Singing the Sadness. Reginald Hill

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СКАЧАТЬ Lewis, you mean?’

      ‘That’s right, Joe. Don’t want the High Master on my back, do I?’

      The idea seemed to put him in a good humour and he went off chuckling.

      Joe watched him go, then set out himself in the opposite direction to ponder these matters. But not for too long. He was temperamentally unsuited to pondering for more than a few minutes at a time. If a panful of puzzles didn’t come to the boil quickly, best thing to do was stop watching it and leave it to get on under its own steam.

      He turned his attention to more personal strategies. Now he’d accepted two invitations out, his picture of Beryl returning from the village to find him lying pale and interesting on his sickbed was fading fast. Even if he’d been the kind of lowlife who could play on a woman’s tender feelings to get his wicked way, then glance at his watch and say, ‘Oh, sorry, gotta run, they’re expecting me down the boozer then I’m going on to dinner,’ he doubted if he could have got away without a lot more fire damage.

      This needed thinking about. Also he was beginning to feel quite knackered. As horizontal was his best thinking position as well as being therapeutically attractive, he returned to the sickbay and lay on his bed to think about it.

      It was here that Beryl found him a few hours later, fast asleep, looking pale and interesting. She lay down beside him and woke him with a kiss.

      ‘Oh, shoot,’ said Joe when he realized what was happening.

      ‘Shoot yourself,’ said Beryl. ‘Don’t you know it’s bad manners to sound disappointed when a girl kisses you? And what are you doing with your clothes on?’

      ‘Soon get them off,’ said Joe hopefully.

      ‘No, thanks. You’re well enough to put your clothes on, you’re well enough to keep them on,’ said Beryl rolling off the bed. ‘So what have you been up to?’

      He told her, giving a pretty full account, except it didn’t seem worth mentioning Bron’s massage.

      ‘Don’t know why I bother with you, Joe,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘You fool us all into thinking you’re sick, then you pack your social calendar fuller than Fergie’s.’

      ‘It just sort of happened,’ he said. ‘Sorry.’

      Beryl laughed a deep throaty laugh which ran over a man’s libido like a hot tongue.

      ‘Nothing to apologize to me for,’ she said. ‘I’m just glad you’re feeling so much better. Not sure if Mirabelle will see it that way, though.’

      ‘So how was your day?’ asked Joe.

      ‘Interesting. We were greeted by the head of the Festival Organizing Committee, the Reverend David Davies …’ She smiled at something.

      Joe said, ‘What?’

      Beryl said, ‘They call him Dai Bard ‘cos it seems he writes poetry and he won the crown at some eisteddfod. Only the young ones thought of him when that Bruce Willis film Die Hard came out way back and they started calling him Bruce the Juice ‘cos he likes the old claret. They got a good sense of humour, this lot, if you listen closely.’

      ‘I’d laugh only it hurts,’ said Joe with uncharacteristic sourness which he immediately regretted. ‘Sorry. Only there hasn’t been a lot to laugh at since we crossed the border. So he’s a bundle of fun, is he, this Dai Bard? Talks in limericks, maybe?’

      ‘Well, no,’ admitted Beryl. ‘Certainly talks a lot, but doesn’t look like he’s having fun. In fact, he looks more like Hermann Goering having to tell Hitler the war’s not going so well.’

      Joe pondered this. Beryl could be pretty round-the-houses sometimes.

      ‘Worried?’ he concluded.

      ‘You got it. He kept on being interrupted to go into a huddle with some other committee member. I got the feeling there’s a lot of crisis management going on which they’re not too keen to let anyone know about. Like the time they found the dead bat in the operating theatre.’

      ‘Down Luton ‘Firmary? I never heard about that.’

      ‘There you go,’ said Beryl. ‘But the hospital management were lucky. They didn’t have Mirabelle on their case.’

      Joe knew what she meant. His aunt had antennae like antlers and a sunflower’s objection to being kept in the dark.

      ‘So what’s the word?’ he asked.

      ‘Lot of snarl-ups. Mobile toilet people turned up with nothing but men’s urinals. Herd of cows got into the main competition field so it was covered with cow pies. French choir thought the dates had changed and almost didn’t make it. And the Germans arrived a day early and found there was nothing ready for them. Took the Dai Bard half a day to persuade them not to head for home.’

      ‘Probably helped looking like Goering then,’ said Joe. ‘Well, let’s hope they’ve got their bad luck out of their system.’

      ‘Mirabelle doesn’t believe in bad luck, she thinks God’s trying to tell them something.’

      ‘Like what?’

      ‘Like they should stop worrying about these foreigners and concentrate on seeing a home-grown team wins.’

      ‘Maybe someone is,’ said Joe lightly. ‘We probably count as foreigners ourselves, and I recall we had a hard time finding anyone who’d tell us how to get here. Even the signposts had been bust.’

      ‘Joe, you’re not getting a fit of the great detectives again, are you?’ she said warningly.

      ‘This Welsh air’s turning you into a comedian,’ he answered, grabbing her hand and pulling her towards him.

      She wasn’t putting up much resistance when the door opened and Bronwen looked in.

      ‘Ooo, sorry,’ she said, smiling broadly and running her delicate pink tongue round her vibrantly red lips. ‘Thought I might finish that massage, Joe, but I see you’re in good hands. Da says he’ll pick you up round the back in twenty minutes. That be long enough for you?’

      ‘Yes, thanks. I’ll be there,’ said Joe.

      The girl mouthed, ‘Bye’, and withdrew.

      So did Beryl.

      ‘That, I assume, is the caretaker’s kid you mentioned,’ she said. ‘And what was this massage you didn’t mention?’

      ‘Massage? Thought she said message,’ said Joe unconvincingly.

      ‘Don’t think so, Joe,’ said Beryl. ‘And if you’ve only got twenty minutes, I think you should come with me to make your confession to Rev. Pot and Aunt Mirabelle. Though from the sound of it, twenty minutes ain’t going to be half long enough.’

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