Читать книгу The Office of the Dead - Andrew Taylor, Andrew Taylor - Страница 16

Even now, when I am as old as John Treevor, I dream about the day I came to Rosington. Not about what happened in the house. About talking to Rosie outside. The odd thing, the disturbing thing, is what Rosie says. Or doesn’t say.

When I see her in the dream I know she’s going to tell her joke, that she’s called Nobody because nobody’s perfect. But the punchline is scrambled. That’s what makes me anxious – the fact I don’t know how the words will come out. Perfect but nobody. Nobody but perfect. A perfect nobody. Perfect no body. No perfect body. Maybe my sleeping mind worries about that because it’s less painful than worrying about what was going on in the house.

But the dream came much later. On my first night in Rosington I slept better than I had for years. I was in a room on the second floor away from the rest of the house. When I woke I knew it was late because of the light filtering through the crack in the curtains. The air in the bedroom was icy. I stayed in the warm nest of the bedclothes for at least twenty minutes more.

Eventually a bursting bladder drove me out of bed. The bathroom was warmer than my room because it had a hot-water tank in it. I took my clothes in there and got dressed. I went downstairs and found Janet’s father sitting in a Windsor chair at the kitchen table reading The Times.

We eyed each other warily. He had not come downstairs again the previous evening; Janet had taken him some soup. He stood up and smiled uncertainly.

‘Hello, Mr Treevor.’

He looked blank.

‘I’m Wendy Appleyard, remember – Janet’s friend from school.’

‘Yes, yes. There’s some tea in the pot, I believe. Shall I –?’ He made a half-hearted attempt to investigate the teapot on my behalf.

‘I think I might make some fresh.’

‘My wife always says that coffee never tastes the same if you let it stand.’ He looked puzzled. ‘Good idea. Yes, yes.’

I was aware of him watching me as I filled the kettle, put it on the stove and lit the gas. He had put on weight since I had seen him last, a great belt of fat. The rest of him still looked relatively slim, including the face with its nose like a beak and the bulging forehead, now even more prominent because the hairline had receded further. His hair was longer than it used to be and unbrushed. He wore a heavy jersey that was too large for his shoulders and too small for his stomach. I wondered if it belonged to David. He did not refer to the incident yesterday and nor did I.

‘I hope you slept well?’ he said at last.

‘Yes, thank you.’

‘The noises didn’t keep you awake?’

‘The noises?’

‘Yes, yes. You tend to get them in these old houses.’

‘I didn’t hear any. I slept very well.’

He gathered up his newspaper. ‘I must be going. It’s getting quite late.’

‘Where’s Janet?’

‘Taking Rosie to school. Will you be all right? Can you fend for yourself?’

Once he’d established my ability to do this, at least to his own satisfaction, he pottered out of the kitchen. I heard him in the hall. A door opened, then closed and a bolt smacked home. He had taken refuge in the downstairs lavatory.

He was still in there after I’d drunk two cups of tea, eaten a slice of toast and started the washing-up. A bell jangled – one of a row of bells above the kitchen door. I guessed it must be the garden door, so I dried my hands and went to answer it. There was a small, sturdy clergyman on the doorstep. He touched his hat.

‘Good morning. Is David in?’

‘I’m afraid he’s up in town at a conference. Janet’s out but she should be back soon. May I take a message?’

‘Do you happen to know when he’s coming back?’

‘This evening, I think.’

‘I’ll ring him tomorrow or perhaps drop in. Would you tell him Peter Hudson called? Thank you so much. Goodbye.’

He touched his hat again and walked briskly down the path where Rosie had played hopscotch to the gate in the wall. The lawn on either side of the path was still white with frost. At the gate, he turned, glanced back and waved.

That was my first meeting with Canon Hudson. A meek and mild little man, I thought at the time, with one of those forgettable faces and a classless voice that could have come from anywhere. If I had to have dealings with a clergyman, I thought, I’d much prefer he looked and sounded like Laurence Olivier.