them,’ said Raymond. ‘They’re the wrong ones. I want the bigger ones.’
As far as Gurkie was concerned there was no such thing as a wrong shrimp or a right shrimp. All shrimps were her friends and she would have died rather than eat one, but she felt dreadfully sorry for the waitress.
‘The bigger ones are prawns, sir; and I’m afraid we don’t have any today.’
‘Don’t have any prawns ,’ said Mrs Trottle in a loud voice. ‘Don’t have any prawns in the most expensive restaurant in London!’
The waitress had been on her feet all day, her little girl was ill at home, but she kept her temper.
‘If you’d just try them, sir,’ she begged Raymond.
But he wouldn’t. The dish was taken away and Raymond decided to start with soup. ‘Only not with any bits in it,’ he shouted after the waitress. ‘I don’t eat bits.’
Poor Gurkie’s kind round face was growing paler and paler. The Islanders had ordered salad and nut cutlets, but she was so sensitive that she could hear the lamb chops screaming on the neighbouring tables and the poor stiff legs of dead pheasants sticking up from people’s plates made her want to cry .
Raymond’s soup came and it did have bits in it – a few leaves of fresh parsley.
‘I thought I asked for clear soup,’ said Mrs Trottle. ‘Really , I fi nd it quite extraordinary that you cannot bring us what we want.’
The rescuers had been up all night; they were not only sad, they were tired, and because of this they forgot themselves a little. When their nut cutlets came they were too hard for the wizard’s teeth and he should have mashed them up with his fork – of course he should. Instead, he mumbled something and in a second the cutlets had turned to liquid. Fortunately no one saw, and the liquidizing spell is nothing to write home about – it was used by wizards in the olden days to turn their enemies’ bones to jelly – but it was embarrassing when they were trying so hard to be ordinary . And then the sweet peas in Gurkintrude’s hat started to put out tendrils without even being told so as to shield her from the sight of the Prince fishing with his fingers in the soup.
The Trottles’ roast pork came next – and the kind waitress had managed to persuade the chef to put a helping of Yo rkshire pudding on Raymond’s plate though anyone who knows anything about food knows that Yorkshire pudding belongs to beef and not to pork.
Raymond stared at the plate out of his round pale eyes. ‘I don’t want roast potatoes,’ he said. ‘I want chips. Roast potatoes are boring.’
‘Now Raymond, dear,’ began his mother.
‘I want chips . This is supposed to be my treat and it isn’t a treat if I can’t have chips.’
Odge had behaved quite well so far. She had glared, she had ground her teeth, but she had gone on eating her lunch. Now though, she began to have thoughts and the thoughts were about her sisters – and in particular about her oldest sister, Frede-gonda, who was better than anyone on the Island at ill-wishing pigs.
Ill-wishing things is not all that difficult. Witch doctors do it when they send bad thoughts to people and make them sick; sometimes you can do it when you will someone not to score a goal at football and they don’t. Odge had never wanted to ill-wish pigs because she liked animals, but she had sometimes wanted to ill-wish people, and now, more than anything in the world, she wanted to ill-wish Raymond Trottle.
But she didn’t. For one thing she wasn’t sure if she could and anyway she had promised to behave like the girls of St Agnes whose uniform she wore.
‘I want a Knickerbocker Glory next,’ said Raymond. ‘The kind with pink ice-cream and green icecream and jelly and peaches and raspberry juice and nuts.’
The waitress went away and returned with Mrs Trottle’s caramel pudding and the Knickerbocker Glory in a tall glass. It was an absolutely marvellous one – just to look at it made Odge’s mouth water.
Raymond
As far as Gurkie was concerned there was no such thing as a wrong shrimp or a right shrimp. All shrimps were her friends and she would have died rather than eat one, but she felt dreadfully sorry for the waitress.
‘The bigger ones are prawns, sir; and I’m afraid we don’t have any today.’
‘Don’t have any prawns ,’ said Mrs Trottle in a loud voice. ‘Don’t have any prawns in the most expensive restaurant in London!’
The waitress had been on her feet all day, her little girl was ill at home, but she kept her temper.
‘If you’d just try them, sir,’ she begged Raymond.
But he wouldn’t. The dish was taken away and Raymond decided to start with soup. ‘Only not with any bits in it,’ he shouted after the waitress. ‘I don’t eat bits.’
Poor Gurkie’s kind round face was growing paler and paler. The Islanders had ordered salad and nut cutlets, but she was so sensitive that she could hear the lamb chops screaming on the neighbouring tables and the poor stiff legs of dead pheasants sticking up from people’s plates made her want to cry .
Raymond’s soup came and it did have bits in it – a few leaves of fresh parsley.
‘I thought I asked for clear soup,’ said Mrs Trottle. ‘Really , I fi nd it quite extraordinary that you cannot bring us what we want.’
The rescuers had been up all night; they were not only sad, they were tired, and because of this they forgot themselves a little. When their nut cutlets came they were too hard for the wizard’s teeth and he should have mashed them up with his fork – of course he should. Instead, he mumbled something and in a second the cutlets had turned to liquid. Fortunately no one saw, and the liquidizing spell is nothing to write home about – it was used by wizards in the olden days to turn their enemies’ bones to jelly – but it was embarrassing when they were trying so hard to be ordinary . And then the sweet peas in Gurkintrude’s hat started to put out tendrils without even being told so as to shield her from the sight of the Prince fishing with his fingers in the soup.
The Trottles’ roast pork came next – and the kind waitress had managed to persuade the chef to put a helping of Yo rkshire pudding on Raymond’s plate though anyone who knows anything about food knows that Yorkshire pudding belongs to beef and not to pork.
Raymond stared at the plate out of his round pale eyes. ‘I don’t want roast potatoes,’ he said. ‘I want chips. Roast potatoes are boring.’
‘Now Raymond, dear,’ began his mother.
‘I want chips . This is supposed to be my treat and it isn’t a treat if I can’t have chips.’
Odge had behaved quite well so far. She had glared, she had ground her teeth, but she had gone on eating her lunch. Now though, she began to have thoughts and the thoughts were about her sisters – and in particular about her oldest sister, Frede-gonda, who was better than anyone on the Island at ill-wishing pigs.
Ill-wishing things is not all that difficult. Witch doctors do it when they send bad thoughts to people and make them sick; sometimes you can do it when you will someone not to score a goal at football and they don’t. Odge had never wanted to ill-wish pigs because she liked animals, but she had sometimes wanted to ill-wish people, and now, more than anything in the world, she wanted to ill-wish Raymond Trottle.
But she didn’t. For one thing she wasn’t sure if she could and anyway she had promised to behave like the girls of St Agnes whose uniform she wore.
‘I want a Knickerbocker Glory next,’ said Raymond. ‘The kind with pink ice-cream and green icecream and jelly and peaches and raspberry juice and nuts.’
The waitress went away and returned with Mrs Trottle’s caramel pudding and the Knickerbocker Glory in a tall glass. It was an absolutely marvellous one – just to look at it made Odge’s mouth water.
Raymond
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