on the head.
The kid snorted and ran off, giggling so helplessly that he fell over and lay there twitching.
“Cheeky monkey!” I admonished him, hoping to show that I was a good sport.
I had never found it terribly easy to make friends, and this would be one of my more challenging situations. I was reminded of the time in my early teens when Father had hand-picked a small
selection of his brightest pupils – he taught science and maths at Glibley Secondary – to visit our house, hoping that I might forge a bond with one or more. Visiting contemporaries
being a rare treat, I had acceded to the idea, albeit warily, and Father had corralled us around the dining table to play games.
There were four boys and one girl, as I recall it. Father would have been the last person to encourage my hormonal development, and that single white female had terrible breath, thick specs and
made me think of camels. The boys wore an assortment of ties and stiff collars. One smelled keenly of cheese, which I mentioned to my neighbour with a nudge in a whisper, but he only eyed me
sternly and pressed a finger to his lips.
The first two ‘games’ involved a spelling bee and an algebra test. When I came easily last in both, Father led the competitive persecution. Finally, a memory game. Mother tiptoed in,
all politeness and platitudes, and placed a tray covered in a tea-towel in the middle of the table. When Father said, “Now, Mother!” she whipped off the cloth and he timed us on a
fob-watch for two minutes, while we tried to memorise every item on the tray. I came last in that as well, and had to endure one of the boys telling us the provenance and value of the Royal Doulton
teapot, as Father glowed with pride and Mother clapped theatrically.
As the children left, each declaring that they’d had the most marvellous time, I was sent to my room. At least I wasn’t expected to see them again.
Memories of home.
Two little tribe-girls were now clinging to my tank-top hem, pigtailed and grinning broadly.
“My name is Elza,” said one.
“And my name is Knka,” said the other.
“What is your name?” they chorused.
I detected a game devised among the smaller children, so told them it was “Dan” and they slunk away dejected.
Then I stood watching the pig being rotated by a crouching chap, who winked at me every time I caught his gaze. I was starving and the crisped-up creature, glazed to a deep russet finish, looked
succulent. It was all I could do to stop myself from hopping into the flames and sinking my teeth into a buttock.
Someone tapped me on the shoulder. It was the wonky-toothed teen from earlier.
“I’m Tk-tk,” he said, extending his hand.
We shook. “Yes, I remember your name,” I lied.
“I am the son of Gdgi,” he said.
He could tell I didn’t know who Gdgi was. “He is the leader of our tribe,” he explained. “My father.”
“Absolutely!” I replied. “Tell me, what exactly is the name of this tribe?”
“Exactly, the name of this tribe is the Q’tse.” He waited for me to say something.
“Right. Only no one had told me.”
“Then everyone is remiss.”
“Yes. Yes they are.”
“So.”
“Here we are!”
I noticed we were still shaking hands and gently pulled away.
The silence hurt. “You have nice weather,” I blurted out. “In England, where I come from…”
Tk-tk interrupted me. “My father wishes you to be guest of honour at the feast tonight, with your friend the Shaman.”
“Oh, he’s not my friend!”
The boy’s face betrayed suspicion.
“Well, I suppose he is really. We’re all friends here, aren’t we?”
“Are we?”
I really didn’t know what to say.
Fortunately he broke the silence again. “You might wish to prepare yourself for the feast, Pilsbury.”
“Well, I…” I thought better of explaining that I had nothing to change into. “Yes, that’s a good idea. I’ll see you later.”
“Yes. Goodbye for now.”
“Bye.”
I wasn’t
The kid snorted and ran off, giggling so helplessly that he fell over and lay there twitching.
“Cheeky monkey!” I admonished him, hoping to show that I was a good sport.
I had never found it terribly easy to make friends, and this would be one of my more challenging situations. I was reminded of the time in my early teens when Father had hand-picked a small
selection of his brightest pupils – he taught science and maths at Glibley Secondary – to visit our house, hoping that I might forge a bond with one or more. Visiting contemporaries
being a rare treat, I had acceded to the idea, albeit warily, and Father had corralled us around the dining table to play games.
There were four boys and one girl, as I recall it. Father would have been the last person to encourage my hormonal development, and that single white female had terrible breath, thick specs and
made me think of camels. The boys wore an assortment of ties and stiff collars. One smelled keenly of cheese, which I mentioned to my neighbour with a nudge in a whisper, but he only eyed me
sternly and pressed a finger to his lips.
The first two ‘games’ involved a spelling bee and an algebra test. When I came easily last in both, Father led the competitive persecution. Finally, a memory game. Mother tiptoed in,
all politeness and platitudes, and placed a tray covered in a tea-towel in the middle of the table. When Father said, “Now, Mother!” she whipped off the cloth and he timed us on a
fob-watch for two minutes, while we tried to memorise every item on the tray. I came last in that as well, and had to endure one of the boys telling us the provenance and value of the Royal Doulton
teapot, as Father glowed with pride and Mother clapped theatrically.
As the children left, each declaring that they’d had the most marvellous time, I was sent to my room. At least I wasn’t expected to see them again.
Memories of home.
Two little tribe-girls were now clinging to my tank-top hem, pigtailed and grinning broadly.
“My name is Elza,” said one.
“And my name is Knka,” said the other.
“What is your name?” they chorused.
I detected a game devised among the smaller children, so told them it was “Dan” and they slunk away dejected.
Then I stood watching the pig being rotated by a crouching chap, who winked at me every time I caught his gaze. I was starving and the crisped-up creature, glazed to a deep russet finish, looked
succulent. It was all I could do to stop myself from hopping into the flames and sinking my teeth into a buttock.
Someone tapped me on the shoulder. It was the wonky-toothed teen from earlier.
“I’m Tk-tk,” he said, extending his hand.
We shook. “Yes, I remember your name,” I lied.
“I am the son of Gdgi,” he said.
He could tell I didn’t know who Gdgi was. “He is the leader of our tribe,” he explained. “My father.”
“Absolutely!” I replied. “Tell me, what exactly is the name of this tribe?”
“Exactly, the name of this tribe is the Q’tse.” He waited for me to say something.
“Right. Only no one had told me.”
“Then everyone is remiss.”
“Yes. Yes they are.”
“So.”
“Here we are!”
I noticed we were still shaking hands and gently pulled away.
The silence hurt. “You have nice weather,” I blurted out. “In England, where I come from…”
Tk-tk interrupted me. “My father wishes you to be guest of honour at the feast tonight, with your friend the Shaman.”
“Oh, he’s not my friend!”
The boy’s face betrayed suspicion.
“Well, I suppose he is really. We’re all friends here, aren’t we?”
“Are we?”
I really didn’t know what to say.
Fortunately he broke the silence again. “You might wish to prepare yourself for the feast, Pilsbury.”
“Well, I…” I thought better of explaining that I had nothing to change into. “Yes, that’s a good idea. I’ll see you later.”
“Yes. Goodbye for now.”
“Bye.”
I wasn’t
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