Free The Wilt Inheritance by Tom Sharpe Page B

is.’
    ‘In other words, extremely fat.’
    ‘Oh, I wouldn’t say that. Overweight, perhaps, but not really obese.’
    ‘You and I have a different definition of obese. I can’t say that I have ever understood this predilection of yours for enormous women – God knows why you ever married me.’ She glared at Sir George, daring him to respond to this last point, and he at least had the good grace not to reply.
    ‘Oh, well, I’d better go and see what this paragon of cordon bleu cookery looks like.’
    ‘Well, you can always ring for her. She rather likes me sending for her.’
    ‘I’m sure she does, but I rather want to see for myself what denizens of the wild she is preparing for us tonight. Toads’ legs from the dry moat, perhaps? Hare’s testicles on toast? I despair of you, George, I really do.’
    And on this cheerless note Clarissa marched down the long corridor to the kitchen, to be confronted by a woman who did not look in the least like a gypsy given her fair hair and pasty complexion. She had rather a snub nose, and rosy cheeks that bulged out below deep-set eyes. In fact, she bulged grotesquely just about everywhere.
    ‘You must be Philomena,’ Lady Clarissa said. ‘Philomena Jones.’
    ‘You can call me Philly. Most everyone does.’
    ‘And is that your real name? Not that it matters.’
    ‘Yes, mum, except the last bit. I made that up for the court.’
    ‘Well, I am Lady Gadsley and you will address me as “my lady”.’
    ‘Yes, mum. I call himself Mr Gadsley.’
    ‘You can call him whatever you like, though I’d prefer it if you dealt mainly with me from now on. And what are you proposing to poison us with tonight?’
    ‘Poison, mum? Was there anything in particular you were thinking of?’
    ‘I told you not to call me “mum”.’
    Philly grinned.
    ‘Know you did, but if I called you “my lady” I’d have to curtsey, wouldn’t I? And then I’d probably fall over and have trouble getting up. I have to get out of bed real careful. I fell over in front of a steamroller one time and only managed to crawl out of its way at the last moment …’
    ‘What a dreadful pity,’ said Clarissa ambiguously. ‘Anyway I haven’t come here to discuss the world’s misfortunes. I want to discuss the menus.’
    ‘Men yous? I don’t know about men yous. Not here, that is, though I know Mr Gadsley fancies a bit of crackling at night, if you take my meaning?’
    Lady Clarissa shuddered.
    ‘Are you talking about pigs cooked or pigs uncooked?’
    But the implication behind this question escaped the cook.
    ‘Oh, never mind,’ said Clarissa as Philly struggled to answer or at any rate appeared to. ‘I just want to make it absolutely clear that I do not share my husband’s taste for snails, hedgehogs, blood pudding and foie gras stuffing, to say nothing of all the lower forms of wildlife you seem to serve up. From what Sir George has said, I wouldn’t be at all surprised if you were offering up fricassees of slugs and the like. It’s simply absurd.’
    ‘Oh, no, mum. I never heard of anyone wanting slugs for breakfast. Or dinner either, come to that.’
    ‘Well, that’s a mercy,’ said Clarissa. ‘So what are you preparing for dinner tonight?’
    ‘I thought, ’cos Mr Gadsley keeps asking for a savoury, that for starters we’d have toadstools …’
    ‘Toadstools?’ squawked Lady Clarissa. ‘Don’t you mean, mushrooms? Toadstools are frequently poisonous.’
    ‘Perhaps some are. Depends what you pick,’ said Philomena. ‘My old man says the ones what are white on top and sort of white underneath, too, are all right. The red ones on their hats aren’t.’
    ‘You can take all of them off the menu for a start! I’m not having my husband killed off just yet. And for the main dish?’
    ‘Suckling pig roasted to a crisp. Like I said, he does enjoy his bit of crackling.’
    ‘No, absolutely not. We’ll have a light supper tonight. Some tinned asparagus, followed by sardines