The Fetch. Finuala Dowling
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and I also feel that we’d get fewer thefts out of the caravans if we could actually see what’s potting after nightfall,” said Neville.
“What about the stars?” asked William. “You want to catch maybe one petty thief – if you’re lucky – in exchange for eleven constellations and stars of first magnitude? And you’ll never get them back again. Orion, Sirius, Castor and Pollux, the Southern Cross, the Magellanic Clouds …”
Nina hadn’t heard him speak at such length before. In fact, she had always thought William was something of a simpleton.
“That’s all very beautiful,” said Fundiswa, “but what about me and Nina coming home on foot on dark, wintry evenings?”
“If you let me know when your taxi drops you off at the top there, I’ll come up with a lantern,” said William.
“I couldn’t care less about the stars,” said Mrs Fawkes. “What we want is to keep our rates down.”
“Lights are very middle class,” Chas added.
“I should point out that we are the middle-class,” retorted his mother.
“The enlightened middle class,” Nina ventured. Whenever it entered her head to speak aloud at a meeting, her heart would protest violently. Why risk death when no one listened anyway? But Chas was a good audience.
“Enlightened but not illumined,” he said. He smiled and then spoke directly to her. “If you’re on our side, Nina, then the vote is decided: no streetlights.”
“I’m on your side, yes,” she said.
Though Neville had been in favour of the streetlights, he seemed relieved to end the discussion. “Good, then,” he said. “We can get cracking with the next item, which is the Cockle Place matter. The developer has asked us to withdraw our objections so that he can finish building the complex. Seems like you might soon get some new neighbours, Nina and Fundiswa.”
“The answer to that is a flat ‘no’, ” said Chas. “In fact, I would be interested in hearing legal opinion on this. We might even be within our rights to demolish the flats he’s built already.”
Fundiswa was indignant: “I can’t believe what I’m hearing! That’s where Nina and I live! Will that make you happy, if we are homeless?”
“You must have come from somewhere,” said Chas. “You could go back there.”
Nina was sure he was joking. Surely he was teasing them? Yes, she caught his wink.
“What do you think, William?” asked Chas.
William’s answer came as a pronouncement: “We can’t ask the developer to tear down the flats he’s built already. But we don’t want any more building on the site. Our objections must remain.”
“Wisely spoken,” said Neville. “Next: pests. Mrs Fawkes, you want to say something about the Egyptian geese?”
“They poo all over my lawn, which is very unpleasant. And they are exceptionally raucous.”
“I could shoot them,” suggested William. “They’re probably good eating.”
“If you’re so bloody trigger-happy, why don’t you start with that noisy bird of yours?” demanded Fundiswa.
“I’m thinking of wringing its neck,” said William. “They’re good eating, quails.”
“Nature red in tooth and claw,” observed Chas.
Was that Wordsworth, wondered Nina, or Tennyson? The rough male kiss earlier was Rupert Brooke. It was wonderful to listen to someone like Chas, whose utterances sent messengers flying fleet-footed down every single one of one’s neurological pathways.
“Shoot the Egyptian geese! You will do no such thing!” objected Sharon. “They mate for life, you know. And their babies are so cute!”
“It’s not that I like killing,” said William.
“Well, that’s a relief,” said Fundiswa.
“I just think that if you’re going to eat a living thing, then it should be something you’re prepared to kill yourself.”
“Do you have a gun?” asked Neville.
“No,” admitted William.
Nina saw that William liked to solve problems. He was touching his forehead as though there were an abacus in there and he was moving the wooden beads around to find an answer. “It’s the grass that’s the problem,” he said. “You want the grass for your campers and your croquet; the Egyptian geese want it for the seed. You could go indigenous. Plant reeds, for example, or let the vygies grow in.”
“I have no wish to play croquet amidst the reeds,” said Mrs Fawkes. “Or squelch about on a carpet of succulents.”
But William was keen to explore green solutions. “I could set up a webcam, and you could monitor it. Then, if you see a goose on your lawn, you could maybe activate an explosion by remote control. But that might be quite expensive to set up. What we really want is some predators – hawks, owls, maybe a mongoose – to eat the chicks or the eggs.”
Mrs Fawkes gave an exasperated sigh. “Please forget that I mentioned the Egyptian geese. I don’t want a surveillance camera or hawks circling overhead or gunmen hiding in the reeds. Emmanuel can just keep picking up the poo. Next, Neville.”
“Next,” said Neville, “is our friend the outcast baboon.”
“Good eating perhaps, William?” suggested Chas.
“Bushmeat is no good. That’s probably how humans got …”
“Let’s not get sidetracked again,” said Fundiswa. “I want to tell you my story. Last Saturday I am sitting in my kitchen, reading the news on my laptop. I’m feeling a bit hungry, so I reach out to the fruit bowl for an apple, and what do you think? A furry paw is there! This baboon is sitting beside me on the kitchen counter, eating my bananas!”
“He’s a cheeky bugger this one,” said Neville, coming in swiftly before things became even more anecdotal. “Look, we’ve all got a story like Fundiswa’s. The point is, we have to be vigilant about closing our windows and all that stuff. The tamper-proof bin system helps a lot. As long as you are all religious about keeping your food waste locked away, we should be okay.”
“You could give your food waste to me,” said William.
“Good eating?” Chas’s face was bright with merriment.
“For my worms,” said William. “And I don’t totally agree with the locked-bin strategy. I would like to be able to go through your bins …”
Sharon was indignant: “What d’you want to go through our garbage for? You mad or something?”
“Maybe he’s the paparazzi,” said Fundiswa. “I believe they get a lot of information out of celebrities’ bins.”
“People throw really good stuff away,” said William. “Like this shirt, for example.”
“I thought I recognised it,” said Mrs Fawkes. “Didn’t I give you that as a gift, darling?”
“It looks much better on William,” said Chas. “Polyester, isn’t it?”
“Drip-dry,” said Mrs Fawkes. “The ideal thing when you’re travelling.”
“It was in your wheelie bin,” William defended himself. “I asked Emmanuel and he indicated that he didn’t wear polyester.”
“La-di-da,” said Mrs Fawkes and stubbed out her cigarette.
“So, what exactly would you like us to do?” Neville was clearly keen to reach a compromise so that the meeting could come to an end. “Can I suggest that if people would like to, on a purely voluntary basis, they can drop