Read Online La's Orchestra Saves the World by Alexander McCall Smith - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Alexander McCall Smith
Ads: Link
they’re around. They end up inside a gypsy belly pretty smartly.” He paused. “But they don’t go in for house-breaking. That’s not really their style. They’re outside thieves, that bunch.”
She felt that she had to say something. “Not gypsies?”
“I don’t think so.”
“So?”
“I think I’ll just have to report this as an unknown intruder. We get cases like that. Somebody sees a door left open and goes into a house to take a look round, to see if there’s anything that can be easily taken. We call them opportunistic thieves. But what I don’t like about this is the fact that he was fiddling. Fiddling with the tea, of all things. That tells me something.”
She waited. He was looking at her now, with an eyebrowslightly raised; the look of an avuncular older man about to issue a warning.
“What does it tell you, Mr. Brown?”
He looked away for a moment—to examine his fingernails. Then he folded his hands again. “It tells me that he might be interested in you. If people are snooping around a house and nothing’s stolen, then it sometimes means that somebody has too close an interest in another person. Watching them, so to speak.”
Eight
T HAT NIGHT , or at least the earlier part of that night, was difficult. La left it as late as possible before she went upstairs to bed. She switched on all the lights downstairs, and turned the wireless up as high as she could. She chose Radio Normandie, which was playing dance music. There was a cheerfulness about that, an optimism, which was what she wanted. When she went from the sitting room into the kitchen, the sound of the radio followed her. From the kitchen it sounded almost as if somebody was having a party at the other end of the house; all that was missing was the hum of voices. Perhaps she would have a party some time; but where, she suddenly thought, would the guests come from? Dr. Price might be invited over from Cambridge—it was not too far away. But then she did not like men to be at parties, whereas La did; so that would not work. Perhaps Mr. Thorn, the author of the book on roses.If he lived in Ipswich, he might be able to motor over. She stopped herself; there could be no party for a long time yet.
There was no curtain in the kitchen, and so when she stood by the sink, filling the kettle, she was looking out upon darkness. Suddenly she noticed a shape a few feet into the dark, at the limits of the light that came from the window. She gave a start, putting the kettle down quickly, spilling water from the spout. But then she realised what it was, and her heart, which had raced, resumed its proper rhythm. The long-sleeved blouse she had seen earlier in the day was still hanging on the line; she had meant to retrieve it, but had forgotten to do so.
She leaned forward towards the glass pane of the window and looked out again. There was the shape of the elder edge and the trees black against the night sky. There was very little moon—just a sliver—and no other illumination. The Aggs’ farmhouse could not be seen from that vantage point so there was not even a light from that. They would have switched everything off by now, anyway. Farming people went to bed early, to be able to rise at dawn, when there was work to be done.
La took a deep breath. If I am to live here, she thought, then I cannot let myself be frightened by emptiness and isolation. I shall have to confront my fear.
She moved towards the door and opened it, trying not to look at the signs of its earlier forcing. She did not wish to be reminded of her conversation earlier that day with PercyBrown—a conversation that had ended with his concluding that there was very little that he could do about her break-in. Now she took a few steps into the dark, and began to remove the wooden pegs that kept the blouse on the line. The garment was dry, and had the fresh smell of cotton that has been left out in the fresh country air, something that her clothing never had in London.
She felt that she had to say something. “Not gypsies?”
“I don’t think so.”
“So?”
“I think I’ll just have to report this as an unknown intruder. We get cases like that. Somebody sees a door left open and goes into a house to take a look round, to see if there’s anything that can be easily taken. We call them opportunistic thieves. But what I don’t like about this is the fact that he was fiddling. Fiddling with the tea, of all things. That tells me something.”
She waited. He was looking at her now, with an eyebrowslightly raised; the look of an avuncular older man about to issue a warning.
“What does it tell you, Mr. Brown?”
He looked away for a moment—to examine his fingernails. Then he folded his hands again. “It tells me that he might be interested in you. If people are snooping around a house and nothing’s stolen, then it sometimes means that somebody has too close an interest in another person. Watching them, so to speak.”
Eight
T HAT NIGHT , or at least the earlier part of that night, was difficult. La left it as late as possible before she went upstairs to bed. She switched on all the lights downstairs, and turned the wireless up as high as she could. She chose Radio Normandie, which was playing dance music. There was a cheerfulness about that, an optimism, which was what she wanted. When she went from the sitting room into the kitchen, the sound of the radio followed her. From the kitchen it sounded almost as if somebody was having a party at the other end of the house; all that was missing was the hum of voices. Perhaps she would have a party some time; but where, she suddenly thought, would the guests come from? Dr. Price might be invited over from Cambridge—it was not too far away. But then she did not like men to be at parties, whereas La did; so that would not work. Perhaps Mr. Thorn, the author of the book on roses.If he lived in Ipswich, he might be able to motor over. She stopped herself; there could be no party for a long time yet.
There was no curtain in the kitchen, and so when she stood by the sink, filling the kettle, she was looking out upon darkness. Suddenly she noticed a shape a few feet into the dark, at the limits of the light that came from the window. She gave a start, putting the kettle down quickly, spilling water from the spout. But then she realised what it was, and her heart, which had raced, resumed its proper rhythm. The long-sleeved blouse she had seen earlier in the day was still hanging on the line; she had meant to retrieve it, but had forgotten to do so.
She leaned forward towards the glass pane of the window and looked out again. There was the shape of the elder edge and the trees black against the night sky. There was very little moon—just a sliver—and no other illumination. The Aggs’ farmhouse could not be seen from that vantage point so there was not even a light from that. They would have switched everything off by now, anyway. Farming people went to bed early, to be able to rise at dawn, when there was work to be done.
La took a deep breath. If I am to live here, she thought, then I cannot let myself be frightened by emptiness and isolation. I shall have to confront my fear.
She moved towards the door and opened it, trying not to look at the signs of its earlier forcing. She did not wish to be reminded of her conversation earlier that day with PercyBrown—a conversation that had ended with his concluding that there was very little that he could do about her break-in. Now she took a few steps into the dark, and began to remove the wooden pegs that kept the blouse on the line. The garment was dry, and had the fresh smell of cotton that has been left out in the fresh country air, something that her clothing never had in London.
Similar Books
