4

by the time he was six years old, young lexington had grown into a most beautiful boy with long

golden hair and deep blue eyes the colour of cornflowers. he was bright and cheerful, and already

he was learning to help his old aunt in all sorts of different ways around the property, collecting

the eggs from the chicken house, turning the handle of the butter churn, digging up potatoes in the

vegetable garden and searching for wild herbs on the side of the mountain. soon, aunt glosspan

told herself, she would have to start thinking about his education.

but she couldn’t bear the thought of sending him away to school. she loved him so much now

that it would kill her to be parted from him for any length of time. there was, of course, that

village school down in the valley, but it was a dreadful-looking place, and if she sent him there she

just knew they would start forcing him to eat meat the very first day he arrived.

‘you know what, my darling?’ she said to him one day when he was sitting on a stool in the

kitchen watching her make cheese. ‘i don’t really see why i shouldn’t give you your lessons

myself.’

the boy looked up at her with his large blue eyes, and gave her a lovely trusting smile. ‘that

would be nice,’ he said.

‘and the very first thing i should do would be to teach you how to cook.’

‘i think i would like that. aunt glosspan.’

‘whether you like it or not, you’re going to have to learn some time,’ she said. ‘vegetarians like

us don’t have nearly so many foods to choose from as ordinary people, and therefore they must

learn to be doubly expert with what they have.’

‘aunt glosspan,’ the boy said, ‘what do ordinary people eat that we don’t?’

‘animals,’ she answered, tossing her head in disgust.

‘you mean live animals?’

‘no,’ she said. ‘dead ones.’

the boy considered this for a moment.

‘you mean when they die they eat them instead of burying them?’

‘they don’t wait for them to die, my pet. they kill them.’

‘how do they kill them, aunt glosspan?’

‘they usually slit their throats with a knife.’

‘but what kind of animals?’

‘cows and pigs mostly, and sheep.’

‘cows!’ the boy cried. ‘you mean like daisy and snowdrop and lily?’

‘exactly, my dear.’

‘but how do they eat them, aunt glosspan?’

‘they cut them up into bits and they cook the bits. they like it best when it’s all red and bloody

and sticking to the bones. they love to eat lumps of cow’s flesh with the blood oozing out of it.’

‘pigs too?’

‘they adore pigs.’

‘lumps of bloody pig’s meat,’ the boy said. ‘imagine that. what else do they eat. aunt

glosspan?’

‘chickens.’

‘chickens!’

‘millions of them.’

‘feathers and all?’

‘no, dear, not the feathers. now run along outside and get aunt glosspan a bunch of chives,

will you, my darling.’

shortly after that, the lessons began. they covered five subjects, reading, writing, geography,

arithmetic, and cooking, but the latter was by far the most popular with both teacher and pupil. in

fact, it very soon became apparent that young lexington possessed a truly remarkable talent in this

direction. he was a born cook. he was dextrous and quick. he could handle his pans like a

juggler. he could slice a single potato in twenty paper-thin slivers in less time than it took his aunt

to peel it. his palate was exquisitely sensitive, and he could taste a pot of strong onion soup and

immediately detect the presence of a single tiny leaf of sage. in so young a boy, all this was a bit

bewildering to aunt glosspan, and to tell the truth she didn’t quite know what to make of it. but

she was proud as proud as could be, all the same, and predicted a brilliant future for the child.

‘what a mercy it is,’ she said, ‘that i have such a wonderful little fellow to look after me in my

dotage.’ and a couple of years later, she retired from the kitchen for good, leaving lexington in

sole charge of all household cooking. the boy was now ten years old, and aunt glosspan was

nearly eighty.