agree is another matter. The coroner, for instance, I think as I snatch a glance at the ancient Baronet who, flat on the floor with Spud pumping on his chest, looks as though he may already have gone the way of T. E. Lawrence’s myrrh tree.
Perhaps because like his sister he is young, Adrian seems over the worst. In the kitchen he grabs a tea towel and douses his head under the tap. Then, drying his hair, he pushes me none too gently into the comparative privacy of the scullery.
‘Okay, Gerry,’ he says. ‘You’ve done it this time. Out with it! What did you put in the starters? And don’t fool around, we haven’t time. As it is, Dougie may not make it, he’s ninety-three or something. They’ll need to know in A&E. What was it?’
‘Scout’s honour,’ I say, ‘I’ve no idea. I bought most of the stuff in Woodbridge.’
‘“Most”. What was the rest?’
‘Er – just the odd field mouse. Good fresh country fare.’
‘We’ve just eaten field mice?’
‘Quite small ones. Eleven of them. I trapped them myself.’
‘You’re sure they were all trapped?’
‘Honestly, Adrian.’
‘Using what for bait?’
‘Cheddar from the fridge.’
At this moment – and welcomely interrupting the sort of cross-examination one scarcely expects from a lover twelveyears one’s junior – the first ambulance arrives and Dougie with Spud in attendance is swiftly removed and whisked off into the night with flashing lights and braying sirens. A second ambulance comes after five more minutes. In addition to its two-man crew this one carries a medic with a mobile phone.
‘They say it looks like food poisoning, right? I need to know: were there mushrooms in any of the food?’
‘None in my dishes,’ I say, and Jennifer equally firmly says no.
‘Okay, then, no mushrooms. Is there anyone not affected?’
‘Well, er, me I suppose.’ How is one expected to say this with regret?
‘What didn’t you eat that the others ate?’ the doctor asks me while busy assuring himself that the rest of the guests will live, at least in the short term, before they are led off to the waiting vehicle.
‘Just one of the starters,’ I say. With tedious inevitability the subject of mice crops up once more. Obviously this unpleasant young medic fancies himself as a bit of a thesp and grossly overdoes the ‘registering incredulity’ bit.
‘You’ve been eating field mice?’
‘Yes, yes,’ I say wearily. ‘Why not? People said they were delicious. It so happens that –’ But what’s the use? I needn’t go into further details of being quizzed by a succession of people wearing uniforms of one sort or another who sooner or later strike attitudes of morbid rectitude. Honestly, the dim moralism of the British! The various sufferers are meanwhile carted off to hospital for ‘observation’ after I’ve promised Jennifer faithfully that I will look after her son. ‘You’d better,’ Adrian adds quite unnecessarily. At last silence falls and here I am, in sole charge of Crendlesham Hall and its other human occupant , Josh, who has presumably remained blissfully asleep throughout the various comings and goings.
By tradition, survivors at a scene of tragedy either howl hysterically or sit listlessly. Neither is the Samper way. I direct my energies into clearing up the mess. The tablecloth, heavy withevidence, has been removed in a plastic sack, ditto the greasy oven tray in which the mouse vols-au-vent were baked. Samples have also been taken of the liver smoothie and the After Eight Mince: I only hope that whatever analysis the scientists contrive will not enable them to filch the recipes of my still-unpatented masterpieces. Even in the absence of all these items there is no lack of things to purge, quite apart from the washing up. If atonement is supposed to afford humiliation on top of decent apology, then doing the washing up at Crendlesham Hall on this night of the Great Puke has to be reckoned atonement at its most
Perhaps because like his sister he is young, Adrian seems over the worst. In the kitchen he grabs a tea towel and douses his head under the tap. Then, drying his hair, he pushes me none too gently into the comparative privacy of the scullery.
‘Okay, Gerry,’ he says. ‘You’ve done it this time. Out with it! What did you put in the starters? And don’t fool around, we haven’t time. As it is, Dougie may not make it, he’s ninety-three or something. They’ll need to know in A&E. What was it?’
‘Scout’s honour,’ I say, ‘I’ve no idea. I bought most of the stuff in Woodbridge.’
‘“Most”. What was the rest?’
‘Er – just the odd field mouse. Good fresh country fare.’
‘We’ve just eaten field mice?’
‘Quite small ones. Eleven of them. I trapped them myself.’
‘You’re sure they were all trapped?’
‘Honestly, Adrian.’
‘Using what for bait?’
‘Cheddar from the fridge.’
At this moment – and welcomely interrupting the sort of cross-examination one scarcely expects from a lover twelveyears one’s junior – the first ambulance arrives and Dougie with Spud in attendance is swiftly removed and whisked off into the night with flashing lights and braying sirens. A second ambulance comes after five more minutes. In addition to its two-man crew this one carries a medic with a mobile phone.
‘They say it looks like food poisoning, right? I need to know: were there mushrooms in any of the food?’
‘None in my dishes,’ I say, and Jennifer equally firmly says no.
‘Okay, then, no mushrooms. Is there anyone not affected?’
‘Well, er, me I suppose.’ How is one expected to say this with regret?
‘What didn’t you eat that the others ate?’ the doctor asks me while busy assuring himself that the rest of the guests will live, at least in the short term, before they are led off to the waiting vehicle.
‘Just one of the starters,’ I say. With tedious inevitability the subject of mice crops up once more. Obviously this unpleasant young medic fancies himself as a bit of a thesp and grossly overdoes the ‘registering incredulity’ bit.
‘You’ve been eating field mice?’
‘Yes, yes,’ I say wearily. ‘Why not? People said they were delicious. It so happens that –’ But what’s the use? I needn’t go into further details of being quizzed by a succession of people wearing uniforms of one sort or another who sooner or later strike attitudes of morbid rectitude. Honestly, the dim moralism of the British! The various sufferers are meanwhile carted off to hospital for ‘observation’ after I’ve promised Jennifer faithfully that I will look after her son. ‘You’d better,’ Adrian adds quite unnecessarily. At last silence falls and here I am, in sole charge of Crendlesham Hall and its other human occupant , Josh, who has presumably remained blissfully asleep throughout the various comings and goings.
By tradition, survivors at a scene of tragedy either howl hysterically or sit listlessly. Neither is the Samper way. I direct my energies into clearing up the mess. The tablecloth, heavy withevidence, has been removed in a plastic sack, ditto the greasy oven tray in which the mouse vols-au-vent were baked. Samples have also been taken of the liver smoothie and the After Eight Mince: I only hope that whatever analysis the scientists contrive will not enable them to filch the recipes of my still-unpatented masterpieces. Even in the absence of all these items there is no lack of things to purge, quite apart from the washing up. If atonement is supposed to afford humiliation on top of decent apology, then doing the washing up at Crendlesham Hall on this night of the Great Puke has to be reckoned atonement at its most
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