Read Online 2 The Weed That Strings the Hangman’s Bag: A Flavia De Luce Mystery by Alan Bradley - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Alan Bradley
Ads: Link
teeth.
“Lovely!” she muttered. “Smashing!” And she shoved the orange butterfly into her pocket.
“Here!—” Rupert made a grab for it, and Meg drew back, startled, as if noticing him for the first time. Her smile vanished as suddenly as it had appeared.
“I know you,” she said darkly, her eyes fixed on his goatee. “You’re the Devil, you are. Aye, that’s what’s gone and happened—the Devil’s come back to Gibbet Wood.”
And with that, she stepped backwards into the hedgerow and was gone.
Rupert climbed awkwardly out of the van and slammed the door.
“Rupert—” Nialla called out. But rather than going into the bushes after Meg, as I thought he would, Rupert walked a short distance up the road, looked round a bit, and then came slowly back, his feet stirring up the dust.
“It’s only a gentle slope, and we’re no more than a stone’s throw from the top,” he reported. “If we can push her up as far as that old chestnut, we can coast down the far side. Might even start her up again. Like to steer, Flavia?”
Although I had spent hours sitting in Harriet’s old Phantom II in our coach house, it had been always for purposes of reflection or escape. I had never actually been in control of a moving motorcar. Although the idea was not unattractive at first, I quickly realized that I had no real desire to find myself hurtling out of control down the east side of Gibbet Hill, and coming to grief among the scenery.
“No,” I said. “Perhaps Nialla—”
“Nialla doesn’t like to drive,” he snapped.
I knew at once that I had put my foot in it, so to speak. By suggesting that Nialla steer, I was at the same time suggesting that Rupert get off his backside and push—withered leg and all.
“What I meant,” I said, “was that you’re probably the only one of us who can get the motor started again.”
It was the oldest trick in the book: Appeal to his manly vanity, and I was proud to have thought of it.
“Right,” he said, clambering back into the driving seat.
Nialla scrambled out, and I behind her. Any thoughts I might have had about the wisdom of someone in her condition pushing a van uphill on a hot day were instantly put aside. And besides, I could hardly bring up the subject.
Like a flash, Nialla had darted round behind the van, pressing her back flat against the rear doors and using her powerful legs to push.
“Take off the bloody hand brake, Rupert!” she shouted.
I took up a position beside her and, with every last ounce of strength that was in me, dug in my feet and pushed.
Wonder of wonders, the stupid thing began to move. Perhaps because the puppet paraphernalia had been unloaded at the parish hall, the greatly lightened van was soon creeping, snail-like but inexorably, up towards the peak of the hill. Once we had it in motion, we turned round and shoved with our hands.
The van came to a full stop only once, and that was when Rupert threw in the clutch and turned on the ignition. A tremendous black backfire came shooting out of the tailpipe, and even without looking down, I knew that I would have to explain to Father the destruction of yet another pair of white socks.
“Don’t let the clutch in now—wait until we get to the top!” Nialla shouted.
“Men!” she muttered to me. “Men and their bleeding exhaust noises.”
Ten minutes later we were at the crest of Gibbet Hill. In the distance, Jubilee Field sloped away towards the river, a gently rolling blanket of flax of such electric-blue intensity that it might have caused van Gogh to weep.
“One more good heave,” Nialla said, “and we’re on our way.”
We groaned and we grunted, pushing and shoving against the hot metal, and then suddenly, as if it had become weightless, the van began moving on its own. We were on the downside of the hill.
“Quick! Jump in!” Nialla said, and we ran alongside as the van picked up speed, bucketing and bumping down the rutted road.
We jumped onto the running
“Lovely!” she muttered. “Smashing!” And she shoved the orange butterfly into her pocket.
“Here!—” Rupert made a grab for it, and Meg drew back, startled, as if noticing him for the first time. Her smile vanished as suddenly as it had appeared.
“I know you,” she said darkly, her eyes fixed on his goatee. “You’re the Devil, you are. Aye, that’s what’s gone and happened—the Devil’s come back to Gibbet Wood.”
And with that, she stepped backwards into the hedgerow and was gone.
Rupert climbed awkwardly out of the van and slammed the door.
“Rupert—” Nialla called out. But rather than going into the bushes after Meg, as I thought he would, Rupert walked a short distance up the road, looked round a bit, and then came slowly back, his feet stirring up the dust.
“It’s only a gentle slope, and we’re no more than a stone’s throw from the top,” he reported. “If we can push her up as far as that old chestnut, we can coast down the far side. Might even start her up again. Like to steer, Flavia?”
Although I had spent hours sitting in Harriet’s old Phantom II in our coach house, it had been always for purposes of reflection or escape. I had never actually been in control of a moving motorcar. Although the idea was not unattractive at first, I quickly realized that I had no real desire to find myself hurtling out of control down the east side of Gibbet Hill, and coming to grief among the scenery.
“No,” I said. “Perhaps Nialla—”
“Nialla doesn’t like to drive,” he snapped.
I knew at once that I had put my foot in it, so to speak. By suggesting that Nialla steer, I was at the same time suggesting that Rupert get off his backside and push—withered leg and all.
“What I meant,” I said, “was that you’re probably the only one of us who can get the motor started again.”
It was the oldest trick in the book: Appeal to his manly vanity, and I was proud to have thought of it.
“Right,” he said, clambering back into the driving seat.
Nialla scrambled out, and I behind her. Any thoughts I might have had about the wisdom of someone in her condition pushing a van uphill on a hot day were instantly put aside. And besides, I could hardly bring up the subject.
Like a flash, Nialla had darted round behind the van, pressing her back flat against the rear doors and using her powerful legs to push.
“Take off the bloody hand brake, Rupert!” she shouted.
I took up a position beside her and, with every last ounce of strength that was in me, dug in my feet and pushed.
Wonder of wonders, the stupid thing began to move. Perhaps because the puppet paraphernalia had been unloaded at the parish hall, the greatly lightened van was soon creeping, snail-like but inexorably, up towards the peak of the hill. Once we had it in motion, we turned round and shoved with our hands.
The van came to a full stop only once, and that was when Rupert threw in the clutch and turned on the ignition. A tremendous black backfire came shooting out of the tailpipe, and even without looking down, I knew that I would have to explain to Father the destruction of yet another pair of white socks.
“Don’t let the clutch in now—wait until we get to the top!” Nialla shouted.
“Men!” she muttered to me. “Men and their bleeding exhaust noises.”
Ten minutes later we were at the crest of Gibbet Hill. In the distance, Jubilee Field sloped away towards the river, a gently rolling blanket of flax of such electric-blue intensity that it might have caused van Gogh to weep.
“One more good heave,” Nialla said, “and we’re on our way.”
We groaned and we grunted, pushing and shoving against the hot metal, and then suddenly, as if it had become weightless, the van began moving on its own. We were on the downside of the hill.
“Quick! Jump in!” Nialla said, and we ran alongside as the van picked up speed, bucketing and bumping down the rutted road.
We jumped onto the running
Similar Books
