Norman's Ark

The scream, well to call it a scream would be like comparing a child’s pop gun to a mortar shell exploding by one’s ear, no this sound had so much more than a mere scream. The howl of a Banshee. A Harpy’s scowl of dissent, a cry from a petulant child not getting it’s own way, the howl of raw inconsolable grieving, a groan after an undercut to a flabby unprepared belly and the scream of fury and abject frustration surfacing after 20 yrs bottled up. This sound belonged to a Mrs. Angela Morel-Cain, the so called lady of the manor; she had just emerged from a huge tent, which was now taking up over 2 thirds of the front lawns of Cain Hall.

Rain had arrived in abundance in Rembrookshire. The river Tare was now bloated to bursting its aging britches and spewing over, and former quaint little picturesque ponds had become obese sickly muddy sludge puddles, scarring the once resplendent lush Latterslay valley.

Heat and rain meant tempers were frazzled and frayed.

Looking comical, now squatting on her haunches looking like she might be about to poop, Angela continued to make inhuman like noises, grunting and spewing sounds, muttering in low and raised tone to herself. She had just come from inside the tent. The tent, someone and something inside it had made her very unhappy indeed.

However she gathered herself together, stood up to her full 5ft 4inches in heels, brushed down her now soaking wet Claude Mouscron Pink dress suit, and looking straight ahead began a sliding march back up the quagmire incline to the hall, a stumble here and there did not distract her, the Labelle stockings were now sodden history, her fiery coaled eyes now focused on things that had to be done.

This drenching summer rain had plummeted from the heavily bruised skies for several days now, pounding down on the picture postcard village of Latterslay. Yet still this strange relentless driving display of machine gun like chilling spray was failing to allay all scorching temperatures.

This particular week her thirst for him had been unquenchable, she'd
broken strict guidelines on rationing her lust with him to once maybe
twice a week in London. This week desire and boredom reduced her to begging
playfully, breathlessly on the phone, urging him to come down and stay in the village. He wasn't complaining he had nothing to lose; she paid him to the same as several rich customers would. But this was the fourth time this week she’d contacted him and this was a supposed no strings agreement; yet he could see the nasty C word on the horizon. But still he agreed and came to visit.

And tonight for the fifth time she contacted him again on the phone. After 3 rings he picked up the phone.

“Yes?”

Her voice was breathy, heavy with lust; perhaps she'd been on the
brandy, alcohol transformed her from meek prey into a ruthless
predator.

“Hawwoo Unkle Cowin.”

“Hello Angela, what do you want this time?”

“Will Big Daddy spank my lickle tush, I've been a naughty, naughty
lickle girl so I have, and I fink i deserve a hot red bumsy so I douse."

"Angela you're insatiable," he protested meekly.

"I don't care I want you and I want you NOW" she giggled.

“Anytime (he lied) darling, but you do realise ,you are going to get
caught," He dared protest again.

Still she giggled, but this time with a heavy mournful sigh.

“Don’t be cwoss with ickle Angie Cowin, pweeease , you’ll make us cwy you will.”

"Angela did you hear me, you're playing with fire, Normans going to
get suspicious, if he isn't already. I think we should perhaps cool it
down a bit, let’s turn down the burners just a touch eh?"

“Don’t make us cwy Cowin, pweeease, cos den Angie gets cwoss, and we dunna wunt dat , now duse we?”

“Please Angela, see sense in this.”

“ANGIE WUNTS TU PWAY COWIN!”

“Angela please don’t.”

There was a pause long enough for him to hope the message had got
home, but then a heavy unsatisfied sigh and then that giggle, that highly strung unhealthy furious little giggle reverberated down the receiver again.

"Oh ok Colin. Colin , Colin you coward, you fucking cowardly mutt, you want rid of me but haven't got the balls to tell me straight, well fuck you if you think you can fuck me like a whore then abandon me like one of your little squeezes. No, no fucking way Colin you're far too important to me for that!!"

He physically winced at her change of tone, these spats had intensified
recently and were draining him mentally and sapping his bodily
strength; she was definitely high tonight, her mood switches were rapid
and unusual.

"Angela my Angel, you forget I'm the whore in this relationship darling
not you, you put the bread on my table."

“And don't you ever forget it darling, now is my little Ram ready to
service me tonight or do I have to beg some more hmmm!"

“What the lady desires the lady always gets, I’m just saying… just be careful Norman isn't as stupid as Norman looks."

“For fuck sake Colin, Norman is stupider than he looks; if that's possible this man... this so called man is on another planet, don't ask what he's been up to today." She growled in furious frustration and then began a tirade of abuse about her curiously absurd spouse.

Colin’s job was now to wait and listen, and also reflect on things past.

Angela Morel had been a little squeeze in her youth, she’d told him that unashamedly. Although from a rich family she had been a little squeeze none the less. He was reminded of her story of how she’d become Mrs. Morel-Cain.

It was perhaps thirty years ago. She’d arrived late one morning at the breakfast table after a heavy night on the town, this by no means an uncommon occurrence. But on this particular morning Maurice Morel her father was still there sitting at the end of table, studying Angela rather like a Tawny owl would, when stalking a mole or mouse. She’d pretended not to notice him, scowling and muttering under her breath, her back turned to him as she poured herself some black coal coffee at the side serving bureau.

“Good morning Angela.”

“Oh! Good morning papa, I didn’t see you there.”

“Sorry my dear, I didn’t mean startle you. I can call Garretson and get you a fresh pot if you wish. Perhaps some kedgeree and lambs kidneys too?”

She felt her stomach turn at the mere mention of food. “No thank you papa, this will do nicely.” She raised both the cup and feigned a terse smile and then sat at opposite end of the long dining table.

Mr. Morel smiled and continued studying his only daughter, even though she was avoiding eye contact with him, and for good reason.

“You know one day I hope to see you eat something solid, for the last 8 years all I’ve witnessed pass those sweet lips has either been the vilest cold coffee or the most expensive brandy.” He commented dryly.

At this she did raise her head, and stared back coldly. “Oh Dada a few more things have, do and will pass these sweet lips as you so diplomatically call them and know so well, but that’s not for discussion here at the breakfast table, and certainly something this daughter won’t be discussing with her father. If you’re going to be a bore, I’m off.”

“Tut, tut you really are the most sensitive and vain of snobs Angela; I’m almost ashamed to call you my daughter,” responded the old man smiling and unfazed. “But I do love that caustic wit, and that fiery temper of yours, I really so, so do.”

She stood ready to leave, her eyes scalding him with her gaze. “Sadly Dada I neither have the time or desire to entertain you, nor do I have shared anecdote of fondness for you, you’re simply put, a vile old pig and you’re lucky I keep certain other things private, or the whole world would really know what a vile old pig you are.”

He looked puzzled at her for a moment, and then raised his eyes as the penny dropped. “Oh Angela for heaven’s sake i take it back, where is your sense of humour this morning? I make a little joke and you bring up dead wood from the past. And you know fine well why you keep quiet about those things, I mean it wasn’t always me doing the chasing now was it darling?” He winked at her smugly.

“If mother was still alive she’d have cut your balls off and I still might.” She spat.

Morel huffed his disdain.

“Idle, idle threats my dear. Well she wasn’t alive was she dear, and so we both adjusted and did things to compensate, things that we both perhaps now regret, things that we’re both now deeply ashamed of maybe.”

“If you think I as a fifteen yr old girl can take responsibility for what happened 10 yrs ago, you’re more disgusting and depraved than I thought.”

“ Yes of course sweet innocent little Angela. Whatever we both know the truth, yet the past is now the past can we leave it there please? Today I need you to do something to save us.” Replied the old man coldly.

She looked at him amazed “You’re asking a favour of ME?” She clasped her chest. “You have the bare faced cold audacity to ask me for something?” She croaked tearfully.

Perhaps moved by his daughter’s show of emotion, Morel himself looked slightly taken aback. “Yes, and with deep sadness my dear,” he replied soulfully, “And only because it’s imperative you do this, and believe me it’s more for your own future than mine.” A dab of moisture now glistened in the corner of his eye.

“Well! What is it you’re going to ask of me papa.” She replied impatiently, her voice cracking.

The old man gathered his thoughts, trying to think of a way to sugar coat it, but even his devious old mind was struggling to find a way. “Plain and simple, I need you to marry a man my dear, a man called Norman Cain, because if you don’t you and I will be supping potato soup in some old Kent road church kitchen next week, with the other vagabonds.”

“God,” she whispered falling back into a chair. “What have you done to us now father?”

What he’d done now was gamble and borrowed, and then borrowed to gamble. But now it was all about to go, the haulage business, the house, the villa on the Algarve, the two Bentleys and the apartment in London. The creditors had seen enough and were about to send their dogs in. Luckily a saviour called Edgar Cain had appeared. Cain was in fact the Morel’s main creditor a ruthless one normally, but all their assets meant nothing to what he wasn’t going to get his hands on. To get what he wanted, he’d buy the moon; all the debt the Morel’s had incurred was a paltry pittance to him that he’d pay without second thought for what he really wanted.

“He wants you my darling,” explained Morel to his daughter. “He wants you to marry his son and produce a male heir to their squalid little throne. But he doesn’t expect miracles; apparently Norman’s an odd fellow to say the least, so he’ll be patient.”

Angela sunk into deep thought, the loss of all those things would mean the loss of something far greater in meaning to her, her reputation and her acceptance in high society.

“Yes Papa, tell Mr. Cain I accept his son’s proposal, I’d be delighted to be his son’s wife and the next Mrs. Cain, albeit Mrs. Morel-Cain.”

To which old Morel closed his eyes and smiled, then gratefully and kissed his daughter’s hand affectionately.

And so began the 30yrs of torture, dutifully wed to her new husband, she soon found out what a strange fellow he was, expecting to be mauled on her wedding night, Angela to her rancor, instead had to suffer the indignity of being ignored whilst her husband was engrossed in projects elsewhere in the Cain Manor, something she was not used to.

In fact for the first five years it was the senior Mr. Cain, whose advances she had to repel, the old dog wanted her for himself, knowing his only son was redundant in the field of romance and intimacy. Luckily the old fool died and Angela was seemingly left to her own devices.

She could now live her life as before, Norman cared not a jot, and he made it clear he barely wanted to speak to her let alone touch her. She had carte blanche to his finances to satisfy those needs elsewhere, he didn’t mind what or how she did it, as long she didn’t bother him.

And so did, getting older by the year , less desirable with each coming of the fall, more prone to drunken out bursts, riddled with doubt about her allure to men she used to spurn 10 yrs prior. She had begun the snaky spiral into a pit of desolation and abject despair.

Until Colin had found her one night in London, hopelessly drunk at one
of those parties where the ladies are older and richer, and the men are
single and ambitious. He'd taken care of her in his own unique little
way and grateful she'd returned the favour, Colin would have moved on
to the next course but she insisted he visit the Cain's little eight
bed roomed Manor just down the hill from the village of Latterslay. And
of course in her mind they became inseparable, after he and she
christened the Dining room table. To Colin now she was an important but an
expendable client whose figure and beauty was not the reason he was now
in the village.

She continued her favorite rant slating her unwanted husband; Colin
listened for the break when he could jump in and say, "I'll come and
get you", instead he had to butt in when she said something totally
bizarre.

"Angela what did you say? Did you say what I thought you just
said?”

She was momentarily stunned, he did actually listen, she was unsure what
had caused this attention, and then of course she realized.

"Yes Colin you heard me the idiot is actually building a fucking
ARK."

"An ARK?"

"Yes Colin, a fucking enormous Ark in my beautiful garden, under a tent
so big Billy Smart would be proud. I get back from London today and
find this, the man is off his top …no pun intended, and he thinks we're in
for forty days and forty nights of rain! Eccentric I can stand, tolerate barely, but mad? I'm at my wits end, send in the fucking clowns, why don’t you?"

"Surely you mean a boat Angela, not an Ark?" He couldn't believe what he
just said.

"NO I mean an Ark Colin, I mean it's been the centre of my fucking
attention all fucking day Colin, believe it or not I did ask him what
the fuck he was doing and he has confirmed it more than once because I
needed to hear it more than once. A dirty big fucking Ark Colin not a
boat a dinghy or a yacht, but a great big dirty fucking Ark."

“I can understand why you're err... upset darling, it must be..." he
tailed off lamely.

"Upsetting Colin, is that the word you're looking for? Yes you could
say that, my husband has gone round the bend, my life is down the pan,
I'm a borderline alcoholic with a bit of a rep, no children, my
boyfriend wants to ease me out of his life. And to cap it all Colin you
know what Norman told me?"

"Err... No I'm not on Norman’s wave length thank God; you'll have to
tell me."

“When this thing is built, I don't get on it because I'm impure, do
you know why? Because a voice has told him I am not worthy of survival,
yes so upset is a pretty apt word for how I'm feeling."

Colin listened to his client breaking down at the other end of line;
he always felt she was a borderline lunatic now living with Norman had
driven her over the edge. Colin and Angela had enjoyed and hated each
other for over a decade now, she'd paid well and he gave her
satisfaction in the only way he could. Tonight though was the final
straw, but as one last gesture he'd spend this night with her, so
they could be together just one more time.

"Angela I'll come and get you,just wait in the house until I arrive"

He stepped out of his cottage not bothering with a coat, his car just
outside, yet still he managed to get soaked in the short walk. The rain spit fired towards him menacingly, not missing, peppering him with each salvo, like little marching rainmen driving with purpose into his body. He growled discontent; this visit had cost him some money, real money this time. A new client with an ultimatum had recently arrived on the scene.

“Colin, it’s like this, simple as. You can have me or Angela, but not both. I can’t tolerate the idea of sharing you with her, the thought of waiting my turn whilst she finishes her go , is something that makes my stomach turn. No Colin you have to make a choice, her or me. And you have to make that decision quickly.”

Something which he had done tonight.

The short drive down the hill was hampered by the peppering of slabs of
rain spraying over the windscreen leaving the wipers obsolete. Vision
totally redundant he stopped the car hoping for a break in the weather. Angela would have to wait, he was in no rush to tell her anyway, she'd read his long term intentions and her fury was bordering psychotic. To turn around , pack up and go seemed a much more sensible option, yet he stayed and blamed the rain.

“Fucking weather,” he cursed to himself, “when will this stop?”

He’d begun to forget what sunshine was like. Was it 2, 3 or maybe even a week ago those four purple plumes rose one afternoon on a cloudless horizon, gathered up together and sailed across the sky like the four horsemen of the apocalypse?