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xp_logsFollowing up on a lead, Sofia and Amanda come face to face with one of their toughest assignments yet.
Several day's worth of discreetly poking around had yielded the name and address of what was, in the words of the campaigner who had talked to Sofia in the pub whilst hypnotised by her breasts, "the biggest gossip in Melton Mowbray".
Barbara Winthrop had been working for the Tories for well on twenty years. She was scarily organised, well-connected, and could whip an election office of volunteers into a fearsome political machine in less time than most paid electoral staffers. She also had an indelible memory of every campaign she worked on and kept a scrapbook for every one.
She also lived in a small cottage with approximately a hundred cats, or so it seemed to Amanda, who had to narrowly avoid stepping on several as Barbara ushered them in.
The stick thin hand shot out once they passed the kitchen, and shook it significantly. "I collect for Jesus, you know. The vicar has long hair. I think he's one of those queers. I read all about it, you know. The queers. They took over the Labour party and want to sell us out to France. I collect for Jesus so the queers can't make us French. And the slots. The devil slots. I'm a weak sinner." She rattled the can again.
There was a small, cautious pause as Sofia made the time to take a breath, her smile widening to a flicker of teeth on the exhale. "Make me a cup of your famous Earl Grey I have heard so much about and we'll consider it an even trade," she answered easily, the heel of her pumps just grazing Amanda's toe when she opened her mouth to rebuke. "We've been collecting for weeks for the anniversary celebration now and it's all Dave's Macarena and Barb's Earl Grey. I just can't go without trying it, not in good conscience."
I'm dead. I'm dead and this is Hell. Amanda pasted on her best fake smile as she dropped a couple of pound coins into the can. "Thank you so much for letting us drop by," she managed to say. "We've certainly heard a lot about your work."
"For Jesus? Or for MP Bennett? He hates queers and the French too. I asked him once, and he told me, 'Barbara', he told me, 'what makes England great is what we accept and more importantly, what we use'." She smiled widely. "Don't get me wrong. Mrs. Asif is a lovely woman, even if she is a heathen darkie. I once called her a Paki and then I felt bad, because she's not from Pakistan. She's from one of the other heathen darkie countries. Tea, you said?"
"Like Greece? I take mine with a little milk," Sofia selected, turning her head to hide the slight ticking of her jaw. "I'm trying to cut out sugar. No sugar in wine and bread, no sugar in me. Except for a little meat, if anything is worse than a heathen it's a vegetarian. Oh, are those your scrapbooks?"
"They are. Did you know that the first scrapbooks were assembled by Thomas Moore? There was a fine man. He burned so many French Papists that they could keep the ovens going for a whole year. Making bread out of sin. What must that taste like?"She ran a granulated tongue over her thin lips, and scurried off to find her books.
Amanda let out a breath and bent to remove the kitten who was attacking her shoelaces with studied ferocity. "Sof, I'll be your slave for a year if you think of a way of getting us out of here before I work out how to turn her into a frog."
"Think of... sacrificing goats, or whatever the rebel youth of today do these days and grit your teeth. We just need to see these books, get something from it and make tracks. I want to be in a country that doesn't cook everything in lard, believe me." Sofia perched on the edge of a plastic wrapped sofa, making the appropriate noises as several albums were spread in front of her on the coffee table, absently stroking the ears of a long haired calico.
"Tell you what. My lovely assistant will get the water boiling, you tell me all about this..." Sofia paused, scanning the hand labelled notes under each image. "This Christmas party."
"It was lovely." She touched the albums like they were sacred texts. "Mr Bennett is a real gentleman. He had two different roasts there, with proper puddings from the Stag and Thistle down the road. That's Mister Davidson. His wife left him ten years ago for a Swiss tennis pro, the poor dear. When he nearly beat that long haired exchange student to death with the cricket bat, everyone understood. I think the young man was a queer. Oh, and here's Mrs. Davisham's Madelines. She learned how to make those in Brighton for the queers there."
Amanda whispered a 'thank you' under her breath and headed for the kitchen. Putting the kettle on was easier said than done, as first she had to negotiate a minefield of cat food bowls to get from the stove to the sink to fill the kettle, then back again to put it on to boil. A portly grey tom hissed at her from atop the fridge and she poked her tongue out at him. There was a large full-colour picture of the Cruxifiction hanging on the wall and she had to restrain herself from drawing a moustache on it while she waited for the kettle. From the sitting room, she could still hear Mrs. Winthrop going on, and Sofia's patient replies.
"He had to of been," Sofia said, after a while, loud enough to drift into the kitchen. "Soon as they call it pastries instead of pudding, I know." Her eyes scanned quickly over each photo, separate from her wild gestures and tapping fingernails. "And this one. That is not an American suit, I can tell you. Look at that slanted, welt breast pocket. Scandalous."
"That was Mister Lutz. He's a Kraut, but when I talked to him, he said he had become Church of England. He might be a Nazi, but he's learned the error of his ways. Except about the Jews. Don't tell anyone, but my girlfriends and I think that ending the war six months later might have solved a lot of problems. Do you play bridge, dear?"
There was a kind of choked spluttering noise from the kitchen and then Amanda appeared, laden tea-tray in her hands and a bright, patently fake smile on her face. "I'm sure it won't be as good as your tea," she said modestly as she placed the tray down. "But I really didn't want to interrupt you two. Hopefully it's drinkable." And no, she hadn't spat in the cup closest to the racist old baggage. Shifting a fat tortiseshell cat from a footstool, the witch perched, the perfect image of the eager apprentice. "You know so much about all this, I just have to hear everything," Amanda continued.
Several day's worth of discreetly poking around had yielded the name and address of what was, in the words of the campaigner who had talked to Sofia in the pub whilst hypnotised by her breasts, "the biggest gossip in Melton Mowbray".
Barbara Winthrop had been working for the Tories for well on twenty years. She was scarily organised, well-connected, and could whip an election office of volunteers into a fearsome political machine in less time than most paid electoral staffers. She also had an indelible memory of every campaign she worked on and kept a scrapbook for every one.
She also lived in a small cottage with approximately a hundred cats, or so it seemed to Amanda, who had to narrowly avoid stepping on several as Barbara ushered them in.
The stick thin hand shot out once they passed the kitchen, and shook it significantly. "I collect for Jesus, you know. The vicar has long hair. I think he's one of those queers. I read all about it, you know. The queers. They took over the Labour party and want to sell us out to France. I collect for Jesus so the queers can't make us French. And the slots. The devil slots. I'm a weak sinner." She rattled the can again.
There was a small, cautious pause as Sofia made the time to take a breath, her smile widening to a flicker of teeth on the exhale. "Make me a cup of your famous Earl Grey I have heard so much about and we'll consider it an even trade," she answered easily, the heel of her pumps just grazing Amanda's toe when she opened her mouth to rebuke. "We've been collecting for weeks for the anniversary celebration now and it's all Dave's Macarena and Barb's Earl Grey. I just can't go without trying it, not in good conscience."
I'm dead. I'm dead and this is Hell. Amanda pasted on her best fake smile as she dropped a couple of pound coins into the can. "Thank you so much for letting us drop by," she managed to say. "We've certainly heard a lot about your work."
"For Jesus? Or for MP Bennett? He hates queers and the French too. I asked him once, and he told me, 'Barbara', he told me, 'what makes England great is what we accept and more importantly, what we use'." She smiled widely. "Don't get me wrong. Mrs. Asif is a lovely woman, even if she is a heathen darkie. I once called her a Paki and then I felt bad, because she's not from Pakistan. She's from one of the other heathen darkie countries. Tea, you said?"
"Like Greece? I take mine with a little milk," Sofia selected, turning her head to hide the slight ticking of her jaw. "I'm trying to cut out sugar. No sugar in wine and bread, no sugar in me. Except for a little meat, if anything is worse than a heathen it's a vegetarian. Oh, are those your scrapbooks?"
"They are. Did you know that the first scrapbooks were assembled by Thomas Moore? There was a fine man. He burned so many French Papists that they could keep the ovens going for a whole year. Making bread out of sin. What must that taste like?"She ran a granulated tongue over her thin lips, and scurried off to find her books.
Amanda let out a breath and bent to remove the kitten who was attacking her shoelaces with studied ferocity. "Sof, I'll be your slave for a year if you think of a way of getting us out of here before I work out how to turn her into a frog."
"Think of... sacrificing goats, or whatever the rebel youth of today do these days and grit your teeth. We just need to see these books, get something from it and make tracks. I want to be in a country that doesn't cook everything in lard, believe me." Sofia perched on the edge of a plastic wrapped sofa, making the appropriate noises as several albums were spread in front of her on the coffee table, absently stroking the ears of a long haired calico.
"Tell you what. My lovely assistant will get the water boiling, you tell me all about this..." Sofia paused, scanning the hand labelled notes under each image. "This Christmas party."
"It was lovely." She touched the albums like they were sacred texts. "Mr Bennett is a real gentleman. He had two different roasts there, with proper puddings from the Stag and Thistle down the road. That's Mister Davidson. His wife left him ten years ago for a Swiss tennis pro, the poor dear. When he nearly beat that long haired exchange student to death with the cricket bat, everyone understood. I think the young man was a queer. Oh, and here's Mrs. Davisham's Madelines. She learned how to make those in Brighton for the queers there."
Amanda whispered a 'thank you' under her breath and headed for the kitchen. Putting the kettle on was easier said than done, as first she had to negotiate a minefield of cat food bowls to get from the stove to the sink to fill the kettle, then back again to put it on to boil. A portly grey tom hissed at her from atop the fridge and she poked her tongue out at him. There was a large full-colour picture of the Cruxifiction hanging on the wall and she had to restrain herself from drawing a moustache on it while she waited for the kettle. From the sitting room, she could still hear Mrs. Winthrop going on, and Sofia's patient replies.
"He had to of been," Sofia said, after a while, loud enough to drift into the kitchen. "Soon as they call it pastries instead of pudding, I know." Her eyes scanned quickly over each photo, separate from her wild gestures and tapping fingernails. "And this one. That is not an American suit, I can tell you. Look at that slanted, welt breast pocket. Scandalous."
"That was Mister Lutz. He's a Kraut, but when I talked to him, he said he had become Church of England. He might be a Nazi, but he's learned the error of his ways. Except about the Jews. Don't tell anyone, but my girlfriends and I think that ending the war six months later might have solved a lot of problems. Do you play bridge, dear?"
There was a kind of choked spluttering noise from the kitchen and then Amanda appeared, laden tea-tray in her hands and a bright, patently fake smile on her face. "I'm sure it won't be as good as your tea," she said modestly as she placed the tray down. "But I really didn't want to interrupt you two. Hopefully it's drinkable." And no, she hadn't spat in the cup closest to the racist old baggage. Shifting a fat tortiseshell cat from a footstool, the witch perched, the perfect image of the eager apprentice. "You know so much about all this, I just have to hear everything," Amanda continued.
