Bellydancing and Beyond Box set

Chapter 5

Chapter Five

That evening, Steven stayed for supper. It was Frances’s idea; she had heard that he was a great cook and if she was staying for dinner, just for a change, she would like something edible.

Steven stood by the sink, his body still throbbing a little. He itched for his Mr. Muscle spray; the kitchen had that slightly greasy look from constant fry-ups and minimal cleaning. He thought about polishing the surfaces, but took one look at Beatrice’s idea of a cleaning cloth and gave up on the idea. Instead, he arranged the food on to four plates and put the kettle on.

He whistled a little to himself, looked down at Sam and handed him a small piece of cheese. Thanks to Sam, Steven had spent half an hour under the administering hands of Sheryl. She dabbed his cuts and nettle stings with whatever she had in the cupboard, and placed a few plasters in the appropriate places. None of the creams worked, but he didn’t mind.

Sheryl, on Beatrice’s insistence, opened a bottle of wine. She poured, then waited for Beatrice to complete what was hopefully her final lap of the kitchen. Steven carried over two plates of seared peppers filled with odd bits from the cupboards. Frances followed behind with two other plates and a look of anticipation on her face.

In the lounge room, the wrestling had just started. Steven walked in on an Aussie duo running into the ring while swinging didgeridoos.

He had never seen wrestling before. He didn’t even have a TV. What he had was a small flat, a computer, a stereo, a collection of records that took up the width of his lounge, and a very pleasant landlady who gave him free use of her herb garden for the odd jar of homemade pesto. He had a large blender, a very attractive old pestle and mortar, and a newly bought pasta maker. He liked to cook while planning his novel, and regularly brought titbits for Beatrice to have at work. Eventually, Beatrice had given up taking her lunch as Steven’s titbits turned into a full-scale picnic.

‘How’s the belly dancing?’ asked Steven, as he toyed with the idea of bringing over his pasta maker, would that be too forward?

‘Great! My teacher says I have an Arabic pelvis!’

The fanfare for Uno Sumo blared from the television, as two small men in blue underpants raced forward waving a Japanese flag. The crowd booed.

‘And that’s a good thing?’ Beatrice looked at her daughter, ‘That’s why you wrap yourself in those flowing skirts? And pour olive oil on everything?’

‘Apparently, the Arabs used to rub olive oil onto their hips,’ said Steven, ‘They say it’s good for the skin.’

The women looked at him.

‘I think you will find that it is the perineum,’ said Beatrice, reversing herself back to the sink and grabbing the whisky bottle.

‘And here he is, hot from England,’ yelled a commentator over the blare of Rule Britannia. The crowd cheered as a white knight swirling a sword marched into the ring. Mad Brady, one of the commentators, stood in the ring, while Uno Sumo stood in the corner restrained by his Japanese sidekicks

‘So, St Michael, are you ready for the fight of your life?’

The knight removed his helmet, waved to the crowd and then handed his sword to a small woman dressed in a fur-covered bikini. ‘I am here to defend the honour of my Lady Ginger, and to thrash the living daylights out of all who have tarnished her name.’ Some women sighed in the audience. Uno Sumo almost broke free from his restraints.

‘And soon,’ said Mad Brady, ‘you’ll be fighting in your homeland again. Is your fair lady coming with you?’ The crowd roared, a few waved Union Jacks. ‘That’s right, folks, the negotiations are over. The fight for the Celtic Title is on. Scotland will never be the same again!’

‘They’re coming to Scotland?’ said Sheryl, her heart beginning to thump.

‘Johnston too,’ said Beatrice.

‘What! You knew and you never thought to tell me?’

‘Yeah, it’s bigger than the Olympics!’ Mad Brady began to shout, before giving Jim, the other commentator, a friendly thump on the shoulders. Jim looked back with the expression of someone who didn’t think thumps on the back were friendly.

‘They’ll be in Oban next week,’ said Frances.

‘Your pal, Nefer-whatisname is dancing for them,’ added Beatrice.

‘What? When?’ Sheryl started to pant; Johnston this close. ‘We must get some tickets.’

Beatrice pulled the pamphlet from the coal bucket and tossed it across to Sheryl; the first thing Sheryl saw was the words “sold out” in red letters.

About the same time, a taxi pulled up by the gate, tooted loudly and then drove up the drive. No one heard over the TV or saw the two pink legs slide out of the car. She paid the taxi and struggled with her luggage to the front door. When no one answered, she, with her luggage beside her, fumbled around the back and peered into the patio doors.

Beatrice jumped with fright then she caught sight of the dentures.

‘And now as East meets West,’ Mad Brady yelled into the microphone, ‘and Japan’s most famous export clashes with the heroic white knight,’ he took a breath, ‘we’re in for a fight of colossal proportions.’

Jim looked at the camera with a blank expression. He was about to say something, but never got the chance as Uno Sumo promptly sat on his opponent.

‘Let us in, Sheryl,’ said the voice from the patio door, Sheryl opened the door, the pink legs walked in, leaving her luggage for some mystery porter to deal with, and she held her hand out to Beatrice. ‘I am Nefertiti, you must be Bea.’

Her eyes were red and her mascara a little smudged, but Nefertiti held herself erect, and only after finishing the last of Frances’ cigarettes did her story emerge.

‘I’ve left him, that Rodger. I told him there are some things private, some things for just us, but would he listen? He says I knew all along, he says it’s bleeding art. I call it an …. intrusion.’

She dabbed her eyes and pushed her glass toward the whisky bottle, Sheryl filled it. ‘He’s been painting’ my Flower of Scotland,’ she wailed.

Only Sheryl knew what her Flower of Scotland was, and having just eaten the best meal she had had in ages, Sheryl decided not to spoil it by explaining just exactly what Rodger had painted.

‘He is going to put them in a show thanks to that “hands on Martin”.’ She let out a sob. ‘He is calling it “Unveiling the Flower of Scotland”, and there won’t be a bloody tartan in sight!’

Beatrice decided the woman was nuts.