Like a glossy, black whirlwind. A tornado of starlings, darting and spinning and turning and spiralling. Making shapes in the sky. Flying in formation. But madly. And randomly.
A million birds. One huge, great organism. One cloud. Then they divide. And join up again. They draw tigers in the air, and steam trains and pythons. They annex the sky in a single, stealthy, inky occupation of rapturous beak and shiny claw and piercing eye. Turning one way, then the other.
I glance at La Roux. He’s just to the right of me. His face is turned to the heavens, his mouth is open. He is
crying
.
When the sun has flown and the birds have set, La Roux takes a deep breath, then stands tall and turns and faces the assembled company.