W_Howard_Baker_-_The_Girl_In_Asses'_Milk

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THE GIRL

ASSES’ MILK

W. Howard Baker

A FIVE STAR PAPERBACK

Published in 1972 by PBS Limited,

Victoria Mills, Pollard Street, Manchester

M4 7AU

CHAPTER ONE

Hardly ever does the lion lie down with the

lamb. The time will come, we are promised by the

unilateral disarmers, when this happy state will be

universal. But that time is not yet.

Nor, strictly speaking, was this particular lion –

which was no metaphorical beast but a real,

maned, toothed, mean-eyed specimen of panthera

Leo – lying down with the lamb. But it was

walking behind it with a slow-stepping, amicable

gait which boded no evil intent.

More remarkably, at the side of the King of

Beasts strode his consort, following with equal

amiability a small ewe lamb.

Following the lions walked a pair of large, gaily

coloured Equatorial lizards, moving a little

rapidly because of the relative shortness of their

legs.

And after them came a brace of lorises,

members of a species of Indo-Chinese lemur, who

were followed in turn by a pair of lynxes,

containing their natural impetuosity with some

diffculty. And after the lynxes…

The razor-witted reader will have appreciated

already that here was a case of alphabetical

progression, according to the Book of Genesis. He

will have noted also that the animals were moving

in pairs, each according to his kind.

Therefore it will not surprise him to learn that a

pair of aardvaarks, those improbable South

African edentata, led the parade.

Nor would it surprise him to learn that the head

of the same parade of “A” animals – aardvaarks to

agoutis – was now moving upward from a scene of

dense jungle along a sloping plank towards a vast,

uncouth boat, vessel… or Ark.

Nor would he, frankly, be at all surprised to

learn that it was raining… heavily.

“The Deluge,” murmurs the razor-witted reader.

“Noah’s Ark and the Flood.”

And he is right. Or very nearly.

For suddenly out of the jungle there erupts a

small, stout, frenzied figure in a checked shirt,

suede boots and corduroy slacks.

“That’s enough of that damn rain,” shouts the

plump figure.

And unless we have all been greatly misled, this

remark was not Divine.

Still, obediently, the rain stops.

Sir Isidore Pugh, the famous film producer, had

been born under quite another name and in a very

different station in a small, superstition-ridden

village in mittel-Europe. His worst nightmare was

still to find himself back in that village, a

nightmare even worse than waking up one

morning to be told he had created for the cinema

an artistic success – which, as everyone knows, is

box-office poison.

Sir Isidore Pugh had emigrated to the United

States, dived into the nascent Hollywood film

industry and come up with a goodly segment of it

clasped between his short, gold-filled teeth.

Then he had moved to England and done much

the same for the British film industry. Naturally

he had gained a knighthood in the process as well

as the more concrete expressions of overweening

wealth – country houses, Mayfair flats, yachts,

mistresses, oil-paintings, water-colours, and the

second-best collection of matchbox labels in the

world.

Sir Isidore had gained a good many enemies

also. But enemies are the status symbol of the

successful man.

“Way back,” he used to say, “I had fleas. Now I

have enemies. So I can still scratch.”

But if he had enemies, Sir Isidore also had

friends – not just the sort of friends that wealth

and power attract. For inside – and that was

digging pretty deep – he was a likeable man, a

little shy, a little diffident, and very generous.

And, oddly enough, he had a great artistic

integrity in his own way. Admittedly, this was no-

one else’s way.

Now Sir Isidore was roaring at the Effects

Supervisor of Sunbury Studios, who had provided

the teeming rain.

“You want we should have a hundred sick

animals on our hands? Them South African

aard-whatsits, they don’t get no rain at home. And

how much rain does a camel wade through? You

can cut out that rain and let them walk up to the

Ark nice and dry. When the walruses arrive, them

you can rain on till you bust.”

The Effects Supervisor was a willowy youth

called Fred Fosdick. He was trying to grow a beard

and he pulled at the sparse hairs in an effort to

control his feelings and avert the loss of an

excellent and well-paid job.

“Right, I.P.,” he called. “No more rain it is…”

To a passing lights man, Fosdick rolled up his

eyes and murmured: “We’ve got to simulate the

Flood – but without rain. Now I’ve heard

everything.”

Sir Isidore Pugh retreated into the shrubbery

again to let the run-through continue. Next time

they would be shooting, with luck. Sir Isidore was

a great one for long rehearsal and shooting a

scene first time; one of the secrets of his success.

But the brown bears (“B” for bear) had hardly

started up the Ark’s gangway before he gave

another long wail.

“The Queen of Sheba… Where’s the Queen of

Sheba?”

Professor Hollingsworth, Sunbury Studios’

technical adviser for the film (himself the

authority on the period) turned a worried frown

on his master.

“Er… Sir Isidore,” he drawled. “I… er… you

know the Queen of Sheba shouldn’t be in this film

at all. The… er… period’s quite wrong. She – ah –

came quite a long time after Noah.”

“And who’s going to have the bath in asses’ milk

if there’s no Queen of Sheba?” snorted Sir Isidore

with unassailable logic. “Also, I said I’m called I.P.

on the set. No time for Sir Isidore here. So bring

on the Queen of Sheba.”

“But the period…”

“Listen, Professor,” said Sir Isidore kindly. “I

hire you to keep me straight on the historical

facts, right?”

“That is… the case,” Professor Hollingsworth

admitted, regretting the far-off culture of Oxford.

“Speaking straight, can you tell me there was

definitely no Queen of Sheba at the time of the

Flood?”

“Well, er… no. But she wouldn’t be quite the

same one as is mentioned in the Bible. That is, if

there was one,” said the Professor.

“Am I saying she’s the same one?” demanded Sir

Isidore. “All I’m saying is that she’s a Queen of

Sheba. Listen, son, in my films there has got to be

a Queen of Sheba. There always has and there

always will be. And she’ll have a bath in asses’

milk. She always does. It’s my trademark.”

He raised his voice.

“Where’s that Queen of Sheba?”

His voice echoed through the barn that was the

Number One Studio at Sunbury, the biggest,

best-equipped film studio on the hither side of the

Atlantic Ocean.

It bounced amongst the girders and was

reflected down among the waiting camera crews

and the shivering film extras who had been called

in for a re-take of the great drowning sequence

when mankind – except for Noah’s family and the

Queen of Sheba – perished miserably in the rising

tide of the Flood.

Film extras in Sir Isidore’s pictures suffered for

their art. Studios like Number One were far too

big to heat. And if the water had been heated it

would have steamed to the detriment of the

cameras. So they shivered in their wet and

diaphanous wrappings.

Sir Isidore had always favoured the Biblical

scene for his films because costuming was so

economical. A few miles of war surplus gauze and

there you were.

The Queen of Sheba did not appear, despite the

bellow.

But there came to Sir Isidore an uneasy-looking

property man, Tim Merriwether by name.

“Uh, I.P.,” he said. “Uh, could I have a word? For

a moment.”

“Sure, Tim, sure. You know me… But keep it

short. We’ve a fillum to make.”

He beamed democratically. “What’s eating you,

boy?”

“It’s about Noah’s Ark.”

“So what about the Ark?”

Tim looked even more uneasy. “She’s sinking,

I.P.,” he said. “She’s sinking fast.”

Which was not the sort of thing that happened

to the original Noah.

The reason the Queen of Sheba had not

appeared was that her Majesty was throwing a fit

of temperament. The Queen of Sheba was Felicia

Fraser, a publicity name for Carol Milligan, of

Belfast, Sir Isidore’s own bright-eyed discovery.

Carol was a singularly beautiful creature.

Itemised, from the neck up she had a mass of soft

flowing blonde hair of a particularly lustrous

shade. She had very large, bright grey eyes

(though she was now wearing blue contact lenses)

a short straight nose and an upper lip that, while

being perfectly formed, never quite succeeded in

covering her teeth. This gave her an urgent,

hungry, let’s-get-cracking, sexy look.

Also she walked like an angel and when she set

her mind to it, she could remember whole

sentences of dialogue at a time.

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摘要：

THEGIRLINASSES’MILKW.HowardBakerAFIVESTARPAPERBACKPublishedin1972byPBSLimited,VictoriaMills,PollardStreet,ManchesterM47AUCopyright©1967PressEditorialServices4CHAPTERONEHardlyeverdoesthelionliedownwiththelamb.Thetimewillcome,wearepromisedbytheunilateraldisarmers,whenthishappystatewillbeuniversal.Butt...

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