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Authors: Dorothy Dunnett
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about. Bunty’s English habits at once proclaimed themselves ‘So it is,’ I said. ‘Some people call it a teapot.’
‘You call it a topeat,’ said Grover. ‘Again?’
I gave him another butter ball. ‘Grover can be a teapot,’ I said. ‘Look.’ I set one hand on his hip, and pulled the other out at an angle. ‘You’re a teapot.’
‘You’re a topeat,’ said Grover, and giggled. He was a quick learner, too. After a few minutes he had me by the hand and we were progressing out of the suite, bearing the plateful of butter balls with us. At the end of a passage he knocked on a door and called ‘Grandpa!’
It was getting like a Frank Capra film except that the man in the bed wasn’t gentle and white-haired and quizzical, but as short, black-haired and positive as his powerful son. Beside the bed was a wheelchair of the automatic kind with a mike that you talk to.
‘About time, too,’ said Grandfather Eisenkopp. ‘Is Comer throwing a party out there I’m not invited to?’
‘Grover’s hurt his hand,’ I said. ‘Someone fell over his trike. We’ve brought you some butter balls.’
‘I’m a topeat,’ said Grover happily.
‘I could have told you,’ said Grover’s grandfather readily enough. He picked up a butter ball, squeezed it and then put it into his mouth, wiping his hand on the sheet. Grover struck his newfound attitude and declaimed:
‘I’m a little teapot, short and stout
Here’s my handle, here’s my spout
When the kettle boils, hear me shout
Pick me up and pour me out.’
‘So you are,’ said Grandfather. He leaned forward, picked Grover up and pouring him out, proceeded to tickle him under the arms as he lay, shrieking with joy on the bed. Over Grover’s back he said, ‘If something needs doing, I’ll keep him now.’
Grandfather Eisenkopp was nobody’s fool. I nodded and backed to the door, ‘What’s your name?’ he added, still tickling.
I said, ‘Joanna Emerson. I work for the Booker-Readmans next door. You’ll make him sick after the butter.’
‘Go to hell,’ said Grandfather Eisenkopp amiably. I shut the door and went back, with reluctance, to the sitting-room.
Beverley Eisenkopp was lying back on Bunty’s sofa while Bunty, still green as the Frog Prince in coffee-striped nylon, massaged her sprained ankle and Comer Eisenkopp held both her hands as if they were money.
I looked round for Sukey, on the carpet, in the pram, inside an armchair: even, if the worst had come to the worst, in the waste paper basket. Then, leaving the tableau to look after itself, I tracked her down to the curtained confection in the night nursery where she lay fast asleep with her hat off and her fingers sticking through the same fancy shawl Charlotte and I had already deplored.
I didn’t propose to wake her yelling this time in order to unbend her fingers. A silent withdrawal was on my immediate programme, before any of the Eisenkopps started shouting again, or Grover was sick. As a last gesture of goodwill to the profession I bent down to the litter round the cot and picking up a soaked nappy and a noisome Harrington square, carted them into the bathroom where the nappy pail was, and the loo.
The gentle art of loo-pan nappy-sluicing requires a stomach of iron and fingers sufficiently strong to retain hold of said nappy in the left hand while keeping your right for the flushing apparatus. According to the book a couple of gallons of pressurized water will then cleanse the nappy and allow you to return it scoured and dripping to the nappy pail, ready for washing. At Maggie Bee’s you paid for every nappy you lost down the bend, and if the plumber had to call, then you paid for that, too.
I would have backed Bunty to lose the two kids down the S bend, never mind Harrington’s best. I held the square in the loo-pan and flushed, and the loo rose, brimmed and stayed brimming without showing a hint of retiring. The square relieved itself of its burden. I lifted it
‘You call it a topeat,’ said Grover. ‘Again?’
I gave him another butter ball. ‘Grover can be a teapot,’ I said. ‘Look.’ I set one hand on his hip, and pulled the other out at an angle. ‘You’re a teapot.’
‘You’re a topeat,’ said Grover, and giggled. He was a quick learner, too. After a few minutes he had me by the hand and we were progressing out of the suite, bearing the plateful of butter balls with us. At the end of a passage he knocked on a door and called ‘Grandpa!’
It was getting like a Frank Capra film except that the man in the bed wasn’t gentle and white-haired and quizzical, but as short, black-haired and positive as his powerful son. Beside the bed was a wheelchair of the automatic kind with a mike that you talk to.
‘About time, too,’ said Grandfather Eisenkopp. ‘Is Comer throwing a party out there I’m not invited to?’
‘Grover’s hurt his hand,’ I said. ‘Someone fell over his trike. We’ve brought you some butter balls.’
‘I’m a topeat,’ said Grover happily.
‘I could have told you,’ said Grover’s grandfather readily enough. He picked up a butter ball, squeezed it and then put it into his mouth, wiping his hand on the sheet. Grover struck his newfound attitude and declaimed:
‘I’m a little teapot, short and stout
Here’s my handle, here’s my spout
When the kettle boils, hear me shout
Pick me up and pour me out.’
‘So you are,’ said Grandfather. He leaned forward, picked Grover up and pouring him out, proceeded to tickle him under the arms as he lay, shrieking with joy on the bed. Over Grover’s back he said, ‘If something needs doing, I’ll keep him now.’
Grandfather Eisenkopp was nobody’s fool. I nodded and backed to the door, ‘What’s your name?’ he added, still tickling.
I said, ‘Joanna Emerson. I work for the Booker-Readmans next door. You’ll make him sick after the butter.’
‘Go to hell,’ said Grandfather Eisenkopp amiably. I shut the door and went back, with reluctance, to the sitting-room.
Beverley Eisenkopp was lying back on Bunty’s sofa while Bunty, still green as the Frog Prince in coffee-striped nylon, massaged her sprained ankle and Comer Eisenkopp held both her hands as if they were money.
I looked round for Sukey, on the carpet, in the pram, inside an armchair: even, if the worst had come to the worst, in the waste paper basket. Then, leaving the tableau to look after itself, I tracked her down to the curtained confection in the night nursery where she lay fast asleep with her hat off and her fingers sticking through the same fancy shawl Charlotte and I had already deplored.
I didn’t propose to wake her yelling this time in order to unbend her fingers. A silent withdrawal was on my immediate programme, before any of the Eisenkopps started shouting again, or Grover was sick. As a last gesture of goodwill to the profession I bent down to the litter round the cot and picking up a soaked nappy and a noisome Harrington square, carted them into the bathroom where the nappy pail was, and the loo.
The gentle art of loo-pan nappy-sluicing requires a stomach of iron and fingers sufficiently strong to retain hold of said nappy in the left hand while keeping your right for the flushing apparatus. According to the book a couple of gallons of pressurized water will then cleanse the nappy and allow you to return it scoured and dripping to the nappy pail, ready for washing. At Maggie Bee’s you paid for every nappy you lost down the bend, and if the plumber had to call, then you paid for that, too.
I would have backed Bunty to lose the two kids down the S bend, never mind Harrington’s best. I held the square in the loo-pan and flushed, and the loo rose, brimmed and stayed brimming without showing a hint of retiring. The square relieved itself of its burden. I lifted it
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