‘We made it!’
‘Aye, we did.’ Alasdair grinned. ‘I cannae tell ye how grateful I am. Thank you all.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Said dog my heart is true
And steadfast more than you
And love binds more than words what I can do.
DAVID GREAGG, ‘CAT AND DOG’
Daniel dropped me home, then went back to his apartment to superintend The Homecoming of Geordie. I was glad for him, and for Alasdair, but I had gone deep into adrenaline debt and it was presenting its bills with more than its usual insistence. Besides, Daniel didn’t have to get up at four am to begin baking bread like I did.
Horatio nuzzled my ankles as I ran myself a lavender bath and poured myself a stiff gin and tonic. When, he wanted to know, would his dinner be served? Clearly you are skipping dinner, he noted. Probably because of all the chicken flavours decorating your clothes and hands. Will there be chicken for a virtuous cat who has been stuck here for far too many hours all by himself without company of any kind? This is not good enough.
He sniffed my fingers experimentally and began to wash them, licking up the residue of my lunch. I sighed, and opened the fridge to see if I had any cold chicken for him. There was a sealed plastic box with some chicken pieces in it. I shook some out into his bowl, and he sat down, flicked his tail around his front paws, lowered his shoulders and set to work. I sipped at my G and T, with double ice and cold lemon slices. A refreshing waft of summer hillsides was emerging from the bathroom. Come and lie down, Corinna, it was suggesting. Bring your drink with you. And despite the manifest peril of falling asleep in the bath, dropping my G and T into the tub and giving myself the laceration of a lifetime, I obeyed the summons.
It was but the work of a moment to doff my clothes and leave them in an untidy heap on the bathroom floor. And why not? It was my floor. I’d deal with it in the morning. Meanwhile, my entire body felt as though it had been used as a tilting ground for knights on horseback. I grabbed the steel railing firmly in my left hand, lowered myself into the water and leant back, resting my head on the bath’s edge. Lavender essence drowned my senses. I wiped my face clean of dynamite residue and patted my features with moisturiser. With aching care I reached for my drink, drained it to the dregs, then set it down carefully as far from me as I could reach. Now it wouldn’t even matter if I fell asleep where I was. I listened to my racing pulse slowly subside from allegretto to a stately adagio. Then I surprised myself, and greatly alarmed my cat – who had, as usual, followed me in to observe the strange ritual of the bathtub – and punched the air with my right arm.
‘Yes! We did it!’ I exulted.
Horatio padded out of the bathroom in disgust, but I was having none of it. I had been serially burgled and all but shot and blown up; we had been led royally up the garden path with as wild a profusion of mysteries as ever belaboured a semi-virtuous baker; and yet we had been triumphant. And with that I drew myself out of the bath, pulled out the plug, threw on a summer nightie and flung myself into bed. Just before sleep closed over me I set the alarm; and I had no dreams at all.
Four am struck with less than its usual feeling of imminent doom. I stretched my limbs experimentally. Everything seemed to be more or less there. My ankles and calves were issuing pianissimo complaints, but I seemed miraculously alive and well. When had I fallen asleep? It could not have been long past six pm, which meant almost ten hours of virtuous slumber. I wandered into the bathroom with more than my usual spring in my step. Some slattern had left a pile of clothes on the floor, but I kicked them into a corner and had a steaming hot shower. Then I threw on a light robe and sauntered into the kitchen.
I made my first cup of steaming Arabica coffee and inserted two sourdough slices from last Friday into the toaster. I watched the toaster carefully, wondering if it was going to explode or do anything else untoward, but it didn’t. It popped up, its slices a creamy mid-brown, positively begging to be covered with butter and cherry jam. I bit into them with relish and relaxed.
No one was trying to break into my apartment. There was not a sound from anywhere except for the soft padding of Horatio, who draped himself around my calves and announced that he too was ready for breakfast. Kitty dins (dry) rattled agreeably into his bowl, and he settled down to give them his full attention.
I finished my early-morning repast, donned the stout overall and cap and the stouter shoes. Down the stairs to the bakery, where the big air conditioners had already come on, along with the ovens. And there was Jason, reading a book (another Patrick O’Brian) while waiting for his first rising to mature.
‘Cap’n on deck!’ he said, jumping to his feet and saluting.
What I wanted was a pleasantly dull, quiet day of diurnal bakery. I hoped I would get it. If you listen to some people, they claim to crave adventures. My life is so normal! they will complain. Why doesn’t anything exciting happen to me? If only they knew. The last week’s adventures had offered way more excitement than I had ever wanted in my life. I returned my midshipman’s snappy salute and we set to work. Today we would make normal bread and normal fruit muffins and do totally normal things.
I inspected the bakery floor. There were Heckle and Jekyll, sitting obediently by their bowls and proudly displaying the results of their night-shift exertions. Four mice and a truly enormous rat. Only slightly damaged to look at, but apparently dispatched with their customary brusqueness and lack of sympathy. I made my customary oblations and the bakery was filled with the sound of contented crunching. Then I let them outside to sit their patient vigil outside Nippon for their second breakfast of tuna oddments.
Sugar was sifted, flour beaten into shape, yeast was introduced with maximum formality, and dough hooks clicked. Coffee steamed in its pot and was cautiously imbibed. I admired Jason’s muscular arms kneading with astonishing expertise. It really was extraordinary how good a baker he had become.
He caught my eye and raised an eyebrow. ‘What are we making today, Cap’n?’
‘Well, Midshipman? What do you want to make today? Your choice, as long as we’re making bread and not getting burgled, shot at or blown up.’
He thought about this and scratched his cheek with a floury finger for a moment. ‘You haven’t been getting blown up, have you, Cap’n?’
‘Yes, I have. Sorry, didn’t I tell you? I expect it was all over the TV – though you don’t watch TV, do you?’
‘Not really. TV is for old people. But I did see something about it on my phone. Some gang got their house blown up, and there was a full-on gun battle. You weren’t in on that, were you, Cap’n?’
‘Yes, I was. When we get the baking properly underway I will tell you about my weekend. Filled With Incident doesn’t even begin to cover it. So tell me: what are we making today?’
His eyes unfocused for a while. ‘Usual sourdough, olive, cheese and herb, and – I think I’d like to try Irish soda bread. Muffins? Cheese and ham, and apple and spice.’
I nodded approvingly. ‘Good choices, Jason. At this time of year people want more traditional muffins. I don’t know why, but they do. Probably because they’re sick of mince pies and other exotica after Christmas and New Year. All right, Midshipman. Let’s to work, and I shall tell you all about it.’