"Diana Wynne Jones - Witch Week" - читать интересную книгу автора (Jones Diana Wynne)

bowls. They were full of yellow stuff, not quite covering little pink things.
"I believe it may be prawns," Nirupam said dubiously. "For a starter."
Here Miss Cadwallader reached forth a gracious hand. Their heads at once craned round to see
what implement she was going to eat out of the bowl with. Her hand picked up a fork. They picked up
forks too. Nan poked hers cautiously into her bowl. Instantly she began to behave badly. She could not stop
herself. "I think it's custard," she said loudly. "Do prawns mix with custard?" She put one of the pink things
into her mouth. It felt rubbery. "Chewing gum?" she asked. "No, I think they're jointed worms. Worms in
custard."
"Shut up!" hissed Nirupam.
"But it's not custard," Nan continued. She could hear her voice saying it, but there seemed no way to
stop it. "The tongue-test proves that the yellow stuff has a strong taste of sour armpits, combined
with-yes-just a touch of old drains. It comes from the bottom of a dustbin."
Charles glared at her. He felt sick. If he had dared, he would have stopped eating at once. But Miss
Cadwallader continued gracefully forking up prawns-unless they really were jointed worms-and Charles did
not dare do dif-ferently. He wondered how he was going to put this in his journal. He had never hated Nan
Pilgrim particularly before, so he had no code-word for her. Prawn? Could he call her prawn? He choked
down another worm-prawn, that was- and he wished he could push the whole bowlful in Nan's face.
"A clean yellow dustbin," Nan announced. "The kind they keep the dead fish for biology in." "Prawns
are eaten curried in India," Nirupam said loudly. Nan knew he was trying to shut her up. With a great
effort, by cramming several forkfuls of worms-prawns, that was-into her mouth at once, she managed to
stop herself from talking. She could hardly bring herself to swallow the mouthful, but at least it kept her
quiet. Most fervently, she hoped that the next course would be something ordinary, which she would not
have any urge to describe, and so did Nirupam and Charles.
But alas! What came before them in platefuls next was one of the school kitchen's more peculiar
dishes. They produced it about once a month and its official name was hot-pot. With it came tinned peas
and tinned tomatoes. Charles's head and Nirupam's craned toward Miss Cadwallader again to see what
they were supposed to eat this with. Miss Cadwallader picked up a fork. They picked up forks too, and then
craned a second time, to make sure that Miss Cadwallader was not going to pick up a knife as well and so
make it easier for everyone. She was not. Her fork dove gracefully under a pile of tinned peas. They
sighed, and found both their heads turning toward Nan then in a sort of horrified expectation.
They were not disappointed. As Nan levered loose the first greasy ring of potato, the urge to describe
came upon her again. It was as if she was possessed. "Now the aim of this dish," she said, "is to use up
leftovers. You take old potatoes and soak them in washing-up water that has been used at least twice. The
water must be thoroughly scummy." It's like the gift of tongues! she thought. Only in my case it's the gift of
foul-mouth. "Then you take a dirty old tin and rub it round with socks that have been worn for a fortnight.
You fill this tin with alternate layers of scummy potatoes and catfood, mixed with anything else you happen
to have. Old doughnuts and dead flies have been used in this case-"
Could his code-word for Nan be hot-pot? Charles won-dered. It suited her. No, because they only
had hot-pot once a month-fortunately-and, at this rate, he would need to hate Nan practically every day.
Why didn't someone stop her? Couldn't Miss Cadwallader hear?
"Now these things," Nan continued, stabbing her fork into a tinned tomato, "are small creatures that
have been killed and cleverly skinned. Notice, when you taste them, the slight, sweet savor of their blood-"
Nirupam uttered a small moan and went yellower than ever.
The sound made Nan look up. Hitherto, she had been staring at the table where her plate was, in a
daze of terror. Now she saw Mr. Wentworth sitting opposite her across the table. He could hear her
perfectly. She could tell from the expression on his face. Why doesn't he stop me? she thought. Why do
they let me go on? Why doesn't somebody do something, like a thunderbolt strike me, or eternal detention?
Why don't I get under the table and crawl away? And, all the time, she could hear herself talking. "These
did in fact start life as peas. But they have since undergone a long and deadly process. They lie for six
months in a sewer, absorbing fluids and rich tastes, which is why they are called processed peas. Then-"