Belle Moral: A Natural History Read Free Page A

inheriting Belle Moral with all its cash and chattels, and squandering the lot within a year. I shall then be forced to earn my living. Book a passage to Egypt. Cross the desert on a camel. Publish my findings anonymously. Return in glory.
    F LORA
[going to exit]
. I’ll fetch some cocoa too.
    P EARL . Auntie Flora … was Father proud of me?
    F LORA . Ach, you know he was. Look at you. Educated. Modern. And not a bit dried out.
    P EARL . I’ve had the oddest feeling lately. Ever since Father’s funeral. As if there was someone missing. But I can’t say who. I suppose you’d say my ancestors are trying to tell me something.
    A beat
.
    F LORA . You miss your father. That’s all it is.
    P EARL . Poor Victor always wanted a puppy.
    A clock strikes three
. F LORA
exits
. P EARL
resumes her work
.
Scene 3 The Driveway
    F LORA
stands outside Belle Moral, holding a lantern, peering into the darkness toward the sound of a horse exhaling, pawing the gravel. A carriage door opens. A footfall
. F LORA
sees the new arrival. She makes the sign of the cross
.
Scene 4 The Drawing Room
    Next morning. Over the mantelpiece hangs a family portrait. It is painted in the impressionist style with the prettiness of Monet and the fogginess of Turner. The figures are distinguishable as a bearded red-haired man, a dark-haired woman cradling an infant in a tartan shawl, and
P EARL
as a young child. There is a sense of the portrait being compositionally off-balance: a gap between
P EARL
and the infant. On the opposite wall is mounted a set of bagpipes of the same tartan
. P EARL
is huddled under the hood of a camera
. F LORA
stands posed, draped in a white bedsheet
.
    F LORA . Is it to be a religious theme this time, pet?
    P EARL . In a manner of speaking. Classical mythology.
    F LORA . I’ll no’ be a pagan, Pearl.
    P EARL . It’s purely symbolic, Auntie
[handing her scissors and a ball of yarn]
. You’re one of the Fates.
    F LORA . What am I knitting?
    P EARL . You’re capriciously toying with the life of some poor sod.
    F LORA . Aren’t there any nice myth women?
    P EARL . No. None of any importance.
    F LORA
strikes a pose, scissors poised to cut a length of yarn
.
    Don’t smile, Auntie.
    F LORA . Well how do you want me?
    P EARL . Dispassionate. This is a scientific journal. Hold still, now.
    P EARL
goes to the take the picture but
F LORA
cocks an ear
.
    What is it?
    F LORA . Nowt. Thought I heard something.
    P EARL
[about to take the picture again]
. Ready? And –
    F LORA
cocks an ear again
.
    You’re not going dafty on me now, are you, Auntie?
    F LORA . No, dear, I’m a touch forfochen this morning is all.
    P EARL
[matter-of-fact]
. Up half the night worrying about Victor, damn him, you look dreadful. Ready now? one, two, three –
    V ICTOR
enters, wearing a kilt, causing
F LORA
to smile the instant
P EARL
takes the picture with a poof and a flash
.
    F LORA . Victor!
    V ICTOR [to F LORA ,
playfully passionate]
. My God, what Attic vision; what vestal beauty stands here poised to cut or to extend a mortal skein? Fly, maiden, and transform thyself into a tree, else must I taste thine antique fruits, for I am the Highland Pan!
    They hug
. F LORA
embraces him fervently
.
    F LORA . Victor, ma bonnie, you should have let us know, we’d’ve sent Young Farleigh with the cart.
    V ICTOR . Hello, Pearl.
    He opens his arms, beaming, but she does not embrace him
.
    P EARL [arch]. What are you doing, gadding about in that savage raiment?
    V ICTOR . Airing my privates.
    P EARL . Don’t be disgusting.
    Rapidly
.
    V ICTOR . Don’t start.
    P EARL . You started it.
    V ICTOR . I did not.
    P EARL . Indeed you did.
    V ICTOR . A didna.
    P EARL . Did.
    V ICTOR . Didna.
    P EARL . Did.
    V ICTOR . Didna –!  P EARL . Dididid –!
    F LORA
[making peace]
. Noo where’s yer fit bin gangin’ this time, laddie? London? Paris? Rome?
    V ICTOR . Glasgow.
    P EARL
[dismissive]
. Ha.
    V ICTOR . I was looking to trace Mother’s