Well, it is, isn’t it? It’s the sort of mistake anyone could have made, although some wouldn’t think so.
EDITOR’S WARNING: The following contains instances of gratuitous censorship and people being a bit unhappy.
Now that Nanny State has been satisfied…….
Spring had sprung with a great joyful Boing! Life had returned more or less to its pre-Soiree routine; the dust from my vocal cataclysm had settled, and Mr Whybrow and I had come to a tacit agreement that it should Not Be Discussed. Actually, I still had a few lingering collywobbles lest Miss Crumbleigh-Quandybarre’s insurers discern a link between me and the sudden collapse of the lady’s house, and I suspect that Mr Whybrow was living in dread of a letter from them demanding a huge sum of money. He knew that he could dismiss as nonsense any suggestion that I’d caused the disaster, but we both knew that all they had to do was put me to the test. But as day followed day, and no searing officious demands arrived on the doormat, we came to relax.
Privately, I had to marvel that he hadn’t bundled me out onto the front step, in spite of the risk he knew he was running having me about the place. But he’d already told me many times why he was glad to have me, and I’d seen that borne out at the soiree, so I didn’t question his judgment. I just took care to smile a lot, make sure that his life ran smoothly, and generally give him the impression that I did have my good points. I think he appreciated my efforts, as I was glad of my own providence in that he hadn’t got shot of me at the earliest opportunity.
I also liked to think that what he valued most in me was that companionship which we tacitly acknowledged, but never mentioned. We were both too unsure of how to break the ice, so until one of us found the courage or imagination to do that, it felt safer to let any deeper affection show in the occasional touch as I brushed lint from his lapel, or in that smiling hesitation as we spoke. Those little nuances, on their own, said all that needed to be said.
But in the meantime, life and work went on. As it was quite clear that my musical future lay with the keyboard rather than singing, I was practicing five-finger exercises on the counter when Mr Whybrow came in with a large expensive-looking box under his arm. The sort he used for parures. His expression was as bright and breezy, the sort I liked to see on him. It meant that he was happy to see me.
“Ah, Miss Bluebird. How’s your airship behaving?”
“Very well, sir, the last time I tried it.”
“That’s good. Do you reckon you could get this inside it?”
“I expect so, sir; if there isn’t room under the seat I can strap it to the side. Is it a custom order, then?”
“No, just an off-the-shelf Le Printemps parure. It’s for a Miss Lettice Bughunter; she can’t collect it herself as her parents are visiting.”
“It’s seasonal, at least,” I acknowledged. “And it has to be delivered by airship?”
Mr Whybrow grinned. “Unless you fancy a long row in a boat, yes. Miss Bughunter lives on a remote island; I’ve put a map with her address slip. She’s a naturalist,” he added, as though that explained the location. But then, it did. If I was a naturalist, I’d want to live as far from others as possible.
Just a moment. A great alarm bell rang in my head with the ominousness of the Halle Orchestra gong.
“A naturalist, sir?” I nudged, in an are-you-quite-sure-about-this manner.
Mr Whybrow frowned, puzzled by my reaction. “Mmm, yes – the whole family are naturalists; it’s in the blood, you might say. Her father’s Doctor Crawley Bughunter, he’s just returned from South America to take up the Chairmanship of the Royal Society of Naturalists. The parure’s for his investiture. So mind your manners when you’re there. That’s one customer I want to remain on good terms with.”
It got worse. “There’s a Royal Society for Naturalists, sir?”
“There’s a Royal Society for just about everything. Anyway, Miss Bughunter did say you could go straight in. She wants to show the parure off to her father.”
I was astonished that the man who was so charming and supportive one minute, would throw me to the lions the next. He was treating the whole affair as though I was going out for some postage stamps. Well, he must have seen that I was not happy about this particular delivery, although I was certainly going to carry it out. I’d have considered it more dishonourable to refuse. But I could make one last effort on my own behalf.
“Sir – what should I wear?”
He gave me a funny look as if I’d just said that the Halle Orchestra’s percussion section had acquired a spoon player. “Wear? Really, now. I think I can trust you to dress appropriately for a family of that standing, don’t you? Oh, and there’s no rush back. They may want you to model it for them.”
With that he left me to deal with the situation, shaking his head in mirthful disbelief at something I could not identify.
Well, thank you so much, sir.
I regarded the parure, sitting on the counter demanding my attention, and silently asked it to wait while I pondered how to handle things. Mr Whybrow had warned me how eccentric Caledonians could be, but this was the first time I’d encountered that aspect of it. Well – in the airship, I could wear what I wanted. And if the island was sufficiently remote, I could put off adjusting my attire until I’d landed, behind the cover of the gondola. Thus, when I met the customer and her family, it would be on equal terms. And if I wasn’t safe with the Chairman of a Royal Society, then I wasn’t safe anywhere.
Before I strapped the parure to the fuselage, I gave the Silk Sonata a thorough once-over. Jasper and Miss Anonymous Schemer had been quiet of late, but one never knew.
I pronounced the Silk Sonata safe and ready; even Harry hadn’t bothered showing up to wish me goodbye in his own manner. It was time to get it over with. A little imp lurked inside me, angry that Mr Whybrow had dropped this situation onto me and scuttled back to the sanctuary of his workshop.
Then I thought again. He would never put me to any risk of real danger. And he did know his Caledon. The locals were often unorthodox; indeed, that trait seemed to be a requirement for living here. But they were rarely evil. Much that I’d been taught was Wrong, in Caledon was put in its true perspective.
I then considered my own self. I was no pre-Raphaelite painting, but neither did I rely on plaster and paint for my looks. Such that I had, were at least my own. A warm voluptuous bomb burst inside me at Mr Whybrow’s pride in having me on my arm, and he was one of the shrewdest judges of all.
Shaking my head to dislodge any romantic daydreams before they could take root, I looked over the map more thoroughly. Miss Bughunter certainly lived far enough from other dwellings to be invisible to the nearest neighbours, and any casual perverts with binoculars would have few places to hide.
With that in mind, I reconsidered my scheme. It might embarrass the Bughunters to see me stripping off behind the airship; they’d feel that I was making a particular effort just for them. As SouthEnd appeared deserted, it would be better to strip before setting off so the Bughunters would see me arrive as though I went about in that state all the time. That way there would be no question of embarrassing them by seeing me “adjust” to their environment. As for the journey, the gondola was almost completely enclosed; nobody would see me unless they were sitting on the outside.
When I’d designed the Silk Sonata, I’d overlooked the possibility of carrying bulky parure cases, so the cargo had to be lashed to the outside. The engine needed several swings to start; part of me believed that the airship was trying to dissuade me from embarking upon the dangers that lay ahead, but the truth was, of course, that it had got a little damp overnight. Then, with a final glance about to make sure nobody was watching, I darted behind the gondola and off came my dress. Bundling it under the seat, I slipped into the cockpit like an eel.
The upholstery, usually so comfy and embracing, adhered to my skin like sticking plaster. That, I hadn’t foreseen. But it was only when I advanced the throttle and pulled back on the stick that I realised how little I had to move my body when flying an airship, so I wouldn’t be too uncomfortable. I wouldn’t be flying high enough to be cold, anyway, but the sun warmed me through the canopy with just the right amount of slipstream to keep me alert and tantalise my skin without chilling me. Yes, I’d designed this little fellow well.
Heading northwards along the road to Tamrannoch, I spread the map in my lap. The island shouldn’t be hard to find, it had a distinctive shape like a squashed T, and was only slightly north of a bearing due west. The airship took most of my concentration, with the rest left to glory in the clear fresh air after the emotional claustrophobia of that soiree. Here, I was once again mistress of my fate, and nobody could change that. But most of all, I took delight in my unusual situation. Flying through Caledon, wearing nothing but the Silk Sonata, I felt freer than I’d ever known. I suppose it’s because I was sporting a secret in full view of the entire community. I knew better than to make a habit of it, though. My embarrassment would be catastrophic if the engine should throw a tantrum, or if something ruptured the gasbag.
At Tamrannoch, I took the main turn west with graceful ease. My goal lay just beyond the horizon. I resolved to stay on the main road until crossing the coast; it would involve a sharper turn, but Miss Bughunter’s island should be quite visible by then. My mind turned to the Bughunters. With the cooling air caressing my scalp, I could see no inherent danger in their curious way of life, apart from the obvious. And Mr Whybrow would never have entertained their custom were they likely to harm me. But beyond enjoying their way of life, what did naturalists actually do with their time?
That, no doubt, I would discover for myself. I suppose that what I was most unsure about, was how to conduct myself. Mr Whybrow seemed to have absolute faith in me, but that wasn’t much help. In the end, I decided to handle the situation exactly as he would. With the same dignity I would display in the shop. It’s not as if I’d be wearing much more than my dignity, after all.
The great metal man of Llyr passed to my right. From that point, my eyes flitted constantly between the compass and the horizon. I knew my heading to be correct, and there wasn’t enough wind to blow me from my course. But with nothing in sight beyond more waves, I knew I must have miscalculated the distance from the scale of the map. Score one bad mark to Shopgirl. The hungry crashing of the waves, swamping the engine throb, pointed out a new danger with flying; that of being too far from land to see anything by which I could mark my position.
Throttling back a little, I decided to head back to land and make sure of my bearings. As I turned, the Silk Sonata’s nose revealed a longish island with a single house on it. Ooh, I could have kicked myself. I’d been heading the right way all the time; my destination had been occluded by my own airship!
As I did not have far to go, I kept the revolutions just high enough to maintain headway, while descending a little more rapidly than I’d hoped to. The nearest end of the island appeared flat enough to land on, and while the island was indeed small, I knew that if I could land on Mr Whybrow’s roof, I could land here.
I remarked that there was no sign of life in the house; surely somebody would have heard me and come out to confirm that I was the visitor they were expecting?
I dropped below the level of the house roof, and the airship surrendered itself to my control as the wind was shut off as though by a curtain closing. The wheels sank into the grass with a soft spluffy kiss. Still nobody had come out to meet me. I revved the engine a couple of times, just in case they’d missed the racket I must have made while landing, but without results. The house stood alone and apparently empty. Not even a flicker of curtains. Perhaps Miss Bughunter’s parents hadn’t actually arrived yet, and she’d gone to meet them?
Hmm. Decision time. I resolved to knock, and if I received no reply, to have a look around and make sure the island really was deserted, and if so, to head back to the shop. Killing the ignition, I sat for a moment and listened to the waves exploding on the shore like a thousand angry shopgirls beating the laundry dry. I must have been slightly deafened by the engine. A woman was calling out; she might have been doing so for some time.
“Yoo-hoo! Helloooooooo – “
Phew. “Hello?” I called back, hopefully.
As my hearing returned, the woman’s excited babble carried easily from the back of the house.
“That’ll be Mr Whybrow’s girl with my new parure. Wait until you see it, father.”
I clambered out, the house tempering the wind to play a refreshing tingly breeze my skin as I untied the parure, relieved that it had not fallen off somewhere along the way. I remembered that I’d been told to go straight in, but it seemed more gracious to err on the side of manners and ring the bell. Toting the awkward case, I marched proudly through the long grass, the feathery blades swishing against my calves, and up the garden path, completely unself-conscious in my state of Venus.
A sprawling hedge stretched around the far side of the house; a certain barrier to the fiercer ocean winds. Very crafty. Even passing mariners would be unaware of the Bughunter family’s way of life.
A pull on the bell-knob produced a clang like a steel bar on an anvil. It must have been heard throughout the house.
“Come right round,” called the same woman. “We’re on the lawn.”
Such a friendly voice. That was an invitation, not an instruction. I knew I was going to be at ease with these naturalists. I spread a suitably “I’m-so-glad-to-see-you” smile across my face, and holding myself in a formal professional posture, I went round the back of the house to an idyllic little garden, sheltered from the elements by the hedge. There, I found Miss Bughunter and her parents sitting at tea.
All were dressed as normally as anybody you’d see in the street.
For a moment, time stood still. Dr Bughunter didn’t notice his pipe slip from his fingers to his lap, even though his reflexive start indicated that it had landed on something sensitive. His wife appeared to have stared at Medusa [you know, the Gorgon whose gaze turned you to stone – VB] while Miss Lettice was working her mouth open and shut, in preparation for words which couldn’t decide amongst themselves on their order of emergence. She appeared unaware that the tea she was pouring was missing the cup by a mile, piddling through the table’s slats to the ground below.
Dr Bughunter was the first to come to his senses. “Ah – this is your new parure, Lettice?”
His words broke the spell and I was tempted to hold the parure before me, for modesty. Then I remembered Mr Whybrow’s dictum. Dignity first and above all else. The case remained at my side like a big reticule.
“Yes, sir,” I replied. “I hope you’ll excuse the airship on the lawn, Mr Whybrow insisted that I delivered this immediately.”
“Most – considerate of you.” Dr Bughunter cleared his throat awkwardly. He was dressed somewhat heavily for the climate, I thought, and then I remembered what Mr Whybrow had told me about Dr Bughunter having returned from South America. “Uh, is this your usual uniform when making deliveries?“ He waved a vague hand in my general direction while he fumbled to replace his pipe. Upside-down, I observed.
Smiling sweetly, I told him, “No, sir, but when I was told who was to be here, I thought it best to make the effort. I see now that I should be grateful to you for having inconvenienced yourselves on my behalf.”
“I – see.”
Actually, I don’t think he did. Well, I was pleased with my response. The trio looked to each other in confusion, but then Mrs Bughunter found her wits. “We aren’t inconvenienced at all, my dear. One would expect us to be used to being with people who go around like that all the time. In South America, it’s quite de rigeur once you’re outside the civilised areas.”
“That’s what I was given to understand, Madam. Perhaps I should dress?”
Dr Bughunter waved again. “Oh no, don’t go to any further trouble on our account. If you’ve sought to indulge us, the least we can do is accept your gesture.” The look he flashed his wife, as though they were indulging a dangerous lunatic, should have warned me.
Miss Lettice indicated a spare chair. “So are we to gather you’re interested in naturalism yourself, Miss?”
I was grateful for the chair. At least I was partially hidden from the others, and I made more certain of that by putting the parure case on the table. “Only a passing interest, I’m afraid, Miss. I’m generally too busy to pursue it actively.”
Mrs Bughunter nodded. “So these delivery expeditions must give you the chance to pursue it. Quite.”
Dr Bughunter canoned her nod with a wise one of his own. “Yes, I can understand your not finding much in the way of interesting specimens at work.”
“Actually, sir, our clientele come from a surprisingly broad variety of backgrounds. But I don’t think we’ve ever numbered naturalists amongst them until now.”
Miss Lettice must have sensed the lingering awkwardness in the air. “Really, father, talking shop with guests present! Aren’t you going to ask to see my new parure?”
I was so grateful to her for bursting the residual bubble of tension. In seeking to accommodate their way of life, I’d only succeeded in embarrassing them as they’d accommodated mine. But they had accepted the cross purpose and had dismissed it as unimportant.
“Why, of course, dear! Let’s have a look, then.”
“Ooh, yes! Let’s!” Mrs Bughunter clapped her hands with glee.
I opened the case on the table, glad of the extra concealment its lid offered me as I stood to point out the components. “’Le Printemps’ carries the theme of spring growth and love,” I explained with my best professional air. “Integral to this is the green cloisonne work with fine filigree, forming the motifs of hearts and eggs in the manner of Messrs Faberge. Spring dew is depicted with fine Cape diamonds, chosen for clarity and uniformity, and the ring bezel symbolises new life in the form of a golden bird on a nest of sapphires, under a dome of crystal.”
[Note: The parure is available from our shop in SouthEnd. Please contact Mr Whybrow or myself for further details. VB]
I suppose my flowing exposition might have left some trace of its passing while going in one ear and, more than likely, out of the other. The trio leaned forwards to feast their eyes on the ring, which was, I must admit, one of Mr Whybrow’s finest works. The lid of the case, leaning back against my bosom, reassured me that it was not myself that was producing the gasps and wide eyes. To be on the safe side, I pushed the case a little closer to them lest my bosom take it in mind to close the lid.
I spent a moment basking in the reverential silence hanging over the table. Miss Bughunter seemed to be savouring her own private moment of glory, which made me twitch a benign smile at her. I had to say, I was enjoying everyone’s attention not being fastened to me.
“Perhaps Miss would like to try it on?” I suggested.
Dr and Mrs Bughunter appeared not to have heard. They were exchanging a fond look, quite unashamed with me and their daughter looking on. I suspected that the parure reminded them directly of their early days together.
“Would it be asking too much for you to model it for me?” asked Miss Bughunter. “I’ve no mirror down here, and I would like to see how it looks - as others would see it on me.”
Appearancewise, Miss Bughunter and I had very little in common, but her point remained valid. And I hadn’t missed her slight hesitation. “In the flesh.” You were about to say it, weren’t you?
“Of course, Miss. I’d be delighted.”
Swivelling the case around with a magician’s flourish, it took but a moment for me to don the whole ensemble. By standing with my knees bent, I managed to keep my chest below the level of the lid while I struck a suitable posture to display the parure.
How the two parents ooh’d and murmured over the stones in their twiddly filigree work. Miss Bughunter, of course, had known exactly what she was getting, so she contented herself with standing smugly while I turned over the bracelets and lowered my head to let them examine the tiara and ear pendants – all this, without my bust bumping the case lid shut, which I thought was an achievement on its own. I was also lucky in that parures are meant to be admired from the front, which obviated any requests for me to "give them a twirl.”
Doctor and Mrs Bughunter repeatedly broke off their examination of my wares to pass each other further fond glances (I think the good Doctor would have been even more convincing had he first removed his pipe). Their daughter beamed benevolently upon them; the parure definitely had some personal significance of which I was unaware. Something deep – I recalled Mr Whybrow telling me about the effect love could have on people, when we’d discovered how Mr Beauregard had given his life to save his wife, and for an instant I dared to wonder if, one day, I might find a “DEAREST” ring waiting for me – no, better to be presented on bended knee –
“I’m sorry, Miss?” I realised that Miss Bughunter had been addressing me.
“I asked if you wanted me to settle up now,” replied Miss Lettice, patiently.
Automatically, I said what I assumed Mr Whybrow would have wanted me to say. “Why, that would be most kind of you, Miss. Here’s our invoice.” I extracted the folded flimsy from down the side of the case’s padding, and handed it over.
She ran a shrewd eye over it, before inviting me inside. I was left to wait in the parlour while she went for the money, and when she returned, asked me to count it all to make sure the amount was correct. It was.
A mischievous twinkle appeared in her eye. “My parents are most impressed by your level of service,” she told me.
“We do try to make all our customers feel at ease,” I replied, in an emetically honeyed tone. “Even when it proves unnecessary.”
I fumbled to put the money in a reticule which was not there. Absent-mindedly, I switched to my second resort, which was up my sleeve. Then my third which was down my cleavage. Miss Bughunter bit her tongue as I realised my mistake. Hoping I didn’t look as embarrassed as I felt, I shuffled the banknotes into a tidy uniform pile and clutched it in my fist, giving Miss Bughunter a smile that said, “This would be a good time for the ground to open up and swallow me.”
“It’ll be safe in the airship,” I said, unconvincingly. “Talking of which – “
“Well, do come and say goodbye to my parents before you leave, won’t you?”
Blast. I’d been hoping for a quick getaway, but I could hardly refuse. Besides, I was still wearing the parure. Miss Bughunter led me back outside, where I deftly unwore all the jewellery, replaced it in its case with the lid carefully kept between myself and the Bughunters, and left the case open so they could admire it once I’d gone.
“I must say, your establishment certainly sets new standards in service,” Dr Bughunter commented.
“You certainly go to a lot of trouble on the customer’s behalf,” added Mrs Bughunter.
“That’s one reason we succeed, sir,” I replied. “And it’s no trouble at all, Madam. We pride ourselves on going that extra bit further to accommodate our customers.”
With that, I dipped a curtsy (behind the cover of the case) and took my exit. I tried to keep the parure case behind me as I left, resisting the urge to cut and run. Dignity at all times, Miss.
As I rounded the corner to the airship, I was sure I heard them laughing. I couldn’t understand why, but had no intention of returning to ask.
Actually, storage space for cash was something I’d overlooked when I’d built the Silk Sonata. I’d taken for granted that my dress would have ample capacity of its own. I could have lingered long enough to dress, and with hindsight, that’s what I should have done. Instead, I deemed it better to see the act right through and take off as I had left, rather than prolong my embarrassment by lingering to dress. I stuffed the money inside one of my stockings, and stuffed that inside a shoe, jamming its toe behind a fuel line. As for my clothes, I bundled them into a rough cushion, and pressed it hard down onto the seat. At least I wouldn’t be sticking to the leather on the return flight.
The engine, God bless it, was still warm enough to start with the first swing. Squeezing into the seat, I thumped my dress and generally shuffled about until it was comfy, and began to ascend, leaving that delightful family behind with a little reluctance.. Caledon’s mainland appeared when I had only risen a few feet; I hadn’t come as far as I’d thought. More throttle, and the Silk Sonata nosed eagerly homewards.
Confident that I knew Caledon sufficiently well for a map to be unnecessary, I began to reconsider my decision to dress when I landed. The Bughunters couldn’t have possibly seen me, after all, and I realised that departing as I had arrived had been completely unnecessary. All I’d done was expose myself to the risk of public gaze on Mr Whybrow’s roof.
I thought again. On the roof, I was all but invisible from the street. Nobody would see my modesty even if a crowd happened to have gathered. Unless Mr Whybrow himself came to meet me – no, that was no problem either. Lately, he’d treated my airship landings as routine, so he was unlikely to be there. And even if he was – well, I’d done my duty. And with any luck, he might receive the sight greeting him as encouragement. Well, the hair holding that great Damocles’ sword of romance over us was fraying. I couldn’t imagine a better way of giving that hair a final snip.
Not for the first time, a little voice inside me warned of acting precipitately. But then I laid out the facts. To begin with, I was being treated as no other shopgirl in Christendom had even been treated. We were happy with each other as companions. He knew me well enough to know that I’d never use him and then discard him. And for my part – I shrugged. Shopgirls rarely married at all, and when they did, it tended to be within their own class. I was under no illusions as to my reputation as “Shopgirl from Hell;” only Mr Whybrow knew the real me. Similarly, I’d been privileged to get to know him probably better than anybody else in Caledon. He wasn’t a woman-hater, just very reserved with his trust. I was confident that he’d accept me one day; he only needed the confidence to act. And what better way could there be of telling him to get on with it, than by appearing in front of him in the state of Venus?
Yet still I was not sure. All logic pointed to a life as Mrs Whybrow, but there remained that indefinable bubble which neither of us had the courage to burst.
I was passing across Llyr. Caledon’s coastline was approaching, its landmarks welcomingly familiar, when I felt something tickle my ankle. That was strange. I wasn’t at all sweaty, and this particular droplet appeared to be heading upwards.
Worst of all, the sensation was so unmistakeable.
HARRY!
I thought he’d been keeping a low profile, lately! As much as I cared for my eight-legged saviour, I still couldn’t bear to touch him in any way. I froze, paralysed at the controls with Caledon looming up. I had to do something. I didn’t want to hurt him, but he had to be got off my foot. The little blighter had climbed onto my instep and appeared to be making himself at home. Steeling myself against the feel of hairy spider legs against my skin, I gave a twitch of my foot, using the other to hold the rudder steady.
The hairy tickle crept further down, to my toes, and there it sat. Ooh, the little imbecile! Didn’t he know how dangerous it was to startle the daylights out of someone flying an airship?
I remembered that I had no skirts on to screen him. I lowered my gaze from the instruments, down to my foot.
Oh – dear – sweet – Jesus!
It wasn’t Harry. It was one of his distant relatives, whom I must have picked up on the island. And this one had little competition for his diet, as he was twice the size of my SouthEnd friend. As our eyes met, he glared back with the determination of a satanic hypnotist. He wasn’t going to brook any arguments.
Frantically, my mind selected and immediately discarded one option after another. Shift him with a good hard kick – no, he was gnashing his fangs in stern warning. Give him a gentle sideways flick – no, he did not appear to be the patient type. Do nothing – no, he might take it into his head to go exploring. And I didn’t even have a layer of clothing for protection, although I doubted that my dress would hold against fangs which looked capable of penetrating the gondola’s side. Dammit, I didn’t even dare give him a dirty look! That might have worked with Miss Moltovoglio, but she was not hovering over my head in the form of a great bag full of inflammable gas.
I forced myself to look back momentarily to the instruments and horizon. That tickle advanced step by step along my feet, hesitating at ankle level to plan its next move, and then – oh, dear Lord! He began to clamber up both my shinbones at the same time with all the assuredness of Jasper making his rounds. My every muscle seized. But only for an instant. That very act might precipitate a bite that could take my leg off, so I forced myself to unseize and remain absolutely immobile.
It paused. Thinking. I tried to think faster. A revolver would have been nice, but even if I’d had one, I doubted that I could have fired it without the necessary movement having first triggered a bite.
Oversized spider feet patted about my calf, and it began to work its way round – inside, between my legs! Gritting my teeth, I tried to think aloud, “Sod off!”
Of course. It must be attracted by warmth. I was starting to wonder whether it was too late to close my legs, when it happened. The spider grasped the control column for support, and not wanting to surrender control of my airship to it, I gave a reflexive yank in the opposite direction. And that was precisely what my svelte, manoevrable Silk Sonata did not like.
All at once, the airship gave a sharp roll to one side, some horrible swirling shape flashed upwards past me, and my bottom left the seat just long enough for my dress to be flung out. I knew I’d lost that for good when there came a thick Fwummm! as it met the propeller, causing the engine to slow momentarily as my skirts were shredded and the bits cast all over Caledon. But I was more preoccupied with a new weight hanging from my hair, trying to wrench it from my scalp. That monster was holding onto me like grim death.
All right, I had nothing to lose by unleashing a shattering scream, so that’s just what I did. At the same time, I hooked my feet under the rudder to keep me in (note to Shopgirl – INSTALL SAFETY STRAPS!) and slewed the control column in the opposite direction. The gondola bucked, and I believed that I felt the monster’s hold on my hair loosen for a moment. Then I remembered my doomsday weapon. I knew I wasn’t far from Caledon, but I didn’t care if I brought the whole place down. Tossing my head from side to side, I let rip with a long, searing top note that might have been a B or a C or, more likely, something in between which no composer would use for another fifty years until the acceptance of microtones, and suddenly the weight on my hair vanished.
Twisting around in my seat, I looked up and down the main cables to make sure it hadn’t managed to hang on to them, and a look upwards proved that it had not caught onto the netting, either. Nor had I heard it hit the propeller, so it must have fallen off into the sea.
My body sort of imploded, as it does when one’s just escaped a truly dreadful fate. I could hardly believe I’d shifted the monster. Then I remembered that I was still flying an airship. The first thing I noticed was the ground. It was supposed to be underneath me, but at the present moment, was in front of me and getting closer.
Yes, the ground. During my encounter with the spider from hell, I’d crossed the sea and the coastline was but yards ahead. And I was boring straight down towards it at a steep angle, heading directly towards a lady walking along the street with her back towards me, oblivious to the shopgirl about to descend on her like a bomb.
I pulled the column back until the edges bit into my belly. The nose gradually rose to my bidding, but I was still going down so I spared a hand to slide the throttle full forwards. A heavy impact seemed to hit the underside, but I wasn’t sure about that. The engine bellowed, propeller biting to grip the air, and my seat pushed reassuringly into my back. I started to relax a little; I was going up.
But something was still wrong. The Silk Sonata was not the most powerful airship afloat, but it should be climbing faster than that with full emergency power applied.
The answer came in a fruity yell from beneath the gondola.
“Put me down, you miserable wretch!”
I recognised the voice in the same instant that I realised what had happened. The woman had grabbed one of the landing gear members and of all the people, it had to be Miss Moltovoglio.
The engine was gallantly maintaining headway, but only because I still had the throttle fully open. It was not designed to carry both of us, so one of us would have to go before it exploded, or seized, or did whatever engines did when you overtried them. But still Miss Moltovoglio’s yells and imprecations carried above it, even though it was screaming in agony, with the rev counter needle banging on its endstop.
“Don’t just sit there! Do something!”
So I’d been right about that, too. There wasn’t much I could do, save descend to the ground, and unless I eased up on the engine in pretty short order, we’d both be doing that. Fast. But I couldn’t just set down anywhere. There were too many roofs and trees to catch the gasbag. Then I espied a large body of water which I’d crossed many times without really noticing. I reduced the revolutions until the needle was nudging the red mark, which gave me barely enough power to maintain headway while gradually losing height. I could do this!
I don’t think Miss Moltovoglio had realised what I had in mind. “Put me down! You’ll be hearing from my agent – and my lawyer – and my Member of Parliament - “
Then I realised that she didn’t even know who was piloting the airship! Oh, boy. I was going to enjoy this.
We must have been maybe twenty feet above the water when I throttled back and agitated the control column – with some difficulty, thanks to her added ballast. No, she definitely did not know what I was trying to do – or if she did, she was hanging on in the hope that I’d find a gentler way to set her down.
I couldn’t even be bothered to try. “Gerroff, you silly old bag!”
I added a burst of throttle and a sharp kick to the rudder, and the Silk Sonata soared up, as though an anchor had been cut away. Which, in a way, it had. Snatching back on the throttle, I looked over the side just in time to flinch from a volcanic splash of water that spattered against the gondola.
It didn’t worry me that she might not be able to swim; her bustle would trap enough air to keep her afloat indefinitely. In fact, my second revenge on her almost offset the fright I’d had from that huge spider. I gave the engine a couple of gentle blips of throttle to check for damage, but it seemed in good order.
I waited until I’d crossed the district boundary to Downs before taking stock of my situation. The first thing I checked was to see if my shoe was still where I’d put it, with Mr Whybrow’s money inside. It was, thank God. The airship didn’t seem to have suffered as a result of my manoevres, and the engine was behaving well – better, in fact, since my harsh revving had burned the plugs clean. That just left my clothes, and there I was very much the loser. Not a stitch of undergarment remained. Disembarking shouldn’t be a problem, though, unless any of the neighbours were about. The only real danger would be if Mr Whybrow had come down to the shop and there, my hopes would be confronting me larger than life. Mind, being realistic, there was little chance of that. He liked to stay in his workshop where he could.
Deal with the situation if it arises, I told myself, and gave the engine a gentle nudge to carry me back to SouthEnd.
With my panic subsiding, I considered that monster spider. A creature like that couldn’t have lived on the island without the Bughunters knowing about it. That implied that they’d put it there in the first place. It must have been some sort of family pet or a souvenir of South America. Oh, God. Maybe I’d misinterpreted its look and it was just being affectionate. I resolved to say nothing of the matter to Mr Whybrow or anyone else.
When I crossed into SouthEnd, I flew a little higher than usual to allow me to scan thoroughly for anyone who might be about. Nobody was in sight; the district was carrying on with normal life, in total ignorance of the shopgirl who’d departed with a valuable parure, and was returning with a ton of embarrassment.
On my final run, I was careful to keep the engine revving normally; neither hurrying to get it over with, nor creeping along to keep the noise down. That on its own might have led some to suspect a problem. My landing was executed with the grace I’d acquired with practice, and when I switched the engine off, I sat for a moment, listening for sounds of activity.
Nothing. All appeared safe, provided that the shop was empty. I wrested my shoe free of its anchorage and slipped out, padding swiftly along the roof at a loping gait. I took the stairs cautiously, however; I knew that I wouldn’t hear anyone in the shop until I was almost upon them. Worse, there was only one way I could reach my home, and that was through the shop And there would be no hiding myself in that necessary dash along the street to my house, where all my wardrobe was. Mr Whybrow didn’t keep anything in the shop that could possibly hide my modesty.
At the foot of the stairs, I paused, listening with my ear to the door. All was quiet, although there were two doors between me and the shop floor. I gave it a full minute before peeping around the door. I could only see the area immediately in front of the counter, but that looked to be empty. That was good.
Relaxing, I walked into the back office as normally as was my custom, and put the wad of banknotes in the safe. The silence washed away my nerves and I closed the safe door with a solemn thud and clicky twiddle of combination dial.
“Hellooo? Is anybody hyar?”
That voice sounded strangely familiar. It couldn’t be – could it? Actually, it could, but I knew it would be a mistake to assume that any one voice was unique. Automatically, I donned my customary shopgirl Graceful Smile.
“Just coming, Miss,” I replied.
I opened the door and went through to the counter area, just as Miss Transom – yes, it had indeed been her voice – stepped out from behind the wall, where she had been waiting. And yes, she was wearing that necklace again. Our eyes met, and I realised my dreadful mistake.
She froze, statue-like. Her face seemed to swell up with shock, or was it fear? I knew then that I should have stayed still until she gave up waiting and left, but it was too late to worry about that now. Dignity first, and above all else.
“I’m sorry to have kept you, Miss. May I be of assistance?”
My words jolted her paralysed mind into action, in particular, accepting that it was not her imagination, or a ghastly dream. The shopgirl really was standing before her, wearing nothing but a smile.
The scream that Miss Transom let out rivalled my deadly top C. By the time I’d recovered from my cringe, she was a cloud of skirts fleeing through the door.
I thought fast. She probably wouldn’t have the sense to run to the post office, which anybody would expect to be the one place in town guaranteed to have someone to blather her misadventure to, but I couldn’t take the chance. Without bothering to check if any other customers were lurking behind the corner – I couldn’t stay where I was, and their own screams would tell me all I needed to know – I trotted over to the door and peeped out. Miss Transom was gallopping along the street as though her own bustle was on fire. How that engine driver missed her, I’ll never know.
Perfect. I darted the few yards to my house and slipped inside; as I closed the door behind me, I breathed normally for the first time – probably since setting off, actually. I was fortunate in having abundant spare dresses, and since Mr Whybrow had taken little notice of my wardrobe in recent weeks, I had every hope of avoiding having to explain what had happened to the last one.
I returned to the shop, privately proud of having scared off Miss Transom. One doesn’t normally wear one’s “femily heirlwms” in the street, so the purpose of her visit was quite transparent. She was following up her own invitation to inspect the necklace at closer quarters, although her ultimate goal had, of course, nothing to do with her heirlwm.
Well, I’d carried off the Bughunter assignment honourably, Mr Whybrow had his payment, there was no reason why he should learn what had happened to my dress, and whether that horrible great spider was the property of the Bughunters or just a local freak would remain a mystery. And just to put a cherry on top of the cake, I’d scared off one whom Mr Whybrow knew to be a certain menace. Altogether, the balance for the day came out on the side of “successful.”
I remembered to check the Lamson. It was empty; of course, Mr Whybrow wouldn’t have known that I’d returned. My confidence restored, I sent him a note. “Parure delivered, full payment in safe. Want some coffee?”
He must have been waiting. His reply came back almost instantly. “Yes, thanks, coming down.”
After the morning’s misadventures, his breezy smile enlivened me when he arrived to find a mug of steaming tar awaiting him.
“Ah, you’re an angel. I presume all went well?”
“Yes, sir. And Miss Transom was here, but she couldn’t wait.”
He was astute enough to detect the cryptic timbre behind my response. “Oh?”
I dared a flutter of eyelids. “And I don’t think she’ll be back, sir.”
It was Mr Whybrow’s turn to subside with relief. “I won’t ask how you did it, but well done. What about the Bughunters? You found their island with no problems?”
“None, sir, and they loved the parure. It was sweet of them to dress up for me, but it was completely unnecessary.”
Mr Whybrow frowned over his mug. “Dress up?”
“Yes, sir. You told me to dress appropriately for a family of naturalists, so I did. As it turned out, I hadn’t needed to, but I think they appreciated the courtesy.”
His face clouded with an uncertainty I did not find encouraging. “Uh – what exactly did you wear?”
“The parure, sir,” I replied with an affected modesty which I knew would not have fooled him. “But not until they asked me to model it.” Something was definitely wrong. Mr Whybrow looked sick. “Is there a problem, sir?”
Absent-mindedly swirling his coffee around his mug, Mr Whybrow mumbled, “Uh – I’ll explain later. Better get back to work.” With that he left me, trailing behind him something vague about needing a stiff drink.
Well, there’s gratitude for you. After I’d just saved him from a fate worse than death. Anybody would think I’d done something obscene.
