From: Patrick Knight <[email protected]>
Subject: Cane toad races
You’ve been unusually quiet lately, Molly, and I find myself worrying (like an anxious relative) that something’s happened. I’d hate to think I’ve crushed your spirit. I suspect I knocked a ruddy great hole in your dating dreams, but I hope I haven’t completely quelled your enthusiasm for adventure and romance.
I trust you’re simply quiet because you’re having a cracking good time and you’re too busy to write e-mails.
However, in an effort to cheer you up (if indeed you are feeling low), I thought I’d tell you about my experiences at the toad races the night before last. Yes, I’ve been, and you were right—I enjoyed the evening. In fact, I had a hilarious time.
As you’ve no doubt guessed, I wasn’t really looking forward to going, but I desperately needed a break from my own company and decided to give the cane toads a try.
I’d been curious about how these races were set up, and why they’ve become such a tourist draw. I’d read that the toads are considered a pest here. They were brought out to eat beetles in the sugar cane, but they completely ignored the beetles and killed all sorts of other wildlife instead. They ate anything smaller than themselves, and they poisoned the bigger creatures that tried to eat them.
I was a bit worried that if cane toads are considered a pest the races might be cruel, so I was relieved to discover that, apart from having a number stuck on their backs and being kept in a bucket until the race starts, the toads don’t suffer at all.
The mighty steeds racing last night were:
1 Irish Rover
2 Prince Charles
3 Herman the German
4 Yankee Doodle
5 Italian Stallion
6 Little Aussie Battler
By the time all the toads were safely under a bucket in the centre of the dance floor, and the race was ready to start, there was quite a noisy and very international crowd gathered. Naturally I had to put my money on Prince Charles.
A huge cheer went up when the bucket was lifted and the toads took off.
At least the Italian Stallion took off. The other toads all seemed a bit stunned, and just sat there blinking in the light. I yelled and cheered along with the noisiest punters, but I’d completely given up hope for my Prince Charlie when he suddenly started taking giant leaps.
What a roar there was then (especially from me)! You have no idea. Well, actually, you probably do have a very good idea. As you know, the first toad off the dance floor wins the race, and good old Prince Charles beat the Italian Stallion by a whisker. No, make that a wart.
There’d been heavy betting on the Australian and American toads, so I won quite a haul—a hundred dollars—and the prize money was handed over with a surprising degree of ceremony. I was expected to make a speech.
I explained that I was a banker from London and, as a gesture, I wanted to compensate for the unsatisfactory exchange rate as quickly as possible by converting my winnings into cold beer.
That announcement brought a huge cheer.
The cheering was even louder when I added that if everyone would like to come up to my place (that is, Molly Cooper’s place) there’d be a celebratory party starting very shortly.
Everyone came, Molly. I hope you don’t mind. We all squeezed in to your place and had a fabulous night. I lit every single one of your candles and Pandanus Cottage looked sensational. It did you proud.
The party went on late.
Very.
I do hope you’re having a good time, too.
Warmest wishes
Patrick x
To: Patrick Knight <[email protected]>
From: Molly Cooper <[email protected]>
Subject: Re: Cane toad races
Dear Patrick
That’s great news about the cane toad races and the party. I was worried that, working so much by yourself, you might have given the islanders the impression you were a bit aloof. Clearly that’s not so.
I’m afraid I haven’t been up to partying in recent days. I’m laid low with a heavy cold, so I’ve been curled up at home, sipping hot lemon drinks and watching daytime television. Cidalia’s been a darling. She’s come in every day to check on me and make these lemon drinks, and a divine chicken soup which she calls canja.
She said it was her grandmother’s cure-all—which is interesting, because it’s almost the same as the soup my gran used to make for me. Seems that chicken soup is an international cure-all.
But that’s not all, Patrick. Your mother telephoned while my cold was at its thickest and croakiest, and when she heard how terrible I sounded she sent me a gift box from …
Harrods!
Can you believe it? I was so stunned. It’s a collection of gorgeous teas—Silver Moon, English Breakfast, Earl Grey—all in individual cotton (note that: cotton, not paper) teabags. Such a luxury for me, and so kind of her. But how can I ever repay her?
As you can see, I’ve been very well looked after, and I’m on the mend again now, and cheered by your account of your adventures at the toad races. I’m trying to picture you cheering madly and delivering your tongue-in-cheek speech. Fantastic.
I’m more than happy that you hosted a party at my place. The candles do make the little cottage look quite romantic, don’t they? And with all that beer, and with you as host, I’m not surprised people wanted to stay. I bet I can guess who crashed and was still there next morning.
And I’m also betting that you heard Jodie Grimshaw’s entire life story at around 2.00 a.m. Looks like you’re really settling in, Patrick. That’s great.
Oh, thanks for your advice re: English gentlemen, but don’t worry. Your warnings didn’t upset me—although they weren’t really necessary either. I might sound totally naive, but I did see the way Hugh Grant’s character behaved in Bridget Jones, and I have good antennae. I can sense a jerk at fifty paces.
Best wishes
Molly
To: Felicity Knight <[email protected]>
From: Patrick Knight <[email protected]>
Subject: Many thanks
Dear Mother
I’m sure Molly’s already thanked you for sending a gift box when she was ill, but I want to thank you, too. As you know, Molly’s totally on her own in the world. She puts on a brave face, but she was very
