“Excellent. I feel safer already. Do you have any other interesting neighbours, Mr Grubweed?”
Uncle puts his fork down, having skewered a roast potato the size of a fist. “Our nearest is Lady Ursula Beetle and her son, Horatio, who is the same age as Cornelius. He’s a handsome devil. Their house overlooks the lake. Deeper in the woods is the home of the retired Professor. He used to teach anthropology or some other nonsense at a university in London. He’s an eccentric recluse. And just round the corner in the yellow cottage is the retired actress Mrs Charm. She makes rather nice chutneys.”
“Well, I’m sure Pedrock and Boo Boo are going to have lots of fun with all these interesting people,” says Reverend Plum, stuffing a buttered carrot into his mouth.
“So, Pedrock,” says Mr Grubweed, “do you and your sister have any hobbies?”
“I like sailing, sir.”
“Sailing, eh? Well I know Grandpa upstairs has an old boat he might let you use on the lake.
And what about you, Boo Boo?”
Boo Boo replies, the frog sock puppet mouthing the answer, “I am a dinosaur. I like to eat people.”
“She’s a funny little girl. Certainly more lively than my three.”
“What about schooling for them?” inquires Reverend Plum.
“Let’s not worry about that over dinner. Mrs Charm does some occasional tutoring, I am sure that will suffice. And of course there’s Sunday school. The vicar, Mr Wormhole, provides a stimulating environment for young minds.”
“It all sounds very encouraging.”
The conversation for the rest of the main course comprises of Mr Grubweed going into some length about how you drain a corpse of all its bodily fluids and the price of coffins these days. The pudding is finally brought out: three piping hot apple and blackberry pies with a bowl of hot custard.
I am handed a huge slice, which I drown in custard.
“Who does the big black dog belong to, Mr Grubweed?” I ask.
“He’s Grandpa’s. His name is Guardian. Tore a man’s leg off once, bugger was trying to break into the house.”
“How charming. Do you have a local constabulary?” coughs Reverend Plum.
“No. When there’s trouble, which there has been, a fella from Scotland Yard pops up and investigates.”
“What sort of trouble have you had?”
“Well, apart from the odd thieving and poaching, quite a few people have gone missing over the last few years.”
“Missing?”
“Just disappeared. Body parts were found in the woods.”
“Good heavens. Has anything happened recently?” asks Reverend Plum.
“Last month, the butcher’s wife, Mrs Crumble. They found her foot hanging off a tree on the Beetle estate.”
“How did they know the foot was hers?” I ask.
“Clever boy. Well, apparently she only had four toes on one foot. It’s probably gypsies, or might be Mr Loveheart having a laugh.”
Reverend Plum has gone a peculiar shade of green. “I don’t feel very well,” he says, putting down his dessert spoon.
“I don’t think we can afford to overreact,” sighs Mr Grubweed. “There are certain compromises one makes when moving to the countryside.”
“Compromises?” cries a flabbergasted reverend.
“There are a lot of weirdoes out here. I’m a man of the world. My own father, who was a bricklayer, used to occasionally dress up in a ball gown and tiara and hang out at the Docks. Body parts in the woods; it’s all part of life. I’ve seen corpses explode before.”
“I need to lie down,” says Reverend Plum, rising from his chair. “I have a weak heart.”
“Josephine will take you to your room.” His wife, who hasn’t moved all evening, stands very slowly and, lurching like a recently dug up corpse, escorts Reverend Plum into the hallway. I finish my apple pie and have a second helping. It is delicious.
After dinner, Boo Boo and I are taken upstairs to our bedrooms, which are situated in the attic. Boo Boo’s is a tiny little room with a small window. I kiss her goodnight and she is tucked in with her frog puppet. Guardian the dog ambles up the stairs and slumps himself outside Boo Boo’s bedroom, keeping one eye open.
My own room is larger, with a view overlooking the herb garden and the woods. I stand on tiptoe and, peering out, can see through the mass of trees a turret peeking through. This, I think, must be the home of the mysterious Professor.
That night I dream the world is made of water. I am on a boat which floats softly on an ocean landscape as blue as angel eyes. A mirror world. I can see fat fish and suffocating vegetation deep underwater, tendrils of black seaweed and mutations of jellyfish. Odd glimpses of scissor-like creatures, horror-white, glistening under the looking-glass ripples.
Bloated egg-laying machines, with rainbow fins, drift lazily by my little boat, which drifts deeper into the water-world. Loosing itself in liquid.