(Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is 
copyright with all rights reserved by its author unless 
explicitly indicated.)



*BERYL AND THE POLYMORPH*

by virgosun (c) April 2004
*******************************

Beryl Crabtree backpedalled to brake, and brought her 
heavily-laden bike to a halt. High wire gates loomed 
over her, secured by heavy iron chains and a padlock the 
size of a waffle iron. There seemed to be nobody about, 
so she jingled her bell several times emphatically.

Nothing stirred but the hot breeze that sprinkled her 
ankles with dust. A motorised ripsaw screamed in the 
distance, somewhere behind the tin walls of quickly-
erected workshops in the midst of the fenced-off 
property, a broad and barren patch of scrubland. The 
dirt track, rutted by the passage of heavy lorries 
during wet weather, went toward the workshops; this was 
obviously where her cargo was meant to go.

The large wicker panniers that almost totally concealed 
the back wheel of her bike emitted a sweet, slightly 
nutty aroma that she ignored out of familiarity. 
Crabtree Delicatessen was stamped in inky black letters 
on the sides. Just last week, one of the strangers had 
come into the shop and made a lucrative contract for the 
Crabtree business to supply cut lunches, pies and cakes 
to their workforce for an indefinite period. Dad had 
been making the deliveries in the van, but this week the 
clutch had burned out - again - forcing the family to 
make deliveries using other means. Mum had not been keen 
on Beryl making the bicycle delivery, for wild rumours 
abounded about the strangers. Beryl insisted the bike 
was the perfect size for carrying the complete order in 
one go, and the car was needed for making longer-
distance runs, so wasn't it the best idea?

Of course she was curious. All the younger generation 
were.

It was said that these workers were left over from the 
project that had recently built a dam across the Iomann 
River twenty miles upstream. The reservoir had yet to 
fill, but it would provide irrigation and flood control 
to the entire district, and it even ran a small 
electricity plant. Hydro-electricity, the men called it, 
nodding knowingly.

Most of the dam workers, engineers and itenerant labour, 
had moved on. Some, however, had cast their lot with the 
strangers. These mysterious men seemed to have money to 
burn, and had bought up a huge lot of land on the 
western fringe of town. They were digging an irrigation 
canal from the river, had put up the workshops, and 
shipped in heavy machinery on groaning flatbed trucks or 
towed by the largest tractors they could hire. They 
worked most of the night as well as all day, and a dull 
red glow came from that part of the town in the 
nighttime dark. And it was all being done privately, 
secretly, with no visitors or cameras allowed.

"Don't you stay there a minute longer than you need to!" 
Mum had scolded after reluctantly allowing Beryl to make 
the delivery. "Them people ain't from around here, they 
keep to 'emselves and that's good enough for me!" It was 
widely held they were criminals or had criminal 
connections, which explained their wealth. They were far 
too wealthy to be gypsies. They were foreigners, mixed-
breed and inbred, and it was whispered some of them had 
hideous birth defects. The townsfolk weren't sure 
whether to take a closer look, or leave them alone.

Now Beryl shaded her eyes and peered at the workings. 
Somebody had always met the delivery truck at the gate, 
according to her father. Then she cupped her hands 
around her mouth, filled her lungs, and bellowed in a 
most unladylike manner, "Hall-oo-oo! Lunch orders!"

The distant figures of two men appeared from around the 
framework of a new house, one carrying a bundle of long 
planks over his shoulder. The other turned and shouted 
to someone else out of sight, and Beryl smiled relief. 
Somebody knew she was here. Uncappping a flask she 
carried strapped to the sissy-bar of her bike, she took 
a sip of water, then brushed her pedal-pushers straight 
and adjusted the scarf that kept her flyaway brown hair 
in check.

A putt-putt engine that sounded like a motorbike became 
audible, and a peculiar little vehicle now came along 
the track toward the gate. Instead of being a motorbike 
with two large skinny wheels, it had four little, round 
wheels, and it bounced and wiggled along the road. A 
girl no older than herself rode the contraption, 
clutching the handlebars with small, skinny, weak-
looking hands and arms. Beryl flashed her most welcoming 
grin as the little car pulled up. The other girl stared 
back from big, round, slightly bulging black eyes that 
reminded Beryl of an upset dairy cow; a look that said 
beware the sudden sharp kick.

Her passenger got slowly off a tiny trailer that had 
been towed behind, little more than a padded seat on 
wheels. She was a midget and wore a shapeless brown 
dress, clutching a four-pronged walking stick in one 
hand and leaning heavily upon it as she shuffled 
forward. Although her hair was grey, her face was smooth 
and round, as smiling as her driver was defiant. She 
shuffled up close to the gate and peered through, while 
the other girl pulled out a packet of cigarettes and lit 
up while she waited.

"Hi, I've brought the lunches that were ordered from 
Crabtree Deli," Beryl said cheerfully. The young-old 
lady peered myopically at her through coke-bottle 
glasses, breathing noisily, her whole hunched body 
trembling with a slow-motion shake. A shiver crept up 
Beryl's neck as she noticed the drool silver on the 
elder's chin, and the kindly docility fixed on her face. 
Her eyes had a slanted, slitty quality.

"Hullo, pet, you's early arn'tcha?" she said slowly with 
a pronounced slur and lisp. Beryl could hear the gossips 
in the shop saying _birth defects_ again. This lady had 
some kind of handicap; was the kind of person Beryl had 
only ever heard about in tragic and maudlin stories of 
special schools and institutions. "Where's your chuck?"

"Um, it broke down I'm afraid."

"So's ours too," the woman grinned, digging in a deep 
pocket with a hand that swung about as if barely under 
control. Keys jangled, and at length she managed to 
engage one of a bunch in the padlock. "Smells luv fresh 
and make me 'ungry, I better 'urry! Sylvie help now."

"Right, Gran." Sylvia swung gracelessly off the bike, 
which was okay given she was dressed in overalls, but 
Beryl suspected she'd have moved the same way if she had 
been wearing a skirt. Beryl helped her lift and drag one 
of the gates inward.

"We can't get that lot on this stupid quad," Sylvia 
declared, glaring at the bike's panniers. "We might get 
one lot in your chair. I'll have to do more than one 
run, and you'd have to wait out here. Poppa's busy."

Gran snorted, spraying spittle. "Poppa always busy, don' 
bother him. Din' tink of how much lunches to bring." She 
giggled girlishly, and Sylvia rolled her eyes in the 
long-suffering-teenage manner.

Ever mindful of customer service, Beryl spoke up 
helpfully. "It'd be no trouble at all for me to deliver 
them right to the doorstep, if you like. I could ride in 
so you wouldn't have to fool about making several 
trips." Gran gazed at her, so that she thought she 
hadn't been properly understood. Sylvia puffed smoke.

"You'd need a permit. We don't like people nosing 
around."

"All I'd need to do was get to a shed or even just a 
table where I could offload, I wouldn't need to see 
anything you didn't want me to," Beryl said earnestly. 
"I have to get back to the shop as soon as I can anyway, 
so I won't be hanging around."

Sylvia gave a deep, chesty cough and scuffed at the 
ground with a bootheel. "Tank you love, dat's real kind 
of you, we's a bit mixupped this morning," said Gran. 
"Bring bike in so lockup, it'll be okay, not going right 
inside. Summun else'll let you out again."

Beryl walked her bike through, while Sylvia and Gran 
closed the gate behind her. She waited patiently while 
Gran clambered back into her chair, this time helped 
with an arm-up from Sylvia. The teen then straddled the 
buggy and kicked it to life. It didn't travel fast, so 
Beryl was able to follow in its fumey wake. She trailed 
them into the midst of the new houses that were 
springing up from the soil. There were a few old cars 
parked around, and caravans. New fences of fresh timber 
were being nailed-up, dividing the homes into even yard 
lots, and Beryl could see two groups of four. These 
people owned the land, and of course they were staying. 
Men and women worked alike, favouring her curious looks, 
and she saw quite a few children playing about the dusty 
street, kicking scooters and throwing balls rather than 
being in the town's school. She was sure she'd seen some 
of those faces come into the deli, without knowing where 
they'd come from.

Behind the houses, a large wooden structure was being 
built, as high as the houses again. Above that loomed a 
crane, and she gazed up watching a man guide a large 
section of steel mesh as it was lowered behind the 
formwork. An even taller crane was being raised behind 
the structure, but that was all she could see. Sylvia 
and Gran had pulled up beside a long trestle-table that 
was being cleared of blueprints. Soon Beryl was 
offloading her tasty treats, assisted by willing and 
hungry hands. It was now, as faces smiled and people 
gathered to sample the fragrant, tasty food that Beryl 
enjoyed her work the most. The simple pleasure of food 
brought happiness to even the oddest of places.

"Hi!" smiled a small whipcord of a girl whose dark brown 
hair stood out in a fluffy, unkempt halo. Her deep blue 
eyes were so intense and staring they almost popped out, 
showing four whites around the iris. "I'm Tempest, how 
are you?" Keys jangled noisily as Beryl greeted her. 
"Granny Stone says I'm to show you out again. Are you 
going to be making all the deliveries this way?"

Beryl nodded. "So far as I know." Tempest looked like 
she should have been in Beryl's school class from last 
year; again, Beryl was sure she'd seen her in the shop, 
but never in school. At sixteen, Beryl like many of her 
friends had left school. Many were being courted; some 
were engaged. Only a few had gone to the colleges of 
learning in the big city.

"Okay then, have you got a whistle? They reckon you 
should blow a whistle when you arrive so's someone can 
get the gate, and tomorrow we'll have a pavillion set up 
so the lunches can be unloaded there and everyone knows 
where to come for lunch. Sound okay?"

"Sure, no problem."

They walked, Tempest fiddling endlessly with the bunch 
of keys she carried, eyes darting across the cloud-
spattered skies. "Storm coming this afternoon," she said 
quickly, as if the notion excited her no end. Beryl eyed 
the cumulus skeptically. It was the dry season, and such 
clouds seldom developed into thunderheads until later in 
the year.

"You think so?"

"Right about four, I'd say. Get your washing in by 
then," said Tempest confidently. "The boys here will be 
packing up by then. I told them not to pour any more 
concrete. I know stuff about the weather, you see."

"Really?" Beryl had lived in Kennarthen from birth and 
knew the patterns of the seasons. She doubted Tempest - 
nobody could tell the weather exactly, not even elderly 
grandpas with rheumatism who had lived here seventy 
years. "Well," she sighed, humouring the girl rather 
than disagreeing, "it's so hot I wouldn't mind if it 
poured right now!"

"You've got a long ride in the sun, back down to town, 
haven't you?"

"Oh, I'll be all right, I've got plenty to drink."

"You know Douggie, don't you?" Tempest asked curiously. 
"He said your name was Beryl when he saw you, and he 
reckons your pie shop's the best."

"Douggie?" Beryl frowned quizzically. Obviously one of 
the workmen who called in regularly, but she knew faces 
far better than names, which she explained to Tempest.

"He's kind of tall, slicked-back black hair, big crooked 
nose, moustache?" Tempest giggled. Beryl felt she should 
know, but still couldn't quite place him. Slick hair was 
fashionable for men, and there were a few moustaches 
around.

"No...sorry." They moved aside as a truck came rattling 
along the track. Tempest brandished her bunch of keys; 
the driver slowed.

"Got a set, it's okay," the driver called before 
crunching and grinding away. From what Beryl had 
glimpsed, he had seemed quite thoroughly bald for a man 
with such a young voice.

"Hey!" Tempest yelled after the vehicle. It should have 
raised a choking pall of dust, but a sudden shift of 
breeze blew the dirt away from the young women. "_You_ 
can't go outside! The nerve! Pro Phillips, I'm telling 
on you!" She propped her hands on her hips petulantly 
and fumed, then resumed walking.

"Can I ask what it is you folks are building out here?" 
Beryl resumed conversationally. Tempest shrugged.

"Sure, though it should be obvious. We're building 
somewhere for our families to live and work, all 
together. We have to stick together because of, well, 
the way we are I suppose. People always looked at us 
strange, wherever we lived before, because of our 
Enabled skills. Enabled, not disabled, that's what Poppa 
Stone calls us, and he's the boss. We gotta stick 
together so that normal folks won't pick on us, and then 
we can use all our different Enabled skills together to 
help people. That's what old Pyrus says, and it's a neat 
idea."

"Enabled?" Beryl asked. "What, do you mean like..." 
Deformities was the word that came to mind, although 
Gran and the odd-looking truck driver were the strangest 
people she'd seen. "Um," she trailed off helplessly.

"Yeah, exactly, um," said Tempest, not without rancour. 
"Oh don't worry, we get 'um' a lot when outsiders see 
us, and that's just the obvious ones." She drew a deep 
breath, as if to beg for patience before instructing 
some dumb hick. "Enabled skills are special things we 
can do or abilities we have, that other people don't. 
Sometimes those Enabled skills make their owners look 
weird, but that doesn't make them lesser people, you 
know?"

"Sure," said Beryl quickly, not wanting to offend. "Like 
blind people have fantastic hearing to make up for..."

Tempest shook her head, a sneer akin to Sylvia's 
flashing briefly onto her mobile face. "Not exactly, but 
you're getting there. Here's a better example. You know 
how there's hundreds of different kinds of dogs, right? 
Like, huge muscular shaggy hounds that are bred to 
rescue people in the mountains, and tiny little ratty 
dogs that can go into rabbit holes, and dogs with extra-
good hearing and others that can track smells, and fast 
dogs that race really quickly? Well the human race is 
like that too. We can be bred just the same way. That's 
where our Enabled skills come from. Our ancestors were 
slaves in the far West, and they were bred together 
until the Enabled traits started to appear. Our 
grandfathers used their Enabled abilities to escape from 
the slavers and came to the East a long time ago, so now 
they and their families are here. We just want somewhere 
to live, and to give back something to the lands that 
have treated us so kindly. That's why we're here in the 
middle of the country. We just want somewhere quiet to 
live."

"Wow!" Beryl gasped. Most of the eastern world dwelled 
in fear of the dreaded slave traders of the far West; 
many nations had united and formed a defense pact to 
guard the western frontier from the slavers. All of that 
was half a world away from the idyllic life of a 
shopkeeper's daughter in a country town. "Was your 
grandma a slave?"

"My grandma? Oh, you mean Granny Stone back there. No, 
only our grandfathers. There's four different clans of 
us, and only our grandpas were slaves. No, Granny 
Stone's just born like that. Because she was a bit 
funny, ordinary people didn't like her much, but she 
fitted right in with Enabled people."

"Sure." Beryl remembered when the yellow-skinned Choktau 
family from the south had moved into the neighbourhood 
to run a horse stud. They were well-known about the 
place now, but at first things hadn't been easy, and the 
kids had been tormented at school. "It's not fair when 
people get picked on because they're different."

"You're not wrong," Tempest agreed, "and it's really 
hard not to fight back either! Pop Stone's got a bad 
reputation because he used to kick back when others came 
down on him. That's where Pyrus and the other grandads 
come into it. They say we got to keep our cool, and that 
we can show outsiders we're good at stuff, and we can 
help. And then we can make more friends than enemies."

"Good luck," said Beryl sincerely. "Proving yourself to 
the people around here isn't always easy. But I think 
we're generally fair and square. Stick to the rules and 
don't break the law, and pay your dues, you know."

"Yeah, well, it's the closed minds that are the hardest 
ones to deal with," said Tempest dubiously. "That's why 
we're building our own school, for a start - you did ask 
what the buildings are for. Some of the kids are normal, 
they don't have Enabled skills, and they can go to the 
regular school here. But Enabled kids would be treated 
cruelly by normal kids, so they need to go to a school 
where they would feel safe and also be able to learn how 
to use their Enabled skills to best effect. Some Enabled 
traits are easy to deal with, and others can be hard to 
live with. Like, my brother's got a really weird 
ability...hmm..." She stuck her hands on her hips, 
glaring toward the gate which was now unlocked. The 
truck had stopped, and its driver was just finishing 
pushing one of the gates wide. He now had a wide-brimmed 
felt hat on his head, and he gave the girls a cheery 
wave.

"I'm sorry," Tempest snorted, suggesting a temper that 
made her name very appropriate. "Will you excuse me? He 
is gonna be in SO much trouble!" She took a few running 
steps toward him, but he swung himself up into the cab. 
"He'd better not...hmm, what's he doing now?" The truck 
had crunched into gear and moved slowly in reverse. "He 
shouldn't go out because his Enabled look can really 
bother people who aren't used to him, and he'll forget 
himself one day and cause a scene, when we really should 
be trying to blend in so we can make friends."

"Why, what's he do?" Beryl couldn't help asking. But 
Tempest was scowling as the truck backed toward them, 
and yelled out above its noise.

"What are you doing? You left the gates wide open!"

The driver had his elbow and head out the window, 
looking back and watching the girls as he backed up. 
When he reached them he throttled down and idled, and 
called his response. "There's no-one coming, it's all 
right, it's not like we're gonna be invaded. I should 
have offered you two a lift, I just thought, seeing as 
you were obviously headed this way with your set of keys 
there. Darn silly of me not to think of it - could have 
put the Lunch Lady's bike on the back and given her a 
lift, and saved you the trouble, Windy."

"_Don't_ call me Windy!" Tempest blazed, rising in 
colour and volume. The driver flashed a grin as he 
opened the door and slipped in one fluid motion to the 
ground, facing them. "Can I offer you a lift?" he asked 
Beryl gallantly, sketching a bow then grabbing at his 
hat before it dropped off.

"You most definitely can not!" Tempest retorted. "You 
don't look right yet! Your ears need practice!"

"Ahh, but my nose is perfect!" He smiled, looking at 
Beryl. "Why don't we ask the Lunch Lady? I look all 
right, don't I?"

Beryl was caught with an amazed grin on her face, frozen 
between laughter and amazement. He was not quite six 
feet tall, dressed in boots and overalls much as any 
other workman, and the felt hat. His skin was unevenly 
mottled with brownish patches, and had a thin, shiny, 
hairless sheen although in places it was pocked and 
dimpled. It seemed as though he had suffered burns, or 
some kind of major skin rash, and his earlobes were 
somehow wizened or malformed. He had an oval face with 
an outright impish smile, but his eyes were simply 
astonishing - they were turquoise blue in colour, all 
over, with no whites or pupils and a translucent 
quality. "Um," she demurred, patting her breastbone as 
if that would still the way her heart had jolted. It was 
always, always hard to look at a person with a 
deformity. "Well, you look fine, fine, although...those 
eyes, maybe they're a bit...um."

He grinned and reached behind him into the cab, and 
perched a pair of sunglasses on his nose. Now he just 
looked like an eczema patient. There was something 
peculiar about his teeth too, but she couldn't quite see 
what it was. "Pardon me, but I didn't catch your name 
with my darling sister making such a fuss."

"Beryl, Beryl Crabtree, hi."

"A pleasure, Beryl. Pro Phillips at your service. Look, 
I was just on my way to the lumber mill, so I could 
spare you most of the ride back to town in this heat if 
you'd like a lift."

Beryl didn't have to answer immediately. "You _can't_ go 
to town looking like that!" Tempest insisted. "Do they 
know you're going?"

"Where would I have gotten the keys from, ma'am?"

"They can't send you, surely somebody else's free? What 
about Reg?"

"All busy. They gotta finish that concrete pour just 
like you said."

"Or one of the regulars, like..."

"Douggie?" Pro managed to grin and purr, nudging close 
to his sister, and her blush deepened. "Nope. He's busy 
too. I'm one of the few that know nothing about 
concrete, so it's down to me."

"Get!" she demanded imperiously. "I'll drive it then!"

"You don't have your licence."

"I'll get Sylvia!"

Pro gave a hoot of laughter. "She's younger than you! 
I'm sorry, Beryl, we're holding you up; frankly, Sis, 
you're holding up the grinding wheels of industry too."

Beryl had glanced at the gate. She could have been 
riding out it already if she'd kept going while the 
siblings argued. Instead, she looked at the flat deck of 
the back of the truck, and Pro caught her gaze. He poked 
a finger at Tempest's eye-level, and started to sing a 
few words, all tease.

"And Windy has stor-my eyes..."

Her hair billowed as if caught on a storm gust. "Don't!"

Pro didn't seem to have fingernails. Then he did 
something truly peculiar. It was a tiny gesture - he 
waggled his finger mockingly at his sister - but instead 
of bending at the proper joints, the whole digit seemed 
to coil and swirl like a tentacle. It was the smallest 
of movements, something Beryl was sure an accomplished 
magician could have done, an optical illusion.

"_Don't_!" Tempest insisted. A puff of hot breeze 
slapped uncomfortably about them, bringing dust into 
Beryl's eyes.

"Temper, temper, go and count to ten," Pro mercilessly 
teased his sister. "Or I'll tell Douggie you've been 
childish!"

"You're the childish one!" she retorted, turning a hot 
gaze to Beryl. "He's a double-jointed freak, you asked 
what he could do, but his Enabled skill is annoying 
people! As for you, Pro, I'll fix you well and good!" 
She spun on her heel, storming back toward the 
buildings.

Beryl assumed her chastising-mum look. "That was mean, 
stirring her up like that. She seems a nice girl."

"What, Tempest?" He raised a finger. "Just hold that up 
in front of her and she'd get cranky. I pity the man who 
ends up marrying her. So, what's it to be?" he asked, 
looking at the bike. "Since you haven't ridden off 
during our silly spat, I take it you're for the lift?"

"Thank you, I'd like that."

Together they lifted the bike onto the trayback, then 
Beryl climbed up into the cab and they motored as far as 
the other side of the gate before Pro slipped out to 
lock it behind him. Whatever his physical difficulties, 
he had a marvellously liquid, agile way of moving that 
was easy to watch.

"So," he said without preamble, "Windy told you about 
the Enabled, did she?"

"Well, not a lot," Beryl replied. "I think she was more 
at pains to warn me not to think of your families as 
somehow, um, deformed or handicapped, because you've all 
had a pretty hard time."

He nodded with a grin, eyes on the road. "You could say 
that. We're a pretty paranoid bunch, especially the most 
Enabled of us, because people being people they do make 
some weird faces at us. And who can blame them? If I saw 
me coming up the street I'd look twice to be sure my 
eyes didn't deceive me."

"I hope I didn't do that," said Beryl in a small voice. 
She was still stealing glances at how his skin was 
pigmented and its odd texture, and trying to work out 
what it was about his teeth. It was as though they were 
fused, perhaps that was it.

He smiled over at her. "Oh, you did, in your own way. 
Don't worry about it, like I said, I'd look twice. If 
you were too uncomfortable with what you saw, you 
wouldn't have accepted the ride," he said cheerfully.

"So your Enabled ability is that you're double-jointed, 
is that it?" She didn't want to linger on the awkward 
topic of social insensitivity. He gave a deep, bubbling 
laugh that was irresistibly infectious.

"Nope, my Dad's double jointed - I'm more like hundred-
jointed. I won't do it; I know people can be really 
queasy about double joints."

"I'm not," said Beryl keenly, for a moment being a girl 
in the schoolyard peering in gruesome fascination at a 
friend's thumb. "Can you do that thing when you put your 
thumb out?"

"I can but I won't, it looks stupid," Pro demurred. 
Then, before her startled eyes, his throat pulsed and 
his whole head bobbed and wobbled sickeningly on his 
neck. He grinned again at her cry of impressed horror.

"Ooh, God, yuck!"

"That's the least of what I can do, but Tempest's right 
when she says we should be careful what we do in front 
of outsiders."

"How did you do that?"

"I'm Enabled. Some people say we should have been a 
circus, but there's too much family pride for that."

Something else had been rolling about in the back of her 
mind all the while, never mind the strange families that 
she had just visited. She snapped her fingers suddenly. 
"Douggie! That wouldn't be Douglas Franklin, surely?" 
Pro offered her a quizzical look. "Tempest said some 
fellow called Douggie knew who I was, black hair, mo?"

"Oh yeah, Doug Franklin, yeah. Between you and me, she's 
got a heck of a crush going on Mr. Franklin."

"He's hardly the Douggie type," Beryl agreed. Douglas 
was a local who had worked on the dam project, then 
graduated to the strangers' workings. He was a quiet, 
stern-faced young man said to be highly moderate of 
habit, a teetotaller and miser, far from the most 
colourful of characters. She did know him from the shop 
- he came in for his cheese and lettuce sandwiches and a 
sweetroll every morning, and seldom said more than two 
words in a row, at least to Beryl.

"Love works in weird and wonderful ways, I suppose," Pro 
shrugged. "Who knows, maybe he's patient enough to put 
up with her, and in that case good luck to him."

"You're not trying to marry your little sister off, are 
you?" Beryl teased.

"Ohh no, me? Of course yes." He bubbled with laughter 
again, then sobered. "No, seriously, I doubt he even 
knows she exists, while she hangs off his every word, 
you know, puppy love. I think he's got other interests."

Beryl sniffed. "If he does, nobody else knows about it. 
I've never seen him with anybody."

"And I'll bet if there's a centre for local area news, 
it's Crabtree Deli!"

"No, that's not true!" Beryl managed to look affronted, 
although she couldn't keep the smile off her face and 
Pro's laughter made her want to laugh too. "Everyone 
knows the news that matters comes from Norrises 
Butchery!" This time they laughed together merrily.

Pro pulled over to the side of the road. "Alas, our time 
together has been way too short," he said with mock 
sorrow. "This is as close as I go to the main street on 
my errand, unless I take us up the lane."

"That's kind of you to suggest, but it's really tricky 
to get big trucks out of there. Thanks anyway, Pro."

"The pleasure's been all mine, believe me," he said. "A 
pretty lass like you deserves a hunk like me!"

"Cheeky!" Beryl frowned. "I hope you don't get in 
trouble. Tempest seemed really upset about you going 
out."

"Naw, don't worry about me. I'm sick of living in that 
goldfish bowl out there, and I'd like to meet a few more 
real people. I'm only the second-ugliest guy out there, 
you know. You think I've got a skin condition? Should 
see Basil Blake!"

"But you're not ugly, Pro, not really, just a bit 
different...ah, yeah." He had lifted his sunglasses a 
fraction, exposing those uncanny all-blue eyes, a 
knowing smirk on his lips. "All right, but people could 
get used to that."

"I hope you do, Beryl - I hope we can keep in touch. 
Maybe I can wave to you from the battlements above the 
lunch tent, eh?"

"Should do, I'll be back again tomorrow," Beryl promised 
cheerfully.

He helped her offload her bike from the truck, then gave 
a friendly wave from the cab as they resumed their 
separate journeys. She hoped she could convince her 
mother to let her keep making the deliveries, for what a 
fascinating group of people the strangers were going to 
be!

That afternoon, against all expectation, a storm broke 
over the town. It poured with rain a few minutes after 
four o'clock.

***

With the deli van still sick, Beryl continued her 
deliveries, adopting Tempest's idea of blasting on a 
whistle whenever she arrived. Her whistle would summon 
one or other of the strangers, but most often Sylvia on 
her quaintly-named "quadbike". Without Granny in tow, 
she would careen at high speed out to the gate, offer 
Beryl a grin and a how-are-you as she unlocked, then 
roar away again once Beryl was through. Happy faces 
greeted her deliveries, and she always asked after Pro. 
A week after their first meeting, she glanced up at the 
high concrete wall and saw a figure giving a wide, 
exaggerated wave. Laughing, she waved back.

"He was in heaps of trouble over going out that day," 
said Sylvia as she unlocked the gate. "It stirred up a 
real argument about not scaring the locals versus people 
getting fed up with not being allowed out."

"How many of you aren't allowed out?" Beryl asked.

"It's only really Pro and Basil, and Gran's a bit shy. 
Now that Pro's gone out and didn't cause a riot, they're 
probably going to relax and let him out more often. That 
leaves Basil, but he's okay with staying in, he's a lot 
quieter than Pro. He's married and all, got a little 
boy, while Pro's young and single so of course he wants 
to look around." She gave Beryl her mad-cow stare. "He 
thinks you're a bit of all right, you know. If he wasn't 
so busy on the site, you'd probably see him more often."

"Oh?" Beryl gave a laugh. "Hey, I'm spoken for, I've got 
a beau." She blushed ever so slightly.

"I'll let him know," Sylvia smiled. "He reckoned you 
probably did, pretty girls always have fellers tucked 
away somewhere, he says. See ya tomorrow."

Soon, Beryl was getting to know the faces and names of 
the four families. Sometimes Pro was there to meet her 
at the gate rather than the surly Sylvia. And every day, 
the houses looked nearer to completion, and on the other 
side of the concrete wall, industry roared. The cranes 
worked and grew taller, a steel shaft rising in their 
midst.

***

On Fools or Lovers' Day, Beryl received several gifts. 
There was a red rose and box of sweets from George, of 
course, and a scented letter from a secret admirer.

This wasn't the first time that had happened. There had 
been a couple of occasions during school. It was, after 
all, how George had first gotten her attention. Freddie 
Taylor had sent her several love-letters; he was the 
first boy who had kissed her properly on the mouth - 
that was at the picture show when she was fourteen and 
him an enterprising twelve. But he had bad breath, which 
had brought that scene to an early end. Barney Matley 
had shown her his todger when they were eleven years 
old; too bad he was her cousin. She had giggled, and he 
never showed her again for some reason.

Now, somewhat amazed and flattered, she showed the 
letter to her eldest sister, Dorothy. Dot was her first 
port of call for advice when it came to men. Unlike Mum, 
who just sternly said "if he can't keep his hands to 
himself he's no good!", Dot was prepared to talk about 
boys. And Dot knew what she was talking about. Dot had 
gotten married at seventeen, and produced a baby not 
long afterwards.

"It doesn't really matter what you do, just so long as 
you don't let him put it in you!" was Dot's verdict. 
"You can have fun and all, it's the only way to learn, 
just don't do _that_ part of it, because that makes you 
as good as married."

Of course, Beryl hadn't dared show George the anonymous 
letter. It hadn't come from George; the handwriting was 
completely wrong, and as Dot suggested, the whole thing 
exhibited a lot more imagination than George possessed. 
"Roses are red, violets are blue, I find myself thinking 
heaps about you," George's first ever love letter had 
declared. This one was far more succinct.

My dearest Beryl,
(by far the sweetest of any delicacy Crabtree 
Delicatessen has to offer!)
I feel somewhat foolish, needing to resort to such a 
missive to reveal my feelings for you, and despair of 
ever finding the courage to speak up, and admit to you 
how fond of you I have become. I know you already have a 
sweetheart, and wish it were me, but alas, that is not 
the way of things. You always have a smile and nothing 
seems to get you down, and the sight of you always lifts 
my spirits, so the last thing you need is a dreary chap 
like me! I watch you from on high, but even from afar 
your loveliness takes my breath and lifts me higher 
still.
It is my deepest wish that someday you would see fit to 
accompany me to dinner or some such appointment. I am a 
man of the world and am sure that, given the right 
circumstances once you got to know me you would find my 
company most rewarding.
For now, know that you are adored, and be assured I will 
ask for the pleasure of your company in due course.
With all my love, Anonymous.

"Gracious!" Dot gasped. "That's certainly not George!"

"I don't think George could spell anonymous," Beryl 
agreed. Dot looked at her.

"Is that how you spell it?" The sisters giggled.

Beryl considered the letter throughout the day, and 
couldn't hide a speculative smile. _Surely not..._ She 
resolved to give Pro Phillips a darn good talking-to 
next time she saw him, for he was the only fellow she 
could think of who might play such a prank; even so, she 
couldn't be a hundred percent sure he was to blame.

She only had to wait until that very afternoon. The 
display window was almost empty of treats, and the 
shutters were half-drawn against the slanting sunlight. 
She was sweeping, and Mum wiping out the display case, 
when the doorbell jingled and Pro walked in, a big smile 
on his patchy face. He wore his overalls, sunglasses and 
fedora, just as Beryl had first seen him, and carried a 
box in his hands. "Hello, ladies," he declared.

Did Mum take a fraction longer than usual to give her 
sweetest apple-pie smile? "Good afternoon," she started; 
Dot poked her head around from the kitchen doorway and 
did an outright doubletake. "Can I help you?"

"Pro, hello there," Beryl smiled casually, the mystery 
letter looming large in her mind.

"Thank you, ma'am, but there's not much that can help 
me," Pro demurred cheerfully. Which made Mum redden and 
puff somewhat and give her light laugh-off-a-blunder 
giggle. "We of the Enabled families thought it was time 
we offered you good folks of Crabtree Deli something in 
return for your fantastic service and delicious lunches. 
Most everyone thought you got cake-baking sewed up, so, 
girls!"

Sylvia and Tempest shouldered through the door, carrying 
two generous bundles of garden flowers. Beryl laughed 
aloud and Tempest joined in; Sylvia looked so out of 
place amidst the blooms she couldn't help it. Mum beamed 
and dusted her hands on her apron. "Ohh, how lovely! 
Girls, let's grab some vases..."

"I've also got something for Beryl, handcrafted 
meticulously over the course of several hours with help 
from some of the best amateurs I know. Now that I'm here 
I feel a bit silly," Pro said, his grin becoming goofy, 
and the tip of a scarlet tongue flicked out drolly. "But 
I'm the kind of guy who likes to make things, so, for 
better or worse this is for Beryl for riding out every 
day and making my day." Tempest grinned and stomped on 
his boottoe. "And all of usses day." He lifted the box 
onto the counter and Beryl accepted it, lifting a flap.

Inside was a small, flattish cake, smothered in thick 
icing so rich with cocoa it was almost black. It had 
been cut to a heart-shape, and her name had been piped 
on very ineptly in white icing. The rich waft of 
chocolate fragrance made her mouth water. What it lacked 
in style it made up for with intent.

"It's an um-cake," droned Sylvia with a wry grin. 
"Personally, I think he's mad." She jerked a thumb at 
Pro. "Enjoy."

"Fool or Lover? Fool definitely," Tempest grinned.

"Ahh, Beryl, looks to me like you owe this boy a kiss," 
Dot laughed, bringing out a large pitcher of water to 
hold one of the bouquets. "We won't tell George!"

Mum fluttered her eyes shut. "I'm not looking!"

"A feller should dip his lid..." Pro started to say, now 
looking really awkward. Beryl leaned up on her tiptoes 
and planted a quick kiss on his burning cheek, evading 
both his hat and glasses. His skin was smooth without 
any trace of whiskers and smelled of soap, and his blush 
accentuated his uneven complexion. He bowed his head and 
raised the hat an inch courteously, keeping his bald 
pate hidden. His merry laughter bubbled forth. "Well 
thank you, miss, you made a swell's day twice now, what 
with lunch and all."

"Compliments of Crabtree's" said Beryl demurely as Mum 
and Dot laughed along, unable to resist his chuckle.

"Now now," Mum declared sternly to her. "I'll not have 
all the young men in town thinking Crabtree's is giving 
away kisses! Thank you all very, very much - these 
flowers are lovely and will certainly brighten up the 
shop! And believe it or not, we actually do get tired of 
our own cooking here, Mr..?"

"Phillips, ma'am, Pro Phillips."

Mum gave them her thankyous while Dot placed the 
flowers, and Beryl put the cake in the kitchen. After 
they had gone, Mum shook her head. "So that must be the 
fellow Jimmy Simpson from the mill's been talking about. 
He reckons he told him he got splashed with petrol and 
set on fire when he was a boy."

"Yeah," Dot snorted, "but Jimmy'd tell you anything."

Then Mum rounded on Beryl with that skeptical look in 
her eye. "Now why's he giving you Fools or Lovers' 
gifts, pet? How well do you two know each other?"

"Aww, Mum, you heard him, because I take their lunches!" 
And Beryl kicked herself, knowing what her mother would 
say next.

"Then maybe you've been out there often enough, time 
your father got that sorry excuse for a vehicle back on 
the road!"

"It's not like he's my boyfriend! I hardly know him! 
He's just a bit of a joker, George is my boy!"

"I thought he was kind of nice," said Dot, looking at 
Beryl pointedly. Later, with Mum out of earshot, she 
asked Beryl, "What about him? Maybe he sent the letter?"

They were standing out the back, finished for the day, 
while Mum did some final checks inside. Dot had lit a 
cigarette, and offered Beryl a couple of furtive puffs. 
Cigarettes could make a woman look older and more 
sophisticated, Dot believed. Mum frowned upon them as 
unclean and unladylike, but Mum frowned on almost 
anything unless she was putting out her sunny shopfront 
face; Beryl loved having a quick puff with her sister 
although, since noticing how Sylvia smoked like a city 
chimneystack, she reluctantly agreed with some of Mum's 
verdict.

"I don't know," Beryl sighed. "I thought maybe, at 
first, but why then would he give me a secret letter on 
one hand, then a present in front of everybody on the 
other?"

Dot shrugged. "Maybe his sisters talked him into it."

"Only one of them was his sister, the one in the skirt."

"Maybe they know he really is sweet on you, and they 
talked him into the cake after he'd already sent you the 
letter. He seemed like a funny kind of guy, I mean ha-
ha, not...although, funny looking too...Is he blind? He 
never took his glasses off."

"I don't think he's blind, but really sensitive to light 
or something." She paused to enjoy a drag, then handed 
the smoke back to Dot. "George said I look really sexy 
when I do that."

"Did he? I told you they love it. Did he actually say 
sexy?"

"Uhh huh." A frown crossed Beryl's brow. "He says it a 
lot now. When he first said it, that was a couple of 
months ago when we went swimming at the new dam, he was 
really embarrassed. But now he says it all the time."

"Just don't let him...you know. I can spare you a couple 
of smokes for tonight if you want."

"Yes, I know, Mum gave me the speech, again..."

George was taking her to a real restaurant meal tonight, 
then off to the pictures. There was time before she got 
dressed up, though, to grab a butterknife and try a 
slice of the loveheart cake. Beryl had never met a 
chocolate she didn't like, nor did it matter if the 
sponge cake was coarse. Under its layer of icing and 
crusty shell, the cake was filled with chocolate butter 
cream on a bed of choc-flavoured shortcrust; a squishy 
delight that had her crooning with pleasure.

***

She knew she shouldn't have had that rich second piece 
of cake, for dinner did not go down quite as easily as 
it should have. They ate at the hotel restaurant, and 
George ordered beer. He had turned eighteen recently and 
it seemed to have gone to his head. He talked grandly of 
all the things they would do together throughout their 
meal. He wouldn't be an electical apprentice for the 
rest of time. He'd set up a trade business and then 
start making real money. The weirdos on the west side of 
town had all sorts of strange ideas, and workshops, and 
what about that thing they were building? He'd seen one 
guy who looked like he had nettle-rash, only he said it 
was contagious and that was why he couldn't go out very 
often, and strangers like that couldn't mean any good 
for the town neither.

They went on to the picture show, shared a box of sweets 
and a cuddle up the back. She loved the way his kisses 
made her feel. The night had started rather dull and 
slightly bilious, but it was getting better. Once the 
show was over, they went back down to his pride and joy; 
his huge car, which he'd gone all the way to the city to 
buy. "Marry George and you'll marry his car, hope he has 
a big enough bed," and "Hope you like sleeping in the 
garage, Beryl," went the jokes. It was so big it had 
trouble negotiating the laneway to the shop; George 
always parked it out front anyway, because such a 
vehicle was supposed to be seen. It was also well known 
his car left him little spare change from his 
apprentice's wage.

Beryl quite liked George's car. She felt nothing short 
of queenly when she rode with him. And in the dark late 
at night, when they parked under the trees by the river, 
she felt like the queen of tarts, although princess 
would have been more accurate. The front bench seat was 
almost wide enough to lie down across, and well she knew 
that, for week after week this last month, they had 
cuddled and kissed and nuzzled, George's body leaning 
over her more and more, as he had touched her more and 
more.

They would share a cigarette and chat about the movie, 
Beryl curled in the crook of his arm, and then they 
would kiss, and touch each others' bodies, feeling each 
others' warm shapes through their clothes. The first 
time he had touched her breasts sent wicked shivers of 
delight through her. She had felt guilty the next day, 
until her sister had said fun was "okay".

_Just don't let him put it..._

For that reason she didn't really want to touch him 
_there_, in case he thought she wanted him to go all the 
way. She had felt his hardness sometimes against her 
thigh or belly and rubbed against it, couldn't help 
herself, but never put her hand there. For his part, 
George was happy to squeeze her breasts or bottom, and 
that seemed to give him everything he needed. One day 
they would do it, if they married; they would take off 
each others' clothes in a comfortable bedroom, and he 
would make her his wife, and then they would have 
children and be a family.

In her mind's eye she could see Dot grabbing for a 
cigarette while rocking Rhoda's cot. Ted would be in 
soon, wondering what was for dinner, and later he'd be 
off to the races with the lads...day in, day out, 
nothing much changed...

"George? Georgie...not so rough, Georgie! Lean off!" The 
doorhandle was digging into her back, and George made a 
muffled sound from between her breasts. He'd gotten her 
topmost buttons undone and was trying to get her big, 
solid bra to release its hostages. The rear-fastened 
treble hook-eyes had thwarted him many times. The more 
she tried to wriggle upright to a comfortable position, 
the more dazzling the effect on George. At last he 
looked up, a stray beam of moonlight catching his 
naughty-cherub features.

"What? What's wrong?"

"Go steady, the world's not going to end tomorrow! I'm 
not comfy!"

He raised a finger theatrically. "Ah, I have just the 
thing!" Then he delved over the back of the seat, and 
Beryl couldn't resist smacking his rump. In his turn he 
batted at her with a couple of cushions. "There, get 
those under your sexy bum!" he laughed. Then they were 
kissing again, George pulling her knee across his lap; 
and as he did so, his fingers started to wander up under 
the hem of her skirt.

"Hey!"

George gave a giggle, letting his hand slide further up 
toward her britches. "Come on, don't tell me you don't 
like it! Honestly, now," he teased.

No, she couldn't deny liking the feel of his hand warm 
and high up her inside thigh, above her stockings. 
Anything was all right, so long as he didn't...Wonderful 
tingles made her gasp when he touched her crotch through 
her knickers.

"Ohh, Beryl!" he groaned, drawing his hand away an inch. 
There was awe, and puzzlement in his wide eyes. "You're 
not...on the rags are you? It's all wet!"

"It's supposed to be like that, honey!" she whispered, 
giggling, pushing his face toward her breasts again. He 
needed no further encouragement. "That's what you do to 
me!"

"Sure! Ohh, sweetheart!" He pushed up there with his 
fingers again. "Lemme feel you!" He tugged and shoved at 
her pants leg, and the loose elastic let him through.

"Ooh! Ow!" Beryl gasped, body tensing away from his 
hand.

"God! That's where it goes! Beryl!" George's finger had 
suddenly sunk past the knuckle into...somewhere, and 
while it sort of felt nice it also didn't, parts felt 
sore instead of good, and she most definitely wanted him 
out of there. She pushed him away; he shuffled upright 
with a gasp and shudder, bumped the horn, jumped and 
swore. Suddenly guilty, she wriggled upright and 
buttoned her blouse, and yanked her cardigan across her 
front as well. He was wiping his hand on his trousers 
and muttering.

"Guess I better take you home now. I kind of, you know," 
he said sheepishly.

"Oh." That man-thing had happened to him once before, 
and she had giggled then. Somehow, tonight, she didn't 
feel like giggling. She still hurt a bit downstairs. 
"That'd be good, I mean, it's getting late."

He got himself organised behind the steering wheel and 
turned the keys. They didn't say much on the way to her 
home, although when they stopped she thanked him for a 
wonderful Lovers' Day gift and date, and kissed him 
lavishly. He crushed her to him in response, thrusting 
his tongue deep into her mouth to kiss her goodnight.

"'Til next time, Berry-lips! I'll miss you!"

There was a dim light in her parents' room, that went 
out even as she quietly opened the door and George drove 
away. Mum would have put her knitting aside and snuffed 
the candle. It still wasn't eleven, so they hadn't been 
too late; there had been longer nights out, when less 
had happened.

She gathered her nightie and gown and went through to 
the bathroom. He hadn't put his cock in her, but somehow 
she felt guilty...even, violated somehow? She tried to 
tell herself he hadn't known what he was doing, that it 
had been an accident; although the way he'd worked at 
her undies, he'd had some idea of what he was doing, and 
he hadn't asked her permission. He hadn't kept his hands 
to himself!

It was with some trepidation she checked her discarded 
underwear as she stripped for the shower. The linen was 
unblemished, and she didn't hurt any more. She gave a 
quiet laugh, and realised it was the same one Mum gave 
when she was uncertain. Of course it was all right. 
There were times when, (and she felt ashamed to admit 
it), she liked to feel herself down there, and it was no 
worse than that was it?

But touching herself felt good, and this hadn't.

_Oh well, no harm done_, she told herself firmly. It 
wasn't like he had forced himself onto her, like those 
horrendous stories women told in whispers or read about 
in seamy novels. Put it down to experience.

***

"Good morning Douglas, how are you this fine day?" Mum 
asked with cheery matronliness.

Beryl couldn't help a small smile as "Douggie" came to 
mind. There were times when Doug Franklin had a face 
longer than a lame old nag headed for the knackery, and 
today was one of those days. He gave a nervous twitch 
and gulped down his Adam's apple.

"Very well thank you, Mrs. Crabtree," he affirmed, and 
that was all he usually said; but today his speaking 
wasn't done. "I'm sorry Mrs. Crabtree, but I wonder if 
you would mind terribly if I asked of you a favour?" He 
had a small cardboard box in his bony hands, and put it 
up on the display case. "It's a matter of some 
delicacy," he added quietly, glancing about the shop.

"Not at all, Douglas, how may I help you?" said Mum 
kindly, looking at the box curiously. Doug's tanned face 
darkened even more with a blush. Funnier still was the 
way Doug's blush rose right up past his high and 
receeding hairline. For a man in his early twenties he 
had precious little hair left to him, and kept what he 
had laquered down with oil.

"Ah, well ma'am, I was given something that, put in its 
simplest terms, I can't possibly dispose of; which is a 
shame given it's quite tasty and there's nothing in the 
world wrong with it. It's a cake, you see," he 
explained, lifting the lid. "Home cooked and all, but as 
you see it's rather large, and I'm a man on my own and I 
have, uh, an unfortunate sensitivity to chocolate. I was 
hoping you could slice it up and sell it, or it could be 
given to the church or something."

Beryl was already making his cheese and lettuce 
sandwiches - he hadn't needed to ask. "Why, that's a 
lovely cake," Mum agreed sympathetically. "I'm sure we 
can look after it, Douglas, thank you very much - it 
should be gone by lunchtime, and if it isn't, it'll wash 
down fine with custard." That was Mum's standby solution 
for all unsold fare. "You sure you won't keep some for 
yourself?"

"Oh no, Mrs. Crabtree, if it's all the same to you; it's 
just, it was a gift, so I wouldn't want a certain person 
to know that I had to give it away."

His blush darkened, so Beryl rescued him. "It wouldn't 
happen to be heart-shaped, would it?" she piped up 
casually. "I know where it came from, Mum."

Doug jumped. "How did you know it was heart-shaped? Oh 
no, she didn't buy it here, did she? Oh no!"

"Never you mind, Douglas," said Mum competently. "No, we 
didn't make it here, but our Beryl received one exactly 
the same yesterday. We'll cut it up and nobody from 
those Enabled Clans or whatever they call themselves 
will know, all right?"

"Tempest?" Beryl asked as she handed him his lunch. Doug 
gave a sharp nod and let his eyelids flutter shut. 
"Never mind, she'll grow out of it," Beryl assured him. 
"By the way, you don't have to order your lunch 
separately every day, you know? I could see to it that 
your sandwiches get delivered with the main order for 
the site."

"Uh, oh, of-of course, thank you," Doug stammered. "I'd 
hate for her to be let down, you see, she's a nice 
girl."

Mum tapped the side of her nose. "Your secret's safe 
with us, Douglas."

***

As she got to know the Enabled families, Beryl quickly 
learned each of their personal luncheon preferences. 
From Doug's cheese and lettuce sandwiches to Gran's 
fairybread, from Pro's strawberry shortcake to Pyrus 
Blake's pepper beef and garlic roll, she could set them 
all out; knew which ones needed to be kept in the fridge 
for late lunchers, and made sure they were boxed up 
separately and put in the cooler right away. She also 
got to know who was working at carpentry on the outer 
buildings, who was pouring concrete, and who was working 
at the furnace.

"Why should they have to come all the way out here to 
get their lunch? Of course they have to stop work, but 
somebody should take their meals to them while they take 
a rest."

She didn't realise it at first, but Beryl was every bit 
as good at organising people as her mother. The Enabled 
folk were few in number given the size of their 
engineering project, men and women alike working on the 
buildings, young and old. Soon she was delivering 
smaller bundles of lunches within the site itself. She 
had to stop and pick up a hard-hat before going through 
the Wall to the workshops and furnace, but her whistle-
blast was always greeted with glee and the stilling of 
lathes and saws. She put a punctured can of tomato 
juice, corned-beef and pickle sandwiches and a jam tart 
into a basket that was winched up to Basil Blake in the 
cab of the high crane. A gloved hand waving from the 
window was all she ever saw of him.

"Hello Pro, how are you?"

He ambled over with his cheesy grin, a welcome and 
familiar sight. She could even say she was getting used 
to his weird blue eyes. She eyed his ears quizzically, 
sure they looked different. Every time she saw him, his 
appearance was slightly altered, the pigment spots never 
appearing in the same place, as though his skin 
condition flared up and changed from day to day. "Hullo 
Beryl!"

"All right," she said dubiously, "what story is it this 
week? Mac Barber told me you were super-allergic to 
insect bites and dust. Mavy White says it's pollen."

He laughed and spread his palms in a placatory manner. 
"It's not all my doing. Okay, I'll admit to telling a 
couple of folks conflicting stories, but I only do it to 
get them started, because it's amazing what people will 
come up with on their own to explain the unnatural. I've 
been trapped in burning houses, a petrol station 
explosion, but the best one I ever heard was that I was 
welding inside the pipes of a hydro power station, 
slipped, fell and rolled all the way down to the bottom 
of a gorge, leaving most of my skin behind on the way!"

"Oh Pro, that's horrible!" she laughed.

"Seriously, though, Beryl, it's like I've told you. I 
was born this way and there ain't nothin' can be done 
about it - and frankly, I like being the way I am, it 
really comes in handy. What's that in there, cheese and 
ham? Yum!"

She glanced up at the crane and its elusive operator, 
whom it was universally agreed by the Clan was far more 
grotesque than Pro. "You're quite the man about town 
these days by all accounts," she smiled as she handed 
him his lunch. And she had seen him too, by the pub some 
evenings, and even at the picture show. He was always 
dressed in long sleeves and trousers, even on the 
hottest evenings, with his trusty hat; and with one or 
another of the town's eligible bachelorettes on his arm. 
"Do you wear your sunglasses to the cinema too?"

"No, actually," he grinned. "Jean Winslow thinks I've 
got eyes like a cat, because of the way they shine in 
the cinema."

"Oh yes, I noticed you took Jean to the show last 
weekend," said Beryl airily. "You _have_ set your sights 
high!" Jean was a titian beauty who only ever had her 
hair set at the salon, with real matinee starlet looks. 
She was twenty and had been to the city, and smoked 
cigarettes in long black holders. Most of the town lads 
lusted after her, including George, and she liked 
George's car. He always became giggly and silly at the 
thought of Jean. "Don't be fooled," said Beryl with more 
than a hint of viper. "She told Dot she only went out 
with you because she felt sorry for you."

"Well exactly," Pro said, completely unperturbed. 
"That's how I operate. There's no other way I'd get a 
woman like that to be seen with me. Who knows what other 
gifts she might give me?" He gave an exaggerated wink 
and ran his tongue very salaciously over his top lip.

"Oh my God!" Beryl giggled, putting a hand over her 
mouth, just a little scandalised. Which only egged Pro 
on; he assumed a falsetto voice.

"Ooh poor little frog-prince sooo ugly, I suppose it's 
up to somebody totally ravishing like me to make him 
feel good!" Then he sobered. "I don't expect I'll be 
going out with Jean again, not unless she deigns to call 
me. Sad fact is I wasn't hot enough for her. She likes 
it rough. Gee, Beryl, you blush very fetchingly, I love 
it when you do that!"

"Shoosh, Pro Phillips!" Of course, everybody whispered 
about Jean.

"No," Pro sighed in mock pathos, "it's time for Pro to 
move on to the next available dame. I might even have to 
ask _you_ out, Beryl Crabtree!"

Her heart stopped still in her chest. _The letter!_ She 
fell back on Mum's oopsy-daisy laugh. "Somehow, Pro, I 
don't think my boyfriend would appreciate that - that's 
nothing against you, mind."

"Your boyfriend? Oh, you mean that suckerfish you were 
wearing up the back row the other night? Half his luck! 
Ahh, there's that blush again!"

"You're supposed to go to the movies to watch the show, 
and mind your own business!" she protested hotly. "How 
dare you!"

"I was only going to wave and say Hi," Pro said meekly. 
"But you were busy, very busy. I wouldn't know that 
guy's face, he's always got it buried in your neck. He's 
not a vampire by any chance, is he?"

"As a matter of fact, his name is George; he's a 
sweetheart, and I've known him for years," said Beryl 
archly. She refused to be goaded by Pro the way Tempest 
let him.

"You don't mean Barfly George, do you, Georgie 
Rowbotham? I thought he lived at the pub, his car's 
always there, that big red Linker? Hasn't stopped 
drinking since his eighteenth, so they say."

Beryl sighed, no longer angry. "Yes, that's my Georgie. 
He does live there, actually, he rents a room upstairs."

"Oh, well then." Pro looked her up and down, a strange, 
frank gaze. "Looks like he does have a life outside the 
pub." He wasn't joking anymore. It looked like a good 
time to change the subject. Glancing up at the crane and 
the dull steel structure beside it, she shaded her eyes.

"So what exactly is this thing you're building? Am I 
allowed to ask?"

"Oh, this? This is going to be something grand!" Pro's 
grin returned.

"The whole town wants to know."

"Yeah, and I'll bet they've come up with some crazy 
ideas!" He glanced about, up at the stationary crane,  
then toward the base of the workings. "Of course you can 
ask, there'll be no hiding this when it's done, it's 
gonna be the sixth wonder of the modern world. Put your 
hard hat on and I'll show you! Oh, no, hang on; I better 
check with Pyrus first - wait right there!" He trotted 
off with half a sandwich poked in his mouth.

There was no way Beryl was going to leave with this 
chance to see what was going on; she took a drink from 
her bike's waterbottle while she waited. Cheerful 
whistling drifted down from above, but when she looked 
up she still couldn't see Basil hiding in his cabin. 
"Hey," she called feyly, "come on, you can't be that 
ugly!"

Laughter drifted down. "My dear girl," came an urbane 
voice, "you would have to be head-over-heels in love 
with Pro Phillips before I could be sure you wouldn't 
faint at the sight of me! He is a vision of angelic 
beauty beside one such as I."

"Aww!"

Basil waved again and made no further comment. On the 
heights of the concrete wall she could see Doug sitting 
with Pro's elder brother Reg eating their lunches under 
a canvas sunshade. _Maybe they really are building a 
castle_, she thought, which was one of the popular 
rumours going around. The other was that they were 
building a circus or a fun park.

When Pro came back he looked crestfallen. "Sorry," he 
said, "but they just finished an annealing cycle and 
it's all still way too hot, red hot iron everywhere so 
it isn't safe for visitors. But you could always come 
back later on. Work halts at dinnertime mostly. If you 
wanted to come back at sunset, I'd show you around."

"Oh, I'm not sure." George was supposed to be picking 
her up at eight, although before then he'd be at the 
pub, of course. "I was going out later..."

"It wouldn't be for long, and I could pick you up and 
drop you back in a jiffy. You _do_ want to see this, 
don't you?" he asked, tone teasing.

Beryl smiled and nodded. "Well, yes actually. All 
right."

"Tell you what, I'm doing a late afternoon delivery run 
from the mill at just on six. What if I meet you at the 
corner of Railway and View? That's not too far from your 
place is it?"

"No, that'd be fine, Pro. All right then. I'd better get 
going again before Mum sends out a search party," said 
Beryl, glancing at her watch. "But before I go, there's 
something else I wanted to give you." She delved into 
one of her panniers, beside the pouch for the cooler-
brick, and pulled out a little package of foil that she 
unwrapped. The last of the flowers left over from Fools 
or Lovers' Day had finally run their course, but Beryl 
had saved a pink carnation bud that had just opened. Now 
she reached up and tucked it through the topmost 
buttonhole of the lapel of his overalls. "There. Now 
you're dressed to thrill. See you at six."

A big, genuine grin lit his face. "Why, thank you! Okay, 
'bye Beryl, see you later."

***

She felt rather silly standing on the corner in one of 
her good party skirts - the pale cream one at that - 
when Pro pulled up in the big flatback truck laden with 
timber. He beamed down from the cab.

"My, Beryl, you didn't need to go to all that trouble! 
You've even had your hair set! It's not like we're going 
to the Odeon!"

"Oh be quiet, I'm meeting George afterwards, remember?" 
She reached up for the doorhandle, and hoped her scarf 
would keep her "do" in place.

"No no, let me." The door swung open, and Pro unrolled 
and spread a towel on the seat before leaning over and 
offering her a hand up. His touch was warm and silken-
dry, not at all clammy, and somehow Pro-peculiar. His 
hand was strong and firm, but must have been very fine-
boned, for it seemed she couldn't feel the normal 
hardness of human fingerbones beneath the skin. And he 
definitely didn't have fingernails. As ever, his smile 
was reassuring, and before long they were jolting along 
toward the Clan's holdings. Reg met them at the gate; he 
was shorter than Pro, with grey eyes and a rounded, pale 
face, and curly hair so fair it seemed almost silver. He 
smiled and whistled.

"Looking sweet tonight, Beryl! You can't possibly be 
going out with _him_!"

"Maybe I'm doing him a favour!" she called back 
cheekily, and Pro laughed out loud.

"Oooh if only!"

He stopped the truck by the houses, and gallantly 
offered Beryl his arm so that together they strolled 
past the workings and into the inner compound. The sun 
hadn't quite set, so there was still plenty of light. 
Clanners called out in greeting and waved. Many of them 
had gathered in the half-built homes behind temporary 
canvas walls, and lively radio music mixed with the 
delicious smell of sizzling onions to make for a homely 
atmosphere.

When Beryl glanced up at the silent crane, Pro chuckled. 
"No, he's not up there, he's long since gone home. Come 
on, this way, and mind your step. Oh, here's a hard 
hat."

"But!" she wailed, hands to her scarf.

"Oh. Ah. Look...do you want to see this or not? I'll 
shout you your next trip to the salon, okay?" He fetched 
down a silver helmet from a peg on the wall of a 
construction shack, and adjusted the band out before 
setting it very carefully over her hair and scarf. "Hmm. 
Maybe Tempest can give it a brush up again before you 
leave."

"Oh, thanks," said Beryl sourly.

"No, really, she's good with hair! Come on." He switched 
his own hat for another helm, showing a flash of mottled 
skull.

Up a short flight of new concrete steps, they entered 
the building beneath the central scaffolding. In front 
of them was the base of the iron shaft, with a wide 
curving doorway into its interior. The column was 
hollow, a thick iron tube, perhaps five yards across. A 
broad, shallow spiral staircase had been worked into the 
shaft's inside wall, leaving the core of the structure 
empty but for a rope dangling in the middle and some 
cables from the crane. Beryl gazed up at the circle of 
sky overhead. Pro was already on the staircase, and 
beckoned.

"What...what's it for?"

"This is going to be our tower," said Pro eagerly. "From 
here we'll be able to see for miles, right beyond the 
horizon! We'll be able to talk to people in far-off 
countries, and be able to pick up television pictures 
and the very best radio! We'll be able to look for 
trouble, like fires and accidents, and then we can go 
out and help people, and rescue them. We can use our 
Enabled abilities to look after ordinary people. Then, 
maybe, they'll learn to like us more even though we 
might look ugly or scary."

"Wow!" She was a little breathless on the stairs as she 
hurried to keep up with Pro.

"At the top we'll put a lookout station with radios and 
radar to help airplanes, and a weather station, and 
we're going to build lightning rods to catch lightning 
from storms for power! And with the workshops below 
we'll invent things, like faster cars and trucks that 
don't break down, 'cause some of our Enabled are really, 
really clever. We'll even make machines that think, and 
television with colour pictures. There's so much we 
could do!"

"Ooh!" Beryl looked down, to find a deep hole yawned 
below in the centre of the shaft, and although she was 
safe she still grabbed at Pro's sleeve. "What's down 
there?"

"That's where the tower's growing from, where we pour 
the hot metal under the ground. We've already put enough 
of the observation deck on the top to be safe, it's got 
handrails and all, you'll be fine." He steadied her 
elbow with a firm, cupped hand. "There's going to be a 
lift in the middle when it's all finished, which'll be 
easier than walking."

At the top, she was on a level with the pilot-house of 
the crane, almost as high as a grain silo. There was a 
shallow, cupped disc of steel here three times the width 
of the shaft, with a timber deck, under which iron 
support arches curved. Bundles of cables made bristling 
industrial blossoms in the floorspace. There were also 
several wicker chairs, a canvas roof, and a good solid 
railing around the entire level that was comforting.

"So, how do you like this for a sun-deck?"

"This is fantastic!" Beryl went to the railing on the 
northeast side, gazing down at late-afternoon 
Kennarthen's glittering red rooves. To the east Mount 
Barrow loomed; to the southwest, Mount Moody. The 
norwest plains, a patchwork of hazy earthen fields, 
swept away to the blue of the ranges on the far side of 
Lake Tipok. "How much higher is it going to go?"

"Hundred-fifty foot, maybe two hundred, maybe even more 
if we can get the steel," Pro shrugged.

"My God! Wow, what are you going to do with it?"

"Me? I like to come up here 'round this time of night, 
just to get away from it all." He batted a hand toward 
the ground. "Much as I love my weird and wacky family, 
there's times a feller needs a place to sit and think on 
his own."

"And what do you think about, Pro?"

He joined her in gazing across the town, elbows on the 
railing. "How best I can help people, and get them to 
like me, without having to bow and scrape or crawl on 
hands and knees. The things I can do. I'm not one of the 
clever ones, but there's other things being Enabled lets 
me do."

"Why do all men have to prove themselves?" Beryl asked, 
thinking not only of Pro, but Georgie and most of the 
other menfolk she knew. "For me, the best way to get 
people to like you is to just be yourself."

"That's a lovely thought in theory, Beryl." Pro twined 
his fingers together, and they seemed to flex and flow 
like tentacles, another magician-like move. His voice 
tinged with bitterness rather than humour; the same 
sneer she saw in Sylvia's face, the anger in Tempest. 
"I'm sorry to say this, though - in the human world, 
looks still matter. Every one of us with an obvious 
physical deformity has at some time had sand kicked in 
our ugly faces. If we can't get the looks right, we can 
at least get the deeds right. We'll earn respect if 
nothing else this way." Then he gave a laugh. "Don't get 
me wrong, we have plenty of great friends too, such as 
fellers like Douggie - I mean to say, Basil got married, 
so if he could manage that then there's no excuse for 
the rest of us! But it's not always easy. Neither's 
life, I suppose." He shrugged. "One step at a time. Get 
this tower finished, there's a start."

"I think, maybe...building a tower a thousand feet tall 
would be easier than getting some people to like you. It 
wouldn't matter what you did, saving their lives 
wouldn't even be enough," Beryl ventured.

"Oh I know, there's a darkness in human nature that 
hides the ugliest of hearts under sweet faces," Pro 
agreed. "Bad guys don't always wear black. But people 
are shallow, Beryl, nobody cares to look too closely. 
That, at least, is why I have to prove myself. Call it a 
man thing if you wish, but hey, that's what I am."

"With your confidence and your sense of humour, Pro," 
Beryl smiled, "you might just pull it off."

"Confidence?" He chuckled, shaking his head at the deck. 
"Yes, well, giving up is pretty pointless. Being a 
reject from the cosy sameness of society teaches one 
self-reliance if nothing else."

It was tranquil so high above the town. Pro stood beside 
her, facing the population yet far above it, sober-faced 
and resolute in profile. His nose was a slightly 
different shape again, his chin pointy, ready to cop 
Life's blows solidly. Right now George would be raising 
a glass with his mates, having never needed to go it 
alone. He had a security that he took for granted.

"If you want acceptance, why aren't you down at the pub 
with the rest of the fellers?"

Pro gave a little smile. "Sometimes I go. But there's 
regulars there that don't much like me. Even if I don't 
cause trouble, they do. Only one or two of them, but 
it's stupid how one or two loud mouths can sway a crowd. 
Unfortunately, I don't rant very well."

"Sure. I'm sorry."

"Beryl," he said sternly, blue eyes glaring at her, 
"don't you _ever_ feel sorry for me!"

She gave her mother's giggle, but her eyes were sober as 
she nodded. He turned and walked a few paces away. She 
was clutching her handbag, and remembered the few 
cigarettes Dot had given her.

"Uh, mind if I smoke?"

"Sandbox over there for the butt." He gestured toward 
the wicker chairs negligently. "As for the pub, I'm 
working on it. Soon my friends will outnumber my 
enemies, and then things'll be easier."

Beryl realised she had no matches. George always lit for 
her. "Er, you wouldn't have a light, would you?"

"Light? Oh, right, er..." He slapped his pockets, 
looking awkward.

"You don't smoke?"

"I can't," he said, making a helpless gesture. "Every 
time I try, I get the hiccoughs."

Beryl laughed, and he joined in. "Who ever heard of such 
a thing!" she giggled.

"No, I swear it's true. Fact..." He started riffling 
about near the chairs. "I'll prove it, should be some 
matches here."

"Proving yourself again?"

"You clearly don't believe me." He stood up with a box 
of matches and flicked one alight. Beryl drew back on 
her smoke so that the tip flared golden-orange while Pro 
waited expectantly, smirking. Then she handed him the 
cigarette. He drew an assertive breath, and his throat 
rolled in a curious, exaggerated way; then he gave a 
cough and splutter, just like she had when first 
starting out.

"That isn't hiccoughs," said Beryl dismissively.

"Oh, you ain't seen nothing yet," he replied a shade 
wheezily. "How did you like the cake?"

"Pro, it was delicious!" she said happily, squeezing his 
forearm. "How did you know I love chocolate?"

"Ahh, it's a pretty safe bet - anyway, it's traditional 
on Fools or Lovers' Day. You see, I have a secret plan 
to sabotage your lovely figure and complexion by plying 
you with chocolate so that no other man will ever want 
you again."

"Well it worked very well, so well in fact that I..." 
She handed him the smoke again and stood on her tiptoes 
to whisper in his ear. "...had a few pieces of Doug's 
cake as well, but that's a secret!"

He coughed again and gulped. "Uh-oh. That bad, uh?"

"He was really embarrassed about it. Said he had some 
kind of allergy to chocolate and couldn't eat it. He 
didn't want to hurt her feelings."

"Ohh boy," Pro sighed. "She was so excited about baking 
that cake too. Well, my lips are zipped."

"Pro," Beryl said slowly, eyeing him carefully. "You 
didn't send me a sweetheart letter as well, did you?"

"A sweetheart letter?" He looked bemused. "I give you a 
cake, and you expect a sweetheart letter into the 
bargain?"

She blushed. "_Somebody_ sent me an anonymous sweetheart 
letter, and said he'd ask me on a date soon."

Pro shook his head. "Well it wasn't me, I'm not kidding. 
I don't actually write very well, and I sure wouldn't 
dictate a mushy letter. Unless...Tempest might be 
playing a prank on us both, did you think of that?" His 
face had twisted into a glower, and Beryl couldn't help 
but marvel at the plastic nature of his expressions. He 
was certainly entertaining to watch. "If she has, she'd 
better watch herself! Love letters indeed! Next thing 
you'll expect a kiss." His face shifted to one of 
lowered-lids seduction, voice dropping to a purr. "Ever 
been kissed by a double-jointed man?"

"And just how many women have you kissed, loverboy?" 
Beryl said in teasing, silken response, batting her 
lids. He grinned boyishly.

"Less than the number of cigarettes I've smoked. Come 
on, this irresistible face? Women can't help 
themselves."

"Did Jean give you some measure of private tuition?"

"I got lipstick on my cheek, lipstick on my collar, and 
all that for my empty wallet," he smiled wryly.

"Pro, have you ever kissed anyone?" Beryl asked 
dubiously. "I mean, _really_?"

"Yes I have. It was about a year back. Sylvia and I 
thought we'd better get some practice in, in case we 
ever got the opportunity for real." He wrinkled his 
nose. "Even back then, she tasted like an ashtray."

"Mm." Beryl turned and stubbed out the cigarette on the 
railing, then dropped it in the sand bucket. "I could 
almost feel sorry for you."

His voice dropped and cooled again. "Don't. I've had 
enough of condescension this week."

"I mean to say, having to get all that lippy out of your 
clothing." The tension went from his shoulders and he 
smiled as she walked over to him. He still had the 
carnation in his buttonhole, but it had slipped awry, so 
she reached up and fixed it. His lips were smooth and 
shiny, and had definitely flushed more crimson. His 
eyelids lowered a fraction as he looked down, at her 
mouth.

But just when it seemed he might tilt his head and lean 
down, he stopped still. His throat pulsated, and as he 
gave a muted "hic" he pressed his lips tightly together, 
and the colour bleached from them. His eyes opened wide.

"Oh oh," he muttered. "Told you this'd happen."

Beryl watched as he swallowed, jerked and hiccoughed 
again. The blue discs of his eyes bulged. "Don't hold 
them in, it just makes them worse...oh my God! Pro! 
There's smoke coming out your...ears!"

"Wha'? Ick!"

"There is!" Beryl cried, pointing and laughing at the 
faint but definite wisps that puffed from under his 
helmet rim. He opened his mouth to say something, but 
only a hic, then a belch came out, and more stray curls 
of smoke. She had never seen or heard anything quite so 
funny and doubled over in fits of laughter, as Pro 
quivered, gurgled and made a hundred astonished faces as 
his body rebelled. At last he mustered a deep, bubbling 
laugh of his own, intermixed with burps and coughs of 
smoky gas.

"Ohh you poor thing!" Beryl gasped, dabbing tears from 
her eyes with a hanky. "I should never have let you have 
a smoke!"

He shook his head, batted his hands about his ears to 
disperse the smoke, and wheezed apologetically. "I guess 
it...ick...just doesn't agree with my..ick...biology!"

"So I suppose a kiss is out of the question?"

With a gulp and a cough, he batted a hand at the sky. 
"Sun's almost, ick, gone, we should...ick...head down 
now," he grinned ruefully. "You've got a hot, ick, date 
with a suck-ick-tion cup, remember?"

"You don't like George much, do you?" They headed for 
the downramp.

"No, I don't...ick...because he's got something I ick-
want, and it's not his ick-car either!"

"Pro, you won't get anywhere with me if you go along 
insulting my beau," Beryl said righteously. She eyed the 
rope that hung down the middle of the shaft. "That's not 
part of the crane rig, what's it for?"

"The rope? Oh, that's my ick-ladder. I can get up and 
down much qui-icker on the rope than on this staircase."

"Show me," she said brightly, but Pro blushed as if he 
suddenly regretted mentioning it.

"I can't."

"Why not?"

"I just can't. I'd have to, er, take off my ick-clothes 
to do it properly, ick, and you wouldn't want to see 
that. Ick."

"You climb the rope in the nuddy?" Beryl started 
giggling again.

"No, no, well, ick, yes, but it's not what you think, 
no, ohh fiddlesticks! Forget I ever mentioned it!" 

At the bottom of the steps he turned to her. "You must 
think I'm a complete dunderhead, ick, after today," he 
said dolefully. "I don't normally make a complete ick-
pratt of myself in front of ick, er, fair company."

"I don't think that at all," said Beryl sincerely. "It's 
my fault anyway - and you really shouldn't smoke. Thank 
you for showing me around; it's truly spectacular."

They left the inner workings, and took a short walk to 
the part-built home where Pro's parents and Tempest 
lived. While Pro asked his father if he could borrow the 
car to drop Beryl back in town, Tempest made a fuss over 
her hair. With deft strokes from a brush, she managed to 
restore some of its bounce, for which Beryl was 
grateful.

"Are you sure you wouldn't care to stay for dinner?" Mrs 
Phillips called from her open-air kitchen. "It's high 
time we Phillipses fed you, for a change." She was a 
pear-shaped woman, a rounded version of Tempest with 
darker, smoother hair. Their father was the truly exotic 
one, with crewcut white hair and a pallid, almost lilac 
complexion; his skin was flecked with pale scales that 
made it glitter in the right light. His eyes were the 
most vivid lime green she had ever seen. He handed his 
son some keys, then yawned and stretched - cracking 
every bone in his body, which clicked and snapped from 
head to toe.

"Thank you, Mrs Phillips, but I'm meeting someone for 
dinner."

"Oh well, you're always welcome here any time of day. 
Maybe next time we'll have some real glass in the 
windows," she laughed.

Pro drove her back to the main street, stopping in front 
of a bus shelter across the road from the pub. His eyes 
did glint in twilight conditions, and he peered around 
suspiciously. "Are you sure you'll be all right here?"

"Of course," said Beryl confidently. "I'll go sit in 
Georgie's car over there. It's a country town, Pro - 
look around you, there's no-one for miles."

He smiled. "Sure. Just don't seem the gentlemanly thing 
to do, though, drop a girl off on an empty street in the 
dark. Actually..." He gazed speculatively at the warmly-
lit bar. "'Spose if Georgie boy's stepping out with you, 
where's the harm in me going in for a quiet drink? I'll 
see you later, Beryl," he said, stepping out of the car. 
"Wouldn't do to be seen with another man's girl, so I'll 
say ta-ta now. Thanks for visiting this afternoon."


  
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