"Harry Adam Knight - Fungus" - читать интересную книгу автора (Knight Harry Adam)

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By the time Norman Layne arrived home heтАЩd long forgotten the embarrassing collision with the
attractive woman m Tottenham Court Road. There were other things preying on his mind now, ranging
from the sweaty itch caused by the nylon shirt that Nora insisted was all they could afford, to the lingering
fury he still felt towards the black youth whoтАЩd played his huge radio as though he owned the train. And
there had been the humiliation of being called back to the ticket collector so that his pass could be
checked even though he was always scrupulously honest about paying. But most of all he seethed at
having wasted a whole afternoon in that cess-pit of LondonтАЩs West End. He had been specifically told
over the phone that Bradford and Simpkins had a forester-bit brace tang which he urgently needed to
continue his carpentry work. But when he got there they then told him they didnтАЩt have it. He couldnтАЩt
understand it. HeтАЩd stood there speechless in front of the young and arrogant sales assistant and then
realized he was suffering yet another of lifeтАЩs endless, nasty tricks.

Outside he had spat on the pavement in disgust, but then, to his amazement and indignation, heтАЩd got a
reprimand from a passing police constable who looked even younger than the sales assistant. Furious,
heтАЩd stalked off down Tottenham Court Road, reflecting bitterly that heтАЩd almost been arrested

for such a trivial thing while all around him the blacks were fouling up the streets with their noise, their
dangerous roller skates, their bikes on the sidewalks and their strutting, swaggering dirty-mouthed ways.

It was then that heтАЩd collided with the tall, blonde woman. It was entirely his fault, he hadnтАЩt been looking
where he was going. And to add to his humiliation it was he who was knocked off his feet by the impact.
HeтАЩd fallen hard on his backside and had sat there, the center of attention, for several moments while
people had stepped around him with big smirks on their faces. Then the blonde woman had helped him up
and apologized but he knew that behind her concerned expression and kind words she was laughing at
him too. So he had given her one of his fiercest glares and hurried off down the street without saying
anything to her.

And now, finally, he was home. Not that that was much better, but at least it contained a haven where he
could escape from all burdens that were his lot. He could even escape from the biggest burden of allтАФhis
wife Nora. She had done nothing less than ruin his life. ThatтАЩs all there was to it. He could have been
somebody now if she hadnтАЩt always been dragging him back.

To avoid her he went round to the rear of the house. At the back door he warily listened for sounds of
activity in the kitchen; hearing none he quickly entered and scuttled on through into his workshop. He
gave a deep sigh as he switched on the light and closed the door behind him. What meager enjoyment he
got out of life was almost all in this room: the cared-for tools, the books of woodwork designs, the
finished and half-finished projects, and the lengths of untouched timbers with their distinctive aroma.

He felt a momentary spasm of annoyance that he could not continue with his main job, but there was so
much else to do that the room soon exerted its uplifting magic on him and he found an equally satisfying
alternate task: the extra-fine sanding of an unfinished cabinet. . .



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