Pumping Up Napoleon

by Maria Donovan

  ‘Don’t fuss, darling. She’ll bring it when she’s ready.’

  ‘Are we expecting someone else?’ asked Michael, nodding at the unoccupied chair.

  ‘Well, there’s Mrs Brightwell of course!’ said Vanessa’s mother.

  Michael went red and was opening his mouth to apologise, when the door was thrust open and in came Mrs Brightwell with the fish.

  ‘There you are, Mrs Brightwell,’ said Vanessa’s father. ‘We were beginning to think you’d been eaten by sharks.’

  ‘Stove’s playing up, Commander. And I see the fire in here’s not chucking out too much warmth either.’ She looked balefully at the hearth, before uncovering the platter to reveal a large whole sea bass on a bed of tough-looking greens.

  ‘Champagne, Mrs Brightwell?’ said Vanessa, casting Michael a look.

  Michael hastened to fill the housekeeper’s glass.

  Mrs Brightwell received the glass and raised it. ‘Here’s to the birthday girl,’ she said, and took a swig.

  They all raised their glasses and drank.

  ‘How kind you all are,’ said Mrs Clifford. ‘Shall we admire the fish?’

  ‘It’s a fine fish,’ said Mrs Brightwell.

  ‘A magnificent fish,’ Michael put in quickly.

  ‘A fish fit for a queen,’ said Vanessa.

  ‘What sort of fish is it?’ asked Michael.

  ‘A big one,’ said the Commander, picking up his knife and fork. ‘Now, will you be doing the dishing, Mrs Brightwell?’

  While Mrs Brightwell was leaning forward to work on the fish, her rump obscured Michael’s view of the Commander. So he turned to Vanessa and her mother.

  ‘Was it caught round here?’ said Michael.

  Mrs Clifford smiled, but it was busy Mrs Brightwell who answered. ‘The Commander caught it yesterday. Bit of luck eh, Commander?’

  The Commander said, ‘Mrs Brightwell likes to tease; don’t you, Mrs Brightwell? Fish like this don’t swim past every day.’

  ‘A bit like our Vanessa,’ said Mrs Brightwell, lifting some fish-meat clear of the bone. When she handed a plate to Michael, he thanked her and put it down in front of him. She handed him another and said in a low voice, ‘Pass this along, would you, Michael? There’s a dear.’

  When they were all served, Vanessa said, ‘Michael’s all set to lend a hand with the harvest, Daddy. He’s bought himself a nice new Barbour and a shiny pair of wellies.’

  They laughed and Michael joined in.

  ‘The fish is superb,’ he said.

  ‘And how do you like your sea kale?’ asked Vanessa.

  ‘Interesting texture,’ said Michael. ‘I’ve never had it before.’

  ‘Grows on the shore,’ said the Commander. ‘I’ll show you when we go fishing.’

  After dinner they sat for a spell in the drawing room, which was chintzy and stoic. The walls were lined with bookshelves and a stack of hardbacks held up one end of a chaise longue. Michael sat next to Vanessa (not holding her hand) and asked things about the area, and about the house, all the time braced and ready for a return volley of questions; questions which did not come.

  At last the Commander stood up.

  ‘Early start tomorrow then, Michael,’ said the Commander. ‘Wake you at six?’

  Michael laughed politely.

  ‘He thinks you’re joking, Daddy,’ said Vanessa.

  Michael couldn’t sleep. He sat on the edge of his bed and stirred the fluff on the worn carpet with his bare big toe. Through the silence in the house, he could make out the flump and drag of waves on the shore.

  He got up and cautiously opened his door. He hadn’t even had a chance to find out where Vanessa was sleeping; so now he was just listening, hoping to be able to hear her voice and home in on it.

  He could hear faint sounds of activity coming from below. Michael put on his new slippers, wrapped his new dressing gown over his new pyjamas, tied the belt firmly and crept downstairs.

  First he went back into the drawing room and looked for something to read, something mildly entertaining. There were books on gardening and the gathering of edible wild plants, back to back with novels by Jack London and Iris Murdoch, mostly old hardbacks with tatty dust jackets. The book he really needed – Getting on with the Cliffords: an Instruction Manual – being absent, he passed over The Call of the Wild and picked up a copy of The Sea, The Sea. Then he went along the passage to the kitchen, knocked and pushed open the door.

  Mrs Brightwell and the Commander were sitting opposite each other at the table. Between them was a white saucer holding some purple sludge. Their heads were close together and they both looked round as he came in. The smell in the kitchen was both tart and sweet. A big saucepan sitting on the stove was making gentle plopping sounds.

  ‘Just wanted a drink of water. Got myself a book. Hope that’s OK,’ Michael said, moving quickly to the sink. He looked around for a glass but all the work-surfaces were clear.

  Mrs Brightwell pressed her hands down on the table as if about to push herself up.

  But the Commander placed one of his hands over one of hers and said, ‘Sit down, Vera. There are glasses in the cupboard to your right, Michael. Help yourself. Mrs Brightwell’s had a long day.’

  ‘The jam won’t set,’ sighed Mrs Brightwell.

  ‘Oh dear,’ said Michael.

  Silence.

  ‘Well, goodnight.’ Michael took the water and went back up the stairs. In the corridor he looked at all the doors and listened as he walked past. Nothing.

  Back in his room, he read, until the sound of the waves dragged him down, at last, into sleep.

  The Commander woke him at dawn with a cup of tea.

  Michael went down to the kitchen to find Mrs Brightwell stirring the contents of her vat with a purple-stained wooden spoon.

  ‘Help yourself to porridge, Michael,’ she said, nodding at another pan. ‘And have a dollop of this.’ She held up her spoon and the dark preserve ran off it. ‘I still can’t get it to set.’

  The Commander came in and rested a shotgun against the wall. ‘Rabbits first, I think, Michael.’

  ‘I’ve never handled a gun,’ he said.

  ‘The main thing,’ said Mrs Brightwell, ‘is not to get in front of the wrong end.’

  ‘It’s better with two of us,’ said the Commander. ‘I usually have to make do with you, don’t I, Vera?’ They both laughed.

  Michael wondered if he would have to shoot. Could the Commander’s fingers pull the trigger?

  ‘Yes,’ said Mrs Brightwell. ‘We used to have a dog; but then, rather carelessly, it died.’

  The Commander’s arthritic fingers had no trouble managing a shotgun. He was fairly silent at first, letting the gun speak for him. When enough beasts had been killed and collected and Michael was festooned with game, the Commander began to speak about Brandy, the foolish gun dog who’d got in the line of fire. ‘Terrible waste. And you’d think she’d have had it in the blood. Worst of it is we shan’t get the chance of a puppy for a good six months.’

  On their return they found the kitchen empty. Michael stood while the Commander unhooked the rabbits and pigeons from his shoulders.

  ‘Coffee for the hunters,’ said the Commander. He made it himself then left Michael alone in the kitchen, while he took a tray upstairs to his wife.

  The stove hissed. Moments passed before a door banged and Vanessa came in carrying a basket of mushrooms. He got up to take it from her; it wasn’t heavy.

  ‘Look,’ she said, ‘a parasol. And there was the most enormous puff-ball I’ve ever seen, but it had gone spongy.’

  ‘Vanessa,’ said Michael.

  She took the basket from him and set it on the table. ‘Don’t worry,’ she said. ‘You’re doing fine; just be yourself.’

  Just then Mrs Brightwell busied in with an armful of wood, slammed it down next to the stove, said, ‘Now then, you two,’ and bustled out again.

  Michael’s voice dropped to a whisper. ‘Actually, I think
your father’s getting used to me; he was telling me all about Brandy.’

  That afternoon, the Commander set Michael to work in the garden. Michael had to be shown how to lift potatoes from the soil, a task the Commander clearly regarded as something every schoolboy should know.

  Michael filled the sacks, working the garden from side to side. But he always seemed to be at the wrong end of a row whenever Vanessa went past. His back ached and he wanted to hear her say a few words of encouragement. The fourth time she went out with her basket she waved and smiled. He stood as upright as he could and waved back, grimacing.

  He went on lifting potatoes from the soil with the fork, and bending to gather them, for what seemed a very long time. But he had to admit that it felt good to be outdoors on this quiet, white-skied autumn day.

  Mrs Brightwell came past with a plastic box full of red and blue-black berries, followed by the Commander wiping on his trousers the soil from some carrots he had pulled.

  Mrs Clifford, like an afternoon ghost, appeared at her bedroom window, wrapped in the same peignoir as yesterday. She waved at Michael, smiled and moved out of sight.

  The Commander hauled away the full sacks of potatoes. His ancient trousers were smeared with soil and dried blood, to which clung wisps of rabbit fur.

  Late in the afternoon Michael and the Commander went down to the sea.

  They walked down across the fields in silence. Michael had put on his new wellies and Barbour. The Commander, dressed in an old jacket and sea boots, had looked him up and down and grunted.

  Both men carried a rod and a bucket. Michael was expecting that now would come the questions – about his job, his background and his prospects – and he had his answers racked like sardines ready for the grilling. When they got to the shingle bank the Commander pointed out the source of the sea kale they had eaten the night before. ‘Blanch the stems,’ he said. ‘See the way we heap the shingle up around them?’

  A wooden bridge took them across some reed beds through which brackish water seeped. A short distance away was the car park at West Bexington and they crossed a track smothered by large pebbles, only suitable for horse or tractor, or going on foot. The Cliffords’ old rowing boat lay behind a clump of bushes growing out of the shingle. Michael helped the Commander to turn it over and then they lifted it together and began to carry it between them, up the pebble bank.

  As they topped the rise Michael felt the sea-wind and saw the whole curve of the Bay. Nearer the car park, the sea’s edge was dotted with fishermen standing at the shoreline or seated behind rods perched on stands. Some had made encampments: tents, foldout stools, windbreaks, fires or portable barbecues. A few children were fishing with their fathers, and there were one or two women; mostly the females were well wrapped up, and reading, sitting on rugs with their legs stuck straight out in front of them, looking up now and then at the view. Michael and the Commander marched down to the water’s edge, their feet flicking up pebbles.

  At the lip of the sea the beach dived under the water, which was, on that day, deep and clear from the very edge. Here they set the boat down and, while the Commander held onto the stern, Michael climbed in and took up the oars. Then the Commander stepped on board, pushing with his foot to set them going. ‘Easy today,’ said the Commander. ‘Hardly any swell and the tide’s just right. Just row straight out until I tell you to stop.’

  Michael rowed. The Commander rubbed his gnarled hands together. After a bit he said, ‘That’ll do. Don’t want to end up in France.’

  The Commander showed Michael how to bait his hook and cast his lines. They settled down to fish. Michael faced the shore; the Commander had his back to him. Again there was silence between them. Perhaps it was another hangover from the war, thought Michael, a case of ‘careless talk costs lives’. But that was nonsense, if you worked it out. Vanessa’s father would have been a boy still in 1945.

  ‘I was shipwrecked on a desert island once,’ said the Commander. ‘For quite a long time actually. Very hot. A real desert island. Not much water. Best to keep your mouth closed when the sun’s up, conserves moisture.’

  Michael nodded, but then remembered the Commander couldn’t see him, and said, ‘Oh?’ But there was no reply.

  It was the Commander who reeled in the first three catches. Michael wanted to reel in his line too, but there had been no pull to suggest he had a bite. Long minutes passed and Michael wondered if he could bring up the subject of his intentions towards the Commander’s daughter. But he didn’t know how to begin. His fingers went numb but he did not like to blow on them. Why hadn’t he thought to wear gloves? Time stretched out and snapped back on him so that he actually jumped when the Commander spoke again.

  ‘Getting a big chilly. Time to have a bit of a row, go out and check for prawns,’ said the Commander. He began to reel in his line.

  ‘Prawns?’ said Michael, hastily following suit. ‘Fantastic. I love prawns.’

  ‘These are good ones,’ said the Commander. ‘Big and juicy.’

  The Commander took over the rowing and brought them out to his marker. Then he hauled on a line that dipped under the surface of the sea. Michael looked over the side, as well as he could for fear of tipping the boat.

  ‘Ah, here she comes,’ said the Commander. ‘Lend a hand. Take the oars and keep the boat steady.’

  Reaching out over the side with a gaff hook he drew something big and heavy through the water towards him. When it was up against the side of the boat he leaned out and began to gather large prawns and drop their living bodies into the bucket between his legs.

  ‘This can be your contribution to the Harvest Supper,’ said the Commander. ‘If you’re staying until tomorrow?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Michael, ‘well, that’s very kind.’

  ‘Good man,’ said the Commander. ‘Right then. I suppose to make it honest you ought to do some of the harvesting yourself.’ And he pushed the bucket over to Michael, who looked at the prawns in it – at their semi-opaque yellowish little bodies, their spindly black eyes like a tangle of old-fashioned pins, and their suckery little mouths.

  ‘Here,’ said the Commander, pushing the big thing through the water in Michael’s direction.

  Michael looked over the side. Coming towards him was the bloated and partially decayed carcass of a once-black dog. The tails of the prawns still attached to it swayed in the currents round the boat.

  ‘Wonderful,’ said the Commander. ‘Bounty of the ocean. You look a bit pale, Michael. Are you all right?’

  Michael felt the boat heave.

  ‘Waste not, want not, Michael,’ said the Commander. ‘I’ll hold her and you pluck.’

  Michael had no intention of eating them. He felt mean about giving them to the villagers but consoled himself with the thought that really there was nothing wrong with the prawns; of course there wasn’t. But still, just in case, he pretended he had been called back to London on urgent business. To his relief, Vanessa agreed to go back with him.

  ‘What a shame you’ll miss the Harvest Supper,’ said Mrs Clifford.

  ‘Yes, isn’t it.’ said Michael.

  Vanessa, Mrs Clifford and Mrs Brightwell were all very impressed with the catch, and gave their men due praise. The Commander grinned at Michael, who managed to smirk sheepishly back.

  As he went to his room before dinner, he looked again at the paintings and photographs of the Cliffords, with their succession of sad-eyed labradors, and hoped they were not able to judge him from beyond the grave.

  Michael knew his visit had been a success when he was hailed with cordiality and warmth as soon as he showed his face that evening.

  ‘Well, we’re very pleased to have met you,’ said Commander Clifford. ‘A pity you can’t stay longer, but no doubt you’ll be back again. We can’t do without our daughter, you know.’ He looked fondly at Vanessa then raised his glass as if to seal the bargain.

  ‘Anyway. Here’s to the hunters,’ said Vanessa’s mother.

  They all
smiled and drank; Mrs Brightwell took the lid off the large dish in the centre of the table.

  ‘You brought back so many of these beauties,’ she said, ‘we thought the village could spare us a few for tonight. No reason why you should miss out altogether.’

  She held out her hand for Michael’s plate and gave him a large helping of prawns, and a brilliant smile.

  ‘How marvellous,’ said Mrs Clifford.

  ‘Yes,’ said Mrs Brightwell. ‘Dear Brandy. She goes on serving.’

  They all laughed, and Michael joined in, nervously.

  The Commander took a prawn, peeled it, and popped it in his mouth. Vanessa and the others did the same. With her mouth full, not chewing yet, Vanessa looked at Michael, waiting like the others.

  He picked up a prawn and held it in one hand. With the fingers of the other hand he pulled off its head. Shucking the body from its case, Michael brought the lump of pink flesh to his mouth – and put it in.

  Vanessa smiled, her mother nodded, Mrs Brightwell winked.

  ‘Good man,’ said the Commander.

  Then they all began to chew together.

  The Real Thing

  A red light burns on the altar: this is the eternal presence of God. What would happen if I crept up there and tried to blow it out?

  Father Treavey coughs inside the confessional box. I don’t think he has germs; the cough means, ‘A-hem. Is anybody there? Or can I go home for my tea?’ A nice Saturday afternoon tea with sandwiches and homemade cake.

  I get up off my knees, bob up and down before the altar, cross myself, and go into the box.

  ‘You’ll have to speak up, my child,’ says Father Treavey, ‘I’m afraid I can’t hear you.’

  Kneeling in the dark. His face, looking away on the other side of the grille, as if I see it through a dark veil (I wore a white one for my First Communion, that’s how I know). I also know what he looks like: a face with the colour rubbed away, leaving it pale, soft, pouchy. A vague, polite smile.

  I begin again, but louder, ‘Bless me, Father for I have sinned. It is one week since my last Confession.’