'That's a blue whale, Dad. Biggest animal EVER. Bigger than dinosaurs.'
'Bigger than dinosaurs.'
'Their heart is the size of a car.'
'A small car or a large car?'
'A car like dad's. Rory, is a blue whale's heart really the size of a car?'
'Roughly. A small one. You could sit inside it.'
'INSIDE A HEART?'
'If you were small enough. And waterproof.'
'I'm quite small.'
'You're the perfect size for heart-sitting.'
'Could a whale eat a person?'
'A blue whale couldn't. Their throat's too narrow. About the size of a grapefruit.'
'So they could eat a grapefruit but not a person.'
'Correct.'
'That's a rubbish superpower. Being the biggest thing on earth but you can only eat a grapefruit.'
'They eat krill. Millions of krill. Tiny shrimps.'
'Tiny shrimps are better than grapefruits?'
'In volume, yes.'
'What's volume?'
'How much there is of something. And, in that case, there are lots and lots of tiny shrimps.'
'Like when Dad buys too much pasta and we eat it for three days?'
'Exactly like that.'
'Dad.' Freddie turned to Neil. 'You're a blue whale of pasta.'
'Thank you, Freddie. That's the nicest thing anyone's ever said to me.'
Rory caught Neil's eye over Freddie's head. Soft, slightly overwhelmed. From the side where you were a guest, not the guardian. Where the child's acceptance was a gift rather than an obligation.
The documentary moved to orcas. Freddie fell quiet, the absorbed quiet of a child encountering apex predators.
'Rory.'
'Yeah, mate.'
'Why do orcas hunt in packs?'
'Because one orca on its own isn't big enough to take on a whale. But together they can coordinate. They communicate. Use sound, position, timing. Each one knows its job.'
