household argued with the head of the family. Jenny came back, picked up the jacket and hung it more firmly. As she did, something thin and dark slipped from its folds and slithered into the corner with a dry rustle across the linoleum. She stared at it in horror.
'Dad, what's that in your jacket?'
Big Billie Cameron paused, a spoonful of cereal halfway to his mouth. Mrs Cameron turned from the cooker. Fourteen-year-old Bobby ceased buttering a piece of toast and stared. The small creature lay curled in the corner by the row of cabinets, tight-bunched, defensive, glaring back at the world, tiny tongue flickering fast.
'Lord save us, it's a snake,' said Mrs Cameron.
'Don't be a bloody fool, woman. Don't you know there are no snakes in Ireland? Everyone knows that,' said her husband. He put down the spoon. 'What is it, Bobby?'
Though a tyrant inside and outside his house, Big Billie had a grudging respect for the knowledge of his young son, who was good at school and was being taught many strange things. The boy stared at the snake through his owlish glasses.
'It must be a slowworm, Dad,' he said. 'They had some at school last term for the biology class. Brought them in for dissection. From across the water.'
'It doesn't look like a worm to me,' said his father.
'It isn't really a worm,' said Bobby. 'It's a lizard with no legs.'
'Then why do they call it a worm?' asked his truculent father.
'I don't know,' said Bobby.
'Then what the hell are you going to school for?'
'Will it bite?' asked Mrs Cameron fearfully.
'Not at all,' said Bobby. 'It's harmless.'
'Kali it,' said Cameron senior, 'and throw it in the dustbin.'
His son rose from the table and removed one of his slippers, which he held like a fly swat in one hand. He was advancing, bare-ankled, towards the corner, when his father changed his mind. Big Billie looked up from his plate with a gleeful smile.
'Hold on a minute, just hold on there, Bobby,' he said, 'I have an idea. Woman, get me a jar.'
'What kind of a jar?' asked Mrs Cameron.
'How should I know what kind of a jar? A jar with a lid on it.'
Mrs Cameron sighed, skirted the snake and opened a cupboard. She examined her store of jars.
'There's a jamjar, with dried peas in it,' she said.
'Put the peas somewhere else and give me the jar,' commanded Cameron. She passed him the jar.
'What are you going to do, Dad?' asked Bobby.
'There's a darkie we have at work. A heathen man. He comes from a land with a lot of snakes in it. I have in mind to have some fun with him. A wee joke, like. Pass me that oven glove Jenny.'
'You'll not need a glove,' said Bobby. 'He can't bite you.'
'I'm not touching the dirty thing,' said Cameron.
'He's not dirty,' said Bobby. 'They're very clean creatures.'
'You 're a fool, boy, for all your school learning. Does the Good Book not say: "On thy belly shalt thou go, and dust shalt thou eat..."? Aye, and more than dust, no doubt. I '11 not touch him with me hand.'
Jenny passed her father the oven glove. Open jamjar in his left hand, right hand protected by the glove, Big Billie Cameron stood over the viper. Slowly his right hand descended. When it dropped, it was fast; but the small snake was faster. Its tiny fangs went harmlessly into the padding of the glove at the centre of the palm. Cameron did not notice, for the act was masked from his view by his own hands. In a trice the snake was inside the jamjar and the lid was on. Through the glass they watched it wriggle furiously.
'I hate them, harmless or not,' said Mrs Cameron. 'I'll thank you to get it out of the house.'
'I'll be doing that right now,' said her husband, 'for I'm late as it is.'
He slipped the jamjar into his shoulder bag, already containing his lunch box, stuffed his pipe and pouch into the right-hand pocket of his jacket and took both out to the car. He arrived at the station yard fives minutes late and was surprised to find the Indian student staring at him fixedly.
'I suppose he wouldn't have the
'Dad, what's that in your jacket?'
Big Billie Cameron paused, a spoonful of cereal halfway to his mouth. Mrs Cameron turned from the cooker. Fourteen-year-old Bobby ceased buttering a piece of toast and stared. The small creature lay curled in the corner by the row of cabinets, tight-bunched, defensive, glaring back at the world, tiny tongue flickering fast.
'Lord save us, it's a snake,' said Mrs Cameron.
'Don't be a bloody fool, woman. Don't you know there are no snakes in Ireland? Everyone knows that,' said her husband. He put down the spoon. 'What is it, Bobby?'
Though a tyrant inside and outside his house, Big Billie had a grudging respect for the knowledge of his young son, who was good at school and was being taught many strange things. The boy stared at the snake through his owlish glasses.
'It must be a slowworm, Dad,' he said. 'They had some at school last term for the biology class. Brought them in for dissection. From across the water.'
'It doesn't look like a worm to me,' said his father.
'It isn't really a worm,' said Bobby. 'It's a lizard with no legs.'
'Then why do they call it a worm?' asked his truculent father.
'I don't know,' said Bobby.
'Then what the hell are you going to school for?'
'Will it bite?' asked Mrs Cameron fearfully.
'Not at all,' said Bobby. 'It's harmless.'
'Kali it,' said Cameron senior, 'and throw it in the dustbin.'
His son rose from the table and removed one of his slippers, which he held like a fly swat in one hand. He was advancing, bare-ankled, towards the corner, when his father changed his mind. Big Billie looked up from his plate with a gleeful smile.
'Hold on a minute, just hold on there, Bobby,' he said, 'I have an idea. Woman, get me a jar.'
'What kind of a jar?' asked Mrs Cameron.
'How should I know what kind of a jar? A jar with a lid on it.'
Mrs Cameron sighed, skirted the snake and opened a cupboard. She examined her store of jars.
'There's a jamjar, with dried peas in it,' she said.
'Put the peas somewhere else and give me the jar,' commanded Cameron. She passed him the jar.
'What are you going to do, Dad?' asked Bobby.
'There's a darkie we have at work. A heathen man. He comes from a land with a lot of snakes in it. I have in mind to have some fun with him. A wee joke, like. Pass me that oven glove Jenny.'
'You'll not need a glove,' said Bobby. 'He can't bite you.'
'I'm not touching the dirty thing,' said Cameron.
'He's not dirty,' said Bobby. 'They're very clean creatures.'
'You 're a fool, boy, for all your school learning. Does the Good Book not say: "On thy belly shalt thou go, and dust shalt thou eat..."? Aye, and more than dust, no doubt. I '11 not touch him with me hand.'
Jenny passed her father the oven glove. Open jamjar in his left hand, right hand protected by the glove, Big Billie Cameron stood over the viper. Slowly his right hand descended. When it dropped, it was fast; but the small snake was faster. Its tiny fangs went harmlessly into the padding of the glove at the centre of the palm. Cameron did not notice, for the act was masked from his view by his own hands. In a trice the snake was inside the jamjar and the lid was on. Through the glass they watched it wriggle furiously.
'I hate them, harmless or not,' said Mrs Cameron. 'I'll thank you to get it out of the house.'
'I'll be doing that right now,' said her husband, 'for I'm late as it is.'
He slipped the jamjar into his shoulder bag, already containing his lunch box, stuffed his pipe and pouch into the right-hand pocket of his jacket and took both out to the car. He arrived at the station yard fives minutes late and was surprised to find the Indian student staring at him fixedly.
'I suppose he wouldn't have the
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