Читать книгу Asking for the Moon: A Collection of Dalziel and Pascoe Stories - Reginald Hill - Страница 11

Boris Kingsley replaced the phone on the bedside table. He was sitting on the edge of the bed and the mattress sagged beneath his weight. He was naked and he contemplated his bulging belly with the helpless bewilderment of a weak king confronting a peasants’ revolt.

‘When did you last see your little Willie?’ asked Ursula Davenport, snuggling against his back and peering over his shoulder.

He dug his elbow into one of her bountiful breasts.

‘About the same time you saw your little Umbilicus,’ he said.

‘Will he come?’

‘What?’

‘Johnny, I mean.’

‘Why do you call him Johnny? No one else calls him Johnny. You always try to suggest a special relationship.’

‘We had once. At least, I thought so.’

‘But Kate put paid to that,’ said Kingsley spitefully. ‘Funny, I often think that both you and Stella got married on the rebound.’

‘Stella?’ She raised her eyebrows.

‘Your sister-in-law, dear. There are depths beneath that unyielding surface.’

‘I’m glad to hear it. I wasn’t conscious of a rebound,’ she said evenly. ‘Unless it was from Stella moving into the bungalow. I could hardly stay on, could I?’

‘I wish you’d stayed and the bungalow had moved,’ grumbled Kingsley, walking across to the window and peering out.

The lawn had that tousled unkempt look even the best kept grass gets on a dank October morning. He had the sense of peering down at a wild moorland from some craggy height. Away to the right ran an avenue of trees, while straight ahead was a tangle of neglected shrubbery which reinforced the impression of desolation till he raised his eyes a little and the cheerful red-brick of the Rawlinson bungalow some three hundred yards away re-established the scale of things.

‘Pa should never have sold your father that land,’ said Kingsley with irritation. ‘It ruins the view.’

‘I dare say Stella will think the same about little Willie if she’s out in the garden,’ said Ursula.

‘She should be so lucky,’ said Kingsley. ‘How do you think your brother is since his accident?’

‘You are an evil-minded bastard sometimes, Boris,’ she said.

‘And you’re the vicar’s wife,’ he mocked. ‘Is it sermon on the mount time?’

She rolled off the bed as he approached.

‘I think it’s time to go home and have breakfast.’

‘Stay here,’ he suggested. ‘When’s Peter due back from his concert?’

‘Not till this afternoon.’

‘Well then.’

‘But old mother Warnock is due here in half an hour.’

‘She’ll devil us some kidneys. You can say you dropped in to invite me to address the Mothers’ Union.’

‘Boris, dear, she’d stand up and denounce us before the first hymn next Sunday morning. No, I’ll have a quick shower and be off.’

She left the room before he could attempt to restrain her by force or persuasion.

He did not appear too frustrated by her evasion but strolled round the room getting dressed. Unhappy at the selection of trousers in the large mahogany wardrobe which occupied half a wall opposite his bed, he took a key from a chest of drawers and unlocked a smaller oak wardrobe in the corner by the window. Here were hanging the heavier twills which the chill of the morning invited.

Here also hung a woman’s dress in white muslin with blue ribbons to gather it gently in beneath the bosom. On the shelf above was a wide-brimmed floppy hat in white linen trimmed with blue roses. He touched it lovingly, then caressed the soft material of the dress with his open hand.

When he turned from re-locking the wardrobe Ursula was standing dripping wet in the bedroom doorway.

‘I couldn’t find a towel,’ she said.

‘I’ll come and rub you dry,’ he answered, smiling.