"Gwyneth Jones - A North Light" - читать интересную книгу автора (Jones Gwyneth)

eight. Maybe it goes on for ever, into the antechambers of hell. Thick yellowy
varnished pine, brass numberplates. The wallpaper in number four is the same as in
the stairwell: strawberries and strawberry flowers, in shades of pastel brown and
pastel apricot. The bed takes up most of the space. The bedding isтАж pastel apricot,
polysomething, with the same debased, dreary strawberries and strawberry flowers.
There's a fitted wardrobe, a vanity unit. A window with meagre flimsy curtains
provides a magnificent sea view. As they stare at the room, Noreen frankly stares at
them, these two exotic birds of passage, tall and slender, blonde and sophisticated
(he is tall, she is blonde). Her round, bright eyes are filled with a peasant's ingenuous
hunger for sensation.
"This is fine," says Sheridan briskly. "We'll take it."
Noreen looks at Cam, a little puzzled. (Camilla must remind Sher that he's in a
country where menfolk do not make domestic decisions. It's his place to be silent!)
But she also looks very happy. They are welcome, they are accepted, they are
fascinating: all is as it should be.


When they were alone, Camilla sniffed the towels and moaned softly. The
polyester sheets, cheap enough to start with, are worn to a grisly fungoid sheen; and
why in the world, in a house so big, does this "double room" have to be so mean
and cramped? It's a battery cage for tourists. "I can't stand these places," muttered
Camilla. "I cannot bear them. The sheer effrontery! I thought Ireland was supposed
to be romantic."
"That's my line," said Sheridan. He had to stoop a little to look out of the
window. Beyond the pasture, a wide sea shore under a fabulous sweep of sky, but
the back of the house is like a builder's yard. A heap of sand under a tarpaulin, a
stack of roof tiles. The children are playing: two boys of that touching age between
childhood and adolescence, trying to humiliate each other with BMX bike tricks. A
girl a little older, chivvying a terrier puppy. A couple of infants. Unseen, above, he
smiled on them benignly.
"The light is wonderful."
She could hear the children's voices. "How can you tell? It's nearly dark."
"Exactly." He turned with a knowing grin. "I'm sure you'll find something to do."
 Camilla went on grumbling as they carried up their bags, unpacked, and made
futile efforts to render the battery cage habitable. But when they ventured into the
lower regions, in search of advice about an evening meal, she was the one who
accepted the offer of a cup of tea тАФ condemning them to a t├кte-├а-t├кte with Noreen
in the Guests' Lounge and TV Room. Mine hostess brought tea and fairy cakes (one
per guest). Later she brought the baby, eight-month-old Roisin, suffering from the
colic; told Camilla the names of her other children; confided the state of her
husband's business. Camilla tasted the admiration in Noreen's eyes, and drew more
of it to herself insensately, out of habit, like a pianist running over her scales: she
couldn't help it. She really meant no harm. Why are you dressed as a boy? she
wondered. Wouldn't you be more comfortable in a nice print frock and an apron?
Thus the wheel of fashion turns, and it gets harder and harder to find the true
wilderness experience. Peasants the world over have Coca-Cola and Internet access.
But their lives (sadly enough, agreeably enough) are no less empty. An attractive
stranger is still fascinating, same as she ever was.
Noreen jigged the grizzling baby with businesslike indifference. Camilla admired
the family photographs (Noreen in a huge white dress that would have looked better