ib.thewaspfactory-第2节

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spiratorial　stage…whisper　say：　'See　that　door　over　there？　It's　eighty…five　inches；　corner　to　corner。　'　Then　he'll　wink　and　walk　off；　or　slide　over　on　his　seat；　looking　nonchalant。
　　
　　Ever　since　I　can　remember　there　have　been　little　stickers　of　white　paper　all　over　the　house　with　neat　black…biro　writing　on　them。　Attached　to　the　legs　of　chairs；　the　edges　of　rugs；　the　bottoms　of　jugs；　the　aerials　of　radios；　the　doors　of　drawers；　the　headboards　of　beds；　the　screens　of　televisions；　the　handles　of　pots　and　pans；　they　give　the　appropriate　measurement　for　the　part　of　the　object　they're　stuck　to。　There　are　even　ones　in　pencil　stuck　to　the　leaves　of　plants。　When　I　was　a　child　I　once　went　round　the　house　tearing　all　the　stickers　off；　I　was　belted　and　sent　to　my　room　for　two　days。　Later　my　father　decided　it　would　be　useful　and　character…forming　for　me　to　know　all　the　measurements　as　well　as　he　did；　so　I　had　to　sit　for　hours　with　the　Measurement　Book　（a　huge　loose…leaf　thing　with　all　the　information　on　the　little　stickers　carefully　recorded　according　to　room　and　category　of　object）；　or　go　round　the　house　with　a　jotter；　making　my　own　notes。　This　was　all　in　addition　to　the　usual　lessons　my　father　gave　me　on　mathematics　and　history　and　so　on。　It　didn't　leave　much　time　for　going　out　to　play；　and　I　resented　it　a　great　deal。　I　was　having　a　War　at　the　time…the　Mussels　against　the　Dead　Flies　I　think　it　was…and　while　I　was　in　the　library　poring　over　the　book　and　trying　to　keep　my　eyes　open；　soaking　up　all　those　damn　silly　Imperial　measurements；　the　wind　would　be　blowing　my　fly　armies　over　half　the　island　and　the　sea　would　first　sink　the　mussel　shells　in　their　high　pools　and　then　cover　them　with　sand。　Luckily　my　father　grew　tired　of　this　grand　scheme　and　contented　himself　with　firing　the　odd　surprise　question　at　me　concerning　the　capacity　of　the　umbrella…stand　in　pints　or　the　total　area　in　fractions　of　an　acre　of　all　the　curtains　in　the　house　actually　hung　up　at　the　time。
　　
　　'I'm　not　answering　these　questions　any　more；'　I　said　to　him　as　I　took　my　plate　to　the　sink。　'We　should　have　gone　metric　years　ago。'
　　
　　My　father　snorted　into　his　glass　as　he　drained　it。　'Hectares　and　that　sort　of　rubbish。　Certainly　not。　It's　all　based　on　the　measurement　of　the　globe；　you　know。　I　don't　have　to　tell　you　what　nonsense　that　is。'
　　
　　I　sighed　as　I　took　an　apple　from　the　bowl　on　the　window　sill。　My　father　once　had　me　believing　that　the　earth　was　a　Mobius　strip；　not　a　sphere。　He　still　maintains　that　he　believes　this；　and　makes　a　great　show　of　sending　off　a　manuscript　to　publishers　down　in　London；　trying　to　get　them　to　publish　a　book　expounding　this　view；　but　I　know　he's　just　mischief…making　again；　and　gets　most　of　his　pleasure　from　his　acts　of　stunned　disbelief　and　then　righteous　indignation　when　the　manuscript　is　eventually　returned。　This　occurs　about　every　three　months；　and　I　doubt　that　life　would　be　half　as　much　fun　for　him　without　this　sort　of　ritual。　Anyway；　that　is　one　of　his　reasons　for　not　switching　over　to　a　metric　standard　for　his　stupid　measurements；　though　in　fact　he's　just　lazy。
　　
　　'What　were　you　up　to　today？'　He　stared　across　the　table　at　me；　rolling　the　empty　tumbler　around　on　the　wooden　table…top。
　　
　　I　shrugged。　'Out。　Walking　and　things。'
　　
　　'Building　dams　again？'　he　sneered。
　　
　　'No；'　I　said；　shaking　my　head　confidently　and　biting　the　apple。　'Not　today。'
　　
　　'I　hope　you　weren't　out　killing　any　of　God's　creatures。'　I　shrugged　at　him　again。　Of　course　I　was　out　killing　things。　How　the　hell　am　I　supposed　to　get　heads　and　bodies　for　the　Poles　and　the　Bunker　if　I　don't　kill　things？　There　just　aren't　enough　natural　deaths。　You　can't　explain　that　sort　of　thing　to　people；　though。
　　
　　'Sometimes　I　think　you're　the　one　who　should　be　in　hospital；　not　Eric。'　He　was　looking　at　me　from　under　his　dark　brows；　his　voice　low。　Once；　that　sort　of　talk　would　have　scared　me；　but　not　now。　I'm　nearly　seventeen；　and　not　a　child。　Here　in　Scotland　I'm　old　enough　to　get　married　without　my　parent's　permission；　and　have　been　for　a　year。　There　wouldn't　be　much　point　to　me　getting　married　perhaps…I'll　admit　that…but　the　principle　is　there。
　　
　　Besides；　I'm　not　Eric；　I'm　me　and　I'm　here　and　that's　all　there　is　to　it。　I　don't　bother　people　and　they　had　best　not　bother　me　if　they　know　what's　good　for　them。　I　don't　go　giving　people　presents　of　burning　dogs；　or　frighten　the　local　toddlers　with　handfuls　of　maggots　and　mouthfuls　of　worms。　The　people　in　the　town　may　say　'Oh；　he's　not　all　there；　you　know；'　but　that's　just　their　little　joke　（and　sometimes；　just　to　rub　it　in；　they　don't　point　to　their　heads　as　they　say　it）；　I　don't　mind。　I've　learned　to　live　with　my　disability；　and　learned　to　live　without　other　people；　so　it's　no　skin　off　my　nose。
　　
　　My　father　seemed　to　be　trying　to　hurt　me；　though；　he　wouldn't　say　something　like　that　normally。　The　news　about　Eric　must　have　shaken　him。　I　think　he　knew；　just　as　I　did；　that　Eric　would　get　back；　and　he　was　worried　about　what　would　happen。　I　didn't　blame　him；　and　I　didn't　doubt　that　he　was　also　worried　about　me。　I　represent　a　crime；　and　if　Eric　was　to　e　back　stirring　things　up　The　Truth　About　Frank　might　e　out。
　　
　　I　was　never　registered。　I　have　no　birth　certificate；　no　National　Insurance　number；　nothing　to　say　I'm　alive　or　have　ever　existed。　I　know　this　is　a　crime；　and　so　does　my　father；　and　I　think　that　sometimes　he　regrets　the　decision　he　made　seventeen　years　ago；　in　his　hippy…anarchist　days；　or　whatever　they　were。
　　
　　Not　that　I've　suffered；　really。　I　enjoyed　it；　and　you　could　hardly　say　that　I　wasn't　educated。　I　probably　know　more　about　the　conventional　school　subjects　than　most　people　of　my　age。　I　could　plain　about　the　truth　of　some　of　the　bits　of　information　my　father　passed　on　to　me；　mind　you。　Ever　since　I　was　able　to　go　into　Porteneil　alone　and　check　things　up　in　the　library　my　father　has　had　to　be　pretty　straight　with　me；　but　when　I　was　younger　he　used　to　fool　me　time　after　time；　answering　my　honest　if　naive　questions　with　utter　rubbish。
　　
　　For　years　I　believed　Pathos　was　one　of　the　Three　Musketeers；　Fellatio　was　a　character　in　Hamlet；　Vitreous　a　town　in　China；　and　that　the　Irish　peasants　had　to　tread　the　peat　to　make　Guinness。
　　
　　Well；　these　days　I　can　reach　the　highest　shelves　of　the　house　library；　and　walk　into　Porteneil　to　visit　the　one　there；　so　I　can　check　up　on　anything　my　father　says；　and　he　has　to　tell　me　the　truth。　It　annoys　him　a　lot；　I　think；　but　that's　the　way　things　go。　Call　it　progress。
　　
　　But　I　am　educated。　While　he　wasn't　able　to　resist　indulging　his　rather　immature　sense　of　humour　by　selling　me　a　few　dummies；　my　father　couldn't　abide　a　son　of　his　not　being　a　credit　to　him　in　some　way；　my　body　was　a　forlorn　hope　for　any　improvement；　so　only　my　mind　was　left。　Hence　all　my　lessons。　My　father　is　an　educated　man；　and　he　passed　a　lot　of　what　he　already　knew　on　to　me；　as　well　as　doing　a　fair　bit　of　study　himself　into　areas　he　didn't　know　all　that　much　about　just　so　that　he　could　teach　me。　My　father　is　a　doctor　of　chemistry；　or　perhaps　biochemistry…I'm　not　sure。　He　seems　to　have　known　enough　about　ordinary　medicine…and　perhaps　still　have　had　the　contacts　within　the　profession…to　make　sure　that　I　got　my　inoculations　and　injections　at　the　correct　times　in　my　life；　despite　my　official　non…existence　as　far　as　the　National　Health　Service　is　concerned。
　　
　　I　think　my　father　used　to　work　in　a　university　for　a　few　years　after　he　graduated；　and　he　might　have　invented　something；　he　occasionally　hints　that　he　gets　some　sort　of　royalty　from　a　patent　or　something；　but　I　suspect　the　old　hippy　survives　on　whatever　family　wealth　the　Cauldhames　still　have　secreted　away。
　　
　　The　family　has　been　in　this　part　of　Scotland　for　about　two　hundred　years　or　more；　from　what　I　can　gather；　and　we　used　to　own　a　lot　of　the　land　around　here。　Now　all　we　have　is　the　island；　and　that's　pretty　small；　and　hardly　even　an　island　at　low　tide。　The　only　other　remnant　of　our　glorious　past　is　the　name　of　Porteneil's　hot…spot；　a　grubby　old　pub　called　the　Cauldhame　Arms　where　I　go　sometimes　now；　though　still　under　age　of　course；　and　watch　some　of　the　local　youths　trying　to　be　punk　bands。　That　was　where　I　met　and　still　meet　the　only　person　I'd　call　a　friend；　Jamie　the　dwarf；　whom　I　let　sit　on　my　shoulders　so　he　can　see　the　bands。
　　
　　'Well；　I　don't　think　he'll　get　this　far。　They'll　pick　him　up；'　my　father　said　again；　after　a　long　and　brooding　silence。　He　got　up　to　rinse　his　glass。　I　hummed　to　myself；　something　I　always　used　to　do　when　I　wanted　to　smile　or　laugh；　but　thought　the　better　of　it。　My　father　looked　at　me。　'I'm　going　to　the　study。　Don't　forget　to　lock　up；　all　right？'
　　
　　'Okey…doke；'　I　said；　nodding。
　　
　　'Goodnight。'
　　
　　My　father　left　the　kitchen。　I　sat　and　looked　at　my　trowel；　Stoutstroke。　Little　grains　of　dry　sand　stuck　to　it；　so　I　brushed　them　off。　The　study。　One　of　my　few　remaining　unsatisfied　ambitions　is　to　get　into　the　old　man's　study。　The　cellar　I　have　at　least　seen；　and　been　in　occasionally；　I　know　all　the　rooms　on　the　ground　floor　and　the　second；　the　loft　is　my　domain　entirely　and　home　of　the　Wasp　Fa