pulls down Feely’s chin, pops it in, closes his mouth and says, ‘Thirty-six times. Let’s count together, shall we?’
He glances around the table. ‘Shall we? La Roux? Medve? Patch? Shall we?’
Everybody nods, sullenly but en masse .
‘Right, let’s all take a mouthful…’ He places a half-red-onion between his lips, smiling. We all do likewise, but sans smile.
‘ And ,’ he chews once, then speaks. ‘One!’ Chews a second time. ‘Two!’ A third time. ‘Three!’
So it continues.
‘ Swallow! ’ he bellows, on thirty-six.
We all swallow. Then he takes a second random scoop of something and starts right on over from scratch again (In truth, I don’t think he’s even really enjoying this pointless piece of power-play. It’s as if he’s cheerfully relating a dirty joke to a random stranger he just met at a party, only to suddenly discover, pre-filthy-punchline, that the man in question is a vicar. But he tells the joke anyway. He’s in too deep , if you get my meaning).
Big’s voice, as he counts, is harsh as wire wool, but his poor face is ashen, his eyes are bulging and his two cheeks are moist as Bobby Ewing’s handshake. One to thirty-six. We follow, we swallow. And then, would you believe it, this under-sized but extra-zealous human calculator ratchets himself up a third time over.
It can’t last. And it doesn’t. At formal chew number ninety-seven, Big stops, takes a huge, strangled breath, pushes his plate away – knocking the jug of lemon water flying – pulls himself heavily to his feet and storms from the room. I’m talking mid-count, mid-mouthful, mid- everything .
For a while nobody dares to swallow. Then La Roux puts his fork down, spits a mashed-up glob of something unspeakable on to his plate, and mournfully inspects his soaking lap.
‘I feel a little nauseous,’ he whispers.
‘ Poor Big,’ Patch sighs, matter-of-factly, bone dry herself and already scooping up a brand new forkful, ‘it’s all the fault of that damn telegram.’
Feely sniffs, kicks his feet together and quietly watches the lemon liquid trickle in a waterfall from the slats to the floor, while (with exceptional stealth and surreptitiousness), just inches away on the opposite underside of that tiny table, La Roux silently places his only remaining dry four fingers and thumb down so gently onto my soggy thigh that it’s like a moth landing, then squeezes me there – once, twice – for a few brief seconds.
How do I react? I don’t react. What do I do? I don’t do anything . You see, I’m much too busy staring up and out of that old ship’s porthole and fervently wishing – just for a moment – that I could cast myself off from this whole infuriatingly trying biological misalliance, straighten my jib, unfurl my sails, head straight for that true, blue horizon and float blissfully away.
Who do I think I’m kidding?
Yeah? And what if I happen to like his hand there, anyway?
Big, it later transpires, has stormed off to the mainland (so no prizes for guessing whose turn it was to do the dishes today). Luckily La Roux helps out with the post-lunch chores. Patch washes, he dries. I supervise with half an eye as I cut a very sulky Feely’s fingernails, having promised faithfully to read him something cheery when this grim odyssey is over.
La Roux and Patch, I observe (above the white blotches of Feely’s chronic calcium deficiency) are getting on like a house on fire. He has subdued her in some indefinable way (So they share the same landing: it was inevitable they’d grow familiar , if only on the basis of forced proximity, but what I’m seeing here is something quite beyond the ordinary).
As I quietly sit (literally transfixed by this two-faced rusted fox’s well-honed Machiavellian spooning – and he’s drying the cutlery! It’s all too perfect!), I watch him effortlessly cementing Patch’s easy affections with a most maddening new game he quickly devises.
Whenever she seems in
He glances around the table. ‘Shall we? La Roux? Medve? Patch? Shall we?’
Everybody nods, sullenly but en masse .
‘Right, let’s all take a mouthful…’ He places a half-red-onion between his lips, smiling. We all do likewise, but sans smile.
‘ And ,’ he chews once, then speaks. ‘One!’ Chews a second time. ‘Two!’ A third time. ‘Three!’
So it continues.
‘ Swallow! ’ he bellows, on thirty-six.
We all swallow. Then he takes a second random scoop of something and starts right on over from scratch again (In truth, I don’t think he’s even really enjoying this pointless piece of power-play. It’s as if he’s cheerfully relating a dirty joke to a random stranger he just met at a party, only to suddenly discover, pre-filthy-punchline, that the man in question is a vicar. But he tells the joke anyway. He’s in too deep , if you get my meaning).
Big’s voice, as he counts, is harsh as wire wool, but his poor face is ashen, his eyes are bulging and his two cheeks are moist as Bobby Ewing’s handshake. One to thirty-six. We follow, we swallow. And then, would you believe it, this under-sized but extra-zealous human calculator ratchets himself up a third time over.
It can’t last. And it doesn’t. At formal chew number ninety-seven, Big stops, takes a huge, strangled breath, pushes his plate away – knocking the jug of lemon water flying – pulls himself heavily to his feet and storms from the room. I’m talking mid-count, mid-mouthful, mid- everything .
For a while nobody dares to swallow. Then La Roux puts his fork down, spits a mashed-up glob of something unspeakable on to his plate, and mournfully inspects his soaking lap.
‘I feel a little nauseous,’ he whispers.
‘ Poor Big,’ Patch sighs, matter-of-factly, bone dry herself and already scooping up a brand new forkful, ‘it’s all the fault of that damn telegram.’
Feely sniffs, kicks his feet together and quietly watches the lemon liquid trickle in a waterfall from the slats to the floor, while (with exceptional stealth and surreptitiousness), just inches away on the opposite underside of that tiny table, La Roux silently places his only remaining dry four fingers and thumb down so gently onto my soggy thigh that it’s like a moth landing, then squeezes me there – once, twice – for a few brief seconds.
How do I react? I don’t react. What do I do? I don’t do anything . You see, I’m much too busy staring up and out of that old ship’s porthole and fervently wishing – just for a moment – that I could cast myself off from this whole infuriatingly trying biological misalliance, straighten my jib, unfurl my sails, head straight for that true, blue horizon and float blissfully away.
Who do I think I’m kidding?
Yeah? And what if I happen to like his hand there, anyway?
Big, it later transpires, has stormed off to the mainland (so no prizes for guessing whose turn it was to do the dishes today). Luckily La Roux helps out with the post-lunch chores. Patch washes, he dries. I supervise with half an eye as I cut a very sulky Feely’s fingernails, having promised faithfully to read him something cheery when this grim odyssey is over.
La Roux and Patch, I observe (above the white blotches of Feely’s chronic calcium deficiency) are getting on like a house on fire. He has subdued her in some indefinable way (So they share the same landing: it was inevitable they’d grow familiar , if only on the basis of forced proximity, but what I’m seeing here is something quite beyond the ordinary).
As I quietly sit (literally transfixed by this two-faced rusted fox’s well-honed Machiavellian spooning – and he’s drying the cutlery! It’s all too perfect!), I watch him effortlessly cementing Patch’s easy affections with a most maddening new game he quickly devises.
Whenever she seems in
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