Little People by Tom Holt Page B

volume up, so that by the time he’d finished the sentence it was like listening to someone my own size. There you go, you see. A born scientist would’ve noticed that straight away, rather than having it dawn on him several hours later.
    â€˜I’m sorry,’ I repeated, ‘I didn’t mean – I mean, I didn’t expect—’
    The elf snorted. ‘What d’you mean, you didn’t expect? Stands to reason, I’d have thought. Whole saucer of beer every night, on top of all that chocolate and biscuits, any bloody fool ought to see what that’s going to lead to. The runs,’ he added accusingly. ‘Something chronic.’
    â€˜Actually—’ No , I told myself, don’t try and explain further. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said for the third time. ‘Besides, if it didn’t agree with you, why did you—’
    â€˜What, turn down a free drink?’ The elf laughed harshly and flicked away his dog-end. ‘Now, would you mind terribly much pissing off while I wipe my bum? If it’s all the same to you, that is.’
    I turned away so quickly that I nearly lost my balance and fell over. While I was still wobbling precariously on one foot, I realised that I was practically face to face with Daddy George, in a green-and-red-checked dressing gown and non-matching slippers.
    â€˜Who were you talking to?’ he asked quietly.
    â€˜What? Oh, nobody,’ I replied as best I could, though it wasn’t easy; it felt as though my tongue was suddenly several sizes too big for my mouth. ‘I was just—’
    He waited a while second before prompting; ‘You were just what?’
    â€˜Just, um, rehearsing.’ Christ , said a voice inside my head, couldn’t you have done better than that? ‘For a play.’
    He looked at me as if he’d just found half of me in an apple. ‘What play?’
    â€˜School,’ I said. ‘Next term.’
    â€˜You didn’t say anything about any play.’
    â€˜Didn’t I? Oh well. It’s only a small part, you see, and—’
    His nose twitched once. ‘Doesn’t matter,’ he replied. ‘Like they say, size isn’t everything. Tell you what – after dinner tonight, your mother and I can help you learn your lines. How’d that be?’
    Was I really so transparent, I wondered. If so, I had a wonderful career ahead of me as a plate-glass window. ‘That’s really kind of you,’ I said, ‘but I’ve only got three lines, so it isn’t—’
    â€˜Ah.’ He nodded. ‘I see. You sure about that?’
    I gulped. ‘What?’
    â€˜I made it four,’ Daddy George explained. ‘First you said sorry, then you didn’t expect, then if it didn’t agree with you, and finally—’ He shrugged. ‘You’re right, it was just three. My mistake. Must be a funny old play, though, if that’s all you’ve got to say. Pinter?’
    â€˜What?’
    â€˜Harold Pinter? Samuel Beckett? The playwright,’ he added, ‘not the time traveller.’
    â€˜Um,’ I replied. I guess I’ve just got a knack for repartee. ‘No, not them. Someone else.’
    â€˜Ah. Who?’
    â€˜I – it’s on the tip of my tongue. Begins with an S.’
    â€˜Shakespeare?’
    I shook my head. ‘Sorry,’ I said, ‘it’s just sort of gone, for now. It’ll come back to me in a moment, I’m sure.’
    He nodded slowly. ‘I hope so,’ he said. ‘After all, it’s fairly essential when you’re acting to know what play you’re in, otherwise you might wander into the wrong theatre by mistake and screw everything up for everybody. Well-known theatrical adage, that is. You ask Ken Branagh or anybody like that, they’ll tell you exactly the same thing.’
    â€˜Thanks,’ I muttered. ‘I’ll remember