Doctor Who_ The Myth Makers - Donald Cotton [30]
that’s the point.
Do this now – as they say when they’re trying to sell you something: write down your own ideal of absolutely perfect, quintessential feminine beauty – why should I do all the work? –
and that would be Helen – for you. But for you, alone! Because I’ll bet if you showed that description of yours to someone else who’d seen or imagined her, he’d proceed to describe someone quite different – his own ideal, you see?
Why, even her hair seemed to change colour while you were actually looking at her: and her figure seemed to flow and mould itself from one sensuous shape to another, like an amoeba looking for a meal! It was quite uncanny. Was she tall or short, plump and voluptuous, or slim and athletic? Impossible to say.
All I do know, is that whatever she looked like in fact, the image of what you thought she was would be what you’d been looking for all your life; and what you wanted right now, thank you very much! And furthermore, what you wanted right now, would be what you’d always remember as long as you lived. I’ve never forgotten her, and I’m going on eighty – but damned if to this day I can tell you why. Just one of those things.
As to her voice... well, to be honest, I don’t recall her actually saying anything – but then, with her looks, whatever they were, she didn’t need to. Oh, no doubt she made the odd remark, like
‘Pass the Oriental spices, would you?’ – but if so, I don’t remember. No – a neat trick she had, and no mistake!
Menelaus must have been mad to let her go; but Paris would have been mad not to have taken her; and that of course, was the insoluble root of the whole stupid trouble. I’d have died for her, myself – and very nearly did, come to that.
Still, I don’t know... it would have been very tiring living with Helen; with everyone from milkman to tax-inspector trying to get her alone for a moment; so perhaps I’m well out of it? But you can’t help thinking – even now – can you? Well, at any rate.
I can’t!
But enough of maudlin fantasy and vain regrets. I have a story to tell, and must get on with it...
17
Cassandra Claims a Kill
In spite of Paris understandably wanting to make the big entrance, nobody seemed to notice us much at first. Troilus, you see, was looking at his Cressida; Cassandra was glaring at the pair of them; and all the others were looking at Helen; who, in turn, was affectionately contemplating her reflection in a bowl of soup.
So for a while we hovered in the offing; while Priam did his best to ply Cressida with shrewd questions about the future. And he wasn’t getting very far, because she kept changing the subject.
No fool, that girl! In fact, as far as questions were concerned, she was making most of the running.
‘How on earth,’ she asked, helping herself to another slice of breast of peacock, ‘do you manage to live like this, when you’re under seige?’
‘Well,’ said Priam, modestly, ‘my nephew, Aeneas, brings us a little something from time to time. He’s in charge of our mobile force, d’you see? Raids the Greeks supply lines with his cavalry. They think it’s barbarian bandits,’ he chuckled; ‘but in fact, they do contrive to keep us in a certain style.’
As a grand inquisitor, he’d have been nowhere! All this would have been nuts and wine to Agamemnon, I couldn’t help thinking.
‘I didn’t know such a thing as cavalry existed yet,’ she said, reaching for the lotus sauce with a tablespoon. Still a child in many ways, in spite of everything.
‘Oh, bless my soul, yes,’ said Priam, ignoring the gaffe,
‘we’re all horsemen at heart, you know. The Greeks laugh at us for our horse-gods: but I sometimes think that if we’d kept all our strength in cavalry, we’d have done far better. Swept ‘em back into the sea where they belong, years ago. No, to be honest, I’m afraid we’ve gone rather soft in here, behind the walls.
There’s nothing like security, Cressida, to sap the initiative – so think of that, before you go looking for it. Take my advice,’ he said, glaring at Troilus, ‘and before you think of settling down, get yourself