"Ian Watson - Lambert, Lambert" - читать интересную книгу автора (Watson Ian)

by the way. IтАЩm a tireless fellow.

Same as my namesake. My double! Right: chap name of Daniel Lambert. The
fat man of Leicester.

Found out about him when a hailstorm chased me into the museum. Hail the
size of bloody golf balls, shooting down at machine-gun rate, bounc-ing as high as a
bus. Several people were killed that day. Old folk, babies in prams. Windows
shattered all over. The climateтАЩs all screwed up and thatтАЩs a fact. Anyway, the
museum was show-ing LambertтАЩs clothes and other memorabilia.

He was born in the year 1770, and his Dad ran the House of Correction, the
Bridewell prison. This Bridewell wasnтАЩt for your murderers or forg-ers or thieves
who were bound for the noose and the gibbet. No, it housed people who had
committed what you might call moral offences against society. Debts, drunkenness,
vagrancy, that type of thing. You ought to know about moral offences against
society, hmm? TheyтАЩre what landed you in the camp.

In his earlier days LambertтАЩs Dad was hunts-man to the Earl of Stamford. His
uncle was game-keeper to the next Earl and his grandad on his mumтАЩs side was a
famous cock-fighter. Thus young Daniel grew up real sporty. Swimming, fishing,
riding to hounds, hunting otters, fighting cocks. тАШCourse, the countryside wasnтАЩt any
dis-tance from the heart of the city back then. Oh he loved the sporting life. Pinkos
like you did your damnedest to spoil all that. Still, what does it matter nowadays?

With all that exercise, our Dan became a power-ful fellow. Could carry quarter
of a ton without any fuss. Could kick seven feet high, standing on one leg. Once he
thumped a whopping dancing bear owned by some Froggy entertainers. You see,
they were performing in the street outside the gaol when the gaol dog went for the
bear, and this Froggy in charge unmuzzled Ursa Major to let her kill the dog. Felled
her with one blow to the skull, did our Dan. The bear threw in the sponge.

DanтАЩs folks apprenticed him to the button trade in Birmingham. To learn
die-sinking and engrav-ing. Must have seemed a bright idea at the time. A few years
later, fashion turned topsy-turvy. Out went buckles and fancy buttons. And it was a
time of unrest: the factory burned down in a riot. So Dan returned to Leicester, Dad
resigned from the Bridewell, and his boy took over as keeper.
 Boy, am I saying? Dan started putting on weight at a swingeing pace. (Could it
have been the lack of sporty exercise running a prison? Not to mention the glands?)
WasnтАЩt too long before he weighed in at nearly fifty-three stone. Measured three feet
round each leg, and nine feet round the body. When he was sitting down, his belly
buried his thighs to the knees. His legs were pillows almost smothering his feet. The
flap of his waist-coat pocket stretched a foot across. Special clothes for him, special
chairs more like sofas.

One remarkable fact was how healthy our Dan was. When he finally died,
most likely of a heart attack, at the Waggon and Horses in Stamford where heтАЩd
gone for the races, they needed to demolish a wall of the inn to get him out in his
cof-fin тАФ he was putrefying fast. But up until then, not a whisper of frailty! Dan
could fair trot upstairs. He could outwalk most fellows. HeтАЩd teach kids to swim in