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

"What'r ye doing?"
"I'm going to take some pictures."
The boy comes closer. Sheridan is an adult, and therefore of no account, but he's
dressed like a big teenager, and big teenagers are gods.
"There's seals in the lough. But yez won't see them."
Sheridan shrugged, indifferent to the kind of wildlife that most tourists pursue.
"There are seals in a zoo. I'll take pictures of the light and the water." He grinned, as
the boy came closer still. "Maybe I'll take pictures of you."


Sheridan drove an ancient Bentley, 1940s vintage, British racing green, a fabulous
monster. The car suffered some kind of mechanical failure. It had to be nursed to the
town beyond the pretentious roadhouse and left there for diagnosis and treatment.
Camilla was not exactly ill, but she was tired out by weeks of travel. She took to her
bed in number four, and soon had Noreen waiting on her hand and foot. The passing
trade of heavy Americans would have been astonished at this unheard-of behaviour,
but they never heard anything about it. Short shrift, in and out, was Noreen's usual
way. Her con-versation was all reserved for the beautiful stranger. She was in and
out of number four all day, sometimes jigging baby Roisin on her arm, very
concerned at Camilla's birdlike appetite.
"Sure, yez don't eat enough to keep a sparrow alive," she sighed, stroking back
Camilla's lovely blonde hair. A little physical intimacy had become natural: a touch
here, an arm around the shoulders there, nothing shocking, just like sisters.
"I'm eating very well," protested Camilla, with a gentle smile. "You look after me
wonderfully." The mirror in that apology for a bathroom obstinately showed a face
more worn and wan than Camilla liked to see, but it was deceptive. She had been at
a low ebb, running on empty: she was feeling stronger every day.
"Is the photography a living, then?" asked Noreen curiously, lifting a tray with a
soup bowl that had barely been tasted, glancing admiringly at the food refused, that
mark of true sophistication. Roisin was on her arm in a sick-stained pyjama suit.
"Oh, yes. A very good living."
"And you?"
Camilla said she didn't have a job. She didn't need one.
"So ye're likeтАж a kept woman?" said Noreen, round-eyed. "Jayus, I couldn't do
that. I'd be afraid to do that."
Slightly needled, Camilla laughed. "Oh, no. No, no. What I mean is we work
together. He takes the pictures, I write the text, we make beautiful books." Neither of
them needs a job. They are financially independent, but it's better not to say so. And
it's very true that Sheridan makes a living for himself out of his photography. Very
true.
Thumps and yells from downstairs. The children are indoors. There's "a bug
going around" which has robbed the oldest boy of his playmates, so he's at home
watching television. The girl has stayed in too, for some reason, and therefore also
the younger mites. "I hope to God they don't get sick," mutters Noreen bitterly. "It
would be like their awkwardness, in August when I have me hands full with the
plaguey tourists."
Camilla murmurs something apologetic. But no! Noreen won't hear a word. No!
She's loving having Camilla here. Looking after Camilla is like a big treat, like going
to the pictures. Like going to the hairdresser's she adds, dreamily; and sitting there
reading a magazineтАж The height of Noreen's notions of idle splendour.