Three pairs of eyes watched him from the other side. He couldn’t help seeing menace in their depths, despite the fact that one pair belonged to Jemima Douglas (formerly Stevenson), the least menacing person he knew. Apart from Christopher, of course. And Charlie Smith’s dog. What was he doing, thinking of a dog as a person anyway? ‘Well?’ said Jemima. ‘I haven’t made up my mind yet.’ It was perfectly true. He couldn’t decide whether Jemima’s courgette and lemon sponge was worse than Tricia Laidlaw’s carrot and orange cake, or whether Tricia’s cake was worse than Penelope Johnstone’s assemblage of layered root vegetables held together, apparently, by sugar, honey and treacle. At least Penelope hadn’t given her so-called cake a name that made it sound more or less edible. He was tempted to award all the points to her just for that. On the other hand, he was afraid his false teeth were going to be permanently stained with beetroot juice, and it felt as if the leeks, barely cooked, had lodged in his throat.
