Monterra's Deliciosa & Other Tales & (4 page)

The Curse of Hyperica

"when once you have taken the Impossible into your calculations its possibilities become practically limitless"
—Saki

Hyperica Dunphy wasn't the fairest in the land, but she certainly was the vainest. Vain regarding everything and everyone. Of course, she was vain
about
herself, and took everyone else
in
vain, the distinction grammatically being lost in linguistics, but the action in her well-honed practice, being lost on no one.

Her fondest hours were spent admiring herself in her myriad of mirrors. But when her mother got dressed to go out, the gentle, pretty woman could always depend on a parting acid-drop present from her only daughter of "You're not wearing
that
, are you?" Hyperica's father was Cloudmere Dunphy—the physicist so famous that people who buy
The Sun
for their daily news (tits: page 3)—even these people instantly recognize his broad ivory brow. This noble forehead was simply the inspiration for "Oy, Baldy" to his only child. Even God wasn't safe, always being called on with great irony whenever anyone wanted Hyperica to lift her mind or finger away from her own being to learn something, or do something for another being on the planet. "Oh, Gawd," she would say. God knew he wasn't being called but sneered at also.

The three lived in their cosy house in Cambridge, surrounded by a garden that the parents fanatically tended, and the daughter studiously avoided, choosing instead to prance, primp, and preen in her room in front of her mirrors. She combed her diction as much as her hair, stealing the essence of the accents of her cultured parents, but curdling the tones with her own brand of irony. To her, it was wit of the highest order.

God had only blessed the Professor and Mrs. Dunphy with this one product of their love for each other, but their mutual regard had only grown stronger over the years, as they shared their bewilderment over the gargoyle whose second-greatest joy in life seemed to be—to embarrass them.

The garden was their refuge. They tended their canes of raspberries, currants and gooseberries; pruned the espaliered pears against the garden wall; carefully bletted the idiosyncratic medlars from the ancient arthritic tree till they were properly rotted; and grew muscatels and peaches in the hothouse along with a collection of orchids to enhance the posies of rare flowers which Cloudmere thrilled in picking for his wife.

She, in turn, delighted in making a blizzard of puddings: ruby and snow summer pudding, seagreen gooseberry fools, syllabubs, Sussex ponds that oozed butter and lemon. Cloudmere adored his puddings.

They ate them with the same childish joy, usually in the hothouse, out of one big bowl—an escape from the product of their womb and loin, lurking in her room except at mealtimes or when she knew her mother had made something sweet. Grace Dunphy had resorted to making and leaving decoy desserts for Hyperica to steal so the girl didn't pinch her father's favourite foods before all had a chance to eat them. Thus the practice evolved of Mrs. Dunphy making and the distinguished Professor and Mrs eating their puddings like guilty children, hidden by a conspiracy of friendly leaves and foggy windows.

~

Lately though, even these delights had been harder to come by, the bile of Hyperica spreading to become a vast river delta encompassing the house, their love for each other, even their friends.

Grace and Cloudmere had just come home from the airport after a tearful parting, seeing off Cloudmere's old physics soulmate, Grusha Gorosuv (
the
Gorosuv, if you keep up with the field), who had spent the past two weeks at their home.

Hyperica's protests had taken on the form of a campaign. "Do I have to watch him sieve his tea through his teeth" at the breakfast table. "I know he's here. I can smell his socks,"—her first words back from a trip to the shop to buy makeup or magazines. And to his face, "Thy stinking breath doth make me long for death," followed by a giggle at how well that one came off, before she tripped up the stairs to gaze at herself in admiration.

Grusha's visit had been urged by the Dunphys because Gorosuv had been offered a post at the College, and Tom Platkin, their next door neighbour, was selling to move to MIT. The reason for Gorosuv's appointment to the College was also the reason that he could suddenly afford to buy Tom's house. Grace and Cloudmere considered the childless Gorosuvs as family—a feeling shared by Grusha and Irena. The idea had seemed perfect. But Hyperica's bile mortified Grusha and he hid in Cloudmere's study. In his still somewhat tattered state (no money had come through yet), he looked as if his socks might smell, but he was, in actuality, just poor and more interested in numbers, theories, hothouse tomatoes, and his beloved wife of twenty years.

Grusha's visit ended at the airport with tears and indecision. Grace and Cloudmere hurt for him and for themselves at the thought that their wish to have their beloved friends next door was probably lost forever by their fiend of a daughter. They, as usual, had no control whatsoever over her actions, and were slaves at home to her demands. "To keep the peace", they cowardly maintained.

On coming home, they crunched through the red and gold leaves to the hothouse and gorged themselves on a huge bowl of apple crumble made with Eldon pippins from their own garden. The steamy heat and loamy smell comforted, but not enough.

"She's practicing for the Nobel in December, you know," Grace said to her husband, her tears salting the brimming spoon.

Cloudmere turned the colour of blanched asparagus. " ... at me and Grusha?"

"No. I think she has bigger ideas. The King of Norway when he presents your prize."

Cloudmere's last swallow of heavenly mess churned in his stomach. "We'll have to leave her home," he announced, but with not a speck of firmness in his manner.

"If only we could. The house ... and who—"

"... else could stomach her," Cloudmere finished the sentence. No, Hyperica wouldn't be above burning the house down. And as for having her stay with ... there was not a soul who hadn't been burnt by her tongue within minutes of her company. If she were a dog, she would have been banned by every kennel in the land, except the pound as a candidate for instant incineration.

Cloudmere took his wife's face in his hands and kissed her cinnamon-scented lips. "She'll grow up." It was meant as a reassurance, but once said, resonated with the comfort of the poorhouse bell to an 1800's pauper.

"Dear, she's bloody nineteen now, and doing buggerall," Grace uttered, and the crudeness shocked both of them.

The next day, with Cloudmere at the College and Hyperica out somewhere, Mrs. Dunphy cleaned the house. On emptying the rubbish, she saw one of Hyperica's beauty magazines, a discard from a huge library paid for by Hyperica's allowance (for doing nothing), and generous self-helpings from Mrs. Dunphy's purse. In a depressed curiosity, Grace sat at the kitchen table and flipped through the magazine. The models were the same vapid types Hyperica aped, and were of no interest to the naturally pretty, but totally unartificed Mrs. Dunphy. The ads in the back of the magazine, however, had a sort of low-class appeal.

One didn't read such things.

Lady Lydia's International Network of Psychics: Lady Lydia's knowledge and powers have been passed on for centuries ... Regular guidance is sought by high profile TV and radio personalities, royalty and business leaders from around the world.
Lady Lydia, was over-made-up, as Grace expected they all are. In the next column, an even more fancifully painted "Esmerelda" smiled cryptically.
Ask me anything! I have assisted police in investigations and correctly predicted events and natural disasters—even picking winning lottery numbers for years. A sixth generation psychic with a lifetime of experience. I have made many fortunes. Sought out by well known politicians and celebrities ...
And then, a simple ad, with no picture:
Miss Cassandra. I can see the future. When your's is clouded, come to see me. Don't leave your life till its to late. Dial now.
The spelling in the whole magazine was subliterate, so Grace didn't hold it against the woman. The main attraction was the area code. An hour's drive away. It was eleven o'clock in the morning, and if she hurried and put out Hyperica's lunch in case she came home, Grace could take off for the day, and be back before Cloudmere came home. Her crockpot bubbled patiently, there was a trifle hidden under the medlar tree, and dinner would be on time. She picked up the phone ...

~

One hour and fifteen minutes later, Grace Dunphy, , the picture of a mature and a sensible woman, keeper of an orderly and lovely home, distinguished Classics reader and possessor of an officially designated "first-class mind" (Balliol), pressed her finger to a brass button under a plaque that said in French script, "Miss Cassandra".

Mrs. Dunphy did not wait long before the door was opened by a short, plump woman whose face was clean as Mrs. Dunphy's floor. "Good afternoon," Miss Cassandra greeted Mrs. Dunphy accurately. Her smile was warm but not overly sweet.

Wafting Pears soap, she led the way down an immaculate hallway, all white walls and polished wood floor, to a little room with one round wooden table and two comfortable chintz-covered chairs; in one corner, a coat rack, and the other, a gas heater quietly throwing out its warmth to the room.

"Would you like to hang up your coat, Mrs. Smith, and settle yourself down while I make us a nice cup of tea," Miss Cassandra smiled, and to "Mrs. Smith's" docile "Yes, please," she bustled out. The tea must have been brewing because in less than a minute, she was back, wheeling in a trolley with a tea service for two, two plates, and a large platter of what looked like homemade biscuits.

"Shall I be Mum?"

"Yes, please," Grace Dunphy answered politely. There were no crystal balls in evidence. In fact, this woman was more a cross between her adored old gran and her Nanny Fithers.

"Aah, that's more like it," Miss Cassandra said, as she held the fragrantly steaming cup with both hands. "I can't think straight without a cup and a nibble, you know. Always been this way." The tea, smoky as lapsang but summery as freshly tramped clover, must have been this lady's own blend. The biscuits were also truly delightful. Coriander and cardamom, Grace thought. She looked at the woman and the woman looked back. The only sound was that of cups and delicate embibement.

Cups finished, the last crumbs wiped from mouths, Miss Cassandra began.

"Mrs. Smith," she again smiled, "if that is what you would like me to call you. You have come to me because you are troubled in your heart about your daughter. Is that not so?"

Mrs. Dunphy nodded. She had told Miss Cassandra nothing except her "name" and the time she would arrive for her appointment.

"Melissa—is that her name?"

Grace looked a bit more hopefully at this "Miss Cassandra" woman. "Yes," she said. "Melissa is my daughter's name." Melissa was close enough. She'd agonized over the name for her child. She believed in symbolism, and the name would mark her child for a future, she was sure of it. Should it be Melissa (balm) or should she favour the calming properties of St. Johnswort—Hyperica? She'd tossed them over as well as Cicely, Gilead, Violet, Laurel. All known for their abilities to soothe, heal, restore. Cloudmere had left this important decision to his wife, as the symbolism was lost on him. And anyway, he was much more used to numbers. As things turned out, Grace might as well have called her daughter Wolfsbane.

Miss Cassandra put both hands on the table and leaned towards Grace with intense concentration.

"You are most concerned about your daughter living with you and your husband, are you not, Mrs. Smith." It was a statement, not a question, and was answered by a somewhat incredulous nod.

Miss Cassandra could not help the briefest of smiles. "You are worried about how long she will be living with you?"

If "Mrs. Smith" were American, she might have jumped up and hugged Miss Cassandra or yelled out, "You hit the nail right on the head."

But being Grace Dunphy she did neither of these things, though she could not suppress the slight start to her otherwise rigid frame. "That is precisely what I am concerned about, Miss Cassandra."

Miss Cassandra sat back in her comfortable chair, with a smile that was all chintz, flowers, and sun. "You should have no fear, Mrs. Smith. Your lovely daughter will live with you for the rest of your lives."

~

That night was the first cold one. Rain lashed the last clinging leaves from the trees, and wind stuck them to the panes of the hothouse like theatre notices. Sheltered by the streaming glass walls and the friendly leafy plants, Professor and Mrs. Dunphy talked until the pallid morning light.

Cloudmere was not a superstitious man, but then his own science had led him to believe that there are forces that are totally unexplainable. He'd toyed with religion, but found that institutionality killed the wonder which God could have had for him. This future prediction, though, made as much sense as wormholes, once Grace had gone over the evidence in her normal, logical way. His famous theories of parallel realities were now being challenged in a way that ripped him from the cosiness of his own mind's perambulations.

Most startling was the conclusion that Grace had come to—that action must be taken, and by him.

"What good is your physics if you can't
do
anything with it?" Grace asked.

~

Over the next weeks, Grace and Cloudmere hardly spoke, each being so tied up in their private thoughts. Cloudmere felt guilty that he had no answers and could produce no magic of his own. And Grace felt, for the first time, an inner revolt at the oppressiveness of their daughter's presence.

Cloudmere rang and left a message one afternoon that work would keep him late, and he would miss dinner.

That evening, Grace sat down with Hyperica to the meal previously planned for three. Hyperica herself had been less at home, mostly gone during the day, and often gone for the evening, with no explanation. Sometimes lately, Hyperica had even missed dinner—previously an unknown event. When Grace thought about it now, she realized how she had absolutely no curiosity about how Hyperica spent her time.