East Lynne - Revised and Revisited
by EJ Pellham-Stewart
((From the "It May Possibly Have Happened Like This" Papers...))
CHAPTER I -- THERE'S NO PLACE LIKE HOME
NMWC settled the translinc back into its protective wrapping, and considered the situation before her. It consisted of an impossibly large, drafty, and thoroughly revolting livingroom; however unfortunately, the description fit the rest of the house that went with said livingroom. After sufficient period for due reflection -- fully five minutes spent contemplating an equally large and over-ornate fireplace -- she came to the conclusion that the place could be made habitable. IF she stood over a hand-picked squad of commando decorators and forced them to keep red velvet and quantities of clawed furniture to a minimum.
But then what could one expect from 1857?? The entire year was as over-ornate and stuffy as the room she was standing in. Overstuffed sofas, overstuffed economy, overstuffed people ... and nothing of interest happening -- unless you counted the Civil War brewing in America. Which was QUITE another story entirely. "What a dreary time period," she resumed her jaundiced eyeing of the fireplace. It eyed her back with equal disgust.
"Then WHY are we here??? I've got an entire album waiting to be cut, and you drag me here ... and in this outfit, too. I feel like my neck is being cut in half." Jimmy settled himself with great care in what he surmised was an armchair. The saber- toothed cherubs on its armrests and back gave him more than a little pause. It proved to be as uncomfortable as it was ugly, and he sighed loudly. NMWC had dragged him into some weird places in their time, but this was the worst. [1]
[1] Actually, this is not quite true. The worst place NMWC ever dragged Jimmy into was the First Annual Toga & Tea Party at the Grande Opening of Mad Stan's Tanning Parlour & Disco. It ranks as the worst because several large members of the Special Boat Squadron mistakenly thought Jimmy was a landing craft, and spent the entire evening trying to beach him.
NMWC smoothed down her hoop skirt, and smiled at him brightly. "Adventure?"
"Right."
She tried another one out. "A much needed respite from the cares of the 20th Century?"
Jimmy merely raised an eyebrow.
"A minor foray into sociological surveys? 'The Cause & Significance of Dull Centuries'???"
Jimmy raised the other eyebrow.
NMWC admitted defeat. "All right. The Vision suckered me into it at the last Disco," she assumed a martyred expression, "I was on my way to the car park at the time, I didn't know what I was agreeing to!"
"That I can believe -- but which piece of stupidity are you referring to? The car park or the fact that you're stuck in 1857 and The Vision is singing 'Yo ho ho' on Pirates of the Caribbean at this very moment??"
NMWC sniffed. "You're one to talk. I seem to recall a night in San Diego and a large shark ..."
Jimmy blushed. "We were on tour ..."
"And what was that girl's name? Trixie?? I'll never forget explaining the feather boa to the manager ... of course, he was primarily there to find out what all the shouting was about ..."
Jimmy coughed loudly. "Er, well, yes. My muddled youth. Now," he became very brisk in order to forestall any more embarrassing reminiscing, "why are we here and who have we come to bother?"
"Bother? Do I LOOK like the sort to traipse into somebody's century and 'bother' them?? Don't answer that," she added hastily, as he opened his mouth, "to be perfectly honest ..."
"There's a first for everything."
She glared. "To be perfectly honest, all I know is that The Vision called in 12 big favors I owed her, and said contact a lawyer named Archibald Carlyle. He lives at the manor house we passed coming into the village."
"That gothic monstrosity with the walled garden?? Oh god." Jimmy rolled his eyes heavenwards. Anyone who would LIVE in a place like that needed to check into Bellevue for a long rest.
"Right. And don't roll your eyes like that, it reminds me of Marion."
"Contact this Carlyle fellow for what reason? Does she just want you to pop in and say 'Hi!' or what?"
"She wants me to hire him."
"To do what??"
"Represent my extensive business interests, manage money, invest in stocks, all that sort of thing, don't you know."
"You need somebody to manage money for you like IBM needs a loan from the government!"
"Well, I know that, and you know that, and The Vision knows that, but Mr. Carlyle doesn't know that."
"Poor sod. I suppose she has some ulterior motive in siccing you on him. I don't suppose you'd care to enlighten me as to what it is?" Jimmy ran a long-fingered hand over one of the saber-toothed cherubs, then yelped as it bit him. "The chair bit me!" He was outraged.
"Don't be an ass. Besides, I'll have someone in to file their teeth down. As to ulterior motives," NMWC shook her head and looked ethereal, "I wouldn't know ... she called me into TOSFP HQ, said 'Listen kid, you owe me -- just visit and see what, er, happens ...' and then handed me the translinc."
Jimmy shook his head, curls dancing gently. He irritably slapped them into submission. "And here we are? Great. Meanwhile, my work languishes and there goes ANOTHER Grammy Award."
"Grammy Award? You should be so lucky. By the way, while we're here, you are my older brother," she emphasized "older" with malicious glee.
"Why?"
"Because 1857 isn't ready for two members of the Temporal Guild who are Just Good Friends living under the same roof without benefit of clergy."
Jimmy sighed. "It's purely platonic."
"Thank god. Nancy told me about the candles ..."
"It was a SECRET!"
NMWC looked smug. 'The Polo Lounge was a poor choice of location."
"Your brother, eh? Aren't they going to find your first name a bit odd? All those initials."
She waved an airy hand. "Solved. I shall simply use my real name."
"You hate your real name," he pointed out, adding, "couldn't you be my mother?"
"The Polo Lounge, 1975 -- right in front of three potted palms and two reporters from the L.A. ..."
He stopped her going further. "OK, OK, I give up! Sister."
"Thank you." She attempted a curtsy, started to list to the right rather dangerously, and decided abruptly to forego the gesture. "What a century. Hooped skirts that cause Grievous Bodily Harm."
"You do look like a rather silver helium balloon, now that I think of it ..."
"What a rotten older brother you're going to be. It's frustration due to being separated from an electrical outlet into which you can plug your ..."
"Ah, ah ..." Jimmy wagged an admonitory finger at her, "Language! Ladies are pure, retiring, shy, innocent, sweet ... in short, everything you're not. How ever are you going to pull off such an out-of-character part????"
She looked at him pitying. "My dear, dear, lad -- you forget. I have studied acting with the best."
"Oh sure. Percy doing Shakespeare during a rehearsal in Philadelphia."
NMWC walked over (admittedly with a bit of difficulty. She wasn't used to the hoops yet, and they gave her a rolling gait -- like someone who'd been out to sea a bit too long ...), and patted him on the head. In a voice that people use to address the terminally bewildered, the mentally deficient, or the simply depraved, she said, "You don't get it. Not that Percy's influence was not a great inspiration. But I refer to THE best training anyone can have."
Light dangerously dawned on Jimmy's face. "Ah ... I see. You mean you've watched me dealing with the press?"
"Quick on the uptake has never been one of your virtues."
Stung, he demanded, "All right, then, what do you mean???"
"I've watched ALL 57 episodes of The Professionals."
Jimmy sighed and narrowly avoided sacrificing another finger to the saber-toothed cherubs. "I shouldn't have asked. How do I get into these things???"
NMWC shrugged. "Paris. The Hotel Georges Cinq. 1975. It was a dark and stormy tour. Outside thunder moaned and inside three large goldfish and ..."
He held up a hand in surrender and slumped in the chair. "I knew I'd live to regret my muddled youth. Oh god ..."
CHAPTER II-- DIFFICULT, BUT WORTH IT
"Invincibility lies in the defense; the possibility ofvictory in the attack ..."
--Sun Tzu, THE ART OF WAR
Jimmy, immaculately attired in a dark suit, obligatory high-necked shirt and cravat cutting his circulation off, nodded in the direction of a particular building, "That's his office. My god -- there goes this damn stove-pipe hat again ..."
NMWC steadied the offending piece of headgear. "Stop complaining. At least you can walk without your clothes swaying all over the place."
"Your bonnet is listing to the left. Are you sure you want to go through with this? I mean, we could always hit Blackpool and then go back and tell The Vision this Carlyle chap fell under a bus or something ..~"
"They haven't been invented yet. And don't go on about Blackpool. Mad Stan's is 150 years in the future. Now, can we get on with it, or shall we stand here all day, attracting attention??" NMWC slapped her bonnet into place, and stalked across the street, leaving Jimmy to follow as hastily as he could.
"NMWC -"
"What now?" She glared at him.
"I'll be good -- I promise. Really." Jimmy wore an unusually -- and to NMWC completely suspicious -- contrite expression.
"What do you want?"
"Who? ME? Want something?? I'm cut to the quick"
"Yeh?"
"Song lyrics. Just for the last three tracks on the new lp."
She deliberated. In light of what was to come ... "OK. And I'll do enough for a second album when we get back to L.A. Deal?"
Getting her to do lyrics was usually like trying to get a Vestal Virgin to hang onto her virginity at a Mercenaries' convention. Jimmy looked back at her innocent face, appalled. "Oh-my-god ..."
"Shut up and let's go in. People are staring."
Still grumbling to himself, he followed her through the doors.
A wizened clerk was perched over a high desk. NMWC thought he looked like Tim Conway. The outer office cum reception room was panelled in dark wood, everything was masculine, low-key, and expensive. There wasn't a shred of red velvet anywhere to be seen, a fact she acknowledged gratefully. "Tim Conway" suddenly noticed he had company.
"May I help you?"
NMWC automatically started to speak, but merely squeaked slightly as Jimmy trod on her delicately shod foot.
"Yes, my name is James Page. My sister and I have an appointment with Mr. Carlyle."
"Ah -- of course, sir. I'll inform him of your arrival. Excuse me." Tim lowered himself painfully to the floor and crept towards a solid oak door discreetly marked "Private." When he'd gone out of earshot, NMWC turned on her erstwhile brother and hissed, "I'll get you for that. I won't be able to walk for a month."
"So get a Scottish accent and limp. Women aren't equals here, love. You shoot your lovely mouth off and it'll look pretty odd, won't it?"
"My next song is going to be called 'Stairway to Agony.'"
"Ssh ... he's coming back."
NMWC contented herself with another glare, then schooled her features to calm serenity[2] as "Tim" crept back over to them.
[2] When NMWC's features assume an expression of calm serenity strong men have been known to blanch, and in certain circles it is held to be a sign that nuclear war is imminent.
"If you'll follow me, sir, madame -- Mr. Carlyle will see you now."
No kidding. I bet this guy looks like Gordon Jackson. I'm gonna tell Lew The Vision and the SBS do more than hang glide on Saturdays, that's what ... NMWC allowed Jimmy to precede her into the office.
Jimmy stopped so abruptly that NMWC -- occupied with vengeful thoughts -- cannoned into his back, knocking her bonnet askew. Her vengeful thoughts increased in vengefulness, and she scarcely paid attention to the introductions being performed, much less to the dark-suited man standing behind the massive desk.
"... and may I present my sister, Nansi. It's really her interests that have led me to consult you, sir."
NMWC decided that Pagey had been reading Jane Austen when her back was turned, and obligingly offered one small, gloved hand; Carlyle's grasp was brief, but firm, and she let her eyes travel up an expanse of snowy white shirt to take in his face for the first time.
What she saw made her blue eyes widen appreciatively. I maligned The Vision. Mea Culpa. He looks familiar too ... where have I seen those green eyes before??
"Miss Page, a pleasure." He motioned them into chairs, and resumed his own seat. "Now, what can I do for you?"
NMWC stomped on Pagey's conveniently near foot, and smiled sweetly at Carlyle. In a voice that was straight out of Barbara Cartland she answered, "My brother feels I need someone to look after my financial interests."
"I see. You are not able to do so yourself?" The question, however, was directed at Jimmy. NMWC sat back and began to plan ... Pagey -- who could hear her wheels rolling -- plowed bravely onward.
After all, an entire album was at stake.
"Ordinarily, I would continue to manage her affairs, as I have in the past. However, my other business interests require my absence all too frequently; and of course, someone must look after dear Nansi."
"Dear Nansi" used the psychological resistance techniques taught to her on night manoeuvers with the SAS, and did not throw up.
"He goes to America so often, you see, Mr. Carlyle. He has interests in California. Fishing that sort of thing ..." She contrived to look vague and languid at the same time, and promised herself a weekend at Pizza Hut as a reward.
Pagey rather blanched at the mention of "California" and "fishing" in conjunction with one another, and leapt into the conversation once more. "You were highly recommended by various acquaintances of mine, whose judgement I ... trust implicitly ..."
Carlyle nodded. "If you could go into the nature and extent of Miss Page's holdings, I will be, I think, able to assist you."
Jimmy sighed. The poor sod. Knowing NMWC as he did, his estimation of Carlyle's chances wasn't high. Oh well ... he handed over a fat portfolio and thought, C'est la vie.
NMWC ignored the expression on Jimmy's face, and eyed Carlyle speculatively. The Vision had said nothing more than to contact him -- and then do whatever else she saw fit. The Vision had smiled when NMWC had shot back with "Like what? He's a lawyer for Christ's sake!" Lawyers were not NMWC's favorite people.[3] Now that she looked him over, the prospect of "whatever else she saw fit" didn't seem quite so ... boring.
[3] The reasons behind this statement are all traceable back to her early years as a serf in the Dickensian and fish-haunted offices of Horace & Beastly, Solicitors. NMWC conceived a life-long hatred for the general run of the legal field whilst passing her days avoiding the filing, losing the cash journal, making the checking account statements disappear and saying, "I'm sorry, that wasn't in my job description," when asked to work between the hours of 9:30 and 4:30. She eventually escaped, and has spent the years since financing the Irish Revolutionary Plot Devices' campaign to abduct all attorneys and force them to watch while their torts are moved and sand is placed in their briefs.
She thought he had a rather good face, strong bone structure; nice eyes. Hooded though -- depressed, as though he'd just been interviewed by the Inland Revenue and found out that the weekend at Steve's Bookie Palace and Massage Parlour wasn't going to be allowed as a deductible entertainment expense. Besides, NMWC had spent enough time in minute and culturally depressed villages in Buckinghamshire to know a desperately unhappy man when she saw one. It suddenly dawned on her why he seemed so familiar ...
He finished going through the papers. "Straightforward enough. I shall be quite happy to manage things for you." He and Jimmy launched into a discussion of terms and procedures, ignoring NMWC to such an extent that she felt relieved at seeing her face reflected in the highly polished desk front. For a moment there I thought I was invisible ... James is enjoying this male chauvinist century ... I'll fix him ... his next film score will be called "Terror Of The Vengeful Lyricist" ... Who'd've thought that someone named Archibald Carlyle would look like ...
Her musings were interrupted by Jimmy hauling her to her feet. "I shall be leaving for America shortly, Mr. Carlyle. But my sister will be happy to meet with you at our home. Say on Saturday next?"
NMWC ground her heel into Jimmy's foot, which, she thought, would teach him to haul her around like somebody in an episode of The Professionals, and smiled graciously in Carlyle's direction. "Yes, indeed. James feels I should have a better working knowledge of my interests, in any event." Better working knowledge ... I run the world's best music paper AND manage two highly successful bands, and I'm simpering like Lady Di. I may do vile and disgusting things when I get home ...
Archibald Carlyle rose and walked to his office door.
On second thought ... what a walk. NMWC managed to keep the awe off her face with the practice and discipline acquired from attending Discos and not laughing hysterically until hidden by a phalanx of protective (and large) paratroopers. She slipped an arm through Jimmy's and limped delicately to the door. Good day, Mr. Carlyle; until Saturday ...
Pagey restrained himself until they were seated in the carriage, heading back to The Towers. He knew the look on her face of old. "Oh no. Not him. HE's a lawyer."[4]
[4] Jimmy finds lawyers objectionable for the reason that he was once seated next to one in the forward section of Flight 1023, the Concorde, New York to London run. What exactly transpired that was so objectionable will never be known, but flight attendants still have nightmares about the fold-up trapeze and the broken remnants of a large bottle of liquid corn oil lying forlornly in the aisle.
"Whatever are you talking about?"
"Archibald Carlyle."
"He seems very nice. Reserved, though."
"Reserved, hell. He's ... NMWC you CANNOT seduce a poor unsuspecting, slightly stuffy, semi-old-before-his-time lawyer - -- a VICTORIAN-straightlaced-widower named Archibald -- even if he is a lousy lawyer!"
"I thought you said he was competent?"
Jimmy, exasperated, said a rather dubious word which rhymes with "truck" and then continued, "For one thing, you'll laugh every time you try to spit out his name."
"No I won't."
"Go ahead. Say it without laughing. My god, you can't get through saying 'garter belt' without rolling on the floor. Let alone Archibald. God ..."
NMWC, exasperated, uttered an equally dubious word of Anglo-Saxon derivation. Then added, "And don't be absurd. Archibald. There I said it. Hmmph ..." she grinned.
"See? I can just picture it. You melt into his arms and say, 'Oh darling Archibald' and collapse -- chuckling. He'll love it. I know I would."
"Yeh, but everyone knows you're perverted, dear. I recall this night in Santa Barbara when you and Robert decided to see who could ..."
Jimmy blushed. "Never MIND. It was all my ..."
"Muddled Youth. Right. That and two gallons of Jack Daniels. Anyway, the name's going to go."
"Go where?"
"Away. Maybe to a cottage in Wales. Where it will drown tragically, trying to save some whales."
"When you try to pun I could barf."
"Not in the carriage. No, Carlyle is acceptable, but 'Archibald' - -- his parents should be hunted down and forced to eat spotted dick for naming an innocent child something like 'Archibald.'"
Jimmy was forced to agree. "Yeh, I suppose that alone could be why he's had it so rough."
"AH. You did put your shell-like pointy ear to the ground. What's his background?" NMWC was all attention, and he fancied he could see recording antennas extending from the back of her head. She whacked them, sending them spinning. "Nancy sent them from Disneyland. Suits me better than this damn bonnet. His BACKGROUND, Carpetbugger Two."
"I told you not to read things with PLOT ..." He unfurled a computer printout with "FROM THE DESK OF THE HEAD LIBRARIAN, BRADFORD BRANCH" in the corner, and read out, "Carlyle, Archibald; age at present date: 38; height: 5'10"; weight: 150 lbs; eyes: green; hair: brown. Occupation: lawyer; First wife named Isabel -- she ran off with her cousin, leaving him heartbroken and stuck with a small child ... he married a local girl named Barbara ..."
"Barbara, eh? That's a bad sign ..."
"Seems like. She was typical for this time period. Weird ideas about sex ..."
NMWC nodded. "I hate dungeons myself ..."
"No ... she ..."
"I mean, if you're not hitting your head when the trapeze gets too close to the wall sconces, the electricity goes out when the waterbed starts vibrating ..."
"Well, actually she ..."
NMWC continued ... "AND if that isn't outside enough, you can never get the mirrors to angle properly
"Will you shut up???!! One tour of that house Lew and The Vision built, and you're a raving loony! Can I go on with this?" Jimmy's hat dipped into his eyes, and he threw it out the window. It was later found by two peasant children and converted into a home for motherless lice. None of which has any effect on the story at hand.
NMWC sighed for lost pleasures. "OK. What else?"
"As I was saying, she had WEIRD ideas about sex ... as in -- she didn't like it."
"I beg your pardon?"
"I said she didn't like it. Thought it was a biblically enforced torture to be suffered through as a 'wifely duty,' and then as seldom as possible."
"She was blind, right?"
"No. Why?"
NMWC gasped. "She was married to that walk ... er, man, and she ..." She trailed off, amazement rendering her speechless.[5]
[5] This is, of course, the only recorded instance of NMWC being rendered speechless in the history of mankind. She was once thought to have been rendered speechless during an interview with British Actor and Former Rock Star Lewis Collins, but was later discovered to have, in fact, been trying not to laugh. She was ultimately unsuccessful, and Lewis has looked extremely nervous ever since.
"You're sick. Right, so he married this Barbara, and they manage to have two more children ... in the meantime, Isabel ..."
"Wife No. 1."
"Yeh. In the meantime Isabel is run over by a band of rabid investment counsellors in Switzerland -- where her cousin had abandoned her to take up studies as a Certified Public Accountant - - horribly disfigured, she returned here, to England, and took up a post as Nanny to the Carlyle children. One of whom is, of course, hers. However, no one realizes who she is."
"I see."
Jimmy consulted his readout again. "Um ... OK ... the oldest kid dies from Victorian Melodrama Maximosa, and Isabel follows -- managing to reveal her real identity before kicking the bucket -- then ..."
NMWC's antennas bobbed gently as the carriage rolled along. "I presume this was before the outbreak of plague and after the visitation of insurance agents?"
"Very likely. Barbara then decided to mend her ways, and pledged the loyalty oath to Archibald while wearing a suit of chain mail she inherited from her uncle Arthur -- the black sheep of the family apparently -- and a chastity belt, the key to which had been unfortunately tossed into the North Atlantic. All would have been well if it hadn't been for ..."
"An infestation of man-eating locusts?"
"No."
"The market in Pork Bellies dived?"
"No."
"Isabel came back and revealed she really wasn't dead, she was just joking around??"
"NO. Barbara and the remaining two children were abducted by Irish Revolutionary plot devices and lost when the power cut out and the memory banks of the word processing unit were emptied."
NMWC shook her head sorrowfully. "What a way to go. Nearly happened to me once ... SMC drive belt went blewie ..."
"So, Archibald is not a happy man."
NMWC smiled. "No ... but he will be ... When did you say you were leaving?"
CHAPTER III- AT DAWN, WE SLEPT
"Come like the wind; Go like the Lightning ..."
--General Chang Yu, 341 BC
"Go into emptiness, strike voids, bypass what he defends, hit him where he does not expect you." (Sun Tzu, THE ART OF WAR)
Archibald Carlyle approached his Saturday meeting with Nansi Page with the same lack of enthusiasm he greeted all things. It was no reflection on NMWC -- if she failed to register with him, it was only because all women did ... A defense mechanism that had grown out of two utterly disastrous marriages and the consequent tossing of his earlier and ridiculously romantic ideals of what relationships should be like. (If Mad Stan's had existed things might have been different; as it was ...[6])
[6] Mad Stan's Tanning Parlour & Disco was founded by former SAS training Sgt. Seymour Stanley Allerton-Smyth-Bagley upon his retirement from a long and glorious career in the regiment. The name derives from the fact that during his years in the Army, he was often fondly referred to as "that mad bastard, Stan ..." This was later shortened to the more easily pronounced in mixed company, "Mad Stan," and was a natural choice when he opened what he feels is the only integrated entertainment center in the United Kingdom where anyone, regardless of race, creed, colour, sex, or lack of it, can come and linger as long as he/she/it pleases. It is a great favorite with Flower Circle & Disco Society Members, and has been the site of SBS regimental banquets, New Year's Parties, and the occasional eating of roasted hedgehogs. If Mad Stan's had existed in the 1850's, Archibald would not only have recovered from his two utterly disastrous marriages -- he probably would never have entered into either in the first place.
The door was opened by a black-suited butler with a lean, craggy face, and greying sandy hair. He looked at Archibald enquiringly.
"I'm Archibald Carlyle. Miss Page is expecting me."
"Aye. That she is. If you'll follow me, sir." The butler stood back, and Carlyle found himself in an imposing entry-hall -- restful looking. Somehow he'd expected miles of stuffed ruby velvet, not cool blue and white. "This way, sir ..." He pulled himself together, and followed the butler down a corridor, into a library, where the other man stopped and pointed through open French windows. "She's out there -- in the garden." The butler obviously found gardening hard to approve of. "You're to join her. Out there. In the garden. Sir."
"I think I understand. Er ... what did you say your name was?"
"Fassington, sir." He sighed heavily at unknown problems, and limped out of the room.
"Miss Page ..." Archibald began formally, as he stepped out onto the flagstoned terrace. Then trailed off, for there was no sign of her.
"Good morning, Mr. Carlyle. Lovely day isn't it?"
He recognized the voice. It seemed to be emanating from somewhere to his right, and he turned, still seeing no one.
"UP here." The voice sounded amused.
Ah ... he located her -- at least her voice seemed to be coming from a large tree growing by the edge of the terrace. "Miss Page ... if it would not be impolite ..."
"You are incapable of impoliteness at this point, Mr. Carlyle."
"Miss Page ... you are in a tree."
Laughter. "Very good. Unusually observant for an attorney, in fact."
His normally repressed sense of humour stirred. "Miss Page ... why are you in a tree?"
"At the time, Mr. Carlyle, sitting up here seemed the logical thing to do. Have you brought my portfolio along?" Rustling now, but still no sign of her.
"Er ... yes. Why don't you climb down and we'll go over it."
"Hmm ... I think it would be better if you joined me. UP here. I had such a difficult time climbing up here, you know. It seems a shame to abandon the perch at this point in the game."
He'd had some odd clients over the years; two awful wives; buried children; but never conducted a business meeting in a tree. ((Again, had Mad Stan's existed, this sorrowful lapse might not have had to happen ... as it was ...))
"Miss Page, I am far too old to climb trees." That was better; it sounded more like the practical, no-nonsense man he believed himself to have become.
"Mr. Carlyle, that is nonsense. Of course, if you feel that you are too physically decrepit to accomplish a fairly simple action such as the one I propose, then ..."
The mocking note in her voice, and the use of decrepit in tandem with physically got to him, somehow. "How do I ..."
"Stand on top of the ledge, and get a foothold on the overhanging branch. Child's play."
He followed her instructions rather grimly; it was fortunate his partner was currently on a business trip to investigate a driftwood furniture contract scam. Had he witnessed his taciturn "boss" climbing into a tree, Murphy would have never let him live it down. His eyes widened when he finally beheld his client. From their visit to the office, he recalled a retiring, elegantly clad woman -- nothing unusual about her. What he found lounging comfortably on a wooden platform was something else again.
She was wearing trousers for one thing, of some kind of faded blue material.
"There, that wasn't so bad? Was it?" She gazed back at him, noting the amazement on his face with considerable glee.
"What? Oh, er, no ..." A light breeze showed up and obligingly ruffled his hair. She was watching him calmly, and he pulled his wits together hastily, trying not to stare. "I've worked out some investments which I think will do rather well for you."
He looks better ... definitely is not the sort who looks good with mahogany panelling. "Let's see." She read through the documents with an ease and rapidity that was another surprise. "Hmm ... most of these are remarkably farsighted. Jimmy will be pleased." She tapped the topmost sheet. "I think the major dividend split is worth the risk, but the company itself is less than promising. I think we should dump it."
He leaned back -- carefully -- and raised an eyebrow. "You actually need someone to do this for you about as much as an elephant requires a bathrobe."
And too damn fast on the up-take ... "Well, I know that. And you know that ... but my brother doesn't know that." NMWC figured Jimmy would forgive her for the slur on his judgement.
"And in my office?"
"Whatever do you mean?" It was her best Scarlet O'Hara imitation.
"THAT."
NMWC shrugged -- it was a fairly good shrug. She'd been practicing for some time. "You only just realized. I didn't make any impression on you the other day. I've never been so effectively screened out."
"I see. In that case, I think we can adjourn from this tree, and I can get back to work for clients who actually require ..." His voice was clipped, icy ... and he was just getting wound up
"Ssh --
"I beg your pardon?"
"SSH ... it'll be embarrassing if we disturb them ..."
He glared at her. Good lord, what a life. "What the devil ..." He trailed off as she grabbed his arm and clapped the other hand over his mouth.
"Shut up and LOOK," NMWC hissed. Archibald did so. Having no other choice. NMWC had learned shoulder and arm locks at the feet of the greatest SAS all-in-combat-technique masters. Frequent practice sessions with various obliging members of the regiment had given her a proficiency in pinning even the largest of men to the ground, with an ease no one would have guessed at.[7]
[7] There is, in point of fact, a discreet monument to NMWC's ability to wrestle strong men to the ground, located in a secluded portion of the SAS regimental Headquarters in Hereford. Those interested in her home phone number, will find that appended to the memorial as well.
An equally astonishing sight greeted his eyes. Two figures had emerged from the house, and were making their way towards what appeared to be a greenhouse/potting shed at the end of the terrace. They were in a state of dishabille which could leave any onlooker with only one conclusion to draw.
Archibald drew it. He watched fascinated as the rather good- looking man with the militarily short hair and fringed navy-blue headlights for eyes, swept the rather thin and laughing young woman with long brown hair up into his arms and disappeared into the greenhouse/potting shed; staggering slightly as his burden wiggled strategically while he was trying to get the greenhouse/potting shed door open. After a couple of false starts, he managed it, and the door slammed shut behind them.
NMWC released him from her quasi-death grip.
"What," he drew a deep breath as well as another conclusion, "What was THAT?"
"Just my gardener and his assistant."
"Oh really?"
"Yes. They ... work ... you know ... quite a bit, in the potting shed. I didn't like them to know I was up here, though. Might seem like management eavesdropping. Not on, you know. Besides, the least little upset, and Bodie's off his stride for weeks, and then NN yells at me." "NN?"
"My resident historian." She paused for effect, "As well as the gardener's ... assistant."
"I see." Archibald felt rather like someone who has been run over by a herd of sheep and has only just realized that the top of his head is missing.
"Are you feeling all right, Mr. Carlyle? You've gone rather pale."
"I'm not very good at astonishment. I manage very well with tragedy, or irritation occasional anger ... I'm marvelous at detachment ... but astonishment makes me queasy."
Well, just because he looks like Martin Shaw ...
"You know, you look just like Martin Shaw," she observed conversationally.
"Who?"
"He's ..." MNWC found that words failed her when attempting to describe Martin. "Never mind. Just take my word for it -- you look a lot alike. The hair's a bit different though --"
"Really?" Strange sounds were issuing forth from the potting shed, "Working you say?"
"Yes. Of course, the walk is what really counts and ..." Whatever she was about to say was drowned out by a mind-bending wail.
"Walk?" Archibald repeated. Surely when I got up this morning, life was behaving normally???
NMWC felt that further discussion on the subject was not only pointless, but practically impossible unless they screamed at each other over the cacophony of odd noises pouring forth from the potting shed.
"Let's go in and have some tea. You'll feel better after you've eaten. I hope you like avocados."
He gave up trying to figure it all out, for the moment, and followed her obediently as she scrambled out of the tree.
CHAPTER IV -- A NIGHT TO REMEMBER
"His potential is that of a fully drawn crossbow; his timing the release of the trigger ..." (General Tu Yu, 342 BC)
"Appear at places to which he must hasten; move swiftly where he does not expect you (Sun Tzu, THE ART OF WAR)
"Fassington," NMWC addressed the butler who had limped in, in response to her ringing, "tea. And a glass of scotch for Mr. Carlyle. I think he needs it."
Fassington eyed the still pale Archibald with professional interest. "By the looks of him, madame, I should say he needs a large glass."
"I leave it to you, Fassington."
He nodded, and limped out, pausing only to say, cryptically, "Oh, madame. A telegram was delivered from Carpetbugger Two."
Archibald, he addressed himself, sternly, the tragedy of your life to date has finally unhinged you. Therefore, go with the flow. Where did that come from????
NMWC was nodding. "What did it say, Fassington?"
"Something about contacting him a week later than planned due to heavy intake at Mad Stan's Tanning Parlour & Disco ..."
Why is it, Archibald asked himself, that Fassington's accent is becoming more Scots with every sentence??
"That's right. It is the annual Friendship Circle Reunion. I'd forgotten. Wire him that it's OK with me. And then tell 6.2 and McNab to put in that sound proofing equipment in the potting shed."
"Aye, madame." Fassington closed the door quietly behind him.
NMWC sat down next to Archibald. Her blue clad knee brushed his, and he ran a rather bemused finger over it. "What have you got on?"
"Clothes. I hate to wear hoops. This morning, mine actually attacked me and bit me, therefore, I've gone back to jeans." She edged a bit closer. The scent of sunlight and roses washed over him.
"Jeans?" He felt hazy, as though he'd already had most of the bottle of scotch she'd requested earlier.
"These." NMWC obligingly patted her knee. "Why are you smiling like that?"
"I've gone quietly mad, you see. It's rather nice."
"Is it? Why?" NMWC decided that now was not the time to set his mind at ease.
"People in trees; Mad Stan ... Gardeners ... carrying historians off into potting sheds ... I should have coldly taken my leave, but instead ... here I am. Talking to a mad-woman in 'jeans' ... they look very nice by the way." He smiled at her again, and NMWC blinked. WOW. From now on, whatever The Vision wants, she Gets ...
"Thank you. I think." She glanced up, Fassington was back, carrying a tray and look of injured indignation. "What's gone wrong now, Fassington?"
He set the tray down in front of them, it clattered slightly on the glass topped coffee table. "It's 6.2, madame."
"Oh, dear."
"Yes, madame. It seems the wretch was enthusiastically pounding nails into the side of the potting shed -- attaching the sound proofing, madame. One of the nails went clear through. In a MOST inappropriate place, madame."
NMWC closed her eyes. Then opened them. "And?"
"Miss NN has quite torn him to shreds, madame. Verbally -- fortunately, Mr. McNab moves quickly. However, Mr. Bodie is now sulking." He paused to draw a martyred sigh, "Sulking, madame."
"Issue the No. 3 emergency kit to Miss NN .. no ... better make it the SBS issue No. 5 kit, Fassington. If he's sulking-sulking only heavy duty measures will suffice. My compliments and sincere apologies to Miss NN. Please add that I'm having tea and discussion in the library with Mr. Carlyle and she is not to disturb me until Arbor Day."
"Madame, Arbor Day is in June."
"Correct, Fassington."
"Madame. It is now August."
"Right again, Fassington." NMWC smiled up at him serenely.
"Very good show, madame. Carpetbugger Alpha will be pleased." He bowed gravely and exited.
Archibald swallowed the tumbler of scotch in one gulp. It burned down his throat, leaving a pleasant, if somewhat fiery glow in its wake.
"See what I mean? Arbor Day. It's all mad. But a very pleasant change," he concluded, judiciously. The soft, blue material of her 'jeans' felt very nice to the touch, and he ran a still curious hand over one leg, before letting his hand come to rest on her knee.
NMWC gulped, and tried to ignore the warmth radiating from him. "ER ... why is it a pleasant change?"
Archibald blinked at her. "Oh ... well, my normal life is rather boring. Ah, yes, it is. Dull. Restricted. I decided it was easier that way; after two dreadful marriages and three children all biting the dust, it seemed safer to ... exist, rather than live. IF you see what I mean. You probably don't -- you look the sort to enjoy life."
"I try." She mentally pushed aside a vivid picture of the last SBS regimental banquet, and went on. "I'm sure it's not as bad as all that."
"My dear Miss Page ... I am -- or rather, I have become, monumentally stuffy. At times I cannot stand to be around myself Imagine what effect I have on other people. Except now. I've gone quietly crackers, and so I'm not being stuffy."[8]
[8] Actually, Archibald was never really stuffy. Just slightly congested. As the following events proved, he was soon back in full operational condition. His name has now been added to the Martin Shaw Foundation Full Membership List, following NMWC's enthusiastic testimonial in re: his ability to Not Be Stuffy.
"Obviously. But surely ... with, er ... when your wives ..." She trailed off in calculated confusion.
He stretched, catlike, then frowned. "Frightful women. Or rather they turned out to be that way. Do you know what wifely duty is, Miss Page?"
She very firmly shoved back a vivid picture of the New Year's Eve Party at Mad Stan's and nodded. "Well ..."
"Don't find out. It's enough to make one resort to drill hall walls ..."
She picked up her cup of tea, and sipped. "That bad?"
He nodded solemnly, enjoying the fact that since he was quite mad, he could talk freely. "Worse. Being endured is depressing."
NMWC choked on her tea. "So it must be ..." she finally gasped. REALLY ... must have been blind ... only possible explanation ...
"I like talking to you, Miss Page. You seem to get on well with we insane people."
"I've had lots of practice." She put her tea cup down. "Archibald ..." she paused. THAT name ... "Archibald ..." she sighed ... "Archibald -- do you have a middle name?"
He blinked at her rather owlishly, then grinned. "It's rather awful isn't it? I sometimes think if I'd had a normal first name, none of this would have happened." He leaned close and said conspiratorily, "My middle name is Alexander."
NMWC winced. "Yecch."
He nodded. "Never liked him much myself. Never liked the name Archibald either."
"You look more like a ..." she considered carefully, "how about Martin?"
He turned it over, then shook his head. "I don't think so. Reminds me of someone who would name his child something dreadful like ..." he searched for a suitably awful name, "Sophronia."
"You're right. Raymond?"
"I knew a dwarf named Raymond. He was squashed by an alpaca at the London Zoo."
"I can see that won't do," she frowned, while managing to wriggle a bit closer at the same time, "Arthur. It's my last offer. You don't suit anything modern."
"It'll serve. Miss Page ..."
"NMWC --"
He slid an arm tentatively around her. "NMWC ... er, you don't mind the arm, do you?"
"Not at all," she leaned against him, "do go on."
The arm became less tentative. "NMWC -- since none of this is actually happening anyway -- after all, I've gone quite insane, and am hallucinating -- would you mind if I hallucinated about kissing you?"
"That's nicely to the point." She moved until her shoes were off, and both jean-covered legs lay over his, so that she was more or less half-sitting on his lap. "I would be delighted if you would."
"Oh good. Because I'm afraid, NMWC, that I'm going to kiss you rather thoroughly." One finger trailed a fireline down the side of her face.
She was only able to master her breathing enough to reply due to her SAS training in enemy interrogation tactics ... "I would be disappointed at anything less, indeed I would."
He brushed his mouth over hers. "Absolutely certain?"
"Um ..." she said intelligently; although to be honest, with half her lower lip between his teeth, it was about the best she could do.
"Hmm ..." he replied, and proceeded to get on with the business of kissing her rather thoroughly.
CHAPTER V -- NOT DIFFICULT AFTER ALL, BUT DEFINITELY WORTH IT
"Plunder fertile country to supply the army with plentiful provisions ..."
--General Chang Yu, 342 B.C.
"... This is ground difficult to return from ..."
--Ts'ao Ts'ao ...
"You've got sheep dancing on your bedroom ceiling," Arthur observed, running a lazily caressing hand over NMWC's back. He smiled when she snuggled closer.
"The previous owner put them in. You should've seen the bathroom ..." She shuddered delicately, and kissed his throat.
"Really?"
"It had drunken blue donkeys ... leering ... from every corner ..."
"Some people have no taste."
"Very true."
An unbelievably loud rattling sound permeated the pre-dawn quiet. He was used to the crazed happenings by now, and ignored the impending mayhem in order to pursue new horizontal variations with a thoroughly cooperative and somewhat over-eager NMWC.
When conversation resumed printability some 90 minutes later, rosy-fingered dawn was poised messily on the edge of daybreak, and the rattling noises had become rather desperate in tone. Arthur's attention was unwillingly snared by the racket, and his green eyes narrowed in puzzlement. What on earth?
"What on earth is that?"
"Is what?" NMWC asked sleepily.
"THAT." The sound effects continued unabated.
She opened her eyes, sat up, and listened intently. "Oh ... that ... it's just NN. She's sulking."
Arthur reflected on that for a bit. Finally he said, "I thought Bodie was sulking."
"He was." NMWC smoothed a lock of hair back from his forehead, then became quite fascinated, all over again, by the dent in one cheekbone.
"Oh," he managed. Sounds reminiscent of stun grenades going off rose through the silence of rosy-fingered dawn messing about on the mountain tops. A fact neither the dawn OR Arthur really appreciated. It was putting them both off their stride.
NMWC sighed. Another grenade went off. Rosy-fingered dawn spat on a fjord and said something in Swedish that translated into English rhymed rather neatly with "muck."
"NN is now sulking because ..."
A rifle went off, followed by the sound of a great deal of plaster. Falling.
NMWC was momentarily unable to continue her explanation due to the fact that her mouth was busy interfacing with Arthur's. Finally, she went on, "Because Bodie ..."
More falling plaster and unintelligible but vehement imprecations drifted up.
"Bodie ... well, he ..."
Louder and less unintelligible imprecations.
"Oh dear. Not only did nothing happen. He rolled over and went to sleep."
As this somewhat vague pronouncement was accompanied by a most strategic move of her own now non-jean-clad leg, Arthur had no difficulty whatsoever in understanding just what rolling over and going to sleep, after nothing happened, meant. He was shocked and appalled.
"I'm shocked and appalled. It's ... it's not cricket! It's, it's downright un-British."
NMWC gasped as one of his hands found a strategic spot of her own, then managed to answer, "I know."
"Some people are so ..." he paused, ordering his thoughts, and her hands got busy on forays of their own, "so ... tacky. Still, 6.2 must have upset him, what with the nail incident and all ..."
"Personally, I'm still appalled. Not shocked. But appalled," she nuzzled the hollow of his throat and added rather hazily, "Do think of something more interesting to do than discussing this distressing incident ..."
His reply to that was most satisfactorily non-verbal.
Rosy-fingered dawn decided the whole project was a disaster and removed itself to spend a restful day watching Scotland Yard Plain Clothes Detectives walk.
And far below, Bodie finally rolled over and did not go to sleep.
Time, as they say, marches on ...
The End
EPILOG
In L.A., The Vision read the last of Carpetbugger Two's report, and smiled happily. "Very good, Jimmy, very good. The whole operation's gone off very satisfactorily. You're all to be commended."
Jimmy slumped wearily in his chair. Intake week at Mad Stan's was always exhausting. "She's not done my song lyrics."
"Arbor day is only three months away."
He looked like a basset hound on drugs. 'There goes my Grammy Award."
The Vision stood up and stretched, taking her "Bodie and Doyle are Just Good Friends ... Maybe ..." t-shirt to its limits. "Never mind the impossible, dear boy. You've earned some leave time. Send in that sailor fellow on your way out -- Rashid, I think his name was ..."
"What about my album??"
The Vision sighed. "Oh very well. Send NMWC a wire."
"Fat lot of good that'll do. Last time Fassington checked in, they were still upstairs."
"They have to come out sometime. Just be patient."
"I wondered how I get suckered into these ops ..."
"New York, the St. Regis Hotel ... 1973 ... It was a hot and steamy night ... suddenly motorcycles whizzed, boas shed feathers, and a lone guitarist was seen ..."
"My wretched muddled youth. Will it follow me forever??" Jimmy addressed this last to the heavens.
A slightly raffish looking fellow, with a mop of unruly hair, and a beard, lifted Jimmy out of his way, and bee-lined for The Vision. Over his shoulder, just before he swept The Vision into his arms, the slightly raffish looking fellow paused to say, "I don't know if it will follow you forever, my friend. But I can tell you this ..."
Wait for it, The Vision thought.
"You," the fellow (who was named Rashid) said in tones of utter authority, "can go home."
Jimmy gasped and then ran screaming into the streets
"You do that so well," The Vision complimented Rashid.
"Practice," he told her, "now, where were we ..."
Time, as they say, marches on ...
-- THE END --
GLOSSARY
The following terms used in the foregoing novel, are defined here for the convenience of those readers who may be new to the Flower Circle & Disco Society, or, who may be visiting as guests of members, and therefore spend all 23 pages wondering what the heck everyone is on about.
1. The American Civil War as Quite Another Story: This refers to the little known treatise entitled "The Civil War Mary Sue As An Exploration of the Domestic Habits of Pet Groundhogs," Tales of the Blue Elf Publishing, (c) 1983, Vol. 1, pgs. 23-45, of GREAT UNEDITED FRAGMENTS OF THE YEAR. In it, Doyle is horribly awakened by a pet groundhog, and then forced to waltz at a party filled with exhausting and semi-mythical people.
2. I Was On My Way To The Car Park At The Time: This refers to an arcane and somewhat dubious ritual indulged in by all seasoned veterans of the Flower Circle & Disco Society. It consists of going into a suitable car park (i.e., one that is relatively dark and filled with patrolling members of the SAS) and doing strange and vulgar things with hats. Ripe avocados and rolling over and going to sleep are optional.
3. Translinc: A recently invented plot device which enables the author to travel the centuries without going to a lot of scientific nonsense or doing any research into quantum physics.
4. Buckinghamshire: A county of great mirth and pilgrimage to long time members of the flower Circle & Disco Society; it is, in fact, second only in sacredness to certain portions of Charing Cross Tube Station during the hours of 1 to 5 in the morning.
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