Just Musing

"Birdie was a beaut," said Mary Brody once she had brushed the
crumbs from her moustache and manoeuvred her dentures back into place.
"With those big googoo eyes and that sweet fluff of dark hair.

"Oh Lord another one" that's what I thought when she came down the
path that day. She had that open, eager doggish expression that they
all shared and a ridiculous pointy bra on under her white cotton shirt.
She gambolled up to me and started to gush some nonsense about the muse
- that was me." Mary waved her ancient hand dismissively.

"I wasn't surprised when Alex asked her to stay. She was ripe for
plucking and I could see the old goat was itching to get his hands on
her. We'd stopped sleeping together before the war, of course, and
since then there'd been several little friends. I couldn't bear his
smell.

"So she stayed and stayed and stayed. And pretty soon she was doing
most of the shopping and organising - a great relief because I'd become
bored with running the household years before. She was saving us plenty
of money, too, the clever little minx.

"Alex left it longer than usual. But I watched him watching her. He
encouraged her to bathe in the nude, so he could watch. He always did
that. She looked lovely diving like a brown seal from the grey rocks
into the turquoise water. Birdie was naturally athletic.

"It wasn't long before they were spending whole afternoons under the
mosquito net. Birdie was rather sheepish at first - and triumphant.
There was a flash in her eyes when she looked at me. I was familiar
with that too. They always felt like that at first. She was still young
enough to believe that she would do things better than her
elders."

Mary Brody sucked at her cup of darjeeling and replaced it, a little
shakily, in its saucer .

"I was delighted with her," she said it as if she had said those words
quite a few times before.

"Why is it you're asking me these questions now?" she asked. "The
protagonists are long dead."

She poured herself another cup of tea without offering her companion
any more.

"Birdie found a role for herself that's all. She performed it
admirably: muse and mistress."

Her interlocutor had read about this coolness - and felt that he
detected it in her bright blue eyes.

"Alex's work took on a new lease of life after Martha Bird arrived at
San Seraille," he said.

"The Posthumous Collection." Her interlocutor did not quite know how to
interpret the smile that went along with those words. Secretive,
perhaps. Yes, as he watched her veiny hands smooth down her blue skirt,
he thought, Mary Brody is keeping secrets. She's laughing at me. "One
of the greatest volumes of 20th century poetry," she said. There was
irony in her voice, he was sure of it.

"It's still considered that."

"Yes, it was so lucky that Birdie found it."

"Were you surprised that Alex had hidden it away so carefully?"

"No."

"He'd had a long dry patch after Aphrodite's Song."

"Yes - living in paradise didn't seem to inspire him."

ooooooooooooo

Martha Bird put down her pen and wiped her inky fingers on a cotton
hankie that she kept handy for the purpose. The paraffin lamp was
burning low. Two moths were knocking against the glass. She rubbed her
eyes. She was tired, it was late, there was so much to do. She
stretched her arms over her head, listened to her spine give a
satisfying crack, and picked up her pen again.

Through the dark, jackals .
Black-lipped, sharp-toothed, quick
Sniff my groin, my neck, the cave of my mouth
Down the red tunnel to my heart.
Gnaw my pulsing heart
Lick my beating heart
Suck my beating heart

She opened the book beside her and counted on the fingers of her left
hand, beating out a rhythm with her foot. She mouthed the words she had
written. She wrote a few more lines and then stood up, tired out, and
went to stand by the window. The moon was setting over a distant hill,
its last light reflecting in the sea.

Martha lifted the mosquito net and crawled in beside her sleeping
lover.

ooooooooooooo

The obituarist scrolled down the screen and found the cutting he was
looking for. It was the obituary he had written all those years ago
when Alex Brody's body was found on the sea shore. He read it through
and read the lines he'd chosen from Aphrodite's Song again.

Boldly she treads lightly up the shore.
A silky skein of song -
delicately,
she sings ecstatic nature

The lines of poetry rekindled memories of a warm New England summer.
But now he was an old man and he knew where that summer's girl had
gone. He thought about a newspaper picture of Martha Bird taken in the
sixties. There was she wearing turban and earrings under a cypress
tree. Her revelations had caused a scandal at the time. "Alexander
Brody's Secret Muse."
Martha's book had been a best seller. The obituarist found the piece he
had written about her. He felt no rancour . Then he began to write the
obituary for Mary Brody. She wasn't dead yet, but it was bound to
happen soon. She was a very old woman now.
"Muse to the poet Alexander Brody for more than a quarter of a century,
Mary Brody made it her life's work after his death to continue to
inspire and encourage artists. ?The Brody Foundation, situated on a
beautiful olive-tree hillside just outside Nice, has been Mary Brody's
life work. Funded by the proceeds from her husband's poetry - which
still brings in a substantial income thanks to the West End musical,
The Mermaid and the Fisherman - the Foundation is a private retreat for
artists and writers.
The Foundation started on a small scale. Akira Mitsoukami, the painter,
was the first artist to be funded. He spent one summer in the cottage
overlooking the sea - and produced the "Maquis Haikus"?
In the early years, Martha Bird worked alongside Mary Brody until they
had their famous falling out in the late 1960s?"

****************

"Your relationship with Martha Bird ended abruptly."

"She didn't need me anymore," replied Mary Brody impatiently. "We had
shared that house for 20 years. She had written the Secret Muse."

"You must have felt angry."

"No - rather -" She hesitated, searching for the word - "I felt proud.
It is a beautifully written book. I suggest you read it."

"I have. Her language is so like Brody's; it's almost uncanny
sometimes."

Mary Brody smiled the same sly smile and adjusted her dentures with her
tongue. "Yes - especially the voice of The Posthumous
Collection."

*****************

The obituarist stared at the computer screen for a full five minutes
before beginning to type.

"Alexander Brody, poet, historian, war hero, died last week in
circumstances that can only be described as bizarre. He leaves behind a
widow, Mary, who is also his executrix. Brody was that most envied of
characters - man of action and a man of letters. He was adored by women
, admired by men, and envied by many.
He grew up in the village of ?

At this point, the obituarist's eyes glazed over slightly as he
continued to type - Eton etcetera Oxford etcetera Military Cross
etcetera. It was automatic stuff. Aphrodite's Song etcetera. He flicked
through the pages of the paperback beside, stopped when he found what
he was looking for and transcribed it.

He read the words again. How long ago that was - when Martha had read
those words to him in the long golden grass. A wonderful summer, full
of tender promises and sated desire. He smiled to himself remembering
her embrace, her honey neck. Alex Brody had been part of that summer.
His poetry had woven into the tapestry of those sunny days. The
obituarist felt grateful and allowed himself to savour that emotion for
a moment.

"He enriched the lives of many," he wrote, "and changed the lives of
some. His own ended painfully. Brody's body was found washed up on the
shores of his beloved island. He had drowned a week earlier, tangled in
his own fishing net."

****************

Birdie looked down at the bulky body on the rocks at her feet. She
squatted and dipped her hands in the rockpool . The blood washed off
lazily making pale pink wreaths in the salt water. Then she grabbed
Alex's ankles and dragged him into the little wooden boat.

Mary cool in the shade of her wide hat smiled at her as she steadied
herself against the gunwales. Birdie pushed off and Mary started the
engine.

The three of them - Alex, Mary and Birdie - puttered out into the loud
blue embrace of the morning Mediterranean.

**********

"The smell of bladderwrack reminds me of you, me, us," wrote Birdie.
"You are briney, beloved, and our embrace is wet with the come of the
sea."

Mary spread her strong hands across Birdie's shoulders. Birdie looked
up at the calm, blond face and into the cool blue eyes. She raised her
eyebrows in tacit query.

"Just musing," said Mary.