Eating Things on Sticks Read Free Page B

she puts out traps.’
    Morning Glory gave me a pitying look. ‘No wonder you were so desperate to escape up here with Tristram!’
    I didn’t dare say I was already desperate to escape back again. Instead, I asked her dolefully, ‘Will we be having breakfast?’
    â€˜Before our walk?’
    â€˜Yes,’ Uncle Tristram said firmly. ‘ Before our walk. Let’s go to the small family place. They will have bacon and eggs and stuff like that.’ He turned to Morning Glory to wheedle some more. ‘Then we won’t have to use up any more of your delicious sorrel tea and precious dandelions on toast.’
    She shook her head. ‘You go. I have a few things to do here.’
    â€˜Righty-ho!’ I could tell Uncle Tristram was relieved. I think he wanted to sneak out and buy some normal, everyday provisions before Morning Glory started frightening both of us by braising a squirrel or marinating road kill.
    So off we went. As soon as we were in the car, he turned to me. ‘Listen,’ he said. ‘I fear this trip was something of a mistake.’
    â€˜Mistake?’
    â€˜Well, yes. The problem is, I suppose, that you don’t really know someone very well at all until you see them on their own home ground.’
    Curious, I asked him, ‘Did she seem normal at your house?’
    â€˜I suppose she did,’ he said. ‘But perhaps that was because there were no apples to be mindful of, and we were busy doing other things.’ To cover his blushes, he let out the clutch and put his foot down. As we sped away, he told me, ‘OK, here’s my suggestion. We have breakfast, find out what time the ferry leaves, buy enough proper food to last us through the rest of the day, make our excuses to Morning Glory, and then we leave.’
    â€˜Top plan!’
    We drove about. The little family restaurant had a sign on it: Closed Until Further Notice . There didn’t seem to be a Waitrose. Or a Sainsbury’s. No Morrisons. No Asda. Somertons was closed because it was Sunday morning.
    In the end all we could find was the tiniest shop on the planet. It had four shelves and only one small fridge compartment which was barely as wide as the one that got melted at our house.
    Uncle Tristram picked up one of the three battered wire baskets on the floor by the door and asked the bearded man behind the counter, ‘When does the ferry leave?’
    I think he must have been some sort of foreigner because we understood what he said.
    â€˜Saturday.’
    The blood drained out of Uncle Tristram’s face. ‘ Saturday? Nothing till then?’
    â€˜They would have told you when you bought your ticket,’ said the man defensively.
    â€˜Ah,’ Uncle Tristram said reflectively. ‘That would be “Glerhus dill sotblug.”’ He counted up the days to Saturday, and started filling the basket. There wasn’t much of a selection, and most of that was pork pies. We bought most of them. I watched as Uncle Tristram stood gnawing his nails a little anxiously at the checkout. His card went through though, and we got away.
    â€˜Right!’ he said. ‘Pork pies for breakfast. Then I’m ready to face anything. Even a walk.’

    A TELEVISION, A DVD PLAYER, A COMPUTER AND A RADIO
    â€˜First,’ Morning Glory said, ‘we have to tell our feet how much we appreciate them.’
    â€˜Why?’
    She stared at me as if I were unhinged. ‘Because your feet do lots of work for you. You have to thank your feet.’
    â€˜I’ve never thanked my feet before.’
    Morning Glory ignored me. She sat on the floor and bent her body over to stroke her toes and heels while we pretended to copy her. ‘Dear feet,’ she said, while we did a bit of Amen-style mumbling along with her. ‘We know how very committed you are to your daily task. We do appreciate that very much. We care about you. All today, we will be thinking of