strolled in the twilight, ‘will be given over to crates of trash. The house itself will be coated in an industrial laminate, and will glint like a moonbathing slug. Below is the wood, full of frenzied wildlife - this area I shall burn to ashes, and pave over with a giant likeness of my own chin, viewable from this hill. Everything from the far shore to the perimeter will be used for sport.’
‘Sport?’ mumbled Father as if in a dream, seeing only moonlight and the fine trace of shadow trees.
‘Windsurfing old boy, sailing - anything where acrobatic youngsters wear bright clobber. This soil-infested mire just isn’t you.’
Normally the soul of patience, Father found his benevolent stability giving way to a contained rage.
In the hallway the next morning, Snapper was stuffing handfuls of grain into the moose’s mouth and sobbing with the stress of its demands.
‘Glad you told me to get into the architects’ lark, old man,’ said Roger gustily in the drawing room, helping himself to the contents of the drinks cabinet. Father had once remarked offhand that the day complacent, blinkered louts like Roger Lang got into the architects’ game, the human spirit would fade like an ember. Roger had taken this as an archaically-phrased nugget of advice. ‘Only last week I finished punching a hole in that gaff on the coast you designed - turned it into a hypermart and a bowling alley.’
‘The cottage?’
‘Took some doing,’ said Roger, swallowing port and gesturing at the wall. ‘You’ll want to knock this through. When do you want it done?’
‘When hell freezes over.’
‘I sense resistance.’
‘So did the Nazis.’
‘Ha, ha - calm down old boy - give us a smile.’
‘Drop dead and I’ll laugh.’
‘Ha, ha, ha - you slay me.’
‘I will.’
‘Ha, ha, ha.’
‘And here’s the knife I’ll do it with you bastard.’
‘Ha, ha, ha.’
But Roger’s blithe, intimidating jollity confounded our efforts at homicide. He even made vapid remarks in his sleep. One night Snapper sneaked in and pressed a pillow over Lang’s face, breaking his nose. Another time Mother caught him offguard and whapped him round the face with a trout. I myself interrupted a dismal coin trick by belting him in the belly with a crowbar. And all he could ever do was forgive us.
Father was knelt on the floor shaving his shadow when he heard a rumpus and went into the hallway. Uncle Burst had skidded in the phlegm, hit the ceiling and woken up - Snapper was having to keep him at bay with wild swings of a cargo hook. ‘I’ve every right to walk with your legs,’ Burst was shouting, and Snapper’s strained, tear-rashed face was a silent plea for release.
Father found he didn’t have to enter the drawing room to address his cousin - there was a hole in the wall through which Roger could be seen leaning cheerfully on a sledgehammer. ‘Spawn of hell !’ gasped Father.
‘So am I, if it’s any consolation.’
Father stepped swiftly back and forth through the gap. ‘Why, Roger, why ?’
‘A bit of a joke, that’s all.’
‘The bit that isn’t funny,’ Father emphasised, and Roger laughed good-naturedly. Father’s eyes were red as stop signs. ‘Not only have you hung up a moose’s face for the purposes of being crammed with grain but you’ve enraged the nuns with your arrogance and flooded the hallway with bolus - get out Roger before I provide the last sensation you will ever know.’
Roger’s stance and expression altered not atall.
‘Get out, get out !’
‘Are you alright, old boy?’ asked Roger, pouring himself a drink.
‘Get out of here you bloodyminded, oblivious moron!’
‘You’ve lost me, old man,’ said Roger, bewildered and amicable.
‘I wish to Christ I could,’ grated Father, convulsively grasping at a piece of his own head. ‘How can I make you understand, Roger - I hate you. I hate you and I want you to go away.’
‘Hate me?’ Roger smirked. ‘Not old Roger
‘Sport?’ mumbled Father as if in a dream, seeing only moonlight and the fine trace of shadow trees.
‘Windsurfing old boy, sailing - anything where acrobatic youngsters wear bright clobber. This soil-infested mire just isn’t you.’
Normally the soul of patience, Father found his benevolent stability giving way to a contained rage.
In the hallway the next morning, Snapper was stuffing handfuls of grain into the moose’s mouth and sobbing with the stress of its demands.
‘Glad you told me to get into the architects’ lark, old man,’ said Roger gustily in the drawing room, helping himself to the contents of the drinks cabinet. Father had once remarked offhand that the day complacent, blinkered louts like Roger Lang got into the architects’ game, the human spirit would fade like an ember. Roger had taken this as an archaically-phrased nugget of advice. ‘Only last week I finished punching a hole in that gaff on the coast you designed - turned it into a hypermart and a bowling alley.’
‘The cottage?’
‘Took some doing,’ said Roger, swallowing port and gesturing at the wall. ‘You’ll want to knock this through. When do you want it done?’
‘When hell freezes over.’
‘I sense resistance.’
‘So did the Nazis.’
‘Ha, ha - calm down old boy - give us a smile.’
‘Drop dead and I’ll laugh.’
‘Ha, ha, ha - you slay me.’
‘I will.’
‘Ha, ha, ha.’
‘And here’s the knife I’ll do it with you bastard.’
‘Ha, ha, ha.’
But Roger’s blithe, intimidating jollity confounded our efforts at homicide. He even made vapid remarks in his sleep. One night Snapper sneaked in and pressed a pillow over Lang’s face, breaking his nose. Another time Mother caught him offguard and whapped him round the face with a trout. I myself interrupted a dismal coin trick by belting him in the belly with a crowbar. And all he could ever do was forgive us.
Father was knelt on the floor shaving his shadow when he heard a rumpus and went into the hallway. Uncle Burst had skidded in the phlegm, hit the ceiling and woken up - Snapper was having to keep him at bay with wild swings of a cargo hook. ‘I’ve every right to walk with your legs,’ Burst was shouting, and Snapper’s strained, tear-rashed face was a silent plea for release.
Father found he didn’t have to enter the drawing room to address his cousin - there was a hole in the wall through which Roger could be seen leaning cheerfully on a sledgehammer. ‘Spawn of hell !’ gasped Father.
‘So am I, if it’s any consolation.’
Father stepped swiftly back and forth through the gap. ‘Why, Roger, why ?’
‘A bit of a joke, that’s all.’
‘The bit that isn’t funny,’ Father emphasised, and Roger laughed good-naturedly. Father’s eyes were red as stop signs. ‘Not only have you hung up a moose’s face for the purposes of being crammed with grain but you’ve enraged the nuns with your arrogance and flooded the hallway with bolus - get out Roger before I provide the last sensation you will ever know.’
Roger’s stance and expression altered not atall.
‘Get out, get out !’
‘Are you alright, old boy?’ asked Roger, pouring himself a drink.
‘Get out of here you bloodyminded, oblivious moron!’
‘You’ve lost me, old man,’ said Roger, bewildered and amicable.
‘I wish to Christ I could,’ grated Father, convulsively grasping at a piece of his own head. ‘How can I make you understand, Roger - I hate you. I hate you and I want you to go away.’
‘Hate me?’ Roger smirked. ‘Not old Roger
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