Free This Private Plot by Alan Beechey Page B

took several goes to make the Bennets understand he was not talking about regular trivia, known only to cognoscenti, such as that the banana plant is technically a herb, not a tree; nor indeed about obvious information concerning the banana’s color, its taste, or (as Mormal persisted in mentioning) its suggestive shape—every fool can tell that. But the banana’s reputation as a source of potassium is perfect paradigm of…what should he call it?
    â€œLet me think of another example,” he said. He fixed his eyes on Mormal and inspiration came. “What’s the first odd fact that comes to mind when I say the word ‘cockroach’?”
    â€œCockroaches will be the only survivors of a nuclear war,” said Toby instantly. Oliver nodded.
    â€œMost people have heard that, although there doesn’t seem to be an atom of truth in it. But, as I’m finding, fact is nowhere near as appealing, or as memorable, as some fictions.”
    â€œEffie, you’re very quiet,” interrupted Davina. “I suppose you’re used to that, with such an intelligent boyfriend. Let’s tempt you into the conversation. Were you at Royal Ascot this year?”
    â€œNot this year, no,” Effie replied sweetly, as she stabbed a soggy Brussels sprout. “And before you ask, you patronizing bitch, not at Henley, or Cowes Week, or the Chelsea frigging Flower Show or any other stopping-off place in the London Season where you inbred oxygen-thieves get a last chance to squander your ill-gotten wealth before the revolution comes and you’re all dangling from the lampposts,” she added mentally.
    â€œI say,” Quilt-Hogg cut in. “Nuclear war—atom of truth. That’s jolly good.” He chuckled. Lucinda squeezed his hand reassuringly.
    The table started to split into smaller conversational clusters, and Effie discovered that if she looked busy with her food, smiled occasionally at nothing in particular, and kept her eyes fixed on the cruet, she could exclude herself from any subgroup that included a Bennet. Apart from a brief exchange with Eric Mormal, who asked her if the “eff” in “Effie” was short for what he thought it was—it wasn’t—she managed to get all the way to dessert in splendid isolation. Only Oliver, out of reach, noticed.
    â€œDo you ski?” Quilt-Hogg asked suddenly. Effie turned and realized the question was for her.
    â€œNo, I’ve yet to learn,” she said, remembering the Easter school vacations when her more affluent friends jetted off for a week on the bunny slopes of St. Moritz.
    â€œAh. Sail?” Quilt-Hogg persisted, following some mental checklist for dinner conversations.
    â€œNo.”
    â€œShoot?”
    â€œNo, I don’t like guns.” What was next, bungee polo?
    â€œShame,” he went on, clearly permitted to talk about himself after three refusals. “Got a couple of Purdeys, myself.”
    â€œI always say there’s nothing like a nice pair of Purdeys, eh, Effie?” Mormal cut in. Xanthe and Lucinda giggled. The table was clearly regathering.
    â€œHe’s so leisure,” said Xanthe happily, to nobody in particular.
    â€œRather,” Quilt-Hogg agreed. “One’s a bit of an antique. My people gave me the other for my twenty-first birthday. Side-by-side self-opening sidelock. Cost a packet, hundred thou, cleaned out the old man’s bank account, but worth the dosh. So you don’t use a gun in your job, eh?”
    â€œI’ve trained in marksmanship.”
    â€œAh. What do you police types use these days?”
    â€œA Glock 17. I’ve also handled a Smith and Wesson revolver. A .38 model ten.”
    â€œMost excellent! Fancy, a couple of rounds from one of those should put the wind up Johnny Foreigner, when he gets above himself.”
    â€œI wouldn’t know about that,” Effie said tactfully. When the hell can we go home?