“Yes, indeed, I’m most hopeful,” Keiko replied.
“I hate him,” she said to Fancy, kneeling in front of the washing machine to haul out wet clothes. “His moustache looks like biscuits.”
“How?” Fancy asked. “Round and crumbly? Choc chips in it?”
But Keiko wouldn’t smile. She peered inside the machine to check it was empty and slammed the door.
“Does he keep it in a packet in his desk drawer?” Fancy persisted.
“Bampot!” Keiko said. “No, just the colour. And his trousers are too loose and his shirts are too fitted.”
“Oh yuk, yeah, I hate that,” said Fancy. “So it looks like they’re falling down?”
“And you can see the shape of his stomach between his hip-bones-” Fancy had paled. “Sorry, sorry!”
“No, it’s okay, just that that’s one of my worst bits, that pelvic girdle,” Fancy said. “Pelvic! Girdle!” She shuddered. “Anyway, bampot? Where are you learning these words? Is it Murray?”
“Oh no,” said Keiko. “Murray is even stricter than you. He’s got big plans for me.”
“What does that mean?”
“He wouldn’t tell me. It’s starting tomorrow night, but that’s all I know.”
“So who taught you bampot then?”
“Wee boys on the bus. But what am I going to do if I can’t get any subjects?” she said, shoving the basket along the floor to the dryer. “My pilot’s ready to run, but my whole idea needs me to have the same people over and over, and it won’t work any other way.”
“How come?” said Fancy.
“Oh, knowledge units as artifacts in the construction of blah, blah, blah,” said Keiko, then seeing that Fancy was really listening, she tried again. “I test their judgements on a set of questions. I report the results of the test back to them-who believed what, how many people rejected what kind of thing-and then I run the test again to see if hearing the results of the first one changes what they think. Does that make sense?”
“Cool,” said Fancy. “You’re totally messing with their heads.”
Keiko stopped stuffing clothes into the dryer. “Do not tumble dry,” she read from a label. She scrabbled about inside the drum, pulled out another bundle and shook it. “I could get around having different people every time if I profiled every time before and after the test, but it’s still not going to show the long-term changes and it would make the sessions twice as long, so I would need to pay them more and I don’t have any money to pay them anyway.” She found another label and read it. “Do not wring. Do not tumble. Well, how am I supposed to dry it then?” she shouted.
“That’s nothing,” said Fancy. “I had this black and white stripey dress once, that said wash dark colours separately. Do they have to know what it’s about?”
“Sorry?” said Keiko.
“The people who do your experiments. Do they need to know what it’s all about? Because if not…”
“No, they mustn’t know what it’s about. That’s why researchers always use first-year students, before they learn anything.” Keiko finished loading the dryer and stood up with her wet bundle of leftovers at arm’s length.
“Well, what’s the problem then?” said Fancy. Keiko shook her head and waited. “You’re looking for a bunch of people who don’t know anything?” said Fancy. “God’s sake, Keeks, open your eyes! Look out the window. You’re smack in the middle of Know-Nothing Central.”
“Painchton people?” said Keiko. Her heart had leapt, but it just as quickly sank again. “I don’t think so.”
“Why not?”
Because they are secretive, she thought. They hide things and don’t answer questions. But she couldn’t say that to Fancy, whose face clouded more than anyone’s when questions were asked and would never admit it.
“It’s about food,” she said, at last. “And the people here don’t seem… normal about food.”
“Normal? How?”
“Well, Malcolm and his crackling and Mrs. Sangster with her ham. Mrs. McLuskie said she’d give me a jar of goose fat.”
“You noony!” said Fancy. “Course they’re normal. They’re just not Japanese.”
Keiko considered being offended but the relief at the possibility of having subjects won in the end. She threw her armload of laundry up in the air and caught it again. “Do you really think they would do it?” she said. “I suppose some of them would, wouldn’t they. I know you would.”
“I don’t want to,” said Fancy.
“The experiments aren’t physical,” Keiko said.
“I know,” said Fancy. “But I don’t want to be one of your guinea pigs because I want to know what it’s all about. That Dr. Biscuit-tash is no bloody use and you’ll need someone to talk to.” She dipped her head slightly. “I’ll concentrate dead hard.”
Keiko threw down her bundle onto the table and seized Fancy’s arms in her damp hands, making her yelp at the cold. “You really want to help? You can proofread my stimuli, check my English. You can look over my experimental design.”
“I wouldn’t understand that,” Fancy protested, but Keiko puffed in scorn.
“You understood it already. In two minutes,” she said. “You, with your eagle eyes to find the logical flaws on laundry-care labels. It’ll be a skoosh for you.”
“Okay,” said Fancy. “But a skoosh? First thing, if I’m in charge of your English, is you have to stop listening to little boys on buses, right?” Fancy walked over to the window and peered down. “And there’s posts down there to put up a drying rope. Just ask Mrs. Poole for the key.”
So when Keiko heard the shop awning being rolled up at the end of the afternoon, she trotted downstairs and popped her head out of the street door to see Murray in shirtsleeves unhooking the pole from the winding mechanism.
“Hi,” she called. Murray turned suddenly and Keiko ducked away as the brass hook on the pole swung towards her.
“Christ, sorry!” Murray said leaning the pole against the window and reaching out to her. “Are you okay?”
“Don’t kill me yet,” said Keiko. “I haven’t even asked my cheeky favour.”
“Well, whatever it is, the answer’s yes,” Murray said.
Mrs. Poole came outside. “Murray? What are you doing leaving that up against the glass? Oh. Hello.” She stopped with the pole in her hands and nodded towards Keiko. Murray let his hand drop from her shoulder.
“I have two favours to ask you, Mrs. Poole,” said Keiko. Malcolm appeared in the doorway. “From all of you, one of them.”
“Come away in, then,” Mrs. Poole said, but she stayed where she was, with the pole held in both hands in front of her chest so that Murray and Keiko had to squeeze past her in the doorway.
“Two favours,” said Keiko again. “The first is that you would all consent to act as subjects in my experiments.” She waited. “Just answering questions for ten minutes.”
Murray looked at his feet. Malcolm, who had moved back behind the counter, sprayed cleaning liquid onto its marble surface and, ripping a swathe from a roll of paper towel, began to wipe it in slow careful strokes.
“Psychological experiments?” asked Mrs. Poole.