round the dial.
Exaggeratedly, Jo pulled back the cuff of his shirt and moved the wrist with the watch on up towards his face, twisting his wrist from side to side so that the watch faced towards him, then away.
“The time by my brand-new Snoopy watch is eight-ohseven precisely.”
“I say, what a spiffing watch! “
Corrie and Jo often spoke in the slang of old-fashioned school stories, assuming a painfully genteel and high-pitched accent, parodying their fictional roles.
“Santa brought it for me. I can tell the time now!”
“How
super
!”
The lights were on again on their side of the sun lounge, and in the kitchen. Baskerville was lying in his basket beside the desk with an expression of utter abandonment and desolation on his face. He lumbered to his feet as they came in, looking guardedly pleased.
Jo waved the parcel he had brought through from Lilli’s, and began to circle around Baskerville.
“I’ve got a prezzy for you!”
Corrie heard them chasing each other about the sun lounge as he went through into the kitchen, and then into the living-room, leaving the light off. He looked out through the front window towards the tree in the centre of the Green. No one was there yet.
There were bangs and slitherings from the back of the house, and Baskerville barked a couple of times. Corrie sat in the dark for a short time, and then went back through into the sun lounge. Baskerville was stretched out on the floor, chewing an enormous bone.
“I got him so excited that he wet himself,” Jo said, wiping at the tiles with a mop. “I’ve never had that effect on anyone before.”
Baskerville, grasping the bone on its end between his two front paws, shifted his position slightly, and the bone fell forward and hit him sharply on the nose. He looked startled, and scrabbled backwards.
“Baskervilles don’t like bones.”
Jo put the mop and bucket back in the corner, and then walked towards Corrie. He raised his eyebrows, pulling the corners of his mouth down in an expression of innocence. He had an extraordinarily mobile face, his features always shifting. When he talked, every particle of him took part in the performance. He could make Corrie giggle very easily sometimes, by just looking at him.
“I have my theories about you and Sal,” he said. “The whole thing became clear to me when you sneaked away into the dining-room together, leaving me lying on the floor.”
“And I thought we were being so discreet.”
“It’s obvious. She’s studying you to use in her next novel. In the interests of research, writers are sometimes compelled to undergo some very unpleasant experiences.”
“Do you think that my perversions…”
“Many and varied though they are…”
“…are advanced enough to interest her?”
Sal was quite well known as a writer of novels for young people—“New Adults,” they were called by the publisher—usually dealing frankly with complex emotional or sexual difficulties.
“You could work on them a bit,” Jo said. “Show a bit of imagination.” He looked at Baskerville. “Why not have a passionate affair with Baskerville? I don’t think she’s used that one yet.”
Baskerville, looking vaguely troubled, edged away and eyed Corrie with deep suspicion.
“He doesn’t look too keen on the idea.”
“Poor old Baskerville. The dignified butt of vulgar jesting.”
Jo began to stroke Baskerville’s head, and then continued speaking. “She is good, though, isn’t she?” he asked. “Her novels.”
“
Stephen’s Child
is.”
“Not as good as
Small for His Age
.”
“Just because it’s about you.”
“Judging by the title. Actually”—Jo’s voice became excruciatingly cultured—“I warmed to the subtle nuances of the adverbial clauses…”
“Well-educated infant!”
“…reminiscent, one feels, of the later period of Henry James.”
“One does indeed. One also thrills to the shimmering evocativeness of the setting.”
“And the daring
Exaggeratedly, Jo pulled back the cuff of his shirt and moved the wrist with the watch on up towards his face, twisting his wrist from side to side so that the watch faced towards him, then away.
“The time by my brand-new Snoopy watch is eight-ohseven precisely.”
“I say, what a spiffing watch! “
Corrie and Jo often spoke in the slang of old-fashioned school stories, assuming a painfully genteel and high-pitched accent, parodying their fictional roles.
“Santa brought it for me. I can tell the time now!”
“How
super
!”
The lights were on again on their side of the sun lounge, and in the kitchen. Baskerville was lying in his basket beside the desk with an expression of utter abandonment and desolation on his face. He lumbered to his feet as they came in, looking guardedly pleased.
Jo waved the parcel he had brought through from Lilli’s, and began to circle around Baskerville.
“I’ve got a prezzy for you!”
Corrie heard them chasing each other about the sun lounge as he went through into the kitchen, and then into the living-room, leaving the light off. He looked out through the front window towards the tree in the centre of the Green. No one was there yet.
There were bangs and slitherings from the back of the house, and Baskerville barked a couple of times. Corrie sat in the dark for a short time, and then went back through into the sun lounge. Baskerville was stretched out on the floor, chewing an enormous bone.
“I got him so excited that he wet himself,” Jo said, wiping at the tiles with a mop. “I’ve never had that effect on anyone before.”
Baskerville, grasping the bone on its end between his two front paws, shifted his position slightly, and the bone fell forward and hit him sharply on the nose. He looked startled, and scrabbled backwards.
“Baskervilles don’t like bones.”
Jo put the mop and bucket back in the corner, and then walked towards Corrie. He raised his eyebrows, pulling the corners of his mouth down in an expression of innocence. He had an extraordinarily mobile face, his features always shifting. When he talked, every particle of him took part in the performance. He could make Corrie giggle very easily sometimes, by just looking at him.
“I have my theories about you and Sal,” he said. “The whole thing became clear to me when you sneaked away into the dining-room together, leaving me lying on the floor.”
“And I thought we were being so discreet.”
“It’s obvious. She’s studying you to use in her next novel. In the interests of research, writers are sometimes compelled to undergo some very unpleasant experiences.”
“Do you think that my perversions…”
“Many and varied though they are…”
“…are advanced enough to interest her?”
Sal was quite well known as a writer of novels for young people—“New Adults,” they were called by the publisher—usually dealing frankly with complex emotional or sexual difficulties.
“You could work on them a bit,” Jo said. “Show a bit of imagination.” He looked at Baskerville. “Why not have a passionate affair with Baskerville? I don’t think she’s used that one yet.”
Baskerville, looking vaguely troubled, edged away and eyed Corrie with deep suspicion.
“He doesn’t look too keen on the idea.”
“Poor old Baskerville. The dignified butt of vulgar jesting.”
Jo began to stroke Baskerville’s head, and then continued speaking. “She is good, though, isn’t she?” he asked. “Her novels.”
“
Stephen’s Child
is.”
“Not as good as
Small for His Age
.”
“Just because it’s about you.”
“Judging by the title. Actually”—Jo’s voice became excruciatingly cultured—“I warmed to the subtle nuances of the adverbial clauses…”
“Well-educated infant!”
“…reminiscent, one feels, of the later period of Henry James.”
“One does indeed. One also thrills to the shimmering evocativeness of the setting.”
“And the daring
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