The florist Beeves made nosegays for the deaf mute Lela, carefully choosing each flower, then arranging them into exquisite bouquets: Windflowers and Daffodils, Whortleberry and Venus’s Looking-glass, Toad-flax and Teasel, Sweet William and Silver-weed, Persian Candy-tuft and Narcissus, Mandrake and yellow Madder, Larkspur and Ladies’ Bedstraw, Jonquille and Indian cane, Hornbeam and Hawthorn, Goosefoot and Goats-rue, Foxglove and Dodder, Date-plum and Cinquefoil, Chaste-tree and Bugloss, Bladder-senna and Black thorn, Arum and Amaranth. He wove and tweezed them together with the greatest care, never once misplacing a Toad-flax or a Foxglove, a Silver-weed or a Candy-tuft.
The man in the hat like fruit flans, peach and orange, currant and apricot, and Flan O’Brien whom he had read about in a periodical or newspaper. He liked ox-tail gumbo and soda-biscuits and anything that tasted like anis or cloves. Golf he found childish, preferring checkers or trump the fox, a card game he had learned from his great-great grandfather, a Quaker with hairy arms and a coughing laugh. Bunt cakes and tortes and tiny cupcakes with frosting and curlicues, anything baked with Crisco and lard. He ate anything that was put in front of him, mealworms and saltpetered cakes and chocolaty Swiss Rolls rolled in confectionary sugar and shredded coconut. He wolfed down everything within reach, never stopping long enough to chew things, morsels and wee gambits of food, or wipe the crumbs from the fop of his trousers.
Delaney has wheatears. The shamble leg man met Delaney at the crab fry-up on a sunshiny sunny August day. Delaney, bibbed and dressed in a beige serge suit with wide lapels, sat over a table of crabs cracking shells with a nutcracker he carried in a scabbard on his belt. His mouth oily with crab juice, eyes bigger than garlic bulbs. The shamble leg man espied him from a distance, as he was in no mood for pleasantries and how do you do’s. Once Delaney had you in his sights he would chatter on and on like an insufferable fool, and the shamble leg man did not suffer fools lightly. Crabber and Duckworth catered the crab fry-up. Duckworth oiled his hair with garlic butter, gathered into a cone on the back of his head. Crabber was bald, so had no use for oils and hair salves. ‘This is strangely disturbing’ said Crabber, ‘all these crabs and not a shell insight.’ ‘Don’t you mean in sight?’ asked Duckworth.
The man in the hat like fruit flans, peach and orange, currant and apricot, and Flan O’Brien whom he had read about in a periodical or newspaper. He liked ox-tail gumbo and soda-biscuits and anything that tasted like anis or cloves. Golf he found childish, preferring checkers or trump the fox, a card game he had learned from his great-great grandfather, a Quaker with hairy arms and a coughing laugh. Bunt cakes and tortes and tiny cupcakes with frosting and curlicues, anything baked with Crisco and lard. He ate anything that was put in front of him, mealworms and saltpetered cakes and chocolaty Swiss Rolls rolled in confectionary sugar and shredded coconut. He wolfed down everything within reach, never stopping long enough to chew things, morsels and wee gambits of food, or wipe the crumbs from the fop of his trousers.
Delaney has wheatears. The shamble leg man met Delaney at the crab fry-up on a sunshiny sunny August day. Delaney, bibbed and dressed in a beige serge suit with wide lapels, sat over a table of crabs cracking shells with a nutcracker he carried in a scabbard on his belt. His mouth oily with crab juice, eyes bigger than garlic bulbs. The shamble leg man espied him from a distance, as he was in no mood for pleasantries and how do you do’s. Once Delaney had you in his sights he would chatter on and on like an insufferable fool, and the shamble leg man did not suffer fools lightly. Crabber and Duckworth catered the crab fry-up. Duckworth oiled his hair with garlic butter, gathered into a cone on the back of his head. Crabber was bald, so had no use for oils and hair salves. ‘This is strangely disturbing’ said Crabber, ‘all these crabs and not a shell insight.’ ‘Don’t you mean in sight?’ asked Duckworth.
