The Education Of Epitome Quirkstandard

by A. F. Harrold

  Bringing up the rear of the party were Miss Penultimate and Mr Crepuscular. As they walked along, a little slower than the rest of the group, they found themselves sinking deeper and deeper into conversation. They found they had both visited, over the years, many of the same places in the obscurer (or at least, less English) corners of the world, albeit usually at different times, and they were happily swapping notes on all of these. But their conversation ranged further and wider than that. Crepuscular’s mind was sharp, fast, broad and shone a clear light wherever he pointed it and Miss Penultimate tried harnessing it for her own purposes. She suggested topics of thought that had snagged her over the years, questions of politics, equality, philosophies and the things one sometimes had to eat in extreme circumstances out in the field – these things that had sometimes confused her or left her ever so slightly uncertain whether she was in the right (although she’d rarely admit to such a thing). She steered him round to offering his thoughts and opinions and sometimes they agreed with hers, sometimes they overlapped, sometimes he saw things with a new eye and sometimes he was infuriating. Sometimes he claimed to have no opinion about something, even after she had outlined the facts of the matter (as she saw them), and she found this most peculiar, but slightly charming. All in all he was a good experience, she decided – talking to him was a fine clarifying experience.

  Between the end of lunch and the beginning of their walk Miss Penultimate had returned indoors and gone up to her bedroom. Having now met Epitome’s new friends she decided it was time to change her attire. Not knowing who they were going to be, or exactly what his relationship with them was, she had dressed modestly and formally, in a nice plain full dress, with sleeves and petticoats. However, once she had met and spoken with Simone Crepuscular she realised that there was no chance of her upsetting him with anything she could possibly wear, and so she changed into a pair of slightly battered, but perfectly serviceable, comfortable and twice-patched shorts, which came down to just above her knees. They’d served her well in the tropics and did just as well with a Sussex summer. On her feet, as usual, she tugged those old walking boots that had been with her for twenty years or more. They’d been resoled more times than she cared to remember, and several parts of the leather uppers had had to be replaced, along with lace after lace after lace. She rolled a pair of white cotton socks over the mouth of the boot once she’d done them up and holding her feet out before her (as she sat on the end of the bed) she thought that they looked quite dapper. She pulled a cream-coloured short-sleeved light cotton shirt on, buttoned it up and tucked the tails into the top of the shorts, did the belt up on those and once she’d grabbed a sturdy stick from the stick-stand by the back door, her battered old hat from the hat-stand and popped a picnic blanket into her rucksack was all ready to go out walking.

  Simone Crepuscular had smiled when he’d seen her come out of the cottage dressed like this, ‘A right adventurer,’ he’d said, and she’d been all ready to scold him for saying, ‘Adventuress,’ with a lecture on the patronising use of feminine endings, which, by and large, act as substitutions in fact for diminutive suffixes, but then she noticed what he’d actually said and thought to herself – this man keeps surprising me, in good ways; how unusual – and smiled.

  So Miss Penultimate and Mr Crepuscular kept up the rearguard, chattering enthusiastically. Every now and then Penelope would smile at Nancy, who was walking a dozen yards in front of them talking quietly with the younger Crepuscular (she couldn’t make out any of their conversation, not that she really tried, being quite consumed by her own). She smiled when Miss Walker turned round and smiled back at her. Whenever she did so she found a proud swelling in her chest – Nancy was beautiful, there were quite no two ways round it, her dark eyes stirred things in Penelope that felt more than quite delightful. She realised, at moments like this, when all sorts of wonderful happenstances came together, just how terribly happy she was.

  ‘It’s a wonderful world really,’ she’d say to Simone Crepuscular.

  ‘Indeed, madam, but we were discussing the pitiful state of the pay structure in medical facilities on the front line of the western front, not to mention the …’

  ‘Oh, I know, but, Mr Crepuscular, look around you …’

  ‘Oh, the world is beautiful, I wouldn’t want to live anywhere else.’

  ‘Well, that’s lucky, Mr Crepuscular, because you won’t.’

  ‘Indeed, Miss P., are you not a religious woman?’

  ‘No, not really. This is it, Mr Crepuscular. Not only is this as good as it gets, but this is all we get. Which is why those nurses really ought to be recompensed in a manner that isn’t insulting to the work they put in, especially when compared against the pay scale that not only the doctors but the male orderlies and stretcher bearers are …’

  And so she went on, talking about her life with a man who seemed to understand, who seemed to genuinely care and be interested, as the warm air of a lengthening summer’s afternoon played across her arms and legs and face, carrying the scents of the river, of the fields, of the blossom, the flowers, while locking eyes with her sweetheart, as somewhere further ahead her nephew played like a very tall child and the sounds of nature – the occasional trill of a coot; the deep, distant honk of a goose – lapped around her sensorium. Days didn’t get much better than this, she thought.

  Although, of course, she was still barred from voting in General Elections, but she buried this bitter thought as she turned once again to pay attention to this treasure that Epitome had brought her.

  Simone Crepuscular, for his part, shared very much in the feelings that were coursing through this remarkable woman by his side. He listened as she spoke of islands and jungles and forests and deserts she had been to, of the peoples she’d met or spoken to, and the rituals she had taken part in and the rites she had witnessed. His eyes glimmered and he found himself interrupting her, often, not because he wanted her to stop, but because he had something to add, and then he’d be going off on one of his stories, one of the stories of his life, of his travels, of his adventures or misadventures and then he’d remember that she was still in the middle of her story and he’d become quiet, apologise, ask her to go on. But he found as he told his tales she’d interrupt him too, go off on new tangents that had just occurred to her, that arose from something he’d said and he’d have to try to pick up his threads three minutes or five minutes further down the line. And so, as the afternoon went on, they each learnt half of the story of the other, learnt about halves of each others’ lives. He found it a most remarkable meeting. He hadn’t felt so alive, so involved for … well, he couldn’t remember quite the last time he’d talked for so long without growing bored of himself.

  He had, of course, talked with his sons about his travels, for much of them were their travels too, but since they’d been there at the time, however small they were, some of the thrill of explanation, of exclamation, of exploration was removed. They’d heard the stories often enough in childhood, and they didn’t always need to hear them told yet again. Reminiscing with them, was different to storytelling. Talking with Miss Penultimate was something different again. Of course, he had written it all down (in one form or another, as autobiography or as objective documentary, as reportage or as fiction), published most of it, but writing was an active act that held as its object a passive audience: it was without dialogue. He’d received some praise in the early years and letters from readers with questions but nothing had stimulated the follicles of his brain, he thought, quite like Miss Penelope Penultimate did.

  As he thought about these thoughts, in a rare moment of quiet that afternoon, there was a loud splash from up ahead where Mr Q. had become overexcited about one of Mr Spiggot’s sticks. It had looked as though the two had been having a tug-o-war competition. Spiggot had admitted defeat with a jaw-opening bark, sending the still tugging Quirkstandard down into the silvery stream.

  Nancy Walker and Simon Crepuscular worked together to get Quirkstandard out,
Spiggot not offering much assistance at all, even though the soaking had been his doing, and as they dangled a long branch for him to clutch their hands touched. It was just an accident, they only brushed against one another for a moment, and Simon blushed and apologised, but in that very singular moment as flesh touched flesh Nancy looked up at his mouth and wondered what it might feel like against hers. It was only a passing thought, no sooner glimpsed than it was gone, but all the same she was a little shocked and surprised to see that it had existed at all.

  As they helped Quirkstandard ashore Nancy looked back and watched as Penny and the old man came up to them. They were still chattering, Penny’s hands gesturing wildly and widely, her eyes bright with life, with light and his looking straight into them. She walked sort of half-sideways for a moment, facing the old Crepuscular, explaining something or other with arms working and rucksack bouncing. Nancy could hardly remember the last time she had seen her Penny looking quite so animated.

  *

  Miss Penultimate flicked out the blanket and they all sat down. Crepuscular opened the picnic basket, handed round the goodies and they each opened a bottle. They sat quietly as they ate, and just watched the river passing by. After a while, bottles of fizzy pop finished, apples munched and sandwiches swapped and eaten, Penelope pointed to a tree that grew out, at an angle, from the opposite bank of the river. There, in a low branch, sat a flash of emerald, a dash of blue. A tiny black eye regarded them for the merest of moments before deciding that they were not fish and were therefore not of interest. It returned to scanning the river. Then, in a dart of movement too fast for anyone to understand entirely, the kingfisher dove into the water and returned to its branch with a small silvery wriggle in its beak. With a cock of its head the fish vanished.

  ‘So beautiful,’ whispered Simone Crepuscular.

  ‘Oh, we’re lucky to have an Aunt in the country like mine,’ Quirkstandard whispered to Nigel Spiggot, ‘I’ve always been quite adman … adamun … adam-thingy about that point.’

  Nigel agreed whilst swallowing the crusts of Quirkstandard’s sandwich.

  Aunt Penelope smiled at the pair of them. Mr Spiggot was always polite and never any bother and his enthusiasm seemed to be, somehow, catching. She was pleased Epitome had made at least one friend at school, though she wondered and worried a little what would happen when the inevitable happened to Mr Spiggot in the next few years. Dogs do get through their lives that much faster.

  Quirkstandard stood up and reached for his underwear, which were hanging on a nearby branch drying in the sun. His moustache was drooping a shade and it was most fortunate that it had been trimmed recently, otherwise he thought it might have looked very silly indeed.

  He didn’t notice the pondweed in his hair.

  He pulled his long underpants on just as a pair of huge white swans landed on the river, causing the kingfisher to vanish. He got dressed as the others threw the swans the few final crumbs of their afternoon picnic and they started back, slowly, in the direction of the cottage.

  Chapter 27

  Charades & Moonlight

  That evening they sat in the garden. The sun was sinking and the shadows trailed long across the fading view, but the warmth held its ground in the air and only Venus and the pale paring of the crescent moon shone out of the deepening sky.

  Nancy poured the wine and everyone, except Nigel Spiggot, was drinking it in a convivial manner. That is to say, as it was poured they’d sip, hold their glasses for a moment as conversations fluttered around, then sip some more, paying more attention to the words being spoken, the game being played and the faces flashing than to the vintage, but it was good drinkable stuff and no one was being polite about it.

  Simon Crepuscular stood in the middle of the little semi-circle and everyone’s attention was focussed on him.

  ‘One word,’ someone said in response to his hand gesture.

  Simon nodded and began to trace another, more intricate sign with his hands.

  ‘A play, or a … No, a play. Yes?’

  He stood there for a moment, obviously thinking quite hard, but seemingly unable to come up with any way of continuing.

  ‘Um …’ he said.

  ‘No talking.’

  ‘Come on.’

  ‘What about the syllables?’

  ‘Yes, syllables Simon, come on …’

  He counted these out on his fingers as he half mouthed the play’s title and then held all four fingers and the thumb of his right hand in the crook of his left elbow.

  ‘Five syllables?’

  He nodded and went on, tapping just one finger in the same place.

  ‘First syllable.’

  He lifted his right hand up as if he were holding something: a ball, a pineapple, a very small Christmas pudding …

  ‘Um? Ball?’

  ‘Pineapple? No, that’s too many syllables …’

  ‘Pud?’

  He shook his head impatiently, trying to make it known that he hadn’t finished this particular part of the mime. As he shook his head he began to realise he’d maybe had enough of the wine. Anyway, he lifted the thing he held in his hand up to his mouth and pretended to bite into it.

  ‘Eat?’

  ‘Bite?’

  ‘Bit?’

  ‘Ate?’

  He bit again and made a show of turning the item around in his hand, so that he took a chunk out of different sides.

  ‘Simon, you’re making chomping noises … Is that allowed?’

  ‘Chomp?’

  ‘Is it a ball?’

  ‘No, Epitome …’

  ‘Hungry?’

  ‘Greedy?’

  ‘No, Mr Crepuscular, it’s still only one syllable …!’

  ‘What’s he doing now?’

  Simon was holding up, between his forefinger and his thumb (the former raised above the latter), the remains of his mime. He pointed at the space that simulated the existence of whatever it was he’d been eating. He pointed as if it were important.

  ‘What?’

  He moved it to his lips and took one small nibble from the edge to make the imaginary thing neater.

  ‘Is it an apple?’

  ‘Don’t be silly Nancy, that’s two syllables. He only wants one.’

  ‘Yes, I know Penny, I’m not stupid. But I think it might’ve been an apple before he started eating it, that’s what I mean.’

  ‘Well, if it was an apple before he started eating it, then it’s still an apple now.’

  ‘I didn’t see an apple.’

  ‘No Epitome, he was pretending. Nancy meant to say ‘an imaginary apple’.’

  ‘Oh, so it’s a core now.’

  ‘Well, ‘an imaginary core’, yes.’

  ‘Penny that’s what I meant, look …’

  Simon was trying to get their attention by hopping up and down (which also reminded him that he probably shouldn’t have another glass of that wine) and was grinning and pointing at Quirkstandard, while keeping a finger of his other hand on his nose.

  ‘Aha!’

  ‘Yes, so, five syllables … first syllable ‘core’ …’

  ‘See that’s what I was going to say Penny, ‘core’, I knew it was ‘core’ …’

  ‘Well, Epitome got it first.’

  ‘Only because I said it … I gave him the clue … he wouldn’t’ve got it himself if he’d had to try to think about it.’

  ‘She is right Auntie …’

  ‘Yes, but Epitome got it Nancy, do stop complaining.’

  ‘Let’s wait and see what comes next, shall we, ladies, gentleman … the game’s not over yet,’ said the elder Crepuscular trying to calm the situation down. Simon was stood tapping two fingers in his elbow.

  ‘Second syllable.’

  ‘Oh, goodie.’

  Simon tugged at his ear …

  ‘Sounds like …’

  … and pointed at his knee.

  ‘Knee.’

  He nodded. Quirkstandard beamed.

  �
��Oh, I’m doing good tonight …’

  ‘It only sounds like knee, Mr Q., you’re not quite there yet.’

  ‘Tree.’

  ‘Bee.’

  ‘Sea.’

  ‘Dundee.’

  ‘No, Epitome, it’s only one syllable. Look …’

  Simon was holding his forefinger and thumb up again, this time the space they measured was horizontal. He moved the fingers together repeatedly.

  ‘Does that mean smaller?’

  ‘Yes, I think so.’

  ‘What’s smaller than a knee?’

  ‘Um, an acorn, or a very small orange …?’

  ‘No, I think it means a word smaller than ‘knee’ … like ‘nn’ …?’

  ‘Or ‘ee’.’

  ‘Oh, Mr Q., I think you have it again, look how he’s nodding!’

  ‘Well done Epitome,’ said his Aunt, ‘You’re sailing with a tailwind tonight. Bravo.’

  ‘I was about to say that,’ said Nancy.

  She was sat in-between Lord Quirkstandard and Penny, with Mr Crepuscular the other side of Penny and Spiggot curled up at Quirkstandard’s feet. Every now and then a loud snore came from his floppy lips and he twitched a bit. That was quite sweet in a chocolate box sort of way, she thought.

  ‘So, ‘core, ee’ …’

  Simon tapped three fingers in his elbow and made a surprised look with his face.

  Nancy refilled her wine glass and slurped at it. This game was beginning to piss her off. She didn’t much like games anyway, except cards, and even then she only really liked the sort that involved matchsticks, because she had a sneaky, underhand method of cheating that nobody, in all the years she had played cards up at the castle, had been able to work out. They knew she must be cheating somehow, because she always ended up with more matchsticks than an excitable arsonist, but no one ever caught her. But she didn’t know any plays. This game was weighted against her. And when she turned to look at Penny, her usual recourse in unpleasant situations, she was appalled to see her seemingly enjoying the evening, and what’s more she was whispering something to the old guy in the loincloth. Good God! What was that all about?