Whit

The room seemed to spin about me as the feeling of half-familiar dizziness I'd experienced earlier struck me again.

Zhobelia seemed oblivious. 'You look like your mother,' she said quietly, nodding.  She patted the bed. 'Come and sit here.'

I went shakily forward and sat on the bed; we held hands.

'Why did you leave, Great-aunt?'

'Oh, because I couldn't stay.'

'But why?'

'It was the fire.'

'It was terrible, I know, but-'

'Do you remember it?'

'Not really.  I remember the aftermath; the shell of the mansion house.  It's been rebuilt now.'

'Yes, I know.' She nodded, blinking. 'Good.  I'm glad.'

'But why did you leave, afterwards?'

'I was afraid people would blame me.  I was afraid of Aasni's ghost.  Besides, I'd done my bit.'

'Blame you?  For what?  The fire?'

'Yes.'

'But it wasn't your fault.'

'It was.  I should have cleaned the pressure cooker.  And burning the money was my idea; I saw it, after all.  My fault.'

'But you weren't - pardon?'

'The pressure cooker.  I should have cleaned it properly.  The valve.  That was my job.  And I saw the money would cause a disaster.  I knew it.'

'What money were you talking about?'

She looked as confused as I felt.  Her eyes - their dark brown irises surrounded by yellowy whites magnified by her thick glasses - looked watery. 'Money?' she asked.

'You said burning the money was your idea.'

'It was,' she said, nodding.

'What money, Great-aunt?' I asked, squeezing her hand gently.

'The money.  Salvador's money.'

'Salvador's money?' I asked, then glanced back at the door, afraid that I had spoken too loudly.

'The money he didn't have,' Zhobelia said, as though all this made perfect and obvious sense.

'What money he didn't have, Great-aunt?' I asked patiently.

'The money,' she said, as though it ought to be self-evident.

'I'm sorry, Great-aunt; I don't understand.'

'Nobody understood.  We kept it secret,' she said, then turned down the edges of her mouth and shook her head, looking away.  Suddenly a smile lit up her face, revealing long, thin teeth.  She patted my hand. 'Now, tell me all that's happened.'

I took a deep breath.  Perhaps we could come back to this mysterious money later. 'Well,' I said. 'When… when did you last talk to somebody from the Community?  Was it recently?'

'Oh no,' she said. 'I mean, since I had to leave.  I can't remember what they've said to me.  No, no.' She frowned a little and gave the appearance of racking her brains, then apparently gave up and smiled broadly, expectantly at me.

It felt as though my heart slumped at the prospect, but I smiled gamely and squeezed her hand again. 'Let me see,' I said. 'Well, as I said, the mansion house was rebuilt… the old organ - remember the organ, in the farm parlour?'

She smiled happily and nodded. 'Yes, yes; go on.'

'That was installed in the mansion house to give us extra room in the farm; we always meant to have it properly looked after but we never did get round to it… Anyway, Salvador moved back into the mansion house… let's see; Astar had Pan, of course, Erin had Diana-'

'I'm cold,' Zhobelia said suddenly.  'I'd like my cardie.' She pointed at the pile of clothes on the chest of drawers. 'It's there.'

'Oh, right,' I said.  I got her cardigan and settled it round her shoulders, plumping up her pillows and generally getting her comfortable.

'There we are,' she said. 'Now.' She clasped her hands and looked expectantly at me.

'Right,' I said. 'Well, as I was saying, Erin had her second child, Diana…'

I went through the litany of births, death and marriages and the various comings and goings of Communites and Orderites, trying to recall all the important incidents and events of the past sixteen years.  Zhobelia sat nodding happily, smiling and cooing softly or widening her eyes and sucking air in through her pursed mouth or frowning and clucking her tongue as she felt appropriate for each related occurrence.

The story of our family and Faith led me naturally through to more recent events, and I gradually sharpened the focus of my tale to the point of my visit.  I had little idea of how much my great-aunt was actually retaining of all this, but I felt I had to make the effort.

'The zhlonjiz?' she said when I got to that part of the story.  She laughed.  I glanced back at the door again.

'Ssh!' I said, putting a finger to my lips.

She shook her head. 'What a fuss.  All a lot of nonsense, too.  That was something else we never told the white man,' she chuckled.

'What?' I asked, puzzled.

'We could have made that,' she told me. 'It was easy to make.  The main thing was… now, what was it?  What do they call it?  I should know this.  Oh, old age is so… Ah; TCP!' she said triumphantly, then frowned and shook her head. 'No, that's not it.' She looked down at the bed cover, brows furled, mouth pursed, muttering in what I guessed was Khalmakistani.  She switched to English. 'What was the blinking stuff again?  I should know, I should know…' She cast her gaze to the ceiling, sighing mightily. 'Ah!' She pointed up with one finger. '…Sloan's Liniment!' she cried out.

I reached forward and gently placed my hand over her soft lips. 'Great-aunt!' I whispered urgently, with another glance at the door.

'And coriander, and other herbs, and spices,' she whispered, leaning closer. 'Our grandmother, old Hadra, sent us the recipe, you know, but it was all a lot of old nonsense anyway.' She nodded, clasping her hands and sitting back, looking smug.

'Zhlonjiz?' I asked. 'It was… ?'

'Sloan's Liniment,' Zhobelia confirmed, rheumy eyes twinkling. 'Embrocation.  You rub it in.  Chemists sell it.  Not mail order.' She reached forward and tapped me sternly on the knee. 'Stuff and nonsense, you know.'

I nodded, slowly, not knowing what to think.  I wondered what the other herbs and spices were.  I wondered if it made any difference.

My great-aunt tapped my hand. 'Keep going,' she said. 'I like this.  It's interesting.'

I continued my tale.  As I had been telling it I had been turning over in my mind both how much detail to go into regarding Allan's duplicity, and whether to mention my Grandfather's sexual advances to me.  I considered mentioning both only in passing, but in the end I told the full story much as I would have done to a close friend, though I did say that Cousin Morag made exotic rather than erotic films.  I confess I also did not reveal the full extent of how I used poor Uncle Mo's weakness for the drink, and will not pretend that such diplomacy was principally for his benefit.

When I had finished, Zhobelia just sat there, hands clasped, looking unsurprised. 'Well,' she said. 'That's him.  He was always like that.  You're an attractive girl.  He was always a one for the ladies.  We knew that.  Didn't begrudge him it; it was just his nature.  As well have complained that he snored; he couldn't help it.  Couldn't help himself.' She nodded. 'Helped himself.  Yes; helped himself.  Wouldn't want me now.  I'm old and dried up.  Prunes they give us for breakfast sometimes, yes.  No, good for you, little Isis.' She looked up at the ceiling, frowning and seemingly trying to remember something. 'That Mohammed.  You know what I call him?' she asked, sitting forward and fixing me with a stern look and tapped me on the knee. 'Do you?  Do you know what I call him?'

'A liqueur Moslem?' I ventured.