Weldon, Fay - Novel 07 Read Free Page B

white, stood blindly sentinel.
Liffey was on her feet, shuddering and aghast.
                 “They’re
only puffballs,” said Richard. “Nature’s bounty. They
come up overnight. What’s the matter with you?”
                 The
matter was that the smooth round swelling of the fungus made
Liffey think of a belly swollen by pregnancy, and she said so. Richard
found another one, but its growth had been stunted by tangled conch-grass, and
its surface was convoluted, brownish and rubbery.
                 “This
one looks like a brain in some laboratory jar,” said Richard.
                 He
and I, thought Liffey, trembling, as if aware that the
invisible bird of disaster, flying by, had glanced them with its wings. He and I.
                 Bella
and Ray came round from the back of the house.
                 “We
knew we’d find you round here,” said Ray. “Bella took a bet on it. ‘They’ll be
at it again,’ she said. I think she’s jealous. What have you found?”
                 “Puffballs,”
said Richard.
                 “Puffballs!”
                 “Puffballs!”
                 Ray
and Bella, animated, ran forward to see.
                 Liffey
saw them all of a sudden with cold eyes, in clear sunlight, and knew that they
were grotesque. Bella’s lank hair was tightly pulled back, and her nose was
bulbous and her long neck was scrawny and her eyes popped as if the doll-maker
had failed to press them properly into the mould. Her tired breasts pushed
sadly into her white T-shirt: the skin on her arms was coarse and slack. Ray
was white in the bright sunlight, pale and puffy and rheumy. He wore jeans and
an open shirt as if he were a young man, but he
wasn’t. A pendant hung round his neck and nestled in grey, wiry, unhuman hairs.
In the city, running across busy streets, jumping in and out of taxis, opening
food from the Take Away, they seemed ordinary enough. Put them against a
background of growing green, under a clear sky, and you could see how strange
they were.
                 “You
simply have to take the cottage,” said Bella, “if only to bring us puffballs.
Have you any idea how rare they are?”
                 “What
do you do with them?” asked Liffey.
                 “Eat
them,” said Ray, “Slice them, grill them, stuff them— they have a wonderful
creamy texture, like just ripe Camem- bert . We’ll do
some tonight under the roast beef.”
                 “I
don’t like Camembert,” was all Liffey could think of to say.
                 Ray
bent and plucked one of the puffballs from its base, fingers gently cupping its
globe from beneath, careful not to break the taut, stretched skin. He handed it
to Bella and picked a second.
                 Tucker
came along the other side of the stream. Cows followed him: black-and-white
Friesians, full bumping bellies swaying from side to side. A dog brought up the
rear. It was a quiet, orderly procession.
                 “Oh
my God,” said Bella. “Cows!”
                 “They
won’t hurt you,” said Liffey.
                 “Cows
kill four people a year in this country,” said Bella, who always had a
statistic to back up a fear.
                 “Afternoon,”
said Tucker amiably, across the stream.
                 “We’re
not on your land?” enquired Ray.
                 “Not
mine,” said Tucker. “That’s no one’s you’re on—that’s waiting for an owner.”
                 He
was splashing through the water towards them. “You thinking
of taking it? Good piece of land, your side of the stream, better than
mine this side.”
                 He
was across. He saw the remaining puffball. He drew back his leg and kicked it,
and it burst, as if it had been under amazing tension,