rightness that is both moral perspective, and aesthetic choice. To be convincingly part of that tradition is also to extend it.
As legal counsel like to put it, I am happy, after calling sixty witnesses, to rest my case.
Supper Waltz Wilson
S upper Waltz loved oysters, and in the season he had them for his tea whenever his mother was on the afternoon shift. About half-past four, after weâd been playing along the cliffs, or wandering in the town, heâd buy his oysters. He couldnât wait any longer. If the rest of us had any money weâd buy some too, and walk up to the shelters over-looking the bay. Winter is the time for oysters, and from the shelters we would watch the leaden waters of the harbour, and the heat from the oysters and chips would make our noses run. Pongo, Graeme, Supper Waltz, and I. Supper Waltz didnât just eat his oysters; he ravished them. First he would tear off the batter, then hold the steaming oyster by its frill and bite cruelly into its centre with his sharp teeth. Sometimes, as a conscious indulgence, heâd eat two at once, growling with pleasure deep in his throat. It was another occasion on which we realised that Supper Waltz had a heightened perception of the world.
Children take their own situation as the universal one when theyâre young. My father dominated our family as naturally as a pyramid does the sands. Thatâs why I always found the Wilson household disconcerting, I suppose. Mr Wilson was a butcher, but years ago heâd had a revelation from the Lord telling him not to work anymore, and his religious conviction never wavered afterwards. He always seemed to be in his room. Scores of times I was at the Wilsonsâ, and if Mr Wilson was mentioned he was almost always in his room. If he wasnât then he was in the lavatory singing hymns. He knew allthe words, and never had to go dum-de-dah or some-such in places. He didnât seem to have much of an ear, though, and it wasnât good to listen to. Once he was singing, and Supper Waltzâs eldest brother was in the kitchen. âArse arias again today, Mum,â he said, and Mrs Wilson threw down the carrot she was scraping into the sink, and began to laugh. The carrot splashed up water on to her face, and the drops ran like tears as she laughed. Supper Waltz laughed a lot too, and I joined in the way you do when youâre not sure why.
Mrs Wilson worked in the woollen mills. She often seemed to be just coming, or just going. A very matter-of-fact woman, Mrs Wilson. Tall and strong, lacking any graces. When she cycled up the rise to the house, she didnât get off and wheel the bike the way other women did, but stood up on the pedals, using her weight and strength like a man, pushing right up to the gate. Pongoâs and Graemeâs mothers usually said hello to me, or asked about my parents, but I donât remember Mrs Wilson saying anything at all to me â except the once. A hard woman if she wanted to be I guess, Mrs Wilson. Wherever Supper Waltz got his looks it wasnât from his mother. They had the same eyes, though. The same restless, flickering eyes, like light through the wings of a bird in a cage.
Most grown-ups didnât like Supper Waltz. They were used to youngsters who were socially clumsy, and submissive to authority. The Reverend Mr Weir called him a smart aleck and barred him from the Boysâ Brigade, and old Raymond detested him. Adults didnât understand the fierce vision of Supper Waltzâs world, and they resented his unspoken contempt of their ways. The square of the hypotenuse, the 1832 Reform Act, were as dead leaves to Supper Waltz, and only art interested him. Old Raymond loved to ridicule him. âAnd how many, Wilson, did you say you got for the test? Speak up lad. You got nothing! Well, perhaps that explains why I couldnât hear anything, Wilson. I didnât hear any mark because you didnât get any mark. Not a one,
As legal counsel like to put it, I am happy, after calling sixty witnesses, to rest my case.
Supper Waltz Wilson
S upper Waltz loved oysters, and in the season he had them for his tea whenever his mother was on the afternoon shift. About half-past four, after weâd been playing along the cliffs, or wandering in the town, heâd buy his oysters. He couldnât wait any longer. If the rest of us had any money weâd buy some too, and walk up to the shelters over-looking the bay. Winter is the time for oysters, and from the shelters we would watch the leaden waters of the harbour, and the heat from the oysters and chips would make our noses run. Pongo, Graeme, Supper Waltz, and I. Supper Waltz didnât just eat his oysters; he ravished them. First he would tear off the batter, then hold the steaming oyster by its frill and bite cruelly into its centre with his sharp teeth. Sometimes, as a conscious indulgence, heâd eat two at once, growling with pleasure deep in his throat. It was another occasion on which we realised that Supper Waltz had a heightened perception of the world.
Children take their own situation as the universal one when theyâre young. My father dominated our family as naturally as a pyramid does the sands. Thatâs why I always found the Wilson household disconcerting, I suppose. Mr Wilson was a butcher, but years ago heâd had a revelation from the Lord telling him not to work anymore, and his religious conviction never wavered afterwards. He always seemed to be in his room. Scores of times I was at the Wilsonsâ, and if Mr Wilson was mentioned he was almost always in his room. If he wasnât then he was in the lavatory singing hymns. He knew allthe words, and never had to go dum-de-dah or some-such in places. He didnât seem to have much of an ear, though, and it wasnât good to listen to. Once he was singing, and Supper Waltzâs eldest brother was in the kitchen. âArse arias again today, Mum,â he said, and Mrs Wilson threw down the carrot she was scraping into the sink, and began to laugh. The carrot splashed up water on to her face, and the drops ran like tears as she laughed. Supper Waltz laughed a lot too, and I joined in the way you do when youâre not sure why.
Mrs Wilson worked in the woollen mills. She often seemed to be just coming, or just going. A very matter-of-fact woman, Mrs Wilson. Tall and strong, lacking any graces. When she cycled up the rise to the house, she didnât get off and wheel the bike the way other women did, but stood up on the pedals, using her weight and strength like a man, pushing right up to the gate. Pongoâs and Graemeâs mothers usually said hello to me, or asked about my parents, but I donât remember Mrs Wilson saying anything at all to me â except the once. A hard woman if she wanted to be I guess, Mrs Wilson. Wherever Supper Waltz got his looks it wasnât from his mother. They had the same eyes, though. The same restless, flickering eyes, like light through the wings of a bird in a cage.
Most grown-ups didnât like Supper Waltz. They were used to youngsters who were socially clumsy, and submissive to authority. The Reverend Mr Weir called him a smart aleck and barred him from the Boysâ Brigade, and old Raymond detested him. Adults didnât understand the fierce vision of Supper Waltzâs world, and they resented his unspoken contempt of their ways. The square of the hypotenuse, the 1832 Reform Act, were as dead leaves to Supper Waltz, and only art interested him. Old Raymond loved to ridicule him. âAnd how many, Wilson, did you say you got for the test? Speak up lad. You got nothing! Well, perhaps that explains why I couldnât hear anything, Wilson. I didnât hear any mark because you didnât get any mark. Not a one,
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