Cooking the Books (13 page)

Unfortunately for those who do not like it, however you colour and flavour it, marzipan still tastes like marzipan . . .

Bread out of the oven, cakes packed in their plastic containers, we waited for the carrier. This time he was whistling ‘Eve of Destruction’. I wondered at his musical elevation from Elvis.

To this accompaniment I asked Bernie for her interpretation of ‘Truth lies’. She said immediately, ‘It’s one of those contradictions. Like “military intelligence”. Why do you ask? Did you see it on a wall?’

I murmured something about you never knew what you’d find on walls these days, and we discussed the admirable Banksy all the way to the Harbour Studios.

There we found the usual cast and the usual tasks and set to work—as usual. I was becoming familiar with the rhythm of the studio. First thing, the whole cast and crew milled around, getting breakfast, chatting, texting and talking, drinking coffee and being summoned away to be dressed and made-up. Tash was always to be found sitting in front of a laptop, her assistants beside her, working out what was to be done today. She was usually forking in her scrambled eggs and ham with her non-typing hand. Everyone had a mobile phone. Some—the girls, for instance—had two. Though only the girls would try to talk on the two of them at the same time. Fortunately they only had two ears.

Harrison was always to be found gazing at his own reflection in the polished top of the bain-marie. At first I had wondered what he was doing. His face was doting, even gentle. Then I realised whose divine image had captured his regard. Actors.

Ethan and his chilli eggs always had a cloud of admirers. He had a certain presence, I had to admit—big and calm, like a life-size teddy bear. His crew sat at his feet—literally, in some cases—and all females seemed to find him irresistible. He was lord of all he surveyed. No wonder he didn’t get along with Ms Atkins. She acknowledged no royalty but her own. And where was she today?

Ah, there she was, stalking through the throng, choosing a few tidbits from the breakfast table. Emily dogged her heels, as downtrodden and meek as yesterday she had been fulsome and dominant when channelling Ms Atkins. The saggy T shirt hid her svelte body and her soft floppy hat, plonked on her head like a candle-snuffer, obliterated her handsome profile and her curly hair. Protective colouration, I have heard it called.

I grabbed a cup of coffee and went into the kitchen to make some more Hungarian cakes. Bernie was in full control of this process and I was no expert on cakes so I leant against the bench and watched the rest of the kitchen concoct borscht, cabbage rolls, goulash and what smelt like a rather good chicken stew. Strudel was being constructed, apricot cake, sour cherry cake, and Bernie was making a raspberry cream roulade. I held my breath as she laid out her sponge base and slathered on the filling then began to roll it, very carefully. Roulade is a bugger to make. If the sponge cake is too cold, it cracks. If it is too warm it cooks the filling and goes soggy. I had rarely attempted it because I got so cross when it would not cooperate. But Bernie was a heaven-born cake maker. The roulade rolled up enthusiastically and looked like an illustration in a cookbook.

‘Excellent.’ I applauded and she blushed.

That was the high point of the morning. As I had completed my tasks, I begged a chunk of the apricot cake for Daniel and took my leave. I left Bernie to her butter cream filling for her hundred-layer cake and I left Tommy to her argument with her assistant over who had failed to purchase sufficient sour cream for the Hungarian menu—practically everything Hungarian has sour cream in it. Tommy stuffed a note into my hand as I went past the discussion. I assumed it was tomorrow’s menu and popped it into my bag. Filming was just beginning as I closed the outer door and ran straight into Gordon and Kendall, the writers, whispering almost mouth to mouth. They sprang apart as though surprised in some deep conspiracy. I greeted them politely and they goggled.

This TV world was as strange as an Animal Planet documentary about the depths of the sea, I thought, and walked on, cradling my cake.

* * *

At home I found Daniel. He looked rough. He was drinking double-strength black coffee and scowling over the grimy piece of paper. When he saw me he gave me a perplexed smile.

‘Come and help, Corinna, I need a mind that does crossword puzzles.’

‘At your service, Gov,’ I said. ‘Perhaps this small offering might console you in your plight. It’s Bernie’s Hungarian apricot cake. Try a spoonful or so and tell me of this mystery.’

‘Yum,’ he commented, tasting the cake. ‘Pockets dropped this yesterday. I think he knows that I am following him. I think he left it for me. Therefore it is what we in the detective business call “a clue”. Except I haven’t the faintest what it means.’

‘You do think it means something?’ I asked. ‘Rather than being the deranged product of a grog-destroyed mind?’

‘Probably,’ he confessed. I sneaked a tiny taste of the cake. Delicious. ‘But I haven’t anything else to go on. What do you deduce from “Truth lies”?’

‘It’s ringing a faint little bell,’ I said. ‘Biblical. A biblical bell. But it wasn’t “lies”. It was “lieth”. Pour me some of that coffee, will you?’

Daniel supplied me with the restorative brew. I was just about to give up when I remembered. It was so sudden that I looked up to see if I had a light bulb over my head.

‘Lieth. “Truth lieth at the bottom of a well.” That was it.’

‘Wonderful,’ said Daniel. He leant over the table, seriously annoying Horatio (who was sleeping on the table in the time-honoured manner of all felines) and kissed me. He tasted of apricot and coffee. ‘And I think I know where the next clue is.’

‘We don’t have a lot of wells in the city,’ I protested. ‘Not anymore, as far as I know. I mean, there must have been wells sunk by the original settlers, but we’ve got water mains now. Fountains, yes, before the drought we had a lot of fountains.’

‘True, all true,’ he said. ‘Come on.’

We left Horatio in full possession of the table and Daniel swept me out of the apartment and into the street. Degraves Street was full of coffee drinkers and students discussing Street Art and the validity of tagging as we passed. I panted after my beloved as he clove his way through the latte-sippers. Then we were into Flinders Street and crossing the road past my favourite hatters and into the forecourt of the station.

Flinders Street was built in the spacious days when a station was the hub and centre of all activity in a city. I have always doted on its quirky design. Did it really need minarets? Why not? I can hear the architect say. And let’s throw in a few battlements as well in case of attack by, as it might be, Fenians or Communists or Bankers. Make the facade really high and make sure that no one can miss the clocks—after all, this is the nineteenth century.

I scuttled after Daniel as he swept around the station to the St Kilda Road side. There was a huge cathedral-sized space inside. It was always populated with coffee sellers, God bless their mission to mankind, a florist for those pre-emptive apologies, and several fast-food joints. Also charities hoping to sting a few tired travellers for a series of good causes. For such as was left over from the casino and betting shop. Daniel stopped beside a wishing well set up by People For Social Justice. It was attended by several young persons in T shirts which proclaimed their mission and a fine assortment of hair; from dreadlocks to a buzz-cut which a marine might consider overly severe.

‘Daniel,’ said the partially bald one. ‘You going to contribute?’

‘I might,’ said Daniel. Suddenly he was unhurried and casual. ‘How’s it going?’

‘People just love to throw money into wishing wells,’ said the young man. ‘It’s weird.’

‘But I bet they throw other stuff as well,’ commented Daniel.

‘Oh yeah, hamburger wrappers, train tickets, that sort of thing. Yesterday we got out fifty-three dollars and eighty cents, a Malaysian coin, four buttons, two biros and a lot of paper.’

‘Any of it interesting?’

‘You are one weird dude,’ said the buzz-cut admiringly. ‘As it happens, yes. A note. I think I’ve still got it . . .’

He felt in pockets which were hard to open because his jeans were as tight as his skin. Finally there was a crinkle and he handed Daniel a grimy piece of parchment. Same paper. I looked over his shoulder as he opened it. Filthy fingerprints had marred the writing. I read with difficulty the legend
Mary Mary
.

‘Thought it might be a message,’ said Buzz-cut.

‘It is,’ said Daniel. ‘It’s a message to me. Can I keep it?’

Buzz-cut shrugged. ‘What’s it worth to the hungry and homeless?’

‘Twenty,’ said Daniel, holding out the bank note.

We departed to a chorus of thanks. Bless the young who care about the lost and strayed. Someone has to.

‘Mary, Mary?’ asked Daniel.

‘It was a song,’ I mused as we walked. ‘On the radio when I was a child. The Beatles? No, not the Beatles, the Monkees.’ I sang him the song. Daniel listened carefully.

‘Not really helpful,’ he commented.

‘No, it isn’t, is it? Songs with women’s names in the title were popular. I was named after one. Dylan. “Corinna, Corinna.” Still, I suppose it could be worse. I might have been called Sunshine or Moonshadow. Or Blossom,’ I said, naming some possibilities.

‘I think Corinna is a perfect name for you,’ said Daniel. I took his arm. The day was yet young. I was getting peckish. I was about to suggest an adjournment for lunch when I thought of something.

‘Nursery rhymes.’ I stopped suddenly, causing an inattentive gentleman behind me to almost collide. He glared, brushed the front of his immaculate suit, and went round me.

‘Nursery rhymes?’

‘You are assuming that Pockets wrote these notes, aren’t you?’ I demanded.

‘Yes, it’s his handwriting; I could probably get fingerprints off the paper if we have to prove it. Why?’

‘He’s not likely to have heard of the Monkees, but he would have been sung Mother Goose in his childhood,’ I stated.

‘Who is Mother Goose?’ asked Daniel. Just occasionally we came up against a massive cultural difference and this was clearly one of them.

‘Little verses which are told to children,’ I said. ‘Usually had some remote political or religious point. Like “Georgie Porgie” which is about a king. Or “Ring a-Ring o’ Roses” which is about the Black Death.’

‘Very interesting,’ said Daniel, puzzled. ‘But what . . .’

‘Listen,’ I told him. ‘“Mary, Mary, quite contrary, how does your garden grow? With silver bells and cockle shells and pretty maids all in a row.” It’s about Mary, Queen of Scots. She liked gardening. In the French manner. Very formal. And she had four attendants all called Mary. There’s a folk song about them.’

‘That must have simplified summoning them. Just call “Mary!”,’ said Daniel. ‘Gardens?’

‘We just need to find a garden with silver bells or cockle shells,’ I told him.

‘And pretty maids all in a line?’

‘Row,’ I corrected.

‘Nothing comes to mind,’ said Daniel. ‘May I invite Madame for a walk in the park?’

‘Why not?’ I assented.

It was a pleasant day, though the sun gave promise of searing the city later in the afternoon. Daniel and I strolled easily towards the nearest park, Flagstaff. We went along Little Lonsdale Street, which has always fascinated me. Odd trades abound in that steep, narrow thoroughfare. Umbrella repairers, outré little boutiques, people who copy CDs and supply the techie trade, map makers and costume jewellery shops loaded with enough glitter to stagger a countess. When we came up to the gardens I was a little breathless and longing to sit down, so we did, next to the trees wreathed in tin to repel possums (it seems singularly ineffective) and hung with fruit bats resting up after a long evening mugging someone’s orchard.

The trouble with gum trees is that they do not provide good shade, turning their leaves to shed the load of the light. I rose and we began to walk through the park, across the dry grass. A sign proclaimed that Street Art was to be seen, and so it was. To me it always looks like someone has randomly glued a lot of industrial rubbish together but I know nothing about art. Junk, junk, more junk, then—Daniel let go of my hand and ran, and I followed after him. A series of almost life-size babushka dolls, largest to smallest.

‘Pretty maids all in a row,’ Daniel exclaimed.

‘Look for a bit of paper!’ I urged.

The base of each babushka was cemented into a block of concrete. This had been hastily assembled because some of the cement had cracks in it. I scouted round one way, Daniel the other, and I saw him stoop.

‘Pockets?’ I asked, meeting him at the end of the line.

‘Pockets,’ he said, grinning. He unfolded the spill of paper.

‘
There was a crooked man
,’ he read. ‘You know, poor Pockets is really unhinged.’

‘It’s another nursery rhyme. “There was a crooked man, who walked a crooked mile, and found a crooked sixpence upon a crooked stile. He bought a crooked cat, who caught a crooked mouse, and they all lived together in a little crooked house.”’

‘Truly, our cultural differences are profound,’ he remarked. ‘Now at the same age, I was learning that my father had bought a kid for three farthings.’