In Pursuit of the English

generation and they did not understand it. Flo said once: ‘The way they talk — but they must get it from the telly, that’s what I think.’

‘Mind you, I’ve eaten stranger things in my time,’ said Mick. ‘Ever eaten a haggis, Len?’

‘Not since I saw one alive,’ said Len.

‘Alive, did you? I’ve never seen that. What’s it look like?’

‘Don’t be silly,’ said Rose. ‘Haggis is sheep’s stomach.’

‘No, Auntie, you’ve got it wrong. A haggis is a little animal, covered with fur.’

‘Come to think of it I saw one, too, once,’ said Mick.

‘Where was it now? On the slopes of Ben Nevis, it was.’

‘I like old Ben, don’t you. Mick?’

‘My best friend. Mind you, he’s hard on those haggises.’

‘You have to understand a haggis. They need kindness.’

‘And sympathy.’

‘That’s what our old friend Ben Nevis hasn’t got. Sympathy.’

‘Those poor haggises’ll die out soon, the way he treats them.’

Flo said, ‘There’s ever such a nice programme coming now.’

The screen was filled with spangled girls and the air was loud with South American type music.

Len raised his voice and said: ‘That’s why I hope I never see a mink. My favourite food, mink is.’

‘Who ever ate mink?’ enquired Rose.

‘Me,’ said Mick.

‘Me,’ said Len. ‘Dressed with salad cream, there’s nothing like mink.’

‘It has to be a mutation mink,’ said Mick. ‘Well-dressed.’

‘Better flavour,’ said Len.

‘You know what mutated mink is. Auntie — go on, you’re just ignorant,’ said Mick. ‘It’s mink that’s changed from those atom-bombs. Twice the meat it had before.’

‘That’s right,’ said Len. ‘Like evolution.’

‘The first time, it happened by accident,’ said Mick, ‘but now they mutate them on purpose for the meat. Now where is it they have that mutated mink farm. Len? It slips my mind for the moment.’

‘Tibet,’ said Len.

‘That’s right, of course. I read it in the Reader’s Digest last week. Biggest mutated mink farm in the world, right up there in the Himalayas.’

‘Since they mutated them, they look rather like Hamas,’ said Len.

Rose was staring hard at the television set. But her hands plucked at the arm-rests of the chair, and she looked as if she might cry.

‘The Dalai Lama breeds them,’ said Mick. ‘He’s not like old Ben Nevis, he has a real feeling for minks.’

‘Sympathy,’ said Len.

‘Peculiar habits they have since they mutated,’ said Mick. ‘What is it now? I’ve forgotten.

‘Monks’ habits,’ said Len.

‘Naah. You’ve got it wrong. I remember: each mink has to live inside a magic circle all its life. Because it mustn’t move too much or it’ll get thin and tough, no good for mink pie when they get like that.’

‘A magic circle drawn by spirits.’

‘Spirit of turpentine,’ said Mick.

‘And, of course, turps is hard to come by up there in Tibet.’

‘Poor Dalai Lama, I wouldn’t be him, would you, Len?’

‘Rather be old Ben Nevis. Haggises is easier.’

‘And those minks, they’re getting a real taste for turps. Drink it day and night. As soon as the Dalai Lama draws the magic circle, those minks lick it up again.’

‘Not good for them at all.’

‘Spoils the meat.’

‘And they’re getting scarce, they’re dying out, mutated minks don’t tolerate turps. Not that rotten stuff they’ve got in Tibet.’

‘I’d put my money on haggises. For survival, that is. Wouldn’t you, Len?’

‘Too true. Give me a good haggis steak any day. You can keep your mutated minks.’

‘You think you’re funny,’ said Rose.

‘Ah, go on now — laugh, Auntie, laugh just once.’

Mick whirled Rose up out of her chair and danced her around the basement, to the music from the television, while Rose cried: ‘Stop it, stop it.’

‘You’ve got no sense of humour, that’s your trouble, Auntie,’ said Mick, dropping her back in her chair.

‘No sense of humour at all,’ said Len.

‘Yes?’ said Rose. ‘I laugh, don’t I? I laugh at plenty. How do you know what I laugh at isn’t as funny as what you laugh at?’

‘She’s got a point, mind you,’ said Mick to Len.

‘A pointed sense of humour,’ said Len to Mick.

‘Did I tell you about that pointed sense of humour I saw last week on the building site?’

‘Ah, shut up,’ said Rose, and her lips were quivering.

Len shrugged. Mick shrugged.

‘Don’t you like watching our lovely telly?’ asked Flo pathetically.

‘Time for work,’ said Dan, rising and reaching for his overalls.

‘I’ll tell you about the pointed sense of humour upstairs,’ said Mick as the two boys got up and stretched, winking and laughing.

‘I read about its habits last week in the Mirror strange to relate.’

‘Related to the mink and the haggis?’

‘No, it’s a different kettle of fish.’

‘Fish, is it? Didn’t look like a fish to me when I saw it on the building site.’

‘Ah, but that’s because the one you saw’s different from the old lot. It’s got legs, since the atom bomb got at it.’

‘Mutated, too, has it?’

‘There are two kinds of pointed sense of humour now. The mutated kind and the old kind. Mind you, it’s not a bad thing. I like to see a pointed sense of humour on land now and then.’

‘Wasted down there in the sea, I grant you.’

‘Even the sea kind have got different shaped waists since the atom bomb.’

‘A sad thing, a pointed sense of humour without a waist.’

‘They’re sad, too. Need sympathy.’

‘Plenty of sympathy.’

‘Yes, Len, that’s what we need, you and me and the waistless pointed sense of humour. Sympathy.’

‘We’re not going to get it here, are we. Mick?’

‘No, Len. Not here.’

‘Good-bye, Auntie.’

‘Good-bye, Auntie Rose.’

‘They went upstairs.

‘Think they’re funny,’ said Rose. To me she said accusingly; ‘And you were laughing. Yes. I saw you. Don’t think I didn’t. You don’t want to encourage them.’

‘Yes, she was laughing,’ said Flo. ‘Well, I don’t blame you, dear.’

‘Yes? I blame her. Them kids. Go on and on for hours. You’d think there was nothing in the world to worry about the way they go on.’

‘That’s right,’ said Flo. ‘Ah, my Lord, the way my life’s going, and Dan’s no time for some fun. I might as well go to my granny in Italy.’

‘But she’s dead,’ said Rose.

‘Yes, she died. And now I’ve nowhere to go if Dan doesn’t treat me right. Perhaps I’ll go to live with Jack in