Unseen Academicals

‘I mean, for some of the others, like Rotten Johnny, I nearly wear my knee out, but Trev’s just … sweet, all the time.’

‘Look, I know you told me to keep out of this, and I know I’ve been a terrible sinner in my time and hope to remain so, but I have been around the houses more times than a postman and the reason for this imp ass is obvious,’ Pepe volunteered. ‘He’s got the nous to see that she’s so beautiful that she should be painted standing on some shell somewhere without her vest on and little fat pink babies inexplicably zooming around all over the place and he’s some kid with nothing more than a bit of street smarts. I mean, it’s pointless, isn’t it? He’s not going to stand a chance and he knows it, even if he doesn’t know he knows it.’

‘I’d give him a kiss if he wanted one and would definitely not knee him in the tonker,’ said Juliet.

‘You have to sort it out,’ said Glenda. ‘I can’t sort it out for you. If I tried, it would get sorted out all wrong.’

‘But—’ Juliet began.

‘No, that’s it,’ said Glenda. ‘Off you go, buy yourself lots of nice stuff — it’s your money. And if you don’t look after her, Mister Pepe, a knee would only be the start.’

Pepe nodded and very gently tugged Juliet away and down the stone steps.

Now what would I do at this point if I were in a romantic novel? Glenda said to herself as the footsteps died away. Her reading had left her pretty much an expert on what to do if you were in a romantic novel, although one of the things that really annoyed her about romantic novels, as she had confided to Mr Wobble, was that no one did any cooking in them. After all, cooking was important. Would it hurt to have a pie-making sequence? Would a novel called Pride and Buns

be totally out of the question? Even a few tips on how to make fairy cakes would help, and be pretty much in period as well. She’d be a little happier if, even, the lovers could be thrown into the mixing bowl of life. At least it would be some acknowledgement that people actually ate food.

Around about now she knew, and knew all through her body, that she should be dissolving into a flood of tears. She started cleaning up the floor. Then she cleaned up the ovens. She always left them sparkling, but that was no reason not to clean them again. She used an old toothbrush to ease minute amounts of dirt from odd corners, scoured every pot with fine sand, emptied the grates, riddled the cinders, swept the floor, tied two brooms together to dislodge the spider’s webs of years from the high wall, and scrubbed again until the soapy water poured down the stone stairs and washed away the footprints.

Oh, yes — and one other thing. There were some anchovies on the freezing slab. She warmed up a couple and went to the large three-legged cauldron in the corner of the kitchen where last night she had chalked the words ‘Do Not Touch’. She took off the lid and peered into its depths. The crab that Verity Pushpram had given her last night, which seemed a very long time ago now, waved its eyeballs at her.

‘I wonder what would have happened if I had left the lid off?’ she said. ‘I wonder how fast crabs learn?’

She dropped in the soggy anchovies, which seemed to meet with crabby approval. With that done, she stood in the middle of the kitchen and looked for something else to clean. The black iron would never shine, but every surface had been scrubbed and dried. As for the plates, you could eat your dinner off them. If you wanted a job done properly, you had to do it yourself. Juliet’s version of cleanliness was next to godliness, which was to say it was erratic, past all understanding and was seldom seen.

Something brushed against her face. She absent-mindedly swiped at it and found her fingers holding a black feather. Those wretched things in the pipes. Someone ought to do something about them. She took her longest broom and banged on a pipe. ‘Go on! Get out of there!’ she yelled. There was a scuffling in the darkness and a faint ‘Awk! Awk!’

‘’scuse me, miss,’ said a voice, and she looked down the steps into the misshapen face of … What was his name? Oh, yes. ‘Good morning, Mister Concrete,’ she said to the troll. She couldn’t help but notice the brown stains coming from his nose.

‘Can’t find Mister Trev,’ Concrete stated.

‘Haven’t seen him all morning,’ said Glenda.

‘Can’t find Mister Trev,’ the troll repeated, louder.

‘Why do you need him?’ said Glenda. As far as she knew, the vats just about ran themselves. You told Concrete to dribble candles and he dribbled candles until he’d run out of candles.

‘Mister Nutt sick,’ said Concrete. ‘Can’t find Mister Trev.’

‘Take me to Mister Nutt right now!’ said Glenda.