are all God’s children, when all is said and done. Whether we choose to see that or not. Don’t you think?”
“You’ve got a bargain there, squire. I’d go home very happy if I were you.”
Turning his back, Gledhill went back to the tap of ice cold water and washed his red raw hands with the thoroughness of a surgeon. Cushing had researched surgeon’s methods for the Frankenstein films and it was the kind of thing he watched and made a mental note of, habitually. He found it interesting, vital, that there were telltale rituals and practices that made a profession look authentic, or inauthentic if wrong. It was essential to make the audience believe in the part one was playing, however ludicrous the part may be on paper. That was one’s job. That was why they called it ‘make believe’. Make. Believe.
Cushing waited.
Believe in yourself, Peter…
“Anything else you want, mate?” Gledhill turned his head and stared at the old man. “Apart from the Dover sole?”
Peter Cushing decided he would not be hurried. Why should he be?
“Let me see…”
He lingered. And the more he lingered the more he realised he was enjoying the discomfort his lingering engendered.
Les Gledhill did not do anything so obvious as a quick, shifty look towards his colleagues to reveal his unease. He would never have been that blatant. Nor did he become twitchy or self-conscious in any way. In fact his motions became slower and more considered. That, in itself, told a story—that the very presence of the old man in wellington boots made him uneasy. And he didn’t like it. A person who got a certain thrill from the control of others seldom enjoyed the feeling that someone else had control of him.
“Have you ever tasted oysters, Mr Cushing?” Gledhill picked up one of the shelled creatures from a plastic bucket in front of him.
“I thought the oysters round here had all succumbed to disease and pollution.”
“Not if you know where to look. I think of it as a hobby. Go out on a Sunday. Maybe get a hundred. You haven’t answered my question. Sir.” His intention was to intimidate, rather than be intimidated. That much was clear.
“My preference is towards plain food.”
“Then you don’t know what you’re missing. Marvellous stuff.” Gledhill took a knife from a leather satchel. It was a short, stubby one with a curve in the blade. “You break them open.” Metal scraped against the shell. He turned the object in his hand and opened it as if it were hinged. “Dab of vinegar if you prefer. Or just as it comes.” He ran the knife under the slimy-looking bivalve, cutting its sinewy attachment. It sat in its juices. “Then into the mouth they go.” He slid it off the half-shell onto his tongue, savouring it for a second or two, no longer, then swallowed. “One bite. Two at the most. Then down like silk. Nectar. Nothing like it.”
“Not for me.”
“Not for everybody, that’s for sure. Some people find it repulsive. Some can’t even bear the idea and run a mile. But to gourmets, those who appreciate the good things in life, well… they’re a little taste of Heaven.” Gledhill’s eye was steady again. Unblinking. “Acquired taste, of course…”
“If you say so.”
“Don’t knock it ‘til you try it. As they say.”
“Something eaten whilst it is still alive, simply in order to give a person pleasure? I find that rather… obscene.”
“In a way. In another way, it’s the peak of civilized behaviour. The stuff of banquets and kings. Of aristocracy and riches and palaces. The supreme indulgence. The Romans introduced them here two thousand years ago. Long ago as the time of Christ. Makes you think, doesn’t it?”
“Perhaps.”
“Lot of algae and low in salinity, the Thames Estuary. Knew a thing or two, those Romans.” He tossed away the empty shell into a bucket half-full of them, shortly to add to the ‘cultch’ bed upon which the ‘spat’ of the next generation would settle.
“You’ve got a bargain there, squire. I’d go home very happy if I were you.”
Turning his back, Gledhill went back to the tap of ice cold water and washed his red raw hands with the thoroughness of a surgeon. Cushing had researched surgeon’s methods for the Frankenstein films and it was the kind of thing he watched and made a mental note of, habitually. He found it interesting, vital, that there were telltale rituals and practices that made a profession look authentic, or inauthentic if wrong. It was essential to make the audience believe in the part one was playing, however ludicrous the part may be on paper. That was one’s job. That was why they called it ‘make believe’. Make. Believe.
Cushing waited.
Believe in yourself, Peter…
“Anything else you want, mate?” Gledhill turned his head and stared at the old man. “Apart from the Dover sole?”
Peter Cushing decided he would not be hurried. Why should he be?
“Let me see…”
He lingered. And the more he lingered the more he realised he was enjoying the discomfort his lingering engendered.
Les Gledhill did not do anything so obvious as a quick, shifty look towards his colleagues to reveal his unease. He would never have been that blatant. Nor did he become twitchy or self-conscious in any way. In fact his motions became slower and more considered. That, in itself, told a story—that the very presence of the old man in wellington boots made him uneasy. And he didn’t like it. A person who got a certain thrill from the control of others seldom enjoyed the feeling that someone else had control of him.
“Have you ever tasted oysters, Mr Cushing?” Gledhill picked up one of the shelled creatures from a plastic bucket in front of him.
“I thought the oysters round here had all succumbed to disease and pollution.”
“Not if you know where to look. I think of it as a hobby. Go out on a Sunday. Maybe get a hundred. You haven’t answered my question. Sir.” His intention was to intimidate, rather than be intimidated. That much was clear.
“My preference is towards plain food.”
“Then you don’t know what you’re missing. Marvellous stuff.” Gledhill took a knife from a leather satchel. It was a short, stubby one with a curve in the blade. “You break them open.” Metal scraped against the shell. He turned the object in his hand and opened it as if it were hinged. “Dab of vinegar if you prefer. Or just as it comes.” He ran the knife under the slimy-looking bivalve, cutting its sinewy attachment. It sat in its juices. “Then into the mouth they go.” He slid it off the half-shell onto his tongue, savouring it for a second or two, no longer, then swallowed. “One bite. Two at the most. Then down like silk. Nectar. Nothing like it.”
“Not for me.”
“Not for everybody, that’s for sure. Some people find it repulsive. Some can’t even bear the idea and run a mile. But to gourmets, those who appreciate the good things in life, well… they’re a little taste of Heaven.” Gledhill’s eye was steady again. Unblinking. “Acquired taste, of course…”
“If you say so.”
“Don’t knock it ‘til you try it. As they say.”
“Something eaten whilst it is still alive, simply in order to give a person pleasure? I find that rather… obscene.”
“In a way. In another way, it’s the peak of civilized behaviour. The stuff of banquets and kings. Of aristocracy and riches and palaces. The supreme indulgence. The Romans introduced them here two thousand years ago. Long ago as the time of Christ. Makes you think, doesn’t it?”
“Perhaps.”
“Lot of algae and low in salinity, the Thames Estuary. Knew a thing or two, those Romans.” He tossed away the empty shell into a bucket half-full of them, shortly to add to the ‘cultch’ bed upon which the ‘spat’ of the next generation would settle.
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