"Jo Walton - Farthing" - читать интересную книгу автора (Walton Jo)

morning early in May.

Carmichael came from Lancashire, not the industrial southern Lancashire of cotton mills and
unemployment, but the bleak northern uplands of moorland and fell. His father lived in a crumbling house
not much better than the farmhouses of his tenants and struggled to send his sons to minor public schools.
CarmichaelтАЩs had been so minor it had since perished, with no loss to anyone, especially Carmichael. If
he ever had sons, which he increasingly doubted, heтАЩd certainly not have chosen to send them to that
hellhole to be starved and beaten. Still, that, with the Dunkirk experience, had been good enough for
Scotland Yard, and he was a full inspector now at twenty-nine, with good pay and excellent prospects
for advancement. Many hadnтАЩt done as well in the lean post-war years. His older brother, Matthew,
whose public school had been better, if still minor, was living in the North helping his father with the
sheep. He didnтАЩt see civilization more than once a month when he went into Lancaster to the bank and
the solicitor and maybe a stop for lunch at the KingтАЩs Head and a quick hour at the pictures in the
afternoon. It wasnтАЩt much, and Carmichael sometimes paused in his enjoyment of the good things in life
to consider the pitiful lot of his distant brother.

All the same, there was enough of the Northerner left in him to distrust the Hampshire countryside that
was doing its best to beguile him. The trees, so much more frequent and so much broader here than on
his native moor, were in fullest leaf and cast a delightful shade. Beneath them spread as solid a carpet of
bluebells as he had ever seen, sending their scent drifting into the car as he was driven on past them. The
sun was shining from a deep blue sky, as it rarely shone on Lancashire, the fields were ploughed and
planted, the hay was already high, the grass was a verdant green, and the birds were singing. As if this
wasnтАЩt enough, every few miles the road wound its way through a little village with a church, a pub, a
post office, thatched cottages, and just sufficient individuality to tell it from the last one. One might boast a
manor house, a second a duck pond, a third a village green, or a mighty oak with two old men sitting
beneath it as if they were about to hand down the wisdom of the elders. Carmichael sighed.

тАЬWhatтАЩs wrong, sir?тАЭ Sergeant Royston, at the wheel of the police Bentley, spared a quick glance for his
superior. тАЬDidnтАЩt fancy Sunday duty?тАЭ

тАЬNot especially,тАЭ Carmichael said. тАЬThough I hadnтАЩt anything special to do today, and I might as well
work now if the Yard needs me and have a free day in the week when the shops are open. ItтАЩs just this
countryside depresses me somehow.тАЭ

They swept into another little village. This one had a pretty girl feeding white Aylesbury ducks outside
one of the cottages. тАЬIt is lacking a bit of life compared to town,тАЭ Royston said as he rounded the curve
back into the endless fields and spinneys.

тАЬItтАЩs not that,тАЭ Carmichael said, as it suddenly came to him what it was. тАЬItтАЩs all so fat and complacent
somehow, as if itтАЩs had too long living on its rich soils and warm summers. ItтАЩs fallen asleep in the
sunshine. It could do with something to give it a shake and wake it up, like a famine, or a plague, or an
invasion or something.тАЭ

Royston slowed as they came into yet another village. Just past the church was an unpleasant reminder of
the invasion that had nearly happened, an Anderson shelter, with children playing, running in and out of it.
Royston said nothing, but Carmichael felt the red tide of embarrassment burning on his cheeks. He hadnтАЩt
meant the Germans, nothing had been farther from his mind, heтАЩd been centuries away imagining Vikings
or pirates descending on these smug sleepy peasants.

тАЬI donтАЩt much care for bluebells myself,тАЭ Royston said. тАЬIf we had to drive down this way, IтАЩd have