FULL. ‘Eyes that sparkle like jewels? Flowers that shimmer in loveliness? You call those—’ Her bosom trembled. ‘—
boring
!’
Bonny was trembling too, now. But still she tried to explain. ‘I didn’t mean to be rude. It’s just that none of those things the poets are writing about actually
do
anything, do they?’
‘What do you mean, none of them do anything?’
‘Well, they don’t,’ Bonny said stoutly. ‘None of them. Flowers and jewels and stars. They just sit there, looking pretty, and twinkling and glowing. That’s all they do, and it must be terribly boring.’
‘But they’re
beautiful
!’
‘Oh, yes,’ said Bonny. ‘I agree they’re all nice to look at. What I’m saying is that it’s probably a lot more fun to
look
at them than to
be
them.’
They were all staring at her, open-mouthed.
‘After all,’ Bonny finished up determinedly. ‘Even the lady who could walk in beauty like the night couldn’t have been going anywhere very interesting or the poet would have mentioned it.’ She was about to switch off the microphone and get on with reading the
Handbook of Sound And Lighting
she’d found in a heap of cassette tapes, when Sarajane spoke up.
‘Well, obviously this lady couldn’t have been going anywhere very exciting, or she wouldn’t have stayed looking nice.’
‘That’s right,’ said Pearl. ‘If she’d been climbing up a mountain, she would have got all sweaty.’
‘And if she’d been at a funfair, her hair would have been blown about,’ said Cristalle.
‘And if she’d been on a beach, her make-up would have melted and smudged,’ put in Suki.
They were all at it now.
‘You can’t do very much at all if you want to stay walking in beauty.’
‘No, you certainly can’t. You might get grubby.’
‘Or ladder your tights.’
‘Or break a fingernail.’
‘Or get stains on your blouse.’
‘Or scuff your heels.’
‘Or—’
Just as, exasperated, Bonny reached forward to fade out this catalogue of woes, a hand came down to stop her. It was Toby, who had once again slid in silently and was standing behind her.
‘Oh, don’t turn them off,’ he begged. ‘I’m listening. This is more exciting than any adventure story. What else could possibly go wrong with their poor clothes?’
He pushed Bonny’s fingers so the volume shot up again.
‘Or the pleats in your skirt might fall out,’ Angelica was fretting.
‘Or you might lose one of your earrings,’ warned Amethyst.
‘Or your hem might—-’
But Bonny couldn’t stand it. Jerking her hand under his, she cut Cooki off in mid-wail, and swung round to face him.
‘Is it time for lunch yet?’ she asked hopefully.
‘Nearly. I just came by to pick up your tea cup.’
Their hands collided on the way to pick it up. The cup spun off the ledge, splashing dregs on his jeans.
Clutching his head, the tea boy reeled dramatically round the little back room. ‘Oh, no!’ he shrilled. ‘A spot on my pretty trousers. Now I shall have to go all the way home to change, and I’ll be late for the party!’
Seeing Bonny giggle, he stopped, satisfied, and rubbed the dregs of tea into his trousers, where they disappeared. ‘Good colour, grey,’ he said. ‘Hides everything.’ He nodded through the glass window. ‘Not like all those girly lemons and pinks.’
‘Men do wear yellow shirts,’ argued Bonny. ‘And pink ones.’
‘But they don’t have to
go
with anything. When one gets dirty, you just pull the next out of the cupboard. You don’t have to waste half your life standing in front of the mirror, worrying.’ He plucked at the shirt he was wearing and squeaked at Bonny. ‘Now tell me the truth! Does this shirt look exactly right? Does the green go with the grey of the trousers?’
‘Everything goes with grey,’ Bonny said. But he wasn’t listening. He was still doing his imitation. ‘No, don’t spare my feelings! If they’re not an absolute match, I swear I’ll trail round twenty
boring
!’
Bonny was trembling too, now. But still she tried to explain. ‘I didn’t mean to be rude. It’s just that none of those things the poets are writing about actually
do
anything, do they?’
‘What do you mean, none of them do anything?’
‘Well, they don’t,’ Bonny said stoutly. ‘None of them. Flowers and jewels and stars. They just sit there, looking pretty, and twinkling and glowing. That’s all they do, and it must be terribly boring.’
‘But they’re
beautiful
!’
‘Oh, yes,’ said Bonny. ‘I agree they’re all nice to look at. What I’m saying is that it’s probably a lot more fun to
look
at them than to
be
them.’
They were all staring at her, open-mouthed.
‘After all,’ Bonny finished up determinedly. ‘Even the lady who could walk in beauty like the night couldn’t have been going anywhere very interesting or the poet would have mentioned it.’ She was about to switch off the microphone and get on with reading the
Handbook of Sound And Lighting
she’d found in a heap of cassette tapes, when Sarajane spoke up.
‘Well, obviously this lady couldn’t have been going anywhere very exciting, or she wouldn’t have stayed looking nice.’
‘That’s right,’ said Pearl. ‘If she’d been climbing up a mountain, she would have got all sweaty.’
‘And if she’d been at a funfair, her hair would have been blown about,’ said Cristalle.
‘And if she’d been on a beach, her make-up would have melted and smudged,’ put in Suki.
They were all at it now.
‘You can’t do very much at all if you want to stay walking in beauty.’
‘No, you certainly can’t. You might get grubby.’
‘Or ladder your tights.’
‘Or break a fingernail.’
‘Or get stains on your blouse.’
‘Or scuff your heels.’
‘Or—’
Just as, exasperated, Bonny reached forward to fade out this catalogue of woes, a hand came down to stop her. It was Toby, who had once again slid in silently and was standing behind her.
‘Oh, don’t turn them off,’ he begged. ‘I’m listening. This is more exciting than any adventure story. What else could possibly go wrong with their poor clothes?’
He pushed Bonny’s fingers so the volume shot up again.
‘Or the pleats in your skirt might fall out,’ Angelica was fretting.
‘Or you might lose one of your earrings,’ warned Amethyst.
‘Or your hem might—-’
But Bonny couldn’t stand it. Jerking her hand under his, she cut Cooki off in mid-wail, and swung round to face him.
‘Is it time for lunch yet?’ she asked hopefully.
‘Nearly. I just came by to pick up your tea cup.’
Their hands collided on the way to pick it up. The cup spun off the ledge, splashing dregs on his jeans.
Clutching his head, the tea boy reeled dramatically round the little back room. ‘Oh, no!’ he shrilled. ‘A spot on my pretty trousers. Now I shall have to go all the way home to change, and I’ll be late for the party!’
Seeing Bonny giggle, he stopped, satisfied, and rubbed the dregs of tea into his trousers, where they disappeared. ‘Good colour, grey,’ he said. ‘Hides everything.’ He nodded through the glass window. ‘Not like all those girly lemons and pinks.’
‘Men do wear yellow shirts,’ argued Bonny. ‘And pink ones.’
‘But they don’t have to
go
with anything. When one gets dirty, you just pull the next out of the cupboard. You don’t have to waste half your life standing in front of the mirror, worrying.’ He plucked at the shirt he was wearing and squeaked at Bonny. ‘Now tell me the truth! Does this shirt look exactly right? Does the green go with the grey of the trousers?’
‘Everything goes with grey,’ Bonny said. But he wasn’t listening. He was still doing his imitation. ‘No, don’t spare my feelings! If they’re not an absolute match, I swear I’ll trail round twenty
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