Читать книгу Puffball - Fay Weldon - Страница 11

Liffey’s birthday was on Christmas Day, a fact which annoyed Madge, who was a proselytising atheist.

They were to spend Christmas with Richard’s parents. They journeyed down to Cornwall on the night of Christmas Eve: there was a hard frost. The night landscape sparkled under the moon. Richard and Liffey were drunk with love and Richard’s remorse. The back of the car was piled high with presents, beautifully wrapped and ribboned. They took with them a Thermos of good real coffee, laced with brandy, and chicken sandwiches. They went by the A 303, down past Windsor, on to the motorway, leaving at the Hungerford exit, and down through Berkshire and Wiltshire, crossing Salisbury Plain, where Stonehenge stood in the moonlight, ominous and amazing, dwarfing its wire palisade. Then on into Somerset, past Glastonbury Tor, into Devon and finally over the Tamar Bridge into Cornwall.

Liffey loved Richard too much to even mention Honeycomb Cottage, although they passed within five miles of it.

Christmas Day was bright, cold, and wild. Mr and Mrs Lee-Fox’s cottage was set into the Cornish cliffs. A storm arose, and sea spray dashed against the double glazing but all was safe and warm and hospitable within. The roast turkey was magnificent, the Christmas tree charming, and Liffey’s presents proved most acceptable—two hand-made patchwork quilts, one for each twin bed. Liffey loved giving. Her mother, Madge, did not. They had once spent Christmas with Madge, rather than with Richard’s parents, and had a chilly bleak time of it. Madge liked to be working, not rejoicing.

Mr and Mrs Lee-Fox agreed, under their quilts on Christmas night, that at least Liffey kept Richard happy and lively, and at least this year had worn a T-shirt thick enough to hide her nipples.

On their way back to London they made a detour out of Glastonbury and into Crossley, and passed Dick Hubbard’s estate agency. There was room to park outside, for the Christmas holiday, stretching further and further forward to grab in the New Year, kept most of the shops and offices closed. And Dick Hubbard’s door was open. Richard stopped.

‘Townspeople,’ said Dick Hubbard, looking down from his private office on the first floor. ‘Back from the Christmas holidays, and looking for a country cottage to rent, for twopence halfpenny a week. They’re out of luck.’

He was a large, fleshy man in his late forties, at home in pubs, virile in bed; indolent. His wife had died in a riding accident shortly after his liaison with Carol had begun. Carol was smaller and slighter than her sister Mabs, but just as determined.

‘There’s Honeycomb Cottage,’ said Carol.

‘That’s for sale, not for rent. I’m holding on until prices stop rising.’

‘Then you’ll hold on for ever,’ said Carol. ‘And in the meanwhile it will all fall down. Mabs says it’s already an eyesore. She’s quite put out about it.’

‘Mabs had better not start interfering,’ said Dick, ‘or she’ll lose her grazing.’ But no one in Crossley, not even Dick Hubbard, liked to think of Mabs being put out, and when Richard and Liffey enquired about Honeycomb Cottage, they were told it was to rent on a full repairing lease for twenty pounds a week.

‘Done,’ said Richard.

‘Done,’ said Dick Hubbard.

They shook hands.

‘In the country,’ said Liffey, as they got back into the car, ‘the word of a gentleman still means something. People trust one another. You’re going to love it, Richard.’ ‘It’s certainly easy to do business,’ said Richard.

They decided to rent the London apartment to friends, and let the income from one pay for the outgoings on the other.

‘We could get thirty a week for the flat,’ said Liffey. ‘And the extra can pay for your fares.’

It was a long time since she had been anywhere by train.

After Richard and Liffey had gone, Dick Hubbard returned to his interrupted lovemaking with Carol.

‘Didn’t they even ask for a lease?’ asked Carol.

‘No,’ said Dick.

‘You’ll do all right there,’ said Carol.

‘I know,’ said Dick.