War and Peas

Jemma hops from one webbed foot to the other, her impatience beating a loud slapping rhythm on the kitchen flagstones. Mother was always so slow. All grown-ups are slow. They say boring things like, Soon, and I'll be there in a minute, and I'll just...

There's always something else that must be done, isn't there? A floor to be swept, or a bonnet to be straightened, or a disliked vegetable to be pecked at, before Good Stuff can happen. Before the treat can be eaten, or the game can be started, or before they could finally leave and go to the park.

Saturdays are Jemma's very favourite day, because on Saturdays Mother always takes her to the park. Mother used to take her there every day, but Jemma, although an expert at many things, is not very good at stopping something she's having a lot of fun doing. Mother finally got tired of wheedling, cajoling, nagging and scolding, and put a stop to these daily excursions. Now, Jemma has to wait all week.

Mother doesn't cajole anymore. Jemma will be allowed to run free all morning. When she is tired and hungry, she will (eventually) ask to leave, and, yawning, she will shuffle home at Mother's side.

She is still hopping from foot to foot, tiny excited quacks escaping her throat. Mother is in a good mood today. Her eyes are soft and her smile indulgent.

"Don't forget the bread!" Jemma squeaks, and at last! off they go.

Jemma is still skittering from one foot to the other, her little legs working double-time to keep up with Mother's steady pace. At the riverbank, Mother steps down to the water with as much elegance as any duck ever managed, and Jemma tumbles behind her, hitting the murky water with an ungainly splosh.

Within the bend of the river, close to where the youngsters play, several people are already milling about. Another family is already there, spilling peas across the ground. The people are picking listlessly at the little green dots. As often as not, this only causes the peas to roll away. Most of the time the people watch this happen with very little interest sparking in their eyes.

The pea-scattering youngster frowns.

"Why don't they eat any? What's wrong with them?"

"Shhh," the mother says softly, as if the people were intelligent enough to listen, and genteel enough to be offended, "Maybe they just aren't very hungry today, darling."

"Huh." The bag of peas falls from his grip. "We got here early as well. Before anyone else. So the stupid things shouldn't be full up already."

"I'm sure you have days where you don't feel very hungry," his mother says in an annoyingly reasonable tone.

He does not agree. If he ever says I'm not hungry, Ma, it's because he doesn't want whatever healthy nonsense has been heaped on to his plate. The beginnings of wisdom stop him from sharing this information. Instead, he kicks the pea-packet in a temper. It splits, and several roll away into the river.

One scrawny little person breaks away from the group and sprints to the water.

"Ha! That one is hungry! Look at him go!" Loud and gleeful quacking laughter bounces across the water, and several people turn to look at him with wary eyes.

"It's not a him, darling," his mother admonishes. "Look, it has lighter coloured hair. Those are the girls. Everybody knows that."

"Oh," he says, sounding bored, "I remember."

Jemma and Mother have almost drawn level with them, now, both laughing at the ungainly person, who has dived under the surface. She looks so funny with her legs and bottom waving in the air!

When Jemma scatters bits of bread along the path, a swarm of people stampede towards her, shoving each other and reaching greedily for the crumbs. Jemma is delighted. Hearing her rival whine, "I told you we should of brunged bread!" does nothing to dampen her spirits.

"Bread isn't good for them, darling," the mother says, more loudly than she needs to, "It makes them bloat. We've talked about this, sweetheart, haven't we," At this, she looks very pointedly at Jemma and Mother. Mother gazes out across the river and pretends not to hear.

"Come along," the other mother says with a sigh, "Perhaps we ought to be going."

She waddles away, her charge sulking along behind her, muttering that they should try grapes tomorrow.

Jemma ignores them. One small person is getting very close. Bunches of jet black hair sprout from his head, secured with pink rubber bands and matching clips. His eyes are big and dark, and Jemma imagines she can see intelligence in there somewhere.

"Oh!" she says, "Look at him! Can we take him home, Mother? Please?" As Jemma glances back at Mother, the person sees an opportunity, swoops forwards, snatches the morsel, and scampers away.

"Did you see that? Did you see it, Mother? He took it right from me!"

When the bread runs out, which is very soon, Mother chivvies Jemma away to play. She can see another family approaching, and even from here she can see the bulging packets they've brought with them. Jemma won't be happy when her loyal little army of people defects. It's easier to move along before that happens. Jemma drags her feet, looking back at the distinctive little person that came so close, feeling sure she could tame him. He's squatting in a large and bristly nest by the river bank with his arms wrapped round his knees, and hasn't given Jemma another look.

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