Iain Banks - Whit

'Oh dear,' I said, biting my lip.

Yolanda hugged me. 'Don't you worry now. Hey, come on; what do you want to do? Want me to call this health farm place and get… Fusillada?' she said, grinning and wiggling her head from side to side.

'I don't know,' I said, playing with the cord of my dressing-gown. 'I got the impression she might be trying to avoid me. Maybe… oh, goodness knows!' I threw up my hands and then stuffed them under my armpits.

'Well, let's just head on down there, what do you say?'

'What, now?'

'Soon as we've had our margaritas; and soon as we can find some clothes for you; suppose it'll take the hotel laundry at least overnight to clean that stuff of yours.'

I had already used my one change of clothes - things seem to get dirty very fast in London - and had not managed to get the others washed, I thought there was still a couple of days' wear in what I'd been wearing but my grandmother disagreed, and is not the sort of person to argue with in such circumstances. So I needed new clothes. Yolanda's method of shopping was to bring the shop to us; she rang a clothes boutique in town and ordered them to bring the articles I'd asked for; socks, undergarments, white shirts, black trousers and black jackets (my hat, though battered, would do as it was). As I wasn't sure what size I was, she made them bring a selection.

An hour or two later, my head buzzing slightly from the three margaritas I'd had, I was dressed. I don't think either of us were really happy; I felt the clothes were too fine and dressy while my grandmother thought they were far too severe on the grounds of colour alone.

'The boots, then,' she said, tramping through the piles of discarded clothes, boxes and voluminous wrapping material strewn about the floor as she looked me up and down. The shop assistant she'd had come out to us kneeled on the floor looking tired. 'Don't you think those boots are just awful, Sam?' Yolanda asked the assistant.

'They are a bit sort of…'

'Agricultural,' Yolanda supplied.

'Yah. Agricultural. Yah.'

'I count that as praise,' I said.

'Ain't meant as such, honey,' Yolanda said, shaking her head. 'Why don't we find somewhere that does proper boots; like these!' She lifted up one foot to show me her alligator hides.

' Cowboy boots?' I exclaimed. (Even Sam looked shocked, I thought.)

'Well, sure!' Yolanda said. 'Real boots; with a heel. I don't know how you can wear those things; must feel like you're walking uphill all the time.'

'Excuse me,' I said primly. 'These boots are fine. These boots and I are used to each other. I will not part with them.'

'Stubborn child. Sure you won't try on the red velvet jacket?'

'Positive.'

'The black skirt?'

'Certainly not.'

'The Gaultier dress.'

'It's horrible.'

'It's black.'

'It's black and horrible.'

'It's black and beautiful.'

'Nonsense.'

'It is too, and he's a lovely guy. I've met him; Jean-Paul; a cuddly bear. You'd like him. Wears a kilt.'

'I don't care.'

'The leather trousers then.'

'Oh… !' I said, exasperated.

'Go on; just try them. They're you , honey; really.'

'Well…'

'These trousers creak ,' I said, shifting my bottom on the Sitting Board. We were in Yolanda's latest hire car, heading south for Dudgeon Magna at high speed.

'They're fine; you look great in them. Hell, you smell great in them, honey!'

We hurtled round a corner. The car lurched and I had a strange sense that it was pivoting. Yolanda swore and chuckled at the same time and did something fancy with the steering wheel.

'What was that?' I asked, glancing at her.

'Bad camber, tightening bend,' she said tersely. 'When will you people learn to build roads properly?'

'At least,' I said, 'these trousers don't let me slip around so much on the Sitting Board when you go round corners.'

'Yeah,' my grandmother chuckled, sounding like she was enjoying herself, 'keep those buns well anchored. Haw haw haw.'

I gripped the sides of the seat as we went round another bend. I looked down. 'What are these buttons for?'

Yolanda glanced over. 'Seat adjustment. Electric.'

I nodded, impressed that disabled people were so well catered for in ordinary automobiles. I grabbed the sides of the seat again for the next bend, and duly found myself rising and tipping back in my seat. I giggled, then gasped as we just missed an oncoming car.

'Ah; this bit isn't dual carriageway, Grandma.'

'I know that!… Why are these people flashing their lights at me?'

'Well, I don't think it's because they know you.'

'Wimps!'

The big, dark blue car swept into the drive of Clissold's Health Farm and Country Club. We had encountered a few police vehicles, and passed a lay-by where they were checking an old, decrepit-looking coach, but we hadn't been stopped.

The Health Farm and Country Club proved to be a mansion with what looked like a giant conservatory tacked onto the back. I suppose I had been expecting something more farm-like. The mansion's grounds looked old, neat and manicured, just like the receptionist.

'I'm afraid Miss Whit checked out this morning.'

'Oh drat.'

'Shit!'

'Did she say where she was going?' I asked.

'Well, I wouldn't be able to tell you if she had, but-'

'Oh for God's sakes; this is her cousin; and she's my-' Yolanda broke off and looked at me, frowning. 'Hell, what is Morag to me?'

I shrugged. 'Great-niece? Grand-niece?'

Yolanda turned back to the receptionist. 'Yeah, whatever,' she said, with convincing decisiveness.

'Well, she didn't, anyway. Sorry.' The receptionist smiled. She didn't look very sorry.

'Was she due to check out today?' I asked, trying to look sweet and reasonable and in need of help.

'Let me see,' the receptionist said, lifting a pair of glasses from round her neck and placing them on her nose. She keyed something into her computer, then consulted the screen. 'No; she was due to stay until the end of the week.'

'Damn!'

'Hmm,' I said.

'Oh, I remember,' the lady said, replacing her glasses on her cardigan. 'I do believe she said she'd changed her plans because of something she'd seen on the local news last night.'

Yolanda and I looked at each other.

'I know you think I'm just a complaining old woman, Isis-'

'Not at-'

'-and I know you don't drive, but you must see what I mean.'

'Well-'

'I mean, it stands to reason; you go into a gas station and you get gas. You get served; somebody fills your tank, maybe gets their hands dirty, checks your oil, washes the bugs off your windshield, kicks the tyres, whatever; you pay the bill, and that's all very fine… but you pull into a gas station, you serve yourself , you get your own hands dirty, maybe break a nail, for God's sakes; no oil check, no windshield wash unless you do it yourself; and you pay the same amount of money ! Now, really, I mean, come on; does that seem reasonable to you ? Do you think that's right ?'

'Put like that-'

'I'm only asking you because maybe you can be objective because you don't drive and maybe you haven't ever thought about all this, maybe you've never noticed all this. I mean, you've never bin to the States, have you?'

'No.'

'No; exactly. So you don't expect service pumps and self-serve pumps, and because you're a good little Orderite you've never even seen movies about the States either, right?'

'Right.'

'Right; unusual in this day and age, believe you me. So you-'

'Grandma?'

'What, honey?'

I laughed. 'Is all this important? I mean to say, does it really matter?'