‘I asked if it was ugly, sir, and you answer that it is unnatural. Why must you hedge?’
‘Sir!’ said Prunesquallor, but as he gave no colour to the utterance, very little could be made of it.
‘When I say “ugly” have the goodness to use the word. Do you understand?’ Lord Groan spoke quietly.
‘I comprehend, sir. I comprehend.’
‘Is the boy hideous,’ persisted Lord Groan as though he wished to thrash the matter out. ‘Have you ever delivered a more hideous child? Be honest.’
‘Never,’ said the doctor. ‘Never, ha, ha, ha, ha. Never. And never a boy with such – er, ha, ha, ha, never a boy with such extraordinary eyes.’
‘Eyes?’ said Lord Groan, ‘what’s wrong with them?’
‘Wrong?’ cried Prunesquallor. ‘Did you say “wrong” your lordship? Have you not seen them?’
‘No, quick, man. Hurry yourself. What is it? What is the matter with my son’s eyes?’
‘They are violet.’
FUCHSIA
As his lordship stared at the doctor another figure appeared, a girl of about fifteen with long, rather wild black hair. She was gauche in movement and in a sense, ugly of face, but with how small a twist might she not suddenly have become beautiful. Her sullen mouth was full and rich – her eyes smouldered.
A yellow scarf hung loosely around her neck. Her shapeless dress was a flaming red.
For all the straightness of her back she walked with a slouch.
‘Come here,’ said Lord Groan as she was about to pass him and the doctor.
‘Yes father,’ she said huskily.
‘Where have you been for the last fortnight, Fuchsia?’
‘Oh, here and there, father,’ she said, staring at her shoes. She tossed her long hair and it flapped down her back like a pirate’s flag. She stood in about as awkward a manner as could be conceived. Utterly unfeminine – no man could have invented it.
‘Here and there?’ echoed her father in a weary voice. ‘What does “here and there” mean? You’ve been in hiding. Where, girl?’
‘’N the libr’y and ’n the armoury, ’n walking about a lot,’ said Lady Fuchsia, and her sullen eyes narrowed. ‘I just heard silly rumours about mother. They said I’ve got a brother – idiots! idiots! I hate them. I haven’t, have I? Have I?’
‘A little brother,’ broke in Doctor Prunesquallor. ‘Yes, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, a minute, infinitesimal, microscopic addition to the famous line is now behind this bedroom door. Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, he, he, he! Oh yes! Ha, ha! Oh yes indeed! Very much so.’
‘No!’ said Fuchsia so loudly that the doctor coughed crisply and his lordship took a step forward with his eyebrows drawn together and a sad curl at the corner of his mouth.
‘It’s not true!’ shouted Fuchsia, turning from them and twirling a great lock of black hair round and round her wrist. ‘I don’t believe it! Let me go! Let me go!’
As no one was touching her, her cry was unnecessary and she turned and ran with strange bounds along the corridor that led from the landing. Before she was lost to view, Steerpike could hear her voice shouting from the distance, ‘Oh how I hate! hate! hate! How I
All this while Mr Flay had been gazing out of a narrow window in the octagonal room and was preoccupied with certain matters relating to how he could best let Lord Groan know that he, Flay, his servant for over forty years, disapproved of having been put aside as it were at the one moment when a son had been born – at the one moment when he, Flay, would have been invaluable as an ally. Mr Flay was rather hurt about the whole business, and he very much wanted Lord Groan to know this, and yet at the same time it was very difficult to think of a way in which he could tactfully communicate his chagrin to a man quite as sullen as himself. Mr Flay bit his nails sourly. He had been at the window for a much longer time than he had intended and he turned with his shoulders raised, an attitude typical of him and saw young Steerpike, whose presence he had forgotten. He strode over to the boy and catching him by his coat-tails jerked him backwards into the centre of the room. The great picture swung back across the spy-hole.
‘Now,’ he said, ‘back! You’ve seen her door, Swelter’s boy.’
Steerpike, who had been lost in the world beyond the oak partition, was dazed, and took a moment to come to.
‘Back to that loathsome chef?’ he cried at last, ‘oh no! couldn’t!’
‘Too busy to have you here,’ said Flay, ‘too busy, can’t wait.’
‘He’s ugly,’ said Steerpike fiercely.
‘Who?’ said Flay. ‘Don’t stop here talking.’
‘Oh so ugly, he is. Lord Groan said so. The doctor said so. Ugh! So hideous.’
‘Who’s hideous, you kitchen thing,’ said Flay, jerking his head forward grotesquely.
‘Who?’ said Steerpike. ‘The baby. The new baby. They both said so. Most terrible he is.’
‘What’s this?’ cried Flay. ‘What’s these lies all about? Who’ve you heard talking? Who’ve you been listening to? I’ll tear your little ears off, you snippet thing! Where’ve you been? Come here!’
Steerpike, who had determined to escape from the Great Kitchen, was now bent on finding an occupation among those apartments where he might pry into the affairs of those above him.
