I took some raspberries out to eat, straight from the punnet into which I’d
harvested. What a treat raspberries are; instant good cheer. Appenzeller’s
crowing again, which in addition to the dryness of the season, makes some of us
grumpy, churlish even.
I mentioned the fact in conversation.
Mimo, “You mean you’re like a ‘churl?' A ‘girl' is a word I understand, what’s
a churl?”
I was prepared; I had looked it up. “Originally,” I said, "a churl was the
lowest form of free man, so one up the social ladder from a serf.”
Mimo, “The serf’s not up?”
“Careful,” I said, “or we may get lost in the churn of words. And puns.”
Mimo, “And end up in Charlton?”
“Oooh, speaking of which... I learned this week that the man who wrote ‘Abide
with Me’—Henry Francis Lyte—was a Scot, ordained in the Church of England. He
married a Methodist and preached in Charleton…in Devon. Not exactly the same
spelling but the coincidence caught my inner ear. He was a chum of William
Wilberforce, you know, the man after whom Bertie Wooster and J.’s Volvo are
named. My father was also always on about William Wilberforce, who was
supposed to have sat down on a bench in the woods near Biggen Hill and decided
to abolish slavery in British territories. As one does.”
Appenzeller, coming up, “What have I missed?”
Mimo, “We’re finding out about the abolition of knavery in woods, and what
makes him [nods towards me] churlish.”
Appenzeller, “Practically everything, I’d say.”
I hurried on, “It’s as if churls sank in social status through association with
the countryside. Freemen of the soil became over hundreds of years country
bumpkins, boorish people. Boor, by the way, was a similar word, alike to the
german bauer and the Dutch boer. Oooh...Imagine if the Boer war had been
called, ‘the war of the churls.’”
Pecorino came running up, “What have I missed?’
Appenzeller, “I think he’s doing or having one of his turns.”
“I’ can make a point if you’re impatient with meandering,” I said. “This all
comes together when you discover that Charlton means, ‘the farm of the churls.’
So Charlton are a kind of a farm team, developing talent, as it were."
Mimo, “Fascinating.”
I tried a different tack. “Did you know that Bombay Duck is a kind of fish?”
Mimo, “Someone’s put another fish in his ear!”
Pecorino looked, “ Is that the tail sticking out?”
Mimo, “No his ears always stick out."
Appenzeller, “That’s a metaphor, probably. Fish in your ear. Unlike the Babel
fish.”
Mimo, “No, no. The Babel fish isn’t a metaphor.”
Appenzeller, “Who said it was?”
Pecorino, “A parrot?”
Mimo, “Well then. Q.E.D. You can always trust what a parrot repeats.”
“You can?"
Pecorino, “Very intelligent birds, parrots.”
Appenzeller, “Very intelligent.”
Mimo, “There’s no need to go round repeating what she said. Like a…Pecorino."
“So, I looked up what a lizard fish is and apparently Bombay duck is one of
them. Also known as a bummalo or bombil or boomla.”
Mimo, “Not a duck?”
“Not a duck. Duck is a mishearing of d-a-a-k, which is Urdu for ‘mails.’ The
smelly lizard fish, dried and sent to the big city, were associated with the
Bombay mail train.”
Appenzeller, “Fascinating.”
Pecorino, “Is it? Why?”
Mimo, “I quite like puns actually. Sometimes I do them just for the halibut.”
“That’s not very good, as puns go.”
Mimo, haughtily, “I did not say I am a conn-o-sewer of puns. I merely said I
like them.”
“You know that punnet is a diminutive of pun.”
Mimo, “That’s not a play on words."
Appenzeller, “So what’s a punnet?”
“A small box you keep raspberries in.”
Mimo, “Raspberries are not kept in a small play on words.”
“You’re absolutely right. Scottish people used to refer to a pound as a pun.
But clearly the measure of soft fruit is not a pound. If you asked for a pound
of raspberries they’d come all squashed.”
Pecorino, “So what’s a punnet?”
“R. C. Punnett, who was a geneticist, says one of his ancestors gave his name
to the small container.”
Appenzeller, “Do you get out much?”
“Not this week. Well, I walked Hamish, and let you out…played a little tennis,
did a bit of gardening. We were at the coast on Monday. Very foggy.”
Mimo, “You should get out more."
Pecorino, “Try not thinking of fish. I find that works.”
Appenzeller, “And Charlton. Try thinking a little less of Charlton.”
“Arsenal won the Cup."
Mimo, “And go easy on the booze.”
“I am,” I said. “Moratorium for a couple of months. Untuned that string.
Hark what dischord follows.”
“Churlish,” said Appenzeller. And sucked in a breath for another big crow.
I flung the punnet in her general direction.
David Ritchie,
Portland, Oregon
