season.
One evening the rest of us had gone out and left Mother and Larry alone together. Larry had spent the evening singing more and more dismally, until he had succeeded in working them both into a fit of acute depression. They attempted to alleviate this state with the aid of wine, but unfortunately this had the reverse effect, for they were not used to the heavy wines of Greece. When we returned we were somewhat startled to be greeted by Mother, standing at the door of the villa with a hurricane lantern. She informed us with lady-like precision and dignity that she wished to be buried under the rose bushes. The novelty of this lay in the fact that she had chosen such an accessible place for the disposal of her remains. Mother spent a lot of her spare time choosing places to be buried in, but they were generally situated in the most remote areas, and one had visions of the funeral cortège dropping exhausted by the wayside long before it had reached the grave.
When left undisturbed by Larry, however, spring for Mother meant an endless array of fresh vegetables with which to experiment, and a riot of new flowers to delight her in the garden. There streamed from the kitchen a tremendous number of new dishes, soups, stews, savouries, and curries, each richer, more fragrant, and more exotic than the last. Larry began to suffer from dyspepsia. Scorning the simple remedy of eating less, heprocured an immense tin of bicarbonate of soda, and would solemnly take a dose after every meal.
‘Why do
you eat
so much if it upsets you, dear?’ Mother asked.
‘It would be an insult to your cooking to eat less,’ Larry replied unctuously.
‘You’re getting terribly fat,’ said Margo; ‘it’s very bad for you.’
‘Nonsense!’ said Larry in alarm. ‘I’m not getting fat, Mother, am I?’
‘You look as though you’ve put on a little weight,’ Mother admitted, surveying him critically.
‘It’s your fault,’ Larry said unreasonably. ‘You will keep tempting me with these aromatic delicacies. You’re driving me to ulcers. I shall have to go on a diet. What’s a good diet, Margo?’
‘Well,’ said Margo, launching herself with enthusiasm into her favourite topic, ‘you could try the orange-juice-and-salad one; that’s awfully good. There’s the milk-and-raw-vegetable one… that’s good too, but it takes a little time. Or there’s the boiled-fish-and-brown-bread one. I don’t know what that’s like, I haven’t tried it yet.’
‘Dear God!’ exclaimed Larry, genuinely shocked. ‘Are those diets?’
‘Yes, and they’re all very good ones,’ said Margo earnestly. ‘I’ve been trying the orange-juice one and it’s done wonders for my acne.’
‘No,’ said Larry firmly. ‘I’m not going to do it if it means that I have to champ my way like a damned ungulate through bushels of raw fruit and vegetables. You will all have to resign yourselves to the fact that I shall be taken from you at an early age, suffering from fatty degeneration of the heart.’
At the next meal he took the precaution of having a large dose of bicarbonate beforehand, and then protested bitterly that the food tasted queer.
Margo was always badly affected by the spring. Her personal appearance, always of absorbing interest to her, now becamealmost an obsession. Piles of freshly laundered clothes filled her bedroom, while the washing-line sagged under the weight of clothes newly washed. Singing shrilly and untunefully she would drift about the villa, carrying piles of flimsy underwear or bottles of scent. She would seize every opportunity to dive into the bathroom, in a swirl of white towels, and once in there she was as hard to dislodge as a limpet from a rock. The family in turn would bellow and batter on the door, getting no more satisfaction than an assurance that she was nearly finished, an assurance which we had learned by bitter experience not to have any faith in. Eventually she would emerge, glowing and immaculate,
One evening the rest of us had gone out and left Mother and Larry alone together. Larry had spent the evening singing more and more dismally, until he had succeeded in working them both into a fit of acute depression. They attempted to alleviate this state with the aid of wine, but unfortunately this had the reverse effect, for they were not used to the heavy wines of Greece. When we returned we were somewhat startled to be greeted by Mother, standing at the door of the villa with a hurricane lantern. She informed us with lady-like precision and dignity that she wished to be buried under the rose bushes. The novelty of this lay in the fact that she had chosen such an accessible place for the disposal of her remains. Mother spent a lot of her spare time choosing places to be buried in, but they were generally situated in the most remote areas, and one had visions of the funeral cortège dropping exhausted by the wayside long before it had reached the grave.
When left undisturbed by Larry, however, spring for Mother meant an endless array of fresh vegetables with which to experiment, and a riot of new flowers to delight her in the garden. There streamed from the kitchen a tremendous number of new dishes, soups, stews, savouries, and curries, each richer, more fragrant, and more exotic than the last. Larry began to suffer from dyspepsia. Scorning the simple remedy of eating less, heprocured an immense tin of bicarbonate of soda, and would solemnly take a dose after every meal.
‘Why do
you eat
so much if it upsets you, dear?’ Mother asked.
‘It would be an insult to your cooking to eat less,’ Larry replied unctuously.
‘You’re getting terribly fat,’ said Margo; ‘it’s very bad for you.’
‘Nonsense!’ said Larry in alarm. ‘I’m not getting fat, Mother, am I?’
‘You look as though you’ve put on a little weight,’ Mother admitted, surveying him critically.
‘It’s your fault,’ Larry said unreasonably. ‘You will keep tempting me with these aromatic delicacies. You’re driving me to ulcers. I shall have to go on a diet. What’s a good diet, Margo?’
‘Well,’ said Margo, launching herself with enthusiasm into her favourite topic, ‘you could try the orange-juice-and-salad one; that’s awfully good. There’s the milk-and-raw-vegetable one… that’s good too, but it takes a little time. Or there’s the boiled-fish-and-brown-bread one. I don’t know what that’s like, I haven’t tried it yet.’
‘Dear God!’ exclaimed Larry, genuinely shocked. ‘Are those diets?’
‘Yes, and they’re all very good ones,’ said Margo earnestly. ‘I’ve been trying the orange-juice one and it’s done wonders for my acne.’
‘No,’ said Larry firmly. ‘I’m not going to do it if it means that I have to champ my way like a damned ungulate through bushels of raw fruit and vegetables. You will all have to resign yourselves to the fact that I shall be taken from you at an early age, suffering from fatty degeneration of the heart.’
At the next meal he took the precaution of having a large dose of bicarbonate beforehand, and then protested bitterly that the food tasted queer.
Margo was always badly affected by the spring. Her personal appearance, always of absorbing interest to her, now becamealmost an obsession. Piles of freshly laundered clothes filled her bedroom, while the washing-line sagged under the weight of clothes newly washed. Singing shrilly and untunefully she would drift about the villa, carrying piles of flimsy underwear or bottles of scent. She would seize every opportunity to dive into the bathroom, in a swirl of white towels, and once in there she was as hard to dislodge as a limpet from a rock. The family in turn would bellow and batter on the door, getting no more satisfaction than an assurance that she was nearly finished, an assurance which we had learned by bitter experience not to have any faith in. Eventually she would emerge, glowing and immaculate,
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