Free Pumping Up Napoleon by Maria Donovan

politely.
    â€˜He thinks you’re joking, Daddy,’ said Vanessa.
    Michael couldn’t sleep. He sat on the edge of his bed and stirred the fluff on the worn carpet with his bare big toe. Through the silence in the house, he could make out the flump and drag of waves on the shore.
    He got up and cautiously opened his door. He hadn’t even had a chance to find out where Vanessa was sleeping; so now he was just listening, hoping to be able to hear her voice and home in on it.
    He could hear faint sounds of activity coming from below. Michael put on his new slippers, wrapped his new dressing gown over his new pyjamas, tied the belt firmly and crept downstairs.
    First he went back into the drawing room and looked for something to read, something mildly entertaining. There were books on gardening and the gathering of edible wild plants, back to back with novels by Jack London and Iris Murdoch, mostly old hardbacks with tatty dust jackets. The book he really needed – Getting on with the Cliffords: an Instruction Manual – being absent, he passed over The Call of the Wild and picked up a copy of The Sea, The Sea . Then he went along the passage to the kitchen, knocked and pushed open the door.
    Mrs Brightwell and the Commander were sitting opposite each other at the table. Between them was a white saucer holding some purple sludge. Their heads were close together and they both looked round as he came in. The smell in the kitchen was both tart and sweet. A big saucepan sitting on the stove was making gentle plopping sounds.
    â€˜Just wanted a drink of water. Got myself a book. Hope that’s OK,’ Michael said, moving quickly to the sink. He looked around for a glass but all the work-surfaces were clear.
    Mrs Brightwell pressed her hands down on the table as if about to push herself up.
    But the Commander placed one of his hands over one of hers and said, ‘Sit down, Vera. There are glasses in the cupboard to your right, Michael. Help yourself. Mrs Brightwell’s had a long day.’
    â€˜The jam won’t set,’ sighed Mrs Brightwell.
    â€˜Oh dear,’ said Michael.
    Silence.
    â€˜Well, goodnight.’ Michael took the water and went back up the stairs. In the corridor he looked at all the doors and listened as he walked past. Nothing.
    Back in his room, he read, until the sound of the waves dragged him down, at last, into sleep.
    The Commander woke him at dawn with a cup of tea.
    Michael went down to the kitchen to find Mrs Brightwell stirring the contents of her vat with a purple-stained wooden spoon.
    â€˜Help yourself to porridge, Michael,’ she said, nodding at another pan. ‘And have a dollop of this.’ She held up her spoon and the dark preserve ran off it. ‘I still can’t get it to set.’
    The Commander came in and rested a shotgun against the wall. ‘Rabbits first, I think, Michael.’
    â€˜I’ve never handled a gun,’ he said.
    â€˜The main thing,’ said Mrs Brightwell, ‘is not to get in front of the wrong end.’
    â€˜It’s better with two of us,’ said the Commander. ‘I usually have to make do with you, don’t I, Vera?’ They both laughed.
    Michael wondered if he would have to shoot. Could the Commander’s fingers pull the trigger?
    â€˜Yes,’ said Mrs Brightwell. ‘We used to have a dog; but then, rather carelessly, it died.’
    The Commander’s arthritic fingers had no trouble managing a shotgun. He was fairly silent at first, letting the gun speak for him. When enough beasts had been killed and collected and Michael was festooned with game, the Commander began to speak about Brandy, the foolish gun dog who’d got in the line of fire. ‘Terrible waste. And you’d think she’d have had it in the blood. Worst of it is we shan’t get the chance of a puppy for a good six months.’
    On their return they found the kitchen empty. Michael stood while