Quid Pro Quo

Chapter Nineteen

My sister had been a wise woman.

Her specialist area of expertise was other women. I had always considered this a waste of wisdom from her point of view, but it never did me any harm to have her advice.

One of her most apposite maxims was regularly proffered in my direction. "Satchmo," she would say, "do you know how to spot a genuinely beautiful woman?"

Of course, I did after having heard this a few times, but I would always play along. "No," I would answer. Mary would smile.

"An honestly, naturally, attractive woman, not some precious creature that cannot bear to leave her room without make-up, a really gorgeous woman wakes-up beautiful."

Hardly Confucius, but still, like so much my sister said, I had found this to be absolutely true.

Two things reminded me of this; firstly, upon waking up the following morning with shooting pains in my back and cramp in my calf, I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the rear view mirror.

Dawn had broken grey and murky like yesterday's wallpaper paste, and in its grimy smears of light my looks appalled even myself. The usual lived-in face was smudged with filth punctuated by two days of stubble and deep lines. My eyes were bloodshot and the tangle of hair on my head looked as if it was home to a family of hedgehogs. I had most certainly not woken up beautiful.

The second reminder of my sister's words was the sight of Martha emerging from the farmhouse, wrapped in a huge bath towel. Her face too was smeared in soot and grime, her hair was tousled out of its usual strict ponytail and her legs were streaked with black mud from the ditch in which we had restrained her in last night.

Despite this, her back was straight and her shoulders spread broad. Martha's face was placid, and her vivid green eyes were bright. She wore not a stroke of make-up, had endured a considerable ordeal last night, and yet she had woken up beautiful.

I could almost see my sister smiling at me from a cloud.

"You win again, Mary," I said aloud. "But being right doesn't always help."

Martha made it to the cowshed and the icy water of the shower started to flow. I groaned and clambered out of the car to stretch my legs. My right calf was still complaining bitterly, and I realized that I stank. I too was in dire need of a wash, and a shave, if she left any water.

I trotted over to the barn to see whether Ty had any plan of action following the night's events. I found him rolling up his bag, already washed and dressed in neat khaki trousers and a loose brown T-shirt.

"Did you sleep alright?" he asked.

"I've had worse nights," I replied. Whilst this was true, I felt that the night I spent lying in the flowerbed on a ring road roundabout after a particularly debauched teenage night out did not actually count.

"Good. We have a busy day. I thought we might take a trip to see Mr. Michaels. Martha will have some business to sort out with the police and her insurance people," Ty announced, looking at me implacably.

"Is it a good idea to leave her?" I said, concerned.

"I'm sure she will be fine with the authorities, Satchmo. Besides which, it is definitely better that she not accompany us to our meeting."

That sounded ominous.

"Oh, and have a wash Satchmo, you look awful," Ty said bluntly.

Charming, I thought. He did have a point though.

"I'll drive Martha into town while you clean yourself up. You don't smell too good either," he said, wrinkling his nose.

*

I had stood in the shower for as long as I could bear it. The cold water burned like acid and after a while it felt like no amount of scrubbing would bring life back into my flesh.

I had, however, managed to clean most of the grime off and thanks to a healthy squirt of fragranced soap I no longer smelled like the dustbins behind McDonald's.

I flatly refused to shave in cold water though. Previous experience had taught me that while it might be all right for the likes of Banjo Patterson and Tyrone Edge, I would most likely cut my head off. Plus, the irritation would only be slightly less than if I had used sandpaper to remove my stubble. No, I had to have warm water and that meant I would have to create fire.

Man, by which I mean the male of the species, has a primeval link to flames. Something is hardwired into our brain that tells us that not only is it a good idea to make fire, but that it is solely our domain.

Once made, we find it hard to take our eyes from the twinkling flames. It's like TV's in pubs, any visible cleavage or glaringly obvious wigs; they are impossible to ignore.

Unlike Ty, I was not well versed in the art of lighting fires, but I had seen him do it enough times to give it a go. I found the kindling he liked to use; a fragment of cloth burnt black and cut into small squares. Then I used a small knife to carve a feather stick; shaving curls into the length of wood just as I had seen Ty do.

I arranged the newly mangled wood underneath a pile of small twigs and got a few larger pieces of fuel ready for when the fire had caught. Next was the hard bit; the spark.

Ty kept a small metal cylinder that produced sparks when struck with the rear edge of a knife blade. He made it look easy though, by holding the kindling at the base of the tool he would scrape once or twice and the cloth would burst into flames. I tried a similar trick and found it difficult to hold all the requisite pieces simultaneously.