Pumping Up Napoleon (9 page)

‘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.'

‘Dear me, my child,' says the priest, in a tone of the mildest shock. ‘A whole week. And have you sinned again already?'

‘I have, Father.'

‘And what have you done in the last week to be sorry about before God?'

‘I've….'

‘Yes…?' I see him tilt his head.

How to begin?

It was a long hot climb up from the playground, and I was panting by the time I reached the top. My sister Debs was sitting with her back to me. Her friends, Molly and Karen, must have given her a look to warn her, because Debs said, without turning around, ‘Go away'. The boys with them didn't look at me.

I sat down.

Debs snorted. Molly said nothing but rolled her eyes. Karen said nothing but adjusted her bra, giving rise to a little flutter of hands from my sister and Molly, as if they would like to adjust their bras too. Except they weren't wearing any. The boys looked at each other and grinned. Karen laughed her little spluttering laugh; my sister and Molly went pink.

I looked away. Below us on the field, a group of girls were making outlines of houses using cut grass and wondering where to put the bedrooms (I
told
them they had to make bungalows); further down, a bunch of my year were playing their favourite game.

It used to be
War
, in which one group of grey shorts and skirts swooped on another and there was some shirt pulling. I wouldn't play;
War
is evil, isn't it? Unless someone is really wrong and you are right. I told them that. It didn't make any difference: they just played without me. The whole school played, except the little ones. But then Michael King got stung in the face with nettles and it was nearly his eyes.

Next thing, I thought, they could be hitting each other with sticks. That really worried me, so I did what I'm supposed to do if I'm worried. I told the nearest grown-up, which was the dinner-lady, and she told the headmistress, who gave the whole school a stern talking to and said that
War
was banned.

So now my year and some of the older ones too, I see, were playing a game called
Rape
instead, which is a bit like kiss-chase, with more wrestling. I wasn't asked to join in.

‘What are you doing?' I said, half-looking at my sister; but the question mark hung there for all of them.

‘
Nothing
,' said Debs. ‘Go a-
way
.'

Then the bell rang and they all went down the hill, nobody saying anything.

Sunday. Debs and I set off for Mass together, as usual. In her short brown skirt and patterned blouse my sister looked like she was going to a disco.

Mum was still reading the paper when we left.

‘Why don't you come, Mum?' I said.

‘Too much to do, Honeybunny. But you go and say a prayer for me.'

I always do; I think I do all of mum's praying for her, but I don't mind. It's better than having her roast in Hell. I know, mum isn't a Catholic, so for her it's not really a sin to miss Church, like it is for me; and she keeps the promise she made when she married Dad to bring us up ‘in the faith', even if she didn't keep the one about forsaking all others (as Dad says). I think that, in her way, mum is a good person. But still, I can't help worrying about her immortal soul. ‘It's great being a Catholic, Mum,' I tell her, and I really believe it.

‘Why's that, honey?' says my mum.

I have to think; it's always been a feeling; now I have to find words for it: ‘Because you never have to be on your own'. But after I've said it, I wonder if it sounds stupid, because she smiles.

When we got to Hangar Lane, which is only half way to the church, Debs says, ‘You go on. I'll catch you up. Wait for me after.'

‘But where are you going?' I said.

‘I've just got to speak to Karen,' she said. ‘Don't be nosey.'

I walked on a bit; this was wrong. I turned back to see if Debs was watching me, but Karen was already there and they were talking and not looking at me. Then, to my amazement, instead of saying goodbye to Karen and coming after me, my sister turned away with her friend and went off in the opposite direction. In a few moments they had turned left down the steep short lane to the kissing gate and the meadow by the river.

I closed my mouth and swallowed. A car came past and the woman driving looked at me with a frown. Instead of turning and walking to the church, I followed my sister. I would have to miss Mass too –
and that was my first sin.

When I got to the top of the lane, Debs and Karen were not to be seen, but the kissing gate squeaked and banged. I hurried down after them, but stopped before going through.

On the far side of the gate was an old man in a flat cap, shuffling along the path, tugged by a little white dog at the end of its lead. He was a big man, so the dog had to work very hard; it was panting and its tongue stuck out. Walking away from the path, towards the riverbank, were Debs and Karen – and Molly was there too, and behind them were three boys, Michael King and his mates. The man stopped and turned to look at them. His mouth opened and he shouted, in a much louder voice than I expected: ‘I know what you're doing!'

Michael King turned to look at him and I ran, scared, back up the lane and waited and waited, until the little dog, half-strangled, pulled the muttering old man up the hill and away.

Hurrying back to the meadow, I opened the kissing gate slowly – just a little bit, so that it gave just a tiny peep – and slipped through. My heart beat so fast I felt sick. There was no one to be seen in the meadow. Trying to go quietly, but not look as if I was creeping, I went along the path, all the way to the other side where another gate, flanked by tall dusty nettles, leads into the North River housing estate. Then I turned round, thinking if I ran all the way to church, I would only miss the start of Mass. But what about my sister? I didn't want her to get into trouble.

Not knowing what to do, I was thinking I might cry for a bit, when I heard Karen laugh from over by the river. Of course: the grassy bank slopes to the water and you can't be seen there if you're lying down. Then my sister shrieked.

I pulled the sleeve of my Sunday cardigan down over my hand and bent a big nettle stalk near the roots, trying to snap it; but it wouldn't break. I had to pull the whole plant up by the roots. Trailing soil, I charged the riverbank. But they weren't there.

A ‘ssh' and a giggle and an ‘oh!' came from behind the tresses of a willow tree.

As I crept up I could see the boys' knees and shoes and the girls' bare legs where the fronds hung thinner near the ground. They must have seen my shoes; someone said ‘Shit!' and there was the sound of a gasp and a zip.