The Brightlings

10. The good life?

"Oh wow! Look at that... is it real? It's absolutely humongulous..."

"Ummm... "

Felix adjusts his sunglasses. The early autumn sun is hanging low in the sky, and even with the glare reduced by half, the light is still too much for his eyes. His aching torso is struggling to cope with the concept of being upright.

The giant pumpkin's owner shoots them a proud smile while he polishes its plump smooth skin, stopping only to spit on a tissue and rub at a small patch of mud, like he is removing a stubborn chocolate stain from the chin of a toddler. The display table is bowing in the centre under the immense weight of his bloated orange progeny, and as the man leans over towards them, Felix can't help but notice that his bald head is almost as polished as the shiny surface of the massive fruit. Cookie is mesmerised by the whole spectacle.

"Do you think you can eat it? Would you eat it?"

Felix has to think about this for a few seconds.

"Umm... probably not..."

"They're not really very good for eating," pipes up the man. "Once these beauties grow past a certain size, they lose all of their flavour. They're just for show really."

"Oh..."

At first his brother sounds disappointed, but then he perks up a little.

"Well, I bet a hungry Brontosaurus could scoff it all in one mouthful."

The man laughs. "It could indeed, young fellow. It could indeed."

Felix wishes that everybody would stop talking about eating. The rich aroma of a nearby hog roast is already distracting enough, and he is finding it hard to concentrate on anything else. He is ravenous, and his stomach is growling in complaint at not having received a morsel of breakfast. Not even a coffee has passed his lips this morning. But the whiff of charred pork is not the only strong smell to catch his attention. He tilts his head forward to covertly sniff the armpit of his jacket. Underneath he is wearing the same t-shirt that he has worn for the previous three days, and he hasn't showered since Wednesday. The jacket still smells musty from where it got soaked through and didn't dry out properly.

They have only been out of the house for half an hour, and he is already flagging. Cookie had been ridiculously persistent in his bouncing up and down on the bed, until he agreed to get up. There was never going to be a scenario where Felix didn't find himself dragged out from underneath his duvet to accompany an over excited boy to the fete. And who is he to deny his brother this under the current circumstances.

The poor kid, he still doesn't know....

An authoritative voice summons the attention of all in attendance, followed by a cacophony of wheezing concertina, jingling bells and incoherent yelps. Felix is pulled from his momentary reflections. A large crowd has assembled to watch a team of Morris Dancers from the local pub, and he can partially make out the rotund upper bodies of bearded men as they prance back and forth in their white blouses and funny hats, waving handkerchiefs above their heads. At least half of them already look ruddy cheeked and out of breath, and they are only a minute in to their performance. Cookie has squeezed through to the front of the crowd.

He hangs at the back and glances around the green at the lively scene unfolding. It is the busiest that he has ever seen Brightling. The centre of the village has been totally transformed for the occasion, with red, white and blue bunting, large marquees and canvas bell tents, to the point where it is barely recognisable from its usual sleepy facade.

Such a jovial celebration seems entirely alien to Felix, in light of recent events. He scans the crowd, hoping that at any second he might see his father appear, but deep down he knows that this is not going to happen.