Read Online Body Line by Cynthia Harrod-Eagles - Free Book Online Page B

Joanna was out and Dad was babysitting, and had found that after digging the garden all morning to plant vegetables for them all to eat, Mr Slider had spent the rest of the day painting the dining-room. In his guilt over the exhausting work rate – the old man was all of seven stone ringing wet – Slider had said, ‘Really, Dad, you don’t need to do all this stuff for us.’
    And after a beat of silence Mr Slider had said, ‘All right, son. I’m sorry. I won’t interfere any more.’
    He hadn’t been being a martyr, either. Slider had cried, ‘I didn’t mean that! I don’t think you’re interfering. I never said—’
    ‘I know you didn’t.’ Mr Slider had looked at him carefully. ‘Look, son, the last thing I want is to be a nuisance to you and Jo. I know how awkward it can be to have someone hanging around when you want to be private.’
    ‘How can you say that? We’re so grateful for all you do for us—’
    ‘Ah, that’s just it, don’t you see?’ Mr Slider had said, with a gleam of humour. ‘Being grateful, you can’t tell me to sling my hook. But I don’t want you to be grateful to me. I like to be nearer you, and to have little things to do – you know I don’t like to be idle – and I like taking care of my little lad. So I just want you to be honest and tell me if you’re seeing too much of me. You won’t hurt my feelings, I promise you that. I’ve got my own comfortable place to go to, and I’m used to being on my own, so you needn’t worry. Promise you’ll be honest with me.’
    They had looked at each other for a moment: level blue eyes, in faces made from the same fabric; one under brown and one under grey hair, but hair that grew the same way. And Slider knew that it would never be possible to say, ‘Dad, we want to be alone. Could you go, please.’ And he knew, moreover, that his father knew that too. They were caught in a benign leg-trap of mutual love, respect and kindliness, and any such promise was worthless. Worst of all was that he really liked having the old man around, and he knew Joanna felt the same, and he was afraid that his father might not know that, and believe he was only being tolerated. But between men, and particularly between father and son, there weren’t sufficient words for this sort of thing. All you could do was hope the love underneath was sensed. ‘I promise,’ Slider had said.
    Atherton turned to toast his other side. He had known Slider a long time, and could guess some of his thought patterns. ‘For what it’s worth,’ he said, ‘I think you’ve got a brilliant set-up here.’
    Slider looked at him, and read all the things which, again, being men, they weren’t going to say to each other. So he said instead, ‘I’m going to have a malt. Ancnoc. Fancy one?’
    Atherton grinned. ‘Better make it three.’
    When he had poured them, Slider sat down with his, shoved his shoes off and wriggled his besocked toes towards the flames. A whiff of Dad’s rich and delicious stew scented the air. His colleague who was also his friend was enjoying fire and malt with him. Little George was asleep upstairs, and any minute Joanna would be coming home. Sometimes he wondered what he had done to deserve such multiple blisses. It more than made up for the things he faced at work: the smell of blood, the horror-porridge on the carpet, the man with no face, the stupidity and wickedness of murder. He turned his mind resolutely from those things. Sufficient unto the day was the evil thereof.
    ‘I’d like some music,’ he said, ‘but I’m too comfortable to get up and put a disc on.’
    ‘Me too,’ Atherton said. He thought a moment. ‘Would you like me to hum?’
    ‘Nah,’ said Slider slothfully. ‘Dad’ll be back in a minute. We’ll make him do it.’
    There had been nothing in the papers the first day except, ‘Man found shot dead in Shepherd’s Bush’, and the evening local television news had had little more, only some distance shots of