... inhuman. Actually, the situation for we lettuces is the worst of the lot. At least THE END, for a tomato, say, or a radish, can have its heroic side. Like the Christians and the Lions. But a lettuce often as not just gets stuck on the side of the plate next to a steak or a pile of scampi, stuck on the side of the plate and ignored. Yes, that's the worst of the worst of it, in my opinion. I am doomed to be a GARNISH.
However, mustn't grumble, I suppose. We are all bound to go in the end, the eaten and the eaters both. There's a cheering thought. There again, where there's life…
The motion of my journey at the first and for quite a while was bumpy. By and by it became smoother – some sort of road? – and, finally, following a stationary period, it pitched and rolled, rose and fell like the sea, or a river perhaps.
My whole life, as you may appreciate, is a puzzle to me. Starting out as a sleeping seed in a row of seeds, under the heavy, comforting soil, like a duvet. Then to awake and stir and grow, both ways at once, up to the radiating sun, down into the gravity of the earth, becoming in due course what I was ever meant to be: a lettuce.
Yet now this rare experience of mine, this ‘journey’, offered a greater puzzle still. A riddle almost. I had a sense there, on that ‘river’, of… something to be done… versions and possibilities. I felt – Oh, my, I have so much to tell you! I could write a book.* I could –
Sorry, me again. It's this snow, it's unbelievable. I'm outside now, wellies and anorak. It's so quiet. All the noises of the world, such as they might be at this late hour, cushioned away. My breath ghosting before me. Light from the house on the pure white lawn… and the phone ringing.
The phone, and it's nearly midnight. I go inside. (I am sorry for this second interruption; apologies to the Lettuce likewise.) Take up the receiver and a voice says: ‘This is Wayne speaking.’
Wayne? It was a moment or two before I recognized my caller. More snow, dry rattling at the window, a sheltering moth around the light bulb, puddles at my feet… and a pounding heart.
It was the Wolf.
[10] The Answer is IN the Cart
A child had her first ride in a lift. ‘How did you like it?’ asked her parent. ‘It was funny,’ answered the child, ‘we went into a little house and the upstairs came down.’
The Paradox Box
Sentences violating Rule 7 are often ludicrous:
Being in a dilapidated condition, I was able to buy the house very cheap.
Wondering irresolutely what to do next, the clock struck twelve.
As a mother of five with another on the way, my ironing board is always up.
William Strunk Jnr
Babies haven't any hair
Old men's heads are just as bare
Between the cradle and the grave
Lies a haircut and a shave.
Samuel Hoffenstein*
The Wolf. The Wolf was phoning from the jail. Allowed one call, he had chosen at this mad hour, to phone me. Apparently, I was, wait for it, ON HIS CONSCIENCE. On his menu more like.
‘I just had to talk to you,’ (said he), ‘about the accident.’
‘Accident? Ah, yes, where you were trying to eat me.’
‘No, no.’
‘Yes, yes. It was a vicious attack.’
‘High spirits.’
‘Low cunning. I have the lumps to prove it.’
‘Listen to me.’ The Wolf lowered his voice. ‘I have this reputation, all wolves do, but in my case it's undeserved. I never (almost inaudible), well hardly ever, ate a single soul. It's my quirky and playful nature. I make things up… for the fun of it.’
‘Fun? I was knocked flying.’
‘It's true. You were struck down, by the door mainly, and I am truly sorry for it.’
All this, of course, only confirmed my earlier speculations (see page 48). There again, that was theory, this was reality. I had a wolf on the end of the line and my hands were sweating.
Where was I? Ah yes… truly sorry for it.
Silence for a while plus a sound like a (counterfeit) sob.
‘Which is why I called.’
My turn for silence.
‘I wanted to make it up to you.’
Silence number three.
‘It's about that business in the cart you were so interested in.’
Cart? Cart? For a split second I could not fathom what he was on about. (How far I had strayed from my original enterprise.)
‘You remember: me, the Boy, the Sheep?’
‘And the Lettuce.’
‘Yeah. Anyway, listen, I have a clue for you. You are looking for the truth, right? A reliable witness and all that. So – are you still there?’
‘More or less.’ I was weary and unenthusiastic. I would not put my trust in wolves.
‘So, here's the clue: the answer is in the cart.’
Now there was a commotion back in the jail. I could hear other voices, clattering sounds and heavy breathing. Growls!
‘Just a minute.’ The Wolf was speaking to someone else (the warder?). ‘I'm almost done.’ And then to me, ‘Sorry about that. Time's nearly up. Where was I?’
‘You had a clue?’ Despite myself, a tiny candle of hope had begun to gleam.
‘Oh, yeah – listen. Go and talk to the little sister.’
‘Rosalind? She wasn't in the cart.’
‘That's all you know. Go and talk to her.’
Suddenly, a tremendous drumming down the phone. I had to hold it away from my ear.
‘What's that?’
‘Nothing much. Some old Troll making a pest of himself.’
‘Troll?’
‘Yeah. They've got all sorts in here. Not to worry though.’ The Wolf gave a laugh. ‘I'll be out soon; there's no real evidence against me.’ And he spluttered again with laughter. ‘I ate it all.’
[11] Little Sister
RIGMAROLE: a succession of incoherent statements; a rambling discourse; a long-winded harangue of little meaning or importance… incoherent.
The Shorter Oxford Dictionary
The sun was rising and so was I. Yes, sir, I was back in business, back on the trail, back in the saddle, back to front (yes, probably). Anyway, my spirits, ludicrously, were on the up. Charmed and persuaded again by a WOLF, I was out and off once more to the McFirkins' place. On foot. The appropriately inappropriate weather conditions did not favour cycling.
I made a detour to the county jail. No sign of trouble. No trolls. (There are no trolls.) The thing is, by the end of that phone call the Wolf – how ever does he do it? – had got me worrying about his welfare. I dropped off a small pie (meat and potato) and a pack of cards at the warder's office.
* * *
The Forest. I am with young Percy in this matter. It has to be my favourite place too. And on this particular morning – Oh, my! Low sunlight slanting through the shrouded trees. The whole place moulded together by snow. Total whiteness, only here and there splashes of colour from the thaw that had already begun. It was like a picture in a colouring book, hardly started.
I walked, crunching and sloshing through the crisp(stroke)melting snow. My thoughts, this beehive head again, were everywhere. The beauty of the scene; the questions I would put to little Rosalind; the reliability of the Wolf. All the same, my heart was lifted. There and then I vowed to stick to my task, come what may. No more distractions, diversions, ‘country lanes' – no, sir! The truth WAS out there and I would hunt it down. (I stuck my chest out, lengthened my stride.) It's all so easy, forest or not, to lose your way. The potential ramifications of a book, for instance (i.e. this one), are mind-boggling. (But I will resist them.) Yes, even as I write this sentence – word – LETTER – I am thinking (left, right and centre) about… sentences already written (see above), and those still yet to come (p.t.o.); errors and omissions; paper, pen and ink – and the printing (if I'm lucky) down the line – jacket, blurb and bar code. Plus, all the while, a separate stream or swarm of thought: the Forest. I see a cat – a polecat? – slinkin
g along. Some brilliantly coloured birds – finches? – parrots? I see, most definitely, a man with a wriggling sack. I see…
Where was I? Well, in serious danger of BREAKING MY VOW no sooner than it's made, that's where. Sorry about that. My mistake. There again, nobody's perfect… not even you. So don't be so quick to criticize others. ‘Judge not, that ye be not judged' (Holy Bible). Besides, I'm doing all the work, all you have to do is sit there. Or stand, I suppose (in a book shop – not buying!). Or lie… reading in bed is popular… or in the bath. I could do with a bath. Hm.
I arrived at the McFirkins' house shortly after nine-thirty. Mrs McFirkin was in the yard with a mighty axe, making firewood. She stood within a circle of flying woodchips. A nervous little dog sat watching her, just out of range. Observing Mrs McFirkin's strength and effort, I was, in a flash, in a microsecond, reminded of my mother; how strong she was. How I'd come home from school sometimes to find whole wardrobes moved and carpets laid.
Well, it turned out Percy and his dad were not at home. Gone to a football match, apparently, in the next town. No snow there. (So would they believe in ours?) Little Rosalind was up in her room in bed with a sore throat. I accepted a mug of tea from Mrs McFirkin, chatted impatiently a while… and climbed the stairs.
Rosalind was sitting up in bed with glasses on the end of her nose, a shawl round her shoulders and a huge book open on her lap. She looked like a little old grandma, except, that is, for a crowd of soft toys, teddies and such, tucked in beside her. The book was the Shorter Oxford Dictionary (Volume II, Marl – Z and Addenda). Rosalind heaved it shut and gave me a welcoming smile.
In the urgency of the moment, not pausing even to ask how she was, I plunged straight in.
‘Rosalind, do you remember when I was here last week, talking to Percy?’
‘Yes.’ A gruff little voice.
‘And you were in the hammock, and Percy was telling about his adventures in the cart, and the river and all that?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, the thing is… where were you then?’
‘In the hammock.’
‘No, I mean, when he was in the cart, where were you?’
Rosalind hesitated and glanced towards the door. Then, ‘I was in the cart.’
‘Ah!’ And all in a rush, instantaneously, I thought, ‘A witness – a true witness!’ and, ‘The Wolf was right!’ and, ‘Now we'll get to the bottom of this!’ and, ‘Why the Shorter Oxford?’ and… a few other things.
Faintly from the rear of the house came the rhythmic sound of Mrs McFirkin's marathon wood-chopping. Later she would bundle up the firewood with loops of wire and stack the bundles in the woodshed. Later still, go off and sell them.
Rosalind and I continued our (for my part) urgent conversation. She was quite willing to give me her version of events. Just didn't want her mother to hear.
‘I was supposed to be going to my friend's house. Only I got a lift with Percy and –’
‘Percy said you were still in your nightie waving him goodbye.’
‘No, I was right next to him. Between the Lettuce and the Wolf.’
‘And the Sheep…?’
‘On the blankets in the back.’
Rosalind gave a little cough and helped herself to a spoonful of pink medicine from a bottle beside the bed. Later on she sucked a lozenge.
Well, as you can imagine, the questions were stacking up in my head like aeroplanes waiting to land. I hardly knew what to ask next.
‘How come the Wolf was, er…’ I paused, not wanting to scare my witness witless, but she was ahead of me.
‘He talked his way in. Something about a sick cousin in hospital.’
‘Percy said he was going to the vet's.’
‘No, hospital. He was carrying a bunch of flowers. Afterwards Mummy said he “insinuated” himself.’
‘Did she?… Ah!’
I pressed on with my enquiries. The prospect of so much TRUTH so readily available had got me feeling wildly cheerful, DELIRIOUS almost. I was like a child let loose in a SWEET SHOP.
Rosalind spoke of the journey through the Forest, confirming this – the eye-patch man, the pear tree; denying that – tigers, trolls, bandits. It was her own idea to stay with Percy and not go to her friend's. The trip excited her and she wanted to see the river. Also, at the horticultural show – whence the Lettuce, via Auntie Joyce, was headed – they had demonstrations of rural crafts (and candyfloss), so she had heard.
I studied my small companion as we conversed. I had the curious feeling that I was watching a five-year-old (four and three-quarters, actually) and hearing a twenty-five-year-old. She looked like Percy – reddish hair, round face, freckles – and sounded like… like Bertrand Russell. You may recall (Chapter 5, page 32), my mentioning how clever the Sheep was, and how in the entire book there was only one cleverer. Well, here she is: IQ 160+, little Rosalind McFirkin take a bow.
Oh, yes, Rosalind was the ace witness all right, of all time. Clarity, Simplicity, Concision, she had the lot. Only – Oh, no! (why is there always something?) – her little voice, even as I admired its logical, plausible flow, was fading, with tickling cough and growing gruffness, fading towards (I leant closer, closer) in… audi… bility.
And then – Oh, no again! – in came Mrs McFirkin, warm-faced and smelling like a sawmill. Rosalind would not tell what she knew – we had got to the river – in her mother's presence. Mrs McFirkin judged Rosalind should come downstairs and rest her poorly throat. I… was speechless.
Outside a massive thaw was in progress. Half the snow had gone, hot sunlight glittered on the rest and the water barrels were overflowing. Mrs McFirkin led the way to the kitchen. I followed on with Rosalind's duvet. Rosalind came last with a book in her hand.
In the hallway she tapped my arm and whispered, ‘Sorry about the…’
‘It's all right.’
‘I know you really want to know what (cough, cough!) happened.’
‘Don't worry, I'll –’
‘The difficulty is, I can't (cough) tell you…’
We entered the kitchen. Already Mrs McFirkin was peering into the fridge.
‘… just now.’ Rosalind smiled. ‘But you could read it, if you like.’ And pressed into my hand the book she was holding…
‘Ice cream?’ called Mrs McFirkin over her shoulder. ‘Sorbet? Juice?’
… and a tiny golden key.
[12] A Book in a Book!
YYUR
YYUB
ICUR
YY4ME*
With trembling fingers I turned the key in the lock of Rosalind's diary. It proved to be a remarkable piece of work for a five-year-old. Page after page of the neatest, tiniest writing you ever saw or squinted at, with hardly a crossing out or spelling mistake. Like a Mozart manuscript. It was a fat little book with a double page for each day and a scattering of ‘fascinating facts’, puzzles and so forth (see above*).
Of course, the temptation to read more than I was entitled to was great. There again, the urge to GET ON WITH IT was greater. Rosalind's entry for the day in question – the Red Letter Day – began as follows:
Got up early. Had sausages for breakfast. Helped Percy with his Frog Island. Packed my bag to go to Hanna's house. Found Horace's hat.
Well, in my UNDERSTANDABLE and frantic haste, I skipped a bit here: the loading of the cart and so forth (I had heard that enough times, and SO HAVE YOU), the trail through the forest (ditto), until (I thought I would explode!) once more (and perhaps finally) we reached THE RIVER.
Percy found this little boat and rowed over with the Sheep. And rowed back. And took the Wolf over. And brought the Wolf back. And took the Lettuce over. And brought the Lettuce back. And kicked his football for a while. And read his comic. And remembered the Sheep – she was ‘Baaing!’ And fetched her back.
I stopped Horace from drinking too much at the river. And gave him his nosebag. The Sheep was silent and standoffish. The Wolf – said his name was Waldteufel, but I knew it was W
ayne – was being silly and pretending to eat everybody. Percy played football for a while with me in goal. And fell asleep.
I was reading this in the barn, out of sight, I hoped, of Mrs McFirkin. Great slabs of snow were shifting and sliding from the roof, crashing to the ground, exploding back into flakes again, or so it seemed. The air was humid, steamy almost; a most peculiar combination of weather. There was a large tin bath on the floor in the far corner, I noticed, full of water and a log maybe, with things moving in it.
Oh, the speed of human thought, as fast as light, I guess. Even as my eyes were racing over Rosalind's pages, my mind was picturing the scene: the grass right down to the water's edge, the expanse of the river with morning light upon it, flickering triangles of whiteness, hints of rainbow colours, and the town on the other side.
And I could SEE them, yes! This curious, unlikely gang: Boy, Wolf, Sheep (Lettuce), lolling
around on the bank, pausing, as it were, in their lives. And little Rosalind, with her quick mind and speed of thought, about to sort them out (I'd guessed that much) and set them going again. And so it proved.
I had a talk with Percy (woke him up).
I said, ‘Take the Sheep over first.’
He said, ‘Done that already.’
I said, ‘Then take the Wolf over…’
He said, ‘Done that.’
I said, ‘… and bring the Sheep back.’
He said, ‘Huh?’
I said, ‘Then take the Lettuce over…’
He said (laughing), ‘Yeah – got it!’
I said, ‘… and come back for the Sheep.’
And he said, ‘Yippee!’ and booted, by mistake,
his ball into the river. And never minded.
So there we have it. I feel I should be opening a BOTTLE OF CHAMPAGNE. The Riddle's End (see diagram). You knew the answer, already, of course, as we all do, but never till now had any notion, I'll bet, of WHO FOUND IT FIRST. Or the circumstances. The details. The larger, denser, altogether more complicated TRUTH of it. Now you do.
The Boy, the Wolf, the Sheep and the Lettuce Page 4
