Calabash Read online

  Chapter 8

  The Searching Scimitar

  The dying sun caught the sweat-sheened forelocks of four-and-twenty Arab stallions belonging to the sipahi, the imperial horsemen, as they trotted forwards in a gentle arc. They stepped with such precision that the tiny glass bells on their martingales jingled in a clear glissando, the sound of angels heralding the night. They were ridden by the city’s emirs, men of the greatest gravity, resplendent in their emerald turbans and sashes, their hooked brown noses turning neither right nor left, their amber eyes never dropping from the horizon.

  Dr Trebunculus rode with Rosamunde in a tumbril at the far end of the line. The Sultan’s daughter had been leaning from the carriage window, watching the tails of the horses switching from side to side as they raised and dropped their hooves. She flounced back onto her seat, raising a cloud of fine dust from the embroidered upholstery. ‘Perhaps you made another mistake in your calculations.’

  ‘That unfortunate slip occurred in Menavino’s transcription, when he misinterpreted a fracturing beam of sunlight,’ the doctor bristled. ‘The calibrations of the astrolabe are measured by the turning of the stars themselves. There can be no margin for error. And their world is so very wet, the condensation plays havoc with our instruments. Menavino triple-checked the paperwork with me and agrees with my findings. If there is a fallacy, it begins in the heavens themselves.’

  ‘Be careful, Doctor,’ warned Rosamunde, ‘that sounds remarkably like blasphemy. We’ll have to turn back soon. You know the rules.’ The sun would soon be setting, and the Sultan’s horsemen were not allowed to ride after nightfall because the unlit ground was treacherous, and there were akinci—mounted raiders—operating in the area.

  Trebunculus was mindful of his delicate position. He was allowed great liberty within the house of the royal family, and had always been careful not to abuse the trust he had earned. But the longer the promise he had so rashly made to Rosamunde’s father remained unfulfilled, the worse it grew for him. He had told the Sultan that he would find a replacement, and time was fast running out. His hard-won reputation was at stake, and Rosamunde’s mother was no longer alive to protect him from the Sultan’s wrath.

  The doctor thrust his head from the window, allowing the cool evening breeze to fan his face, and looked to the emerging stars for help. He glanced back at the Princess as her pearl-sheened eyelids closed to the rhythmic dancing of the carriage, and ran his hand through his dusty beard. He remembered the day he had delivered her into the world, and how he had fought to save the life of poor Eliya, her mother. The infant had been born so silent and still that for a moment the doctor felt sure he had lost her too. But Rosamunde, at least, came back. And here in the desert oasis she had blossomed—there was simply no other word for it. Her fearlessness, her compassion, her intellect set her aside from the other ladies of the palace; she was in every way her mother’s daughter. The Sultan saw it, and his joy was tempered with sorrow for his loss.

  But even Rosamunde did not know the truth of her birthing day. Only Trebunculus had seen the goblet of blue crystal from which the Sultan’s wife had drunk. He alone had found the tiny black granules of poison in the bottom of the glass. How he had agonised over his discovery! Suicide was unthinkable, for the Sultan’s marriage was the happiest in the kingdom, but the spectre of murder was just as difficult to confront, in a land where peace had reigned unbroken for so many years…

  He had kept the goblet’s residue, carefully drying and sealing it within a jar in his laboratory. And there it had remained while Rosamunde grew. He had hoped one day to solve the riddle of Eliya’s death, but now more pressing concerns had overtaken.

  He thought of young Menavino lying on the floor of the laboratory, surrounded by astrological charts and calculations. The boy was barely out of his teens, but instinctively understood the principles governing the mystic foundations of the world. He would make a fine successor, and might yet save the day. As the doctor’s abilities faded with his eyesight, the talents of his apprentice blossomed.

  ‘We’ll ride a little further,’ he decided, ‘to the meydan by the river basin. You must understand that there is more than mere geography involved in this convergence; the will must be on his side. But the Westerner’s appearance is inevitable, you need have no fear of that. I shall find him for you.’

  ‘It’s not for my father’s sake that I pray you succeed,’ the Princess murmured sleepily, her brocade fan wilting in her fingers, ‘but for all of us.’

  The curving line of stallions rode on, the tan carriage positioned at the base of the arc like the handle of a great scimitar, sweeping into the sunset.

  Chapter 9

  Paying Respect

  ‘I’m thinking of having my name changed by deed poll,’ said Julia, ‘except my mother would kill me if she ever found out. How much money have you got on you?’

  ‘Twelve and six. It’s all right if you shorten it to Stakis.’ Julia’s surname was Stakisvakapolos. Julia wasn’t her real name either, but she was never prepared to discuss the subject. I knew she was embarrassed by her family background, which was Greek Cypriot Catholic. Her mother spoke very little English. I wanted to talk about how this made her feel, belonging to one of the few foreign families in the area, but sensed that the issue was taboo. I was sure that if I ever mentioned it she would act surprised and pretend that the thought had never occurred to her, when it was probably an obsession. In 1970, on the south coast of England, if you were anything other than Church of England people talked around you as if you weren’t there.

  ‘I meant “Julia”, change it legally to “Julia”. Doesn’t matter, I was thinking aloud.’

  I seized the chance. ‘Come on, then, what is it really?’

  ‘Forget it, it’s my bloody mother’s fault for being so religious. I’m not telling you. I had enough trouble in the Junior Mixed Infants. We’ll have to go halves today, Kay, if we want to buy popcorn and Kia-Oras.’

  ‘We normally go halves anyway. Why don’t you call yourself something she likes?’

  ‘She likes the name Crystal. Thinks it sounds sophisticated. Chandeliers and sparkling lights and that. Makes me think of those birds at the fairground who give you a chalk poodle if you get three darts in a card.’ Julia looked down at her stomach and ran her hands across her fawn duffel coat, smoothing the rain from it. ‘I never seem to be able to change anything. It’s like I know I’m always going to be fat. It’s in my mother’s genes, and the bad genes always win out, so if your dad went bald you’ll go bald.’

  ‘My dad’s not bald,’ I said defensively. Julia had no idea that Bob was not my real father. ‘Your mother’s built like a hippopotamus. She’s never going to let you change your name legally, so you might as well learn to accept it.’

  ‘I can’t, it’s really awful.’

  ‘Tell me. I promise I won’t tell anyone.’

  She searched my eyes. This was a big deal for her. ‘You swear?’

  ‘On my grandad’s grave.’

  ‘It’s Mary and Joseph.’

  I stifled a laugh. ‘What, both names, hyphenated?’

  ‘It used to be popular in parts of Greece. Please, Kay, don’t ever tell.’

  ‘Yeah, all right. It’s a good job your surname’s not Carpenter.’

  ‘It’s easy for you to talk. Kay’s not your real name, is it? Your real name’s Kevin but you hated it so much when you were a little boy you told everyone to call you Kay, even though Kay is a girl’s name. Your mum told my mum.’

  ‘It’s not ’cause I don’t like Kevin, it’s ’cause I like Kafka. Actually.’

  ‘Here, are you two in the queue or what?’ asked an elderly man behind us.

  ‘Yes we are, thank you,’ said Julia loudly, turning to me. ‘Why do they always let the coffin-dodgers in half price on matinées?’

  I moved up to the window and laid out our money. ‘Two at the front, please.’

  Taste the Blood of Dracula was an X-certificate, but t
he cashier of the Cole Bay Roxy used to go out with Julia’s older sister, and he let us see anything we wanted so long as the manager wasn’t about. The only problem was that they had to sell adult tickets for Xs, so we were forced to pay the full amount. We liked the balcony seats, but prices had recently risen to 7s/6d, so we made do with a couple of eye-strainers in the stalls.

  ‘I don’t think I like the look of this,’ Julia complained, studying the lurid foyer poster which bore the legend DRINK A PINT OF BLOOD A DAY. The feature was double-billed with a psychological thriller called Crescendo. ‘It’s not going to be scary, is it? Not like that thing we saw in the tube station, where the plates flew up in the air and there were grasshoppers from Mars.’

  ‘I take it you are referring to Quatermass and the Pit,’ I said witheringly. ‘I know you don’t like films with an element of the fantastique. You’ve told me often enough. I’d have gone with someone else if I could have found anyone.’

  ‘You might hang around outside and offer to pay a stranger.’

  ‘I’ve bought the tickets now. Come on, fatty. You know you’ve got nothing better to do this afternoon.’

  ‘I really hate you sometimes. I can’t help being like this. I’m retaining water.’

  ‘You’re retaining chips. And quite a lot of grease.’

  Julia was fifteen and glistened with sweat on the coldest days of winter. Her eyebrows joined together at the top of her nose. She lived on chips and crisps, and spent the whole time complaining about her skin, but as soon as we were past the ticket booth she was drawn hypnotically towards the popcorn counter. And yet, sometimes it was like there was another person inside her, behind the eating and the sarcastic banter, someone very wise and beautiful that I could only ever glimpse.

  ‘You’re never going to grow up,’ she said nastily. ‘First chance they get, the kids in your class will all leave and you’ll be left behind with your boring old history books. In London everyone’s wearing bandsmen’s tunics and lime-green plastic frocks with holes in them and opening boutiques and being trendy. My dad sent me a picture of himself in an orange lace polo-neck shirt that fastens with Velcro. He’s met Twiggy and Justin de Villeneuve. He’s very with-it. He’s thirty-five and still looks cool in sideburns and hipster flares. Nobody thinks he’s my dad at all.’

  I could have said something cruel, but let the moment pass.

  ‘I’ve seen what happens to people who get left behind. Don’t think I’m going to be stuck here with you.’ She ordered the largest carton of popcorn they sold. ‘As soon as he comes home we’re moving back to London.’ Julia always said this. I knew who she was trying to convince, and it wasn’t me. Her parents had separated two years earlier, and her father clearly had no intention of ever returning to Cole Bay. He handled public relations for a travel firm and sent her postcards from Mediterranean resorts, and rang her up when he was drunk, and she interpreted these teary swaggerings as an imminent return.

  ‘Tell me if this stuff tastes off.’ Julia waved her popcorn bucket in my direction. ‘How’s Mesopotamia?’

  ‘Bleeding awful,’ I replied, wriggling a straw into the top of my Kia-Ora. ‘Old Dunmow didn’t get up to London. He’s on a crutch. He was crossing the miniature railway and they changed the points. I think he was pissed.’

  ‘He goes drinking with your dad.’

  I ignored her implication. On the rare occasions that he was sober, Mr Dunmow taught us history, and to say that he failed to bring it to life was a severe underestimation of his inability. We called him the Dunmow Flitch because he had a face like a side of bacon.

  ‘The trouble with Mesopotamia is you get three or four recognised authorities and they all cross-reference each other, so you keep coming across the same information, over and over. I don’t know how to get the kind of access I need. There are reference systems you can phone, but they never give you the right material. To be honest, now that the Flitch has let me down I’m not sure what to do. There must be another way to find out about the past.’

  ‘Why don’t you just pick something else?’

  ‘Egypt’s been done to death.’ I peered through the porthole in the auditorium door, but the last film hadn’t finished. Christopher Lee was screaming and slashing himself to bits on a huge stained-glass crucifix. It was probably not the ideal film to take a Catholic girl to, but I thought Julia could handle it.

  ‘You could do Constantinople.’

  ‘It’s Istanbul, not Constantinople,’ I told her. ‘And there’s no point. It’s the same problem with the Ottoman Empire. I’ve had a volume of Suleyman the Magnificent on order for six months. The librarian thinks it’s been stolen but he’s not sure. He says there’s not much call for it these days.’

  ‘Then do something else for a while, give your brains a rest. Look at you. You could join the rowing club, build yourself up a bit. Your arms are like pieces of wet string.’

  She was right. Recurring illness had robbed me of muscle growth when I most needed it. I was as thin as she was fat, and Julia was exceedingly fat. She had beautiful eyes, but her kinky black hair was held down with huge tortoiseshell slides, and she wore paint-stained dungarees to annoy her mother. Still, she was the only girl I knew who would spend time with me, just as Danny and I were the only blokes in Cole Bay who would bother with her. Of course, Danny didn’t count in the traditional way of male–female relationships because he was as gay as a French trombone.

  Julia ate all through the first film, stopping only to smear pale blue mascara on my shoulder during the scary parts. Usually she bought a Jubbly, a deep-frozen drink in a triangular carton. The trouble with these was that once you had sucked the flavour from the top corners, the whole ice-block had to be carefully lifted out and turned over, and she inevitably shot hers onto the floor. Her incessant snacking annoyed me because I knew she wasn’t following the plot properly, and I expected my cinema companions to appreciate the films we saw, even if they were bad. Julia’s attention kept wandering off, to her clothes, the ceiling, the people in the row behind. In key scenes she would get up and go to the kiosk, and on her return she never once asked what she had missed. To someone who was interested only in the world on the screen, this kind of behaviour was incredibly infuriating. During the main feature she vanished for ten minutes to talk to a girl on the smoking side of the stalls. I was determined not to let this annoy me, and concentrated hard on the film. After Dracula had been noisily dispatched once more we left the cinema, and I was ready to discuss the historical context of vampirism.

  ‘The Dracula legend is loosely based on the real-life atrocities of Vlad the Impaler,’ I explained enthusiastically.

  ‘My mother’s expecting me, Kay. We’re going shopping.’

  ‘Christopher Lee was good, though, wasn’t he?’ I never gave up without a fight.

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘You suppose so?’

  ‘Which one was he?’

  ‘What do you mean, which one?’ I exploded. ‘He’s Dracula! Fangs, cape, red eyes, always turns to dust at the end, you’ve seen him loads of times!’

  ‘I’ll be late if I don’t go, Kay. I’m meeting her outside Mac Fisheries.’

  ‘I don’t know why I bother with you,’ I sulked.

  ‘I’m not one of your mates, Kay, I’m a girl. How about giving me a little respect?’

  I couldn’t make her out at all. I trudged back towards number 14 Balaclava Terrace feeling unfulfilled. Half the fun of going to the pictures was arguing about the film afterwards. Julia took that pleasure away and replaced it with something else. It was something I couldn’t quite get a handle on, but I had a sneaking suspicion that it was to do with sex. There was nothing to rush home for now, so I wandered around the backstreet bookshops for a while, in the forlorn hope of finding reference material. I didn’t find any—I hardly ever did—and within minutes of re-entering our house, managed to get myself into trouble again.

  My mother had problems with her back, flares of pain that
acted as some kind of early-warning system for osteoporosis. When she passed through these phases, she grew very angry. She hadn’t expected to feel old so soon. Resentment flew about her like a fireball, exploding on random targets: the dirt behind the cooker, the common woman next door who allowed her children to eat baked beans from the tin, the halfway-house for young offenders in the next street, the councillors who allowed the construction of the Las Vegas arcade on the front.

  She asked me about school, and I told her about old Beardwood the headmaster giving us a start-of-term lecture. ‘Life is a race,’ he’d said, beadily scanning the assembly room, ‘and you are all in competition. We are here to push you hard and to build winners. Nobody likes a good all-rounder. Neil Armstrong didn’t get to the moon by being a good all-rounder. We only want champions.’ He made the place sound like Crufts.

  ‘So why did you get sent out?’ she asked me.

  I hesitated for a moment, then described how I explained my problem with Neil Armstrong to the headmaster, pointing out that astronauts should be made to pass grammar as well as physics. I said I thought the system was wrong, and that French students were probably right to confront their educators. Now, the news items that had most annoyed my mother in the last eighteen months were the ones about the Paris riots. So we embarked on a huge argument that ended with me going to my room and ripping up my old plans of Babylon. This had been the project before Mesopotamia, and was actually quite hard to destroy because I had laminated several of the maps, and was forced to work on them with a hacksaw blade, my mum’s best breadknife and a pair of secateurs before they’d fit in the bin.

  —

  On the way to school the next morning I saw another of the acquaintances my family considered unsuitable for me. She was heading for the bus-stop, half-obscured beneath a gigantic yellow golf umbrella. Ruth Hill was my English teacher, but everyone called her Miss Ruth. She was rumoured to be several years older than the pier. Someone said she remembered it being built, but this had to be a lie because according to the guide book—a slim volume available from the English Heritage bookstall, extortionately priced at 19s/6d—the pier was constructed in 1865. Miss Ruth had a face the colour of the old dried newspapers you find under floorboards, and periodically felt it necessary to justify her state of spinsterhood by telling me, ‘There was only one man I ever wanted, but it didn’t work out so I never married.’ She used to say this with such an air of distant melancholy that I usually felt obliged to flee, but on this day she suited my mood, so I walked with her for a while.