Read Online A Pack of Lies by Geraldine McCaughrean - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Geraldine McCaughrean
Tags: fiction, children
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seemed, the more
The smoky stoves disgorged of other kinds.
The lamb was studded with a hundred cloves
Of garlic, plumed with fronds of rosemary;
The partridge, quail and widgeon sat in groves
Of feathers or on nest of vermicelli.
To sounds of silver trumpets in they bore
A roast swan stuffed with pineapple and dates.
The Bishop loosed his tie and softly swore,
And sped to clear his overloaded plates.
The wine poured down like Iguaçu Falls;
It dyed the Squire’s beard a bloody red;
And champagne splashed the oaken panelled walls,
And corks lodged in the ceiling overhead.
Glazed ribs and cutlets dipped in creamy sauce,
Slivers of veal and ducklings on a spit:
No sooner had they gobbled up one course
Than dozens more delights succeeded it.
Hastily the Judge took off his coat
And belt and rolled his sleeves up and began
To bawl, demented, ‘Pass the gravy boat!’
And carve great slices from the honeyed ham.
Like Death Valley where the sun-bleached bones
Of buffalo litter the burning ground,
The greasy table sways and rocks and groans
Beneath stripped carcases heaped up in mounds.
But though the muscles of their jaws were flagging,
The greed of man and maid alike was not.
The Marchioness was shrilly heard a-bragging
That
she’d
like second helpings of the lot.
‘Oh save a little appetite for sweet,
My lords and ladies, gentlemen and friends!’
The Lady Bowdley sweetly did entreat,
As if so mean a meal called for amends.
There was a rending then of dinner suits,
Of shirts and blouses, frocks and cummerbunds,
As trolleys brought in gateaux, tarts and fruits
And
crêmes brûlées
, compotes and sugar buns.
Dark-backed éclairs and trifles, cherry flans,
And Baked Alaska,
bombe surprise
and tubs
Of caramel, and rum babas, and pans
Of flaming
crêpes Suzettes
and syllabubs.
‘Bring in the port, the brandy, the cointreau!
The
petits fours
, the after-dinner sweets!’
Called Lady Bowdley from some spot below
The table, in among a host of feet.
Holding his sides, the Squire sprawled and gasped
Face down among the lemon meringue pie.
The groaning, grinning, gurgling Bishop clasped
An empty brandy glass against his eye:
‘I see no chips!’ he chortled, then expired —
Likewise the Marchioness, so grossly fat.
With sugar-spangled hair and cheeks affired,
They slithered from their chairs on to the mat.
The Prince of Wales drove up with honking horn,
But no reception waited at the door.
The stubs of candles glimmering forlorn
Showed the sad story written on the floor.
Amid the pools of candlewax and wine,
The county’s gentry and nobility
In ragged finery all lay in line —
Victims of too much hospitality.
* * *
The floor of the hall was littered with half-eaten sandwiches and paper bags. A dozen dealers were scribbling notes on the back of business cards and, as MCC Berkshire stepped from the rostrum and strode back down the hall, they pressed their messages into his hand or into the pockets of the green corduroy jacket. He resumed his seat and read all the notes through, showing now one, now another, to Mrs Povey. At the sight of each one she would give a little hysterical shriek of laughter and begin sobbing again. After a few minutes he leaned across the chairs in front and said to a man in a black wool coat with an astrakhan collar, ‘I hate to part with the table, but my employer Mrs Povey instructs me to accept your offer of one thousand pounds.’
The man in the astrakhan collar paid cash, and MCC was able to give seventy clean ten-pound notes to the auctioneer. ‘Want a job, young man?’ said the auctioneer with a wink. ‘I can always use a good talker.’
‘Thank you for the kind offer, but I’m very content with Mrs Povey,’ said MCC, and Ailsa’s mother burst into tears all over again.
After that, MCC took very little interest in the proceedings, but slipped a small book out of his pocket and read, wholly and completely absorbed, while the auctioneer’s patter rained down on the assembly.
The smoky stoves disgorged of other kinds.
The lamb was studded with a hundred cloves
Of garlic, plumed with fronds of rosemary;
The partridge, quail and widgeon sat in groves
Of feathers or on nest of vermicelli.
To sounds of silver trumpets in they bore
A roast swan stuffed with pineapple and dates.
The Bishop loosed his tie and softly swore,
And sped to clear his overloaded plates.
The wine poured down like Iguaçu Falls;
It dyed the Squire’s beard a bloody red;
And champagne splashed the oaken panelled walls,
And corks lodged in the ceiling overhead.
Glazed ribs and cutlets dipped in creamy sauce,
Slivers of veal and ducklings on a spit:
No sooner had they gobbled up one course
Than dozens more delights succeeded it.
Hastily the Judge took off his coat
And belt and rolled his sleeves up and began
To bawl, demented, ‘Pass the gravy boat!’
And carve great slices from the honeyed ham.
Like Death Valley where the sun-bleached bones
Of buffalo litter the burning ground,
The greasy table sways and rocks and groans
Beneath stripped carcases heaped up in mounds.
But though the muscles of their jaws were flagging,
The greed of man and maid alike was not.
The Marchioness was shrilly heard a-bragging
That
she’d
like second helpings of the lot.
‘Oh save a little appetite for sweet,
My lords and ladies, gentlemen and friends!’
The Lady Bowdley sweetly did entreat,
As if so mean a meal called for amends.
There was a rending then of dinner suits,
Of shirts and blouses, frocks and cummerbunds,
As trolleys brought in gateaux, tarts and fruits
And
crêmes brûlées
, compotes and sugar buns.
Dark-backed éclairs and trifles, cherry flans,
And Baked Alaska,
bombe surprise
and tubs
Of caramel, and rum babas, and pans
Of flaming
crêpes Suzettes
and syllabubs.
‘Bring in the port, the brandy, the cointreau!
The
petits fours
, the after-dinner sweets!’
Called Lady Bowdley from some spot below
The table, in among a host of feet.
Holding his sides, the Squire sprawled and gasped
Face down among the lemon meringue pie.
The groaning, grinning, gurgling Bishop clasped
An empty brandy glass against his eye:
‘I see no chips!’ he chortled, then expired —
Likewise the Marchioness, so grossly fat.
With sugar-spangled hair and cheeks affired,
They slithered from their chairs on to the mat.
The Prince of Wales drove up with honking horn,
But no reception waited at the door.
The stubs of candles glimmering forlorn
Showed the sad story written on the floor.
Amid the pools of candlewax and wine,
The county’s gentry and nobility
In ragged finery all lay in line —
Victims of too much hospitality.
* * *
The floor of the hall was littered with half-eaten sandwiches and paper bags. A dozen dealers were scribbling notes on the back of business cards and, as MCC Berkshire stepped from the rostrum and strode back down the hall, they pressed their messages into his hand or into the pockets of the green corduroy jacket. He resumed his seat and read all the notes through, showing now one, now another, to Mrs Povey. At the sight of each one she would give a little hysterical shriek of laughter and begin sobbing again. After a few minutes he leaned across the chairs in front and said to a man in a black wool coat with an astrakhan collar, ‘I hate to part with the table, but my employer Mrs Povey instructs me to accept your offer of one thousand pounds.’
The man in the astrakhan collar paid cash, and MCC was able to give seventy clean ten-pound notes to the auctioneer. ‘Want a job, young man?’ said the auctioneer with a wink. ‘I can always use a good talker.’
‘Thank you for the kind offer, but I’m very content with Mrs Povey,’ said MCC, and Ailsa’s mother burst into tears all over again.
After that, MCC took very little interest in the proceedings, but slipped a small book out of his pocket and read, wholly and completely absorbed, while the auctioneer’s patter rained down on the assembly.
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