The Palace of Laughter by Jon Berkeley Page A

and sausage into their stubbly faces and washing them down with pitchers of dark wine. Miles looked at them curiously. An air of resigned misery seemed to surround them like a fog, and hardly a word was spoken as they ate. Two small girls chased each other among the tables,laughing, but no one paid them any attention. At the nearest table sat a stocky man in a shapeless hat, and a plump woman with several chins. They had a large feed spread out on the rough boards before them, and they were working their way through it with a kind of sad vigor. A half-demolished pie sat in front of each of them, and with a large forkful of steak and pastry on its way into her mouth it looked like Mrs. Farmer was ahead in that particular race. Between them on the table sat a basket piled with crusty bread, and a bowl of green olives that Mr. Farmer was tossing in handfuls between his thin lips after every mouthful of pie. Two plates of sausage were all but done for.
    Miles felt a yawning cavern in his stomach at the sight of all this food. His morning bowl of hot porridge seemed a lifetime ago. Mrs. Farmer caught sight of him standing in the road, transfixed at the sight of her enormous lunch. She stared sadly at him for a moment, then returned her attention to her food. As Miles contemplated the best way to get himself and Little fed, without so much as a brass penny between them, the landlady of the inn bustled out among the tables. By contrast to her customers she wore a broad grin, and sang snatches of some tune that must have sounded considerablybetter in its original form, or it would have been strangled at birth.
    She planted her tray on the end of Mr. and Mrs. Farmer’s table. “Now, ducks,” she said happily. “One jug of wine and a bottle of Tau-Tau’s.” She took from her pocket a small bottle with a bright green label, which she uncorked and emptied into an earthenware wine jug. She picked the jug up, swirled its contents around for a moment, then slopped a generous measure into two glass tumblers, which she plonked on the table. The farmer and his wife picked the glasses up greedily and emptied the contents in unison. The farmer refilled them at once.
    They carried on eating with no less gusto, but it seemed that Mrs. Farmer’s cheeks were growing redder by the moment. She glanced in Miles’s direction again, and stopped in mid-chew, a ribbon of cabbage hanging from the corner of her mouth. She nudged her husband sharply in the ribs. He had just put his tumbler to his lips, and took more wine up his nose than into his mouth. While he coughed and spluttered into a grubby handkerchief, Mrs. Farmer beckoned to Miles. “Come here, come here,” she called, a smile breaking out on her plump face. “Don’t be shy, lad.”
    The farmer glared at Miles as he shoved hishandkerchief back up his sleeve. “No beggin’ allowed here,” he grunted, tearing off a chunk of bread and wedging it into his cheek to allow other food free passage through his mouth.
    â€œOh put a sock in it, George,” said Mrs. Farmer, whose mood seemed to be brightening by the second. “Can’t you see the boy’s ’ungry? Looks like he’s never had a proper feed in his life. Where’d you come from, lad? Call your little sister over—there’s plenty ’ere for both of you.”
    Mr. Farmer stared over Miles’s shoulder in puzzlement. “What little sister, woman? There’s only another young lad there.”
    â€œDon’t be daft, George! Them’s just boy’s clothes. Anyone can see it’s a little girl what’s wearing ’em, ain’t that right, lad?” Miles nodded. “She’s shy,” he said.
    â€œBless ’er,” said the plump woman, chuckling, it seemed, at nothing in particular. She emptied some of the bread basket into her pie dish, filling the empty space with the remaining slices of sausage and a lump of rank