Then suddenly he struck.
He struck as a snake strikes, darting his head forward with one swift knifelike stroke that originated in the muscles of the lower body, and I had a momentary glimpse of his mouth opening very wide and two yellow teeth and the whole face contorted by the effort of mouth-opening.
More than that I did not care to see. I closed my eyes, and when I opened them again the rat was dead and the ratman was slipping the money into his pocket and spitting to clear his mouth.
‘That’s wh
at they makes lickerish out of,’ he said. ‘Rat’s blood is what the big factories and the chocolate-people use to make lickerish.’
Again the relish, the wet-lipped, lip-smacking relish as he spoke the words, the throaty richness of his voice and the thick syrupy way he pronounced the word lickerish.
‘No,’ he said, ‘there’s nothin’ wrong with a drop of rat’s blood.’
‘Don’t talk so absolutely disgusting,’ Claud told him.
‘Ah! But that’s it, you see, You eaten it many a time. Penny sticks and lickerish bootlaces is all made from rat’s blood.’
‘We don’t want to hear about it, thank you.’
‘Boiled up, it is, in great cauldrons, bubblin’ and steamin’ and men stirrin’ it with long poles. That’s one of the big secrets of the chocolate-makin’ factories, and no one knows about it – no one except the ratters supplyin’ the stuff.’
Suddenly he noticed that his audience was no longer with him, that our faces were hostile and sick-looking and crimson with anger and disgust. He stopped abruptly, and without another word he turned and sloped off down the driveway out on to the road, moving with the slow, that almost delicate ambling walk that was like a rat prowling, making no noise with his footsteps even on the gravel of the driveway.
Rummins
The sun was up over the hills now and the mist had cleared and it was wonderful to be striding along the road with the dog in the early morning, especially when it was autumn, with the leaves changing to gold and yellow and sometimes one of them breaking away and falling slowly, turning slowly over in the air, dropping noiselessly right in front of him on to the grass beside the road. There was a small wind up above, and he could hear the beeches rustling and murmuring like a crowd of people.
This was always the best time of the day for Claud Cubbage. He gazed approvingly at the rippling velvety hindquarters of the greyhound trotting in front of him.
‘Jackie,’ he called softly. ‘Hey, Jackson. How you feeling, boy?’
The dog half turned at the sound of its name and gave a quick acknowledging wag of the tail.
There would never be another dog like this Jackie, he told himself. How beautiful the slim streamlining, the small pointed head, the yellow eyes, the black mobile nose. Beautiful the long neck, the way the deep brisket curved back and up out of sight into no stomach at all. See how he walked upon his toes, noiselessly, hardly touching the surface of the road at all.
‘Jackson,’ he said. ‘Good old Jackson.’
In the distance, Claud could see Rummins’ farmhouse, small, narrow, and ancient, standing back behind the hedge on the right-hand side.
I’ll turn round there, he decided. That’ll be enough for today.
Rummins, carrying a pail of milk across the yard, saw him coming down the road. He set the pail down slowly and came forward to the gate, leaning both arms on the topmost bar, waiting.
‘Morning, Mr Rummins,’ Claud said. It was necessary to be polite to Rummins because of eggs.
Rummins nodded and leaned over the gate, looking critically at the dog.
‘Looks well,’ he said.
‘He is well.’
‘When’s he running?’
‘I don’t know, Mr Rummins.’
‘Come on. When’s he running?’
‘He’s only ten months yet, Mr Rummins. He’s not even schooled properly, honest.’