Free Bilgewater by Jane Gardam

found myself on Puffy Coleman’s knee. He brushed me off as if I were a spider and looked huffy. Huffy Puffy.
    â€œCor luv a duck,” I said to father, “you’re a blummin’ genius!” (I talked North.)
    â€œWilliam,” said HB, “I wish you’d stop this.”
    â€œHmmm?” said father.
    â€œThis vulgarity. Bilge’s vulgarity.”
    â€œI’m
not
vulgar.”
    â€œMy dear child, you are now and then.
Very
vulgar. As an old friend, a
privileged
friend who has known you since you were—”
    â€œHey!” I said, picking up a horse.
    â€œâ€”she would not have cared for it.”
    â€œWho wouldn’t?” said father, blinking.
    â€œDaisy,” said HB, meaning mother and dropping his eyes. “Daisy would not have cared for Bilge saying ‘blummin’ genius.’”
    â€œNo,” said father, slowly watching the squares. My hand hovered, my hand rose, my hand slowly fell. I donked down the horse and we both sat still for a very long time. Only Old Price’s dead-leaf voice whispered on. Then the air grew electric and my father cried, “My word! My word though! Ha ha!”
    â€œHa ha,” he cried and he got up and came over to me and sort of biffed me over the back, “but bless me, Edmund if she’s not one.
She’s
the blummin’ genius! My goodness gracious me!”
    I had done something pretty nice. The game was far from over but what I’d done was pretty nice. I don’t suppose I will ever make a better move than I made that evening. I wagged my head about and grinned at everyone. So did father. We were well pleased with each other.
    â€œCan’t get the hang of chess,” said Puffy.
    â€œWhere’s the wine gone?” asked HB and father began looking about for the corkscrew.
    Â 
    Paula had gone off to some crisis in the dormitories when I got back and I took my dinner out of the oven which had been on at number 10 by the look of the pork chop, and I sat very happy thinking of the rook and the horse. Looking back I realise that I was feeling happier than I had been since Grace had appeared. Also perhaps it was the first rime I had really stopped thinking about her. Or perhaps I had not
thought
, not
thought
at all about anything since Monday, only felt; and the bit of thought or what Paula calls headwork that had occurred down in the study had restored me to myself again or at least to some sort of inner self-respect.
    Difficult.
    Gnawing the chop bone I thought of the rook. I thought of the mess and the muddle in father’s study and the order and truth that nevertheless emerged from it. I reflected on my father’s character, his vague face that hides a multitude of virtues.
    Paula came in, red as a fox, red as a rose, wild as a foxglove and I smiled at her over the chop.
    â€œThere now,” she cried, “So there we are! Bloind down. On his head. Concussed.”
    â€œWho?”
    â€œTerrapin of course, who else? Poor Jack Rose tried to field it off him and puts his head right through the window. Boakes was there thank God. Tourniquet. Saved the day! Might have been the main artery.”
    â€œIn his head?”
    â€œI told you. You were
witness
. I told your father. Those bloinds. Last week. You heard me tell your father.” She was running about for Elastoplast and Savlon, then to the phone for the doctor.
    â€œLife’s difficult,” I said, feeling still that it was getting better really.
    â€œBeware of self pity. You have to expect difficulties. Is that the doctor? Expect it, I say and it’ll be all right. Hello? Well you’d better get over here quick-as-whats-thiz for there’s disaster!”
    The astounding thing about Paula is that she looks like Tess of the D’Urbervilles and she sounds like Tess of the D’Urbervilles and she thinks like Tess of the D’Urbervilles and yet she’s so different from Tess of the