Free Tough, Tough Toys for Tough, Tough Boys by Will Self Page A

Bemess-bemess-bemessungsgrundlage! ‘ Better to get up and deal with him.
    An hour or so later Miriam was sitting at her dressing table, which was set in the bay window of the master bedroom, with Humpy on her lap. It was a beautiful morning in late spring and the Greens’ garden – which Daniel lavished all of his professional skills on – was an artfully disordered riot of verdancy. Miriam sighed, pulling the squirming Humpy to her breast. Life could be so sweet, so good; perhaps Dr Peppard was right and she was needlessly anxious about Humpy. ‘I do love you so much, Humpy – you're my favourite boy.’ She kissed the soft bunch of curls atop his sweet head.
    Humpy struggled in her embrace and reached out to one of the bottles on the dressing table. Miriam picked it up and pressed it into his fat little palm. ‘This is kohl, Humpy – can you say that, “kohl"? Try to.’
    Humpy looked at the vial of make-up intently; his small frame felt tense in Miriam's arms. ’Kohl,’ he said. ’Kohl!’ he reiterated with more emphasis.
    Miriam broke into peals of laughter. ‘That's a clever Humpy!’ She stood up, feeling the curious coiled heft of the child as she pulled him up with her. She waltzed Humpy a few steps around the room.
    ’Kohl!’ he cried out merrily, and mother and son giggled and whirled; and would have gone on giggling and whirling were it not for the sound of the front door bell.
    ‘Bugger!’ said Miriam, stopping the dance. ‘That'll be the postman, we'd better go and see what he wants.’
    The change in Humpy was instantaneous – almost frighteningly so. ’Pohl!’ he squealed. ’Pohl-Pohl-Pohl!’ and then all his limbs flew out, his foot catching Miriam in her lower abdomen.
    She nearly dropped him. The moment before, the moment of apparently mutual comprehension was gone, and in its place was a grizzling gulf. ‘Oh Humpy – please, Humpy!’ Miriam struggled to control his flailing arms. ‘It's OK, it's OK,’ she soothed him, but really it was she who needed the soothing.
    Philip Weston entered the waiting room of the Gruton Child Guidance Clinic moving silently on the balls of his feet. He was a large, adipose man, who wore baggy corduroy trousers to disguise his thick legs and bulky arse. Like many very big men he had an air of stillness and poise about him. His moon face was cratered with jolly dimples, and his bright-orange hair stood up in a cartoon flammable ruff. He was an extremely competent clinician, with an ability to build a rapport with even the most disturbed children.
    The scene that met his forensically attuned eyes was pacific. The Green family were relaxed in the bright sunny waiting room. Miriam sat leafing through a magazine, Daniel sat by her, working away at the occupational dirt beneath his nails, using the marlinespike on his clasp knife. At their feet was Humpy. Humpy had, with Daniel's assistance, in the fifteen minutes since they'd arrived at the clinic, managed to build a fairly extensive network of Brio toy-train tracks, incorporating a swing bridge and a level crossing. Of his own accord he had also connected up a train, some fifteen cars long, and this he was pushing along with great finesse, making the appropriate ‘Woo-woo’ noises.
    ‘I'm Philip Weston,’ said the child psychologist. ‘You must be Miriam and Daniel, and this is –?’
    ‘Humpy – I mean Humphrey.’ Miriam Green lurched to her feet, edgy at once.
    ‘Please.’ Philip damped her down, and knelt down himself by the little boy. ‘Hello, Humpy, how are you today?’
    Humpy left off mass-transportation activities and looked quizzically at the clownish man, his sharp blue eyes meeting Philip's waterier gaze. ’Besser,’ he said at length.
    ‘Better?’ queried Philip, mystified.
    ’Besser,’ Humpy said again, with solemn emphasis. ’Besserwessi!’ and as if this gobbledygook settled the matter, he turned back to the Brio.
    Philip Weston regained the foundation of his big