Harold, at the wheel of his camper van, had lost his concentration again. He had already abandoned his reading, changed into his pyjamas and attempted to sleep on the sofa in the back; but he couldn’t sleep, not like this. So he had put on his dressing gown and gone back to the driver’s seat to resume his study, but it was three o’clock, he was tired and couldn’t concentrate. What else to do? Both sleep and study were closed to him. Frustrated, he ballooned his bearded cheeks. There was a quotation, he thought, wasn’t there? (There usually was.) Something about how discipline is nothing more than remembering what you want. He had a head like a sieve these days, particularly when it came to little bits of trivia like this. That was the ageing process, he supposed; it robbed one of one’s capacities, beginning from the outer reaches and creeping gradually to the core, but offered in exchange the gift of contentment (albeit which usually preceded, in one’s ultimate dotage, silliness. If not something worse). Young people, he thought, had no access to true contentment, for in that fiery period of one’s life, which lasts perhaps until the age of forty, it is necessary to strive after various goals. Thereafter, whatever the levels of one’s achievement, one begins to take one’s foot off the accelerator and enjoy what one has. And one has other things to deal with at that time, anyway. The paying back of mortgages. The breakdown of relationships. The old age and death of parents. (That final, horrible event drives home the fact that the family tree is being gradually pollarded, and that oneself is now ripe for the plucking at the top. Is it possible to be termed accurately an orphan at the age of sixty-three?)
But now, lacking discipline, he had nodded off again. He awoke and looked, bewilderedly, about him. The camper van. Ah yes, the traffic jam. Still hasn’t moved! His paper was lying curled in the shadows of the footwell. He took a minute to allow his consciousness to right itself. Waking up, he had often thought, should be like getting out of the bath. It should be done slowly and gradually so as not to shock the system. His body felt profoundly limp, as if only part of him had awoken. He moved his arms, made a few gentle attempts to brush some stray crumbs of Mr Kipling’s cake from his stomach. For a moment he felt lighter than air. Then the old solidity seeped back. This wasn’t just about three o’clock in the morning. These days he could never tell when he was going to nod off.
It was then that Harold noticed a ghostly figure outside the window. He gave a start, peered closer. It had one hand raised in greeting, like the drawings that Man sent into space for the benefit of aliens in the Seventies. But this was no man. It was clear, even in this light – and even with the fog’s misty tentacles at the van window – that this was a woman.
With some effort he wound the window down, rubbing his eyes.
‘Sorry,’ said Hsiao May from the cold, from the darkness. ‘I saw you were still up and I thought, well, you know. If we both can’t sleep.’
‘Aye, right enough,’ said Harold, blinking with recognition. ‘Come in. I’m so glad, I’m so glad. Let’s have a cup of tea. Round the back. I’ll let you in.’
She hoisted her cool bag over her shoulder and made her way round the old-fashioned lozenge of goodness. So far, so good, she thought; she was feeling tired, and rather tense, and was finding eye contact awkward, but that was only to be expected, and on the scale of things her anxiety levels were negligible. Once she got into the vehicle, she thought, she’d be OK. This camper van seemed to speak to her of everything that was wholesome in life. Hers was an existence in which affairs of the intellect overshadowed this world and all its pleasures. So, when she came across something like this – something so impractical, so joyful, whose sole purpose was to create a little simple happiness – she was charmed.
Through the back windows she could see Harold silhouetted against the desolate motorway, listing awkwardly as he clambered between the seats and neatened his dressing gown. She smiled. He sat heavily on one of the sofas and shunted along sideways, puffing like a steam train, stimulating in her an overwhelming affection for him, this man she knew only in passing. The fact that he would put himself in the position of such interminable awkwardness, such downright impracticality, for the sake of pootling around the country at fifty miles per hour in a charming old, clanking old, cramped old machine! Straining, he reached over and opened the door.
Inside, the atmosphere was highly private and personal; everything was laid out precisely, everything was in its place. And, Hsiao May noticed, a great deal of thought had been put in to ensuring that nothing would fall over when the camper van went round corners. She put her cool bag carefully on the sofa and sat down. It was bobbled, springy, spongy. Harold busied himself with the preparations for tea, glancing back at her occasionally, holding his head at an angle as if it were horribly stiff, talking over his shoulder.
‘What’s in the bag?’ he asked. ‘Did you come bearing gifts?’
‘Diet Coke mainly,’ Hsiao May replied. ‘But there are some snacks as well, yes.’
‘Oh goody. What’ve you got?’
‘Let’s have some tea first. Then we’ll see.’
‘It all sounds very mysterious.’
‘It is very mysterious. But it will be worth the wait.’
‘My dear, I . . . I’m so ashamed to admit this, but I’m finding this happening more and more these days. Would you mind just reminding me of your name?’
‘Please don’t worry. Happens to me all the time. It’s Hsiao May.’
‘Of course, of course. I’m getting so scatty these days. It doesn’t really happen at your age, does it?’
‘It’s so amazing that you can make tea in here. It’s the perfect traffic jam vehicle.’
‘Aye, the old girl’s not bad. Not bad at all.’
‘Can you cook? Is there a stove? A fridge?’
‘Oh yes. One could live one’s entire life in this tin can.’
‘Is there a bed?’
‘Of course. One couldn’t live without a bed.’
‘Do you ever sleep in here?’
‘All the time. But don’t worry, it’s very tidy. The bed folds away. It’s in character as a sofa at the moment.’
‘Sorry, I’m just really fascinated by . . . I’ve never been in a camper van before. It’s just so wonderfully practical.’
‘That’s a matter of opinion. But it’s certainly fun.’
‘Don’t those flowers fall over?’
‘No, they’re screwed down.’
‘Screwed down?’
‘Yes. Don’t worry, I’ve done it very subtly. At least, as subtly as I possibly could.’
The sound of water gushing into the kettle gave them both an opportunity to collect their thoughts. How peaceful it was in this van, thought Hsiao May. The littlest sounds complimenting the quietude so perfectly. It reminded her of something from her childhood, something she could not quite pin down.
‘So,’ said Harold as they waited for the tea to boil. ‘What brings you to this neck of the woods?’
‘I’m going to stay with my sister,’ Hsiao May replied. ‘I’m flying to America tomorrow.’
‘Really? How exciting. Business or pleasure?’
‘Business. Pleasure. Well, both actually. I’m attending a conference.’
‘I like that. Let me guess. Insects?’
‘It was elementary, my dear Watson.’
‘What about you?’
‘Me? I’ve just been for a wee bumble down to Cornwall and back. Taking a circuitous route, you know, for the long weekend. I find it therapeutic.’
‘I think that’s lovely.’
‘It is. Very soothing.’
‘And you’re English?’
‘English? I’m sorry?’
‘Your discipline.’
‘Oh no, I’m a historian.’
‘Which period?’
‘Modern history. Britain and Europe mainly.’
‘I study grasshoppers.’
That was an awkward segue, she thought.
‘Is that so?’ he said. ‘How fascinating.’
‘Do you think so?’
‘Absolutely I do. I’ve always, ever since I was a boy, found insects utterly fascinating.’
Her heart warmed. ‘Me too,’ she said. ‘I think all children are fascinated by insects. Digging them up, creating farms and colonies, pulling the wings off, eating them. But somewhere along the line we get conditioned out of it. Like drawing.’
‘There’s not enough wonder in the world any more, is there?’
‘There is. But not enough people are interested in it.’
‘Aye, you’re right there.’
The kettle started to boil.
‘Odd, isn’t it?’ said Harold. ‘Making tea at three in the morning on the M25.’
‘Yes, very odd. It’s quite eerie too. All these cars. I’m very glad of the company.’
‘Me too.’
The kettle whistled now, and Harold allowed it get good and loud before removing it from the flame. Then, slowly, deliberately, he went through the process: mugs, teabags, brew, brew, teaspoon, squeeze and hoist, dump, milk, unscrew, little dash, little dash, lid back on, stir, stir.
‘Sugar?’
‘Thank you, no.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘No thanks.’
Stir again, a piece of kitchen roll – rip – mop up the drops, align the handles, steam, a little smile.
‘There,’ he said, ‘we’re ready.’
He handed a mug carefully to Hsiao May.
‘That was very . . . focused.’
‘What was?’
‘The tea-making.’
‘Ah, you noticed. Well, I think it’s important. It brings together a couple of my philosophies. Sorry, that sounded horribly pretentious. My philosophies! I mean, well, my attitudes to living.’
‘What are they?’
‘Goodness, you’re putting me on the spot now.’ He sat down, and the sofa bowed under his weight. They were opposite each other, illuminated dimly by the glowing honey-coloured lights, cupping their hands around their mugs, as if in a bomb shelter waiting for the All Clear.
‘I suppose the first is,’ continued Harold, ‘to try to beautify the little things in life. To instill order where before there was chaos, loveliness where before there was ruination, and so on.’
‘Like when you make tea?’
‘Making tea has the potential to be a very ugly affair. Don’t you think?’
‘I suppose.’
‘It’s an extension of respect for all of humanity. That of God in every man and so on. Curating the world for the benefit of humanity, so that when I pass on, the fruits will still be there for others to enjoy.’
‘I agree,’ said Hsiao May emphatically. ‘That resonates with me. With one of my principal ideas.’
‘Oh?’
‘Yes. But first tell me about your second philosophy.’
‘Mmmm? Oh, it’s not anywhere near as grand as a philosophy. It’s more an affinity, really. For the East.’
‘The East?’
‘More specifically, Japan. You’re Chinese, aren’t you?’
‘Ethnically, yes. But I’ve lived all my life in Britain.’
‘Han?’
‘Yes, Han.’
‘Well, I’m ashamed to say that I’ve never been to China.’
‘Don’t be. I’ve only been a handful of times.’
‘But Japan . . . now, Japan’s another story.’
‘Do you speak Japanese?’
‘Hai, sukoshi hanashimasu. I’m just fascinated with the culture.’
‘The girls?’ she said, regretted it, blushed.
‘No, no, no,’ Harold chuckled. ‘Goodness gracious me. Why do you say that? The girls? Gracious me.’
‘Sorry. I shouldn’t have. It’s just that I, er, I’m sorry.’
‘No, no, don’t be.’ He chuckled again. ‘I’m just fascinated by the arts of calligraphy, tea making, meditation. You know, all the wee things that make one slow down in the world. Appreciate the moment.’
‘Yes, I know.’
There was a pause, and they both sipped their tea. It was strong, given a perfect degree of substance by the milk, and very clean. Simultaneously they sighed, and then they laughed.
‘So what was it that resonated with you?’ said Harold.
‘It was what you said about curating the world for the next generation. Curating the world. That’s a beautiful way of putting it.’
‘You think a lot about that?’
‘I’m very aware – more than most, it seems – of the dire trajectory that the world is following.’
‘Ah, climate change.’
‘Yes, but that’s only part of it. Climate change, population growth, water scarcity, food scarcity. The world is coming under the most extraordinary pressure, and over the next forty years we’ll have to do something to face those challenges. Otherwise there’ll be all-out war. The apocalypse.’
‘I agree entirely. I’ve thought long and hard about this. It haunts me, as it should haunt any thinking human being. But I am always led to the same conclusion; what could I, an academic past his sell-by date, do about it? It is the responsibility of the political class, the business elite, to hammer out a solution for all this. Sure, I can vote, I can write to my MP, but is that really going to make any difference?’
‘That seems rather defeatist.’
‘No, no, not defeatist. These thoughts feed my interest in making the world a more beautiful, softer, more humane place on the microcosmic level. Making a cup of tea properly is a step towards saving the world. Bumbling around in my camper van. Inviting people in for cups of tea, discussions like this one. It may not make a great deal of difference to the whole, but it’s the most I can do.’
‘Be the change you want in the world.’
‘Aha! A quotation! There’s always a quotation, isn’t there. I know this one. I know this one. Now let me see . . .’
‘Gandhi.’
‘Oh yes, of course. Gandhi. Of course. How could I forget? I should really write these things down.’
They sipped, again, simultaneously.
‘Well,’ said Harold, ‘what about you?’
Hsiao May took a deep breath. ‘As you know,’ she said, ‘I’m all about insects.’
‘I know.’
‘Insects are my academic interest, my research interest. But they’re also the basis of my personal philosophy. No, not philosophy. Theory.’
‘Theory?’
‘Guiding principles.’
‘How so?’
She was nervous now, for a reason she did not understand. ‘Let me open my cool bag. There. You see?’
Within the white interior, in addition to the cans of Diet Coke, there were various brown paper bags, various Tupperware tubs.
‘What are these?’ said Harold carefully.
‘These are . . . I believe these to be an important component of humanity’s survival.’
Harold raised his eyebrows then knitted them, thoughtfully.
‘Imagine,’ said Hsiao May, ‘if there was a way to feed people on livestock that could happily thrive in their millions in very confined spaces. That were higher in protein, pound-for-pound, than any conventional animals. That were rich in micro-nutrients, iron and zinc. That were distant enough from us in the food chain not to pass on any diseases. That were cold-blooded, making them energy-efficient, as they didn’t have to expend energy warming themselves. That were cheap to produce, cheap to breed, cheap to feed. That were natural recyclers, thriving on food by-products, cardboard, even manure. What would you say?’
‘I’d say how does it taste?’ said Harold.
‘Delicious. Delicious. With the right recipes, delicious.’
‘I’d say is it safe?’
‘Absolutely.’ She pulled out the smallest paper bag, lighter than it appeared, and laid it on the yellow sofa. ‘Here,’ she said, prising it open. ‘Tenebrio molitor. A beetle larvae. Commonly known as mealworm. Pan-fried with sea salt and cracked black pepper. A great snacking food.’ She took out a pinch and popped it in her mouth. ‘Would you like to try?’
Harold hesitated, then reached over and placed a small amount in the palm of his hand. Then he raised it carefully to the light.
‘Not as I expected,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘If you sold me a packet of these in the pub, I’d be none the wiser.’
‘Exactly. No yuck factor.’
‘But it is actual mealworm?’
‘It is actual mealworm.’
‘How does it taste?’
‘Try it. Look. It’s perfectly fine.’ She ate a handful now, by way of demonstration.
‘You’re sure it’s safe?’
‘Of course. I eat it all the time. It’s an ideal snack. Healthy too.’
Harold hesitated again. Then he took a sip of tea. The little cluster of mealworm, yellowish and crusty, sparkling with crystals of salt, lay waiting in his palm. He replaced the teacup and raised the mealworm to his face. Then he cupped his hand, brought it to his mouth; the mealworm pattered on to his tongue, tumbled into the corners of his cheeks. He chewed. Hsiao May watched in anticipation.
‘Well?’ she said.
‘Hmmm,’ said Harold. ‘Tastes a bit like sunflower seeds. And a whiff of wild mushrooms.’
‘Exactly,’ said Hsiao May. ‘You see? Eco-friendly and delicious. Now have a look at this.’ A second bag joined the first; she dug her hand into it. ‘Roasted crickets,’ she said. ‘You roast them as you would a potato. Then when they’re nice and crispy, you pull off the ovipositors and legs.’
‘Now this,’ said Harold, taking one in finger and thumb, ‘looks more like an insect.’
‘Do you think so?’
‘Yes, I do. Goodness, I barely want to touch it.’ He dropped it into the bag.
‘Now isn’t that interesting,’ said Hsiao May, rolling a cricket in her fingers. ‘Why do you think you had that reaction?’
‘I don’t know. It’s evolutionary, perhaps. Insects tend to be rather dirty.’
‘Most of the world eats them. Always has. In India, in South America, in Africa. Children roast tarantula in Venezuela. Tenebrio molitor is factory farmed in China.’
‘Tenebrio molitor?’
‘The stuff you’ve just eaten.’
‘Oh.’
‘The Oaxacans are quite happy to eat grasshoppers, but believe that prawns are foul.’
‘Is that so?’
‘Yes. It makes sense if you think about it. Lobsters, prawns, shellfish; they are scavengers. They are also arthropods, but they feed on the garbage of the ocean. Insects, which usually consume fresh vegetation, are actually far cleaner.’
‘I see.’
‘Do you know how you bait a lobster?’
‘Meat?’
‘Putrid flesh.’
‘No.’
‘Yes. Insects are more hygienic by far. Crickets, actually, are even mentioned in the Bible as a foodstuff. So are locusts and grasshoppers.’
‘Really? Where?’
‘Deuteronomy.’
‘Now isn’t that interesting.’ He reached into the cabinet, past the bottle of Balvenie, and took out a battered, leather-bound bible. ‘Could you give me the chapter and verse?’
‘Of course,’ said Hsiao May, without so much as a pause. ‘Leviticus 11:22-3.’
Harold lurched awkwardly to his feet and hunched around the dim light bulb, holding the ancient pages of the bible – his father’s bible – to the glow. There was a silence.
‘I see,’ he said suddenly. ‘Now isn’t that fascinating? “Even these of them ye may eat: the locust after his kind, and the bald locust after his kind, and the beetle after his kind, and the grasshopper after his kind.” All these years and I’d never noticed those little verses before. Fascinating.’
He closed the bible, put it back beside the whisky, sat down.
‘So,’ said Hsiao May, ‘your reaction derived from ingrained ethnocentrism.’
‘Did it?’
‘Absolutely. I see it all the time.’
‘Ingrained ethnocentrism.’
‘I’m not being critical. I don’t mean to belittle culturally assumed attitudes. They have a visceral hold over all of us.’
‘I suppose they do.’
‘This touches on what I’m going to be talking about at the conference. The need to bypass cultural ethnocentrism by transforming bugs into a foodstuff. Psychologically. In the popular imagination.’
‘How?’
‘Lots of ways. By changing the language surrounding it.’
‘The language?’
‘Yes. Off-putting terms such as bugs, insects, termites, worms and so on can be substituted for other more friendly ones: micro-livestock, chapulines, tenebrio.’
‘I see.’
‘Also by making it look less buggy. Insect flour, for instance. Or insect hot dogs. Or insect steak.’
‘Insect steak?’
‘It could work, so long as you get enough of them. So long as you choose the right species. A lot of them are too viscous without the exoskeleton.’
Hsiao May paused, marshalling her thoughts. It was going well, she could sense it. Harold had already eaten some mealworm. And he was reacting to her arguments objectively. Perhaps it wasn’t so difficult to change people’s perceptions after all. If they had enough intelligence.
‘Honey,’ she said. ‘That’s bee vomit.’
‘In the nineteenth century, the Society for the Propagation of Horse Flesh as an Article of Food had French chefs prepare a banquet of what they called chevaline. It was a resounding success.’
Harold’s brow was furrowed now. ‘Was it?’
‘Four-fifths of all animals are insects.’
Harold got to his feet and rummaged carefully in a cupboard. Instinctively, Hsiao May stopped speaking. Then Harold closed the cupboard and sat down.
‘Sorry,’ said Hsiao May, ‘I’ve been going on a bit.’
‘No, no,’ said Harold. ‘It’s lovely to get somebody on to their passion.’
‘It certainly is a passion. With good reason.’
‘Indeed.’
‘Sorry, anyway.’
‘Don’t mention it. Please.’
‘So . . . would you like to try a cricket?’
‘That’s very kind of you, but I’m . . . I’d . . . I think I’d rather have a Rich Tea. Can I tempt you?’
Hsiao May smiled and felt herself blush. ‘A Rich Tea would be lovely,’ she said.