‘Yes, Jock?’

‘What’s a crappo?’

‘I’ve no idea. Why?’

‘Well this Guernsey said it was a matey thing to say to the Jerseys and he put me on to saying it to one of them and the Jersey tried to hit me.’

‘Tried? Jock, have you been fighting?’

‘Nah. I caught his fist and sort of squeezed till he said it was all a mistake and the landlord told him I didn’t mean no harm, but when I asked what it meant they got nasty again so I left it alone and bought another round and there was no hard feelings except I think they kicked the Guernsey man up the bum when they got him outside. Funny you don’t know what crappo means, I’ve heard you talk French lovely.’

‘Crapaud!’ I cried.

‘Yeah, that’s it. Crappo.’

‘It’s a French word; it means a toad.’

‘A toad, eh?’

‘Yes. And you say the Jerseys don’t like it?’

‘They ’ate it. They reckon it’s a diabolical liberty.’

‘And “diabolical” may be a better word than you think.’

‘Eh?’

‘Never mind. Where’s that sandwich?’

‘Coming. Oh, one other thing I nearly forgot. When I was going on about this raper bloke having a sword painted on his belly, one or two of them sort of nudged each other and the old geezer who’s coming to do the garden had a bit of a chuckle too. I didn’t ask, I could see they weren’t going to let on. Private joke, I reckon. Or p’raps it means something dirty.’

‘Perhaps both. I think I detect the distant clash of phallic cymbals.’

‘Eh?’

‘Yes. Ah, the sandwich. How delicious. I shall take it to bed with me. Good night, Jock.’

‘Goo’ night, Mr Charlie.’

I know I meant to go and say good night to Johanna, for I realize how much these little civilities mean to the frailer sex, but I dare say I forgot. Even men aren’t perfect.

5

Yea, he is strong, thou say’st,

A mystery many-faced,

The wild beasts know him and the wild birds flee;

The blind night sees him, death

Shrinks beaten at his breath,

And his right hand is heavy on the sea:

We know he hath made us, and is king;

We know not if he care for anything.

To Victor Hugo

Nothing really happened the following day except that, in the morning, my liver and I could by no means seem to get along together. I drank Milk of Magnesia, Alka-Seltzer and Eno’s Fruit Salts, in that order, until my stomach was a mere cave of the winds and the waters, but to no avail.

‘You need a drink, Mr Charlie,’ said Jock, with rough compassion.

‘Do you really think that might help?’

‘Bloody sure it would.’

I had one, just to please Jock and, do you know, he was perfectly right. He knows, you see.