King of the Badgers. Philip Hensher
wanting to thieve the honey within, and would chase him off with a flapping tea-towel and shrieks of alarm if she saw him sitting before it. As far as anyone knew, neither Mrs Grosjean’s bees nor Miranda Kenyon’s chickens had the slightest objection to Stanley sitting there, manoeuvring about him with their habitual chicken or bee noises, and he certainly seemed satisfied to sit and meditate in their presence. If it were rainy, however, he might settle for the more cryptic simulacrum of colony life presented by the washing-machine in Sam and Lord What-a-Waste’s kitchen once it arrived at the spin cycle. The only command he ever mastered, because everyone in Hanmouth said it to him, all the time, was ‘Go home, Stanley.’
‘I wish they’d go home,’ Miranda said, peering out of the window, although the rubbernecking crowds had only come this far in dribs and drabs, and there was no one to be seen. ‘How’s Lord What-a-Waste?’
‘Oh, he’s fine,’ Sam said. He joined Miranda at the window. Once, Miranda had gone into the greengrocer just as Sam was leaving it. The two awful old crones who ran it had been rearranging some rather wrinkly Coxes and discussing Sam. Yes, he was that lord’s—the one who worked as a lawyer in town—he was his boyfriend. They lived up behind the Strand in one of those old fishermen’s cottages—two, rather, knocked into one. Big house, now, all wood and glass inside. What a waste, one harridan assured the other. It was as if she had believed that a nice rich lord with a solicitor’s practice and a big house—two knocked into one—would otherwise have done very well for her, or her ghastly friend, or for one of their slack-jawed daughters. They hadn’t said the same about Sam, who only ran a cheese shop, and who, therefore, wasn’t so much of a catch. Or perhaps it was that, though Lord What-a-Waste was somewhat inclining to plumpness these days, Sam could only be described as fat. With his shaved head and full jowls, he had a certain charm but, as he said himself, no one would call him love’s young dream any more. In the greengrocer’s, Miranda had listened to this unbelievable conversation before buying a random bag of woolly Spanish tomatoes and going round to Sam’s shop. She had told him the whole story without any delay. It couldn’t have been funnier, and since then Harry had been Lord What-a-Waste, though naturally not to his face. ‘He couldn’t be more cheerful, actually. He’s got some lovely new bit of hypochondria on the go. Full of the joys of something that might turn out to be a goitre, he believes.’
‘What is a goitre?’ Miranda said.
‘Heaven alone knows,’ Sam said. ‘I only said it for the comic potential.’
‘Sciatica.’
‘Boils. Piles.’
‘Giant wen,’ Miranda said fondly, as if bringing out a pet name.
‘Gout,’ Sam said. The nice thing about Miranda was that you never had to explain a joke: she was quicker than any woman Sam had ever known to catch on to an elaborating absurdity. She could catch a principle. ‘And shingles.’
‘Shingles really isn’t amusing if you have it,’ Miranda said. ‘An old aunt of mine had it, and it was awful. Most of these things, it’s the old names that are so amusing, like the Shaking Palsy, which is Parkinson’s, isn’t it? I don’t know why they don’t think up a non-funny, anti-funny name for shingles that would mean you took it more seriously. As if psychiatrists had to say that their patients were loony, bonkers, round the twist and nut-jobs. Shingles sounds about as serious as freckles, and it’s no fun at all.’
‘Miranda, freckles can be terrifying,’ Sam said. ‘Much worse than Harry’s goitre, if it does turn out to be a goitre, which I seriously doubt. I don’t suppose any of them are actually enjoyable to get. Some of them sound funny, and some of them don’t. Goitre. Funny. Leukaemia. Not funny. Children used to get mumps, didn’t they? That’s a funny-sounding disease. Did Hettie get mumps ever?’
Miranda busied herself with some flowers on the walnut card table, and Sam saw that he had trodden on one of those occasional and unpredictable patches in Miranda’s life where she was not prepared to be clever or amusing. ‘I don’t know why you should know any better than I do. Is that Stanley out there again?’
‘Staring at the chickens,’ Miranda said. ‘They seem quite inured to him. If I were a chicken and there were an immobile great hound staring at my every doing from a foot away, I’d peck him on the nose. I haven’t noticed that he even stops them laying, though they won’t do it in front of him, which is what I guess he’s waiting to see.’
‘Like not being able to go to the loo with someone watching, I expect. I admire your hens’ composure immensely.’
‘Does Stanley sit and watch you on the lav in the morning, then?’ Miranda said. ‘Go on, you’re blushing, he does. I knew he did. Doesn’t it put you off laying?’
‘Please.’
Sam leant forward and tapped on the window. He meant to attract the attention of Stanley, in the fenced-off garden on the other side of the road. Stanley inclined to deafness, as basset hounds do. He made no response, his attention fully on the chicken coop. Or perhaps he did hear: the sound of knuckles rapping on windows followed him around, every day of his life. Just then, a woman was passing. ‘Woman. Came into the shop this afternoon. I’ve seen her around and about before,’ Sam said. ‘Bought half a pound of Wiltshire Gjetost and an olivewood cheeseboard for her new kitchen.’
‘Not a ghoulish tripper, then,’ Miranda said. Just then Billa and Kitty came to the door with their copies of The Makioka Sisters, each recognizable in a string bag, for the evening’s discussion. She went into the hallway and opened the door. For an odd moment Sam could hear her welcoming cries in two dimensions, from the outside and from the inside, like a two-woman chorus. Inexplicably, the woman who had waved at Sam came up behind Billa and Kitty. Sam went into the hallway, almost knocking over a Japanese lacquer table in his haste.
‘You don’t know me,’ the woman was saying to Miranda over Billa’s imperturbable green-quilted shoulder. ‘But I know you’re Miranda Kenyon. It’s nice to meet you. I live in the flats over there, on the top floor. With my husband. My name’s Catherine Butterworth.’
They were awkwardly placed. Sam relished these moments of embarrassing social disposition, and this one was almost unprecedented. Billa and Kitty were at the door, and could not be invited in without actively dismissing the woman. They stood there, half turned between Miranda and Miranda’s new friend, their smiles fixed and formal, not quite greeting anyone. Miranda’s smile in turn was general and remote. Probably, Sam reflected, never in her life had Billa been greeted with the words ‘You don’t know me, but…’
‘Hello there, Sam,’ Catherine Butterworth said, giving him a flap of a wave. He’d evidently told her his name, though he couldn’t remember doing so.
‘Hello, Catherine,’ he said. ‘Did you enjoy the Gjetost? Unusual cheese, that.’
‘Toffeeish,’ Catherine said. ‘Very unusual. We’re saving it for an after-dinner treat. I’ll let you get on. We’re having a little drink next week—next Saturday at six or so. Our son’s coming down to see our new place—he’s bringing his new partner, so we thought he’d like to meet some neighbours, too. Any of you. That would be delightful. Over there, in the block of flats—Woodlands. Silly name. On the top floor, number six—it’s the only flat on the top floor. Do come.’
‘On the top floor of the flats that spoil our view,’ Miranda said, once she had waved Catherine on her way and ushered Billa and Kitty towards the drinks table. A schooner of fino for Kitty, like wee in a test tube, and a gut-destroying but no doubt Colonel’s Mess-ish Campari and soda for Billa. Sam knew the clearing-out effects Campari had on Billa’s insides. He looked forward to the later stages of their Makioka discussions being accompanied by Billa’s thunderous tummy-rumbles. ‘I’ve never met anyone who lives there before. Couldn’t even identify them by sight.