‘I did.’
‘I’m not following you.’
‘Llama poo is called “beans” and is very prized by gardeners due to its very rich texture and high phosphate content. It retails for around £35 a kilo.’
‘You’re going to get a llama for its poo?’
‘Two. I’m going to get two. They’re sociable pack animals and like company, and two pooing llamas are better than one, and I might even breed them, so I’ll get two females to start with.’
Although nothing my parents did really should surprise me any more I had to admit this had set me back a little – also if he planned to breed them he’d surely be better with a male and a female unless he’d decided to utilise some sort of artificial insemination technique. The picture dropped into my head of my dad approaching the rear end of a female llama with a large syringe filled with llama semen. I shook my head to get rid of the image and instead continued with my llama objections.
‘Aren’t they noisy?’
‘No, they hum a little.’
‘What, stink?’
‘No, hum as in humming a tune.’
‘They hum tunes?’
‘Well, now, I don’t know,’ he said, scratching his head. ‘I don’t think so. They just make a delightful little humming noise. There’s a website that shows some llamas humming. Do you want to see?’
‘Not right now, thank you. Don’t they spit at you?’
‘No, that’s a myth. They don’t do that unless they’re badly treated or stressed out.’
I reckoned anything, llama or otherwise, living with my mum and dad would be likely to get stressed out damn quickly but I didn’t share my thoughts. ‘You must need a licence or permission from the local authority, then?’
‘No, nothing at all, they’re an administrative joy. I might even invite our local MP over to view them.’
‘She probably won’t come. Is there enough space out here?’
‘For Moira?’
‘No, not Moira, the llamas?’
‘Yeah, just about, if I provide some hay or fodder to supplement the grass, which, by the way, I’ll never need to cut again.’
I’d run out of llama objections.
‘Do you want some coffee?’ My dad smiled, having outlasted me. ‘I’ve just brewed some in the “church”. Come on.’
I followed him around to shed number three, which had been designed and built as a small scaled-down version of the original church from Salem village, Massachusetts (as depicted in Arthur Miller’s The Crucible) complete with a small, square bell tower, clock, and double oak-panelled doors. I wasn’t sure what the Reverend Samuel Parris would have made of the irreligious interior though. As you stepped over the threshold the inside was reminiscent of an old country pub, complete with a shiny mahogany bar and wooden hand pumps connected to ale caskets underneath; a large TV sat on the wall and even a fully functioning fruit machine bleeped away in the corner.
Even though I’d been in here loads of times its authenticity always made me smile. When he shut the door, blocking out the views of the garden, you’d almost swear you were privy to some old-world pub lock-in event.
‘Can I tempt you with a pint of Leg Spreader?’
‘DAD!’
‘That’s what it’s called. Look.’
He pointed to the picture on the hand pump, which depicted a smiling buxom girl in a short skirt sitting on the ground with her legs open. A strategically placed pint glass of frothy ale hid her embarrassment.
I had to smile. ‘Yeah and I’m sure you just got it because it tastes nice.’
‘It’s a good pint actually. Bob likes it too.’
‘I’m sure he does.’ Bob is my dad’s best, and sometimes I think only, friend. Bob lives a quarter of a mile away, and, as well as sharing my dad’s love of wooden huts, is a web designer and fellow lecturer at my father’s university. He’s a lover of real ales, online gaming and collecting vintage comic books. Unsurprisingly, he’s also single and stares at my boobs whenever he sees me, which thankfully isn’t very often.
‘I’m fine with coffee, Dad, and I’m driving.’
‘You could always stay over; the house isn’t the same since you left.’
‘Dad, I’ve been gone for seven years now.’
‘I know, and I’ve still not got used to it.’
‘You should have had more than one kid, then.’
‘We should have but that wasn’t down to me; your mother had been so traumatised by your birth we barely had sex for—’
‘Ouch! Too much information, Dad.’ At least I knew where I got that trait from.
‘Oh, sorry, Kat, anyway, we’re fine now. We just miss having you around.’
He handed me a steaming mug of coffee and I sat on a bar stool while he stood behind the bar, polishing some glasses like a caricature publican. ‘Any change on the boyfriend front?’
Why did everyone need to know about my sex life, or, as it happened to be, my non-sex life? ‘No, Dad, no chance of any grandchildren any time soon.’
‘You’re nearly thirty now, Kat. You need to get out more. You spend too much time mooching about at home and, let’s face it, your job doesn’t exactly offer up the opportunity to meet anyone, does it?’
‘I had a cute corpse in recently. He sat up and said hello.’
He didn’t believe me. ‘Yeah, sure, Kat. You could tone down your make-up as well – you probably scare most men away.’
‘Dad, I’m Goth. It’s not a werewolf mask or anything. Underneath I’m a nice person. If I have to change who I am to try and attract someone, what does that say about me and what does it say about that person who’d only want to be with me if I pretended to be something I’m not?’
My dad blinked at me a few times, put down the glass he’d been polishing and said, ‘I’ve obviously hit a nerve again; maybe we should go back to talking about llamas?’
I laughed; my dad had always been great at dealing with my outbursts. ‘I think we’ve exhausted the llama dilemma. What does Mum think about it?’
‘She’s not said much. I suspect she thinks I won’t go through with it, but I will. I need a new hobby.’
I drained my mug and for the briefest of moments considered trying the Leg Spreader, but opted for another coffee instead. ‘I did actually meet a cute corpse, Dad.’
My dad stared at me for a moment, then shook his head. ‘Kat, that’s not even funny. You spend too much time in the morgue; it can’t be good for the mind, staring at corpses and doing whatever ghastly things it is that you do to them.’
‘Ghastly?’ I spluttered in disbelief, choking in laughter. ‘Did you actually say ghastly? Have we gone back to 1952?’
‘Ghastly is a perfectly respectable modern word, especially in relation to what you do to those poor dead people.’
Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.
Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».
Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив