danger of leaving the room for some random reason (to hang out a dishcloth or empty the rubbish), La Roux will suddenly bellow, ‘ Patch! No! Don’t go!’ as though his heart will break if she even so much as considers withdrawing.
Every time he tries this gambit (and she’s a mobile little monkey with an exceptionally weak bladder), the girl pauses, blushes, falters, then slowly starts cackling. She practically laps up the attention. It’s all so embarrassing . (Not to mention galling; I’ve seen feral cats more sincere than this fucker.)
When they’ve finally got around to completing the dishes (with so much billing and cooing it gets to feeling like a bloody pigeon loft in that kitchen: I mean bullshit and feathers right up to the rafters), La Roux suddenly decides that he wants Patch to cut his hair.
He plumps himself down on a stool – just one place along from sulky Feely – and asks for the scissors.
‘These are nail scissors,’ I tell him, passing them over.
He completely ignores me (right, so I’m Plague Girl now, all of a sudden?) and gently entrusts the blades into Patch’s keen, plump fingers.
‘While you’re cutting,’ he tells her, ‘I’ll just sit back, relax, and listen in on Feely’s story.’
He pats Feely on the shoulder. Feely grimaces (he’s not fooled. He’s still mistrustful, and he’s horribly proprietorial about his fictions), then pitter-patters off to fetch his bean-bag. I set about trying to find the appropriate book, with the requisite amount of banging and swearing.
Patch, meanwhile (supremely oblivious), quietly discusses La Roux’s trichological aspirations.
‘I think you need it short at the sides but fluffy on top. That’s the style of the moment. Do you know the pop star Terry Hall?’ she asks. ‘He’s the stupid, blond one in Fun Boy Three?’
‘I don’t, actually, but here’s my idea,’ he tells her. ‘You know how it is when someone catches a ringworm?’
She frowns, not quite getting it. ‘You mean on their head? In their hair?’
He nods. ‘Exactly. Let’s do that, keeping the overall look and length much as it is currently, just cutting out a couple of bald circles in really unexpected places.’
Patch muses this over for a minute, in silence.
‘Think you’re up to it, technically?’ La Roux asks.
Patch’s serious face breaks into a wide smile. She repositions the scissors on her fingers. ‘Hell,’ she says firmly, ‘just shut up and watch me.’
Feely quietly returns, having located his bean-bag. I show him the book. He smiles, plumps himself down and makes himself comfy as I flip through the pages, lounging casually up against the cobwebbed Aga.
‘Okay,’ I tell him, ‘I can do you five paragraphs on the Kasuga Grand Shrine…’ He winces. Not a particular favourite. ‘Or a page and a half about the Art and Architecture of the Kofuku Temple…’
Feely waves his arm and closes his eyes languidly (he knows what he’s here for). ‘Just give me the deer,’ he whispers.
‘Fine,’ I tell him, ‘but I’ll read it once only. That’s the rule.’ (This child’s a devil for sordid repetitions.)
He nods, pulls in his paws and balls up completely, neatly tucking his mucky knees under his dirty ears.
La Roux raises his hand while Patch snips up a storm; hair flying everywhere. I glance over.
‘What the fuck kind of children’s story is this, anyway?’ he asks.
I show him the cover. ‘It’s a book about the Japanese city of Nara. Feely’s brother Barge used to read it to him when he was a baby. It’s his favourite. He finds it extremely calming .’
La Roux scowls but says nothing. Feely opens one eye and shifts a little. I notice his disquiet and resolve – before his unusually restful demeanour can be further disrupted – to smartly commence with the reading.
‘ The Deer of Nara ,’ I begin softly.
‘Deer?’ La Roux mutters. ‘In a city ?’
I ignore him.
‘ Shiro Chan, Queen of the deer of Nara
Every time he tries this gambit (and she’s a mobile little monkey with an exceptionally weak bladder), the girl pauses, blushes, falters, then slowly starts cackling. She practically laps up the attention. It’s all so embarrassing . (Not to mention galling; I’ve seen feral cats more sincere than this fucker.)
When they’ve finally got around to completing the dishes (with so much billing and cooing it gets to feeling like a bloody pigeon loft in that kitchen: I mean bullshit and feathers right up to the rafters), La Roux suddenly decides that he wants Patch to cut his hair.
He plumps himself down on a stool – just one place along from sulky Feely – and asks for the scissors.
‘These are nail scissors,’ I tell him, passing them over.
He completely ignores me (right, so I’m Plague Girl now, all of a sudden?) and gently entrusts the blades into Patch’s keen, plump fingers.
‘While you’re cutting,’ he tells her, ‘I’ll just sit back, relax, and listen in on Feely’s story.’
He pats Feely on the shoulder. Feely grimaces (he’s not fooled. He’s still mistrustful, and he’s horribly proprietorial about his fictions), then pitter-patters off to fetch his bean-bag. I set about trying to find the appropriate book, with the requisite amount of banging and swearing.
Patch, meanwhile (supremely oblivious), quietly discusses La Roux’s trichological aspirations.
‘I think you need it short at the sides but fluffy on top. That’s the style of the moment. Do you know the pop star Terry Hall?’ she asks. ‘He’s the stupid, blond one in Fun Boy Three?’
‘I don’t, actually, but here’s my idea,’ he tells her. ‘You know how it is when someone catches a ringworm?’
She frowns, not quite getting it. ‘You mean on their head? In their hair?’
He nods. ‘Exactly. Let’s do that, keeping the overall look and length much as it is currently, just cutting out a couple of bald circles in really unexpected places.’
Patch muses this over for a minute, in silence.
‘Think you’re up to it, technically?’ La Roux asks.
Patch’s serious face breaks into a wide smile. She repositions the scissors on her fingers. ‘Hell,’ she says firmly, ‘just shut up and watch me.’
Feely quietly returns, having located his bean-bag. I show him the book. He smiles, plumps himself down and makes himself comfy as I flip through the pages, lounging casually up against the cobwebbed Aga.
‘Okay,’ I tell him, ‘I can do you five paragraphs on the Kasuga Grand Shrine…’ He winces. Not a particular favourite. ‘Or a page and a half about the Art and Architecture of the Kofuku Temple…’
Feely waves his arm and closes his eyes languidly (he knows what he’s here for). ‘Just give me the deer,’ he whispers.
‘Fine,’ I tell him, ‘but I’ll read it once only. That’s the rule.’ (This child’s a devil for sordid repetitions.)
He nods, pulls in his paws and balls up completely, neatly tucking his mucky knees under his dirty ears.
La Roux raises his hand while Patch snips up a storm; hair flying everywhere. I glance over.
‘What the fuck kind of children’s story is this, anyway?’ he asks.
I show him the cover. ‘It’s a book about the Japanese city of Nara. Feely’s brother Barge used to read it to him when he was a baby. It’s his favourite. He finds it extremely calming .’
La Roux scowls but says nothing. Feely opens one eye and shifts a little. I notice his disquiet and resolve – before his unusually restful demeanour can be further disrupted – to smartly commence with the reading.
‘ The Deer of Nara ,’ I begin softly.
‘Deer?’ La Roux mutters. ‘In a city ?’
I ignore him.
‘ Shiro Chan, Queen of the deer of Nara
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