"Bisson, Terry - England Underway" - читать интересную книгу автора (Bisson Terry)

humanity. People of all sorts, even Pakistanis and foreigners, not
ordinarily much in evidence in Brighton off season.
"What in the world can it be?" Mr. Fox wondered aloud. "I simply can't
imagine."
"Woof," said Anthony, who couldn't imagine either, but who was never
called upon to do so.
With Anthony in his arms, Mr. Fox picked his way through the crowd along
the King's Esplanade until he came to the entrance to the Boardwalk. He
mounted the twelve steps briskly. It was irritating to have one's
customary way blocked by strangers. The Boardwalk was half-filled with
strollers who, instead of strolling, were holding onto the rail and
looking out to sea. It was mysterious; but then the habits of everyday
people had always been mysterious to Mr. Fox; they were so much less
likely to stay in character than the people in novels.
The waves were even closer together than they had been the day before;
they were piling up as if pulled toward the shore by a magnet. The surf
where it broke had the odd appearance of a single continuous wave about
one and a half feet high. Though it no longer seemed to be rising, the
water had risen during the night: it covered half the beach, coming almost
up to the seawall just below the Boardwalk.
The wind was quite stout for the season. Off to the left (the east) a dark
line was seen on the horizon. It might have been clouds but it looked more
solid, like land. Mr. Fox could not remember ever having seen it before,
even though he had walked here daily for the past forty two years.
"Dog?"
Mr. Fox looked to his left. Standing beside him at the rail of the
Boardwalk was a large, one might even say portly, African man with an
alarming hairdo. He was wearing a tweed coat. An English girl clinging to
his arm had asked the question. She was pale with dark, stringy hair, and
she wore an oilskin cape that looked wet even though it wasn't raining.
"Beg your pardon?" said Mr. Fox.
"That's a dog?" The girl was pointing toward Anthony.
"Woof."
"Well, of course it's a dog."
"Can't he walk?"
"Of course he can walk. He just doesn't always choose to."
"You bloody wish," said the girl, snorting unattractively and looking
away. She wasn't exactly a girl. She could have been twenty.
"Don't mind her," said the African. "Look at that chop, would you."
"Indeed," Mr. Fox said. He didn't know what to make of the girl but he was
grateful to the African for starting a conversation. It was often
difficult these days; it had become increasingly difficult over the years.
"A storm off shore, perhaps?" he ventured.
"A storm?" the African said. "I guess you haven't heard. It was on the
telly hours ago. We're making close to two knots now, south and east.
Heading around Ireland and out to sea."
"Out to sea?" Mr. Fox looked over his shoulder at the King's Esplanade and
the buildings beyond, which seemed as stationary as ever. "Brighton is
heading out to sea?"
"You bloody wish," the girl said.