"Murdoch, Iris - An Unofficial Rose" - читать интересную книгу автора (Murdoch Iris)

Mildred sighed. She knew from his more than usually strangulated utterance that she had his attention at last. She said carefully, 'No, certainly not. What I mean is nothing to do with giving Ann up, but with getting her. She isn't young, but she's young enough to bear you a child. She was a child herself when Steve was born. And the point is that you love her. And she loves you. And Randall has gone.'
'What makes you say that?' said Felix sharply. 'Which? about her loving you?'
'Yes.' He shifted his legs, staring ahead intently as if he were watching something.
'Well, she does, doesn't she?' said Mildred. She had no idea. Felix was silent. Then he said, 'I don't know anything about what she thinks of the matter. Naturally.'
'I like your "naturally"!' said Mildred. 'You wouldn't be here unless you thought she -- didn't positively mind. At least she knows what you feel?'
Felix was silent again. He said, 'I think she -- understands.' He tried to compress the last word into a single grunt.
'Of course she understands,' said Mildred. 'She's not a complete fool. And women always know. Forgive my being so crude, old thing, but have you ever kissed her?'
'Certainly not!' said Felix in a shocked tone. He added the next moment more softly. 'Yes, of course she knows. But we've never -- mentioned it, you know.'
СYou seem to me a proper pair of ninnies,' said Mildred. 'I wish I could put some stuffing into you, Felix. Well, let me repeat my last porot. Randall has gone. Your move. Yes?'
'No,' said Felix. He rose now and offered his sister his Ann. 'I wish you wouldn't -- fuss about this, Mildred. Randall has gone, but he'll come back. He's only staying in London. Nothing has happened, nothing whatever. And as I told you, nothing is going to happen. You may be right that I'm making a perfect ass of myself. But that's another matter. Let's go in. You must be getting cold.'
'I'm not letting you go just yet,' said Mildred. She remained seated and Felix stood now as if at attention before her, his tall form blotting out the evening star. Other stars had come. 'Felix,' she said, 'when you say nothing has happened you mean that Randall has not blatantly, publicly, taken up with someone else, he hasn't really "gone off". But if he did -- go off-then you'd speak to Ann?'
'But he hasn't -- gone off.'
Mildred was tense. 'And if he doesn't do anything public, if he just goes on, however shabbily, keeping up appearances with Ann, you won't ever feel justified in -- saying anything?'
Felix breathed deeply. 'No. Shall we go in, Mildred?'
'Ah, you are a fool,' she murmured, taking his Ann. 'But I have confidence in Randall. Thank heavens one of you all has some courage!'






Chapter Nine

'THE sons of the Prophet are hardy and bold and quite unaccustomed to FEAR!' sang Penn, as he leaned out of the window of his room, looking towards the light view, over the tops of the beech trees, over the hidden escarpment of roses, towards the grey and green plain of the Marsh, with its yellow lines of reedy dykes and its slowly flapping herons. There was a scattering of sheep in the near fields, seeming like pale spherical bundles. Where the horizon came it was not yet the sea, it was not quite yet mysterious Dungeness.
The sun was shining, but in a feeble unconvinced sort of way, making a lot of pale bright light. A brisk east wind was blowing. Call this a summer! thought Penn. It would scarcely pass muster as a winter at home. This was the sort of thing he would have liked to explain, in an aggrieved way, to someone; only no one wanted to hear. His mother had said as he was leaving, 'They'll all ask you so many questions about Australia!' but his father had said, 'Not they! They don't care a brass farthing about Australia!' Only he had used a rather. more Australian expression than that. It looked as if his father was right. Of course he didn't really mind their lack of curiosity; but he did a little mind their assumption that he was not in as good a position to judge them as they were to judge him.
Today he was certainly feeling a little more touchy than usual; but perhaps that was simply on account of the charades: there had been charades last night at the Rectory, and he had not distinguished himself. Penn, who had never played this game before, had been amazed at the virtuosity of the others, who all dressed up so cleverly and invented the funniest things on the spur of the moment. Miranda had been especially funny, and had looked so pretty and grown-up in some of the costumes, and had dressed up so comically as a boy. The two young Swanns were very brilliant too; though they seemed to put on such airs, and to talk so extraordinary a language, that Penn could scarcely decide when they were acting and when they were not. They were back for a half-term week-end from their school, a place called Rugby which they seemed to think a lot of. They were friendly to Penn but without concealing that they regarded him as rather a joke. None of this diminished his awkwardness. Only Ann had kept him company by being patently unable to act, but she had laughed so much all the time at everyone else that it somehow didn't show.
He looked across at the other tower of Grayhallock. That other tower, which he had never entered, exercised a looking-glass fascination on his mind. Its shallow stairs and sweep of white-painted metal banister, the replica of his own, seemed like the approach to Bluebeard's chamber. No one had ever suggested that he should mount the other tower, though equally of course no one had forbidden it; and although he had often, deceiving himself with: casualness, wondered whether he might not just stroll up to Miranda's room, he could not confront the idea of passing Randall's door. Now that Randall was gone it seemed no easier. It was not just that he was constantly told that his uncle was expected back from one day to the next. The nature of that departure, the raised voices and banging doors which he had heard, so much appalled him, and in an obscure way so frightened him, that even Randall's empty room seemed a haunted place.
He turned back into his own familiar little room. He had made his bed neatly. The box of soldiers was still untouched under the bed. The veteran car book stood on the shelf next to his copy of Such is Life. The German dagger lay unsheathed on the counterpane. The privations of this room was the best thing about being in England. At home he had to share a room with Bobby. Though now, with another Graham baby on the way, perhaps his father would build the annexe which was allowed for in the building plans. He thought with satisfaction of the new baby. The Grahams, after all, were quite a clan.
"Young man," said Ahdul, "Has life grown so dull that you're anxious to end your CAREER?'"
Bias, offensively Australian. Yes, the Grahams were a clan to be reckoned with. His grandfather had been a railway union organizer, his great-grandfather had been a drover in Queensland, his great-great-grandfather had been deported from England for persistent Trade Unionism, his great-great-great-grandfather had been a Chartist, his great-great-great-great-grandfather had been a Leveller. (The last three items, entered with little concern for chronology, were unfortunately speculative.) His great-great-great-great-great-grand- father -.
The German dagger, at which he had been gazing unseeingly, suddenly took possession of his consciousness in a painful way. He thought at first that the pain was simply the realization that he must shortly part with it to Miranda. Then he realized that it was a special pain compounded of this, and of a thrilling alarming consciousness that this would make an excellent pretext for mounting the other tower to her room.
"Foul infidel, know you have trod on the toe of Ahdul the Bulbul EMIR!'"
He picked up the dagger and drew the beautiful thing lightly through his fingers. It was sharp, polished, dangerous, marvellously integrated and sweetly proportioned. He could not remember when he had loved an object so much. It was even better than the visionary revolver which he had once desired. He caressed its smooth black hilt and traced the enamelled swastika with his finger-tip. He would never see its like. He sighed and went to the window and looked again at the other tower. The wind had dropped a little and from somewhere behind the house a cuckoo was calling its hollow hesitating note. Cuucuckoo. Of course there was no question but that he must give it to Miranda. Ann had said no, but she had only said it out of kindness to him, and he must do his duty in spite of Ann's kindness. The idea of duty brought with it a sort of dignity, and he decided he would do it, he would mount the other tower.
As he thought this his glance strayed and he saw Miranda below him, having just issued from the front porch. She was carrying a shopping-bag and had now set off along the drive toward the front gate. For a moment he wondered whether he should not take the chance of running up now to her room and laying the dagger on her bed. But he reflected that its sudden appearance there might frighten her. The idea that he was sparing her a fright filled him with a tender protective feeling. Then something about her slowly disappearing form imparted a sense of urgency, and he slipped the dagger into the pocket of his mackintosh and proceeded down the stairs at a run.
When he got outside Miranda had disappeared, but he ran a little way along the road which led to the village, and slowed down when he saw her ahead. The road led downhill with the rose nursery upon the left, and he could see Bowshott and one of the men working between the lines of bushes. The farther roses merged into a multicoloured blur. They were all in flower now. He wondered where Miranda was going, and concluded that she was bound for the village shop, which was odd since Miranda detested shopping. At this point she turned round, saw him, and waited.
When Penn caught up with her he couldn't think quite what to say. He was too shy to hand the dagger to her at once, so he said the first thing that came into his head. 'Have you found Hatfield yet?'
'I'm not looking for Hatfield,' said Miranda. They began to walk on slowly together, she swinging the bag.
'Well, not now I suppose,' said Penn, 'but I thought you might have found him, somewhere.'
'I didn't look for him,' said Miranda. 'I don't like cats. I prefer hedgehogs.' She said this in a judicious way which Penn found a little encouraging.
By way of making a joke Penn said, 'I thought little girls always liked cats and ponies!'
'I'm not a little girl,' said Miranda in a tone which left Penn's imagination reeling as to what indeed she was.
To recover he said with an even more ponderous air of jocularity, 'And you don't like ponies either?'
'Oh, I like them all right,' said Miranda, 'but I got bored with riding. I get bored with anything as soon as I know how to do it. I only like doing things I can't do.'
Penn considered this. 'I think I only like doing things I can do.' The conversation wasn't going too badly.
'What can you do?'
This disconcerted him. What, after all, could he do? He was a pretty good fast bowler; but he had not been able to display this accomplishment, since although a village cricket team existed, the Peronett family had no dealings with it, and Penn, unversed in the hierarchical intricacies of English village life, had not liked to suggest himself as a possible player. He was also, of course, clever with motor bikes, and used to get into the Adelaide stadium free as unpaid mechanic to Tommy Benson. But he didn't like to mention either of these talents to Miranda as it would sound like boasting, and they weren't very rand anyway. So he said, 'I'm not much good at anything, really.'
'In that case you don't like anything. Poor you!'
'Oh well, I do like things, of course,' said Penn, irritated. They walked on in silence.
Then Miranda said, 'Are you going to go to London with Humpo Finch?'
'Yes,' said Penn. 'I'm going up with him next Wednesday.' He greatly looked forward to that. Humphrey Finch had called once or twice and found time to talk to him, for which he was grateful. Humphrey was indeed the only person here, except perhaps Ann, who seemed to have any serious desire to know what he was like.