Read Online The Witch of Exmoor by Margaret Drabble - Free Book Online Page A

hostess’s lead seemed more relevant.
    She pitied them, reprieved them for a moment.
    â€˜A glass of wine?’ she asked.
    A ripple of relief ran through them, as Daniel leapt up to help, surreptitiously inspected the label, lifted the alas already lifted cork. He poured a little of the dark red into each glass. Two more bottles stood on the side. (Do they need a poison-tester, or will she drink herself?)
    Frieda picked up her fork. They picked up their forks. She put hers down again. And so did they.
    â€˜Now,’ she said in pity, ‘I’ll tell you what you have before you. And you can eat it if you wish. If not, you may proceed to the next course.’
    She rummaged in the large black bag hung from her chair arm, produced a piece of paper, put on her spectacles. She cleared her throat and announced, ‘What you have before you are Butler’s Bumperburgers. And here is a description of what they contain.’ She adjusted her spectacles, began to read. ‘The makers of Butler’s Bumperburgers were fined £2,000 after trading standards officials in Somerset found the product contained no meat. Hot Snax of Middleton, West Yorkshire, admitted false labelling of the burgers, which were made of gristle, fat, chicken scraps, and water from cows’ heads.’
    A silence fell. Gogo recovered first, as she smartly put the cloche back over her plate. ‘Lucky
you,
David,’ she said, eyeing his supernaturally green peas.
    â€˜I’m not so sure,’ said David. ‘I’m not so sure at all.’ He prodded a pea, pierced it and pointed it in interrogation at Frieda.
    Frieda looked approving. ‘Clever boy, David,’ she said. ‘Quite right.’
    â€˜But what’, asked Daniel, ‘can you do to a pea?’
    â€˜Sell-by date?’ suggested Nathan quickly.
    â€˜Clever boy, Nathan,’ said Frieda. ‘But worse than that, worse than that. These peas were frozen long, long before the concept of sell-by date had been dreamt up. God knows how old they are, but certainly pre-1978, I’ve been assured.’
    â€˜Still,’ murmured Gogo, ‘all the same, I’d rather have the peas than these things. Given the choice.’
    â€˜Say it again,’ said Nathan, entering with a professional curiosity into the spirit of the occasion. ‘Water from the cows’ heads, did you say?’
    Rosemary left the table and went off to retch in the downstairs cloakroom, and simultaneously Frieda rose to her feet and started to clear the plates, scraping the brown wrinkled matted fibrous discs into a plastic bag. Conversation broke out, glasses were raised, cries of, ‘What’s this wine, Frieda? What vintage?’ were well fielded by Frieda, as she snatched David’s peas from him, but not before he had defiantly, with bravado, eaten at least three. The demonstration was over, and Frieda disappeared into the kitchen and returned with a large dish of macaroni cheese and a bowl of salad. ‘Clean plates, I think?’ she said, as she took a new pile of the old chipped set from the dresser and began to serve. The macaroni cheese looked delicious. They set about it with gratitude, with cries of appreciation and relief, as they began to ply Frieda with questions about her performance–whom was she testing, and how, and why, and where she had managed to get hold of those beefless burgers, those antique peas? Why had she done this thing to them? Was it, they now dared to ask, an attack upon poor Cedric, upon the government? Had she become a vegetarian? Was she joining an animal rights campaign?
    Frieda dished out, sat down, tucked in, refilled glasses. ‘Look,’ she said eventually, when she had their calmer attention. ‘I wanted to give you all a meal to remember. It’s our last supper. Our last supper in this house. I’ve got rid of it. I’m off.’
    Where to, they wanted to know, and she told them. To