Read Online Perfectly Pure and Good by Frances Fyfield - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Frances Fyfield
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sort of uncle, like everyone round here, but not Stonewall's favourite by any manner of means.
Especially not when he came in drunk and found Stonewall in charge of the till. There'd be trouble when Rick got back, which was why Stonewall hung around, because someone had to protect Rick from his dad.
It was no good. Even with his new, short haircut, to which his fingers flew all the time with nervous pride, Stonewall didn't have the power and it made him want to shout. Hit me instead, he wanted to say to Rick's dad, as if Rick would ever have let it happen. Instead, that surly man went out for another drink or two, came back and took Stonewall by his newly exposed ear and pushed him in the direction of home. Rick didn't prevent him.
`Go on with you,' he said gently. 'See you tomorrow.' Stonewall felt the urge to kick shins and scream. Rick's dad didn't like witnesses.
`Go away,' Julian muttered in his sleep. 'Physician, heal thyself.'
He was dreaming of a girl with red hair who had run on the beach. The background of the dream was the strident, fairground sound which emerged from the arcade, as if such sound could travel the half mile to where Julian Pardoe attempted to sleep and cursed himself for his own insomnia.
There was no excuse, no cause for alarm. The meal had been easier than anticipated, the guest, whose expertise could lighten his own burdens, had been the soul of charm to disguise, rather than hide, those over-intelligent eyes and that blatant talent for perception he somehow knew she possessed. Julian felt she could read his soul and all the shame printed on it, dismissed his imaginings as the kind of nonsense induced by red wine and over-ambitious food.
Besides, he had no soul to reveal. By day he was an automaton about his business, by night a heap of restless limbs, made fanciful only because he had embarrassed himself staring at her so much, read too much into those blue eyes, felt again that sickening guilt and despair. Take your time, he had told Miss Fortune, formal beyond the point of rudeness, wondering even then how soon he could phone Ernest Matthewson and get this paragon recalled to the safety of her own city.
Instead he found himself saying, Come into the surgery tomorrow and I'll tell you a bit about the estate, have the rest of the weekend to think about it. Don't feel you have to take meals with us.
Don't feel you have to stay.
Edward was acting out the role of serious, unconventional younger brother, quoting poetry and describing the land. He made it sound as if he owned it all, puffed himself up to look like a small man with a big career, like his father, instead of a boy who failed at everything he tried. The guest listened intently. Mother put half-eaten food on the stranger's plate while Julian's own abruptness shocked his sister and nothing fazed the guest. He had wanted everything settled, his father's family safe, but not like this. Not with the aid of a woman with hair like that, and those calm, amused eyes.
They had taken her over to the cottage, followed by the sheep with the crumpled horn which lived in the garden and was fed by Mother. Miss Fortune didn't seem to mind that either. There was nothing to surprise her frightful composure.
Julian turned restlessly, hearing again the creaking on the stair he had heard before and never wished to investigate. Could be his mother prowling, Edward going out fishing, he did not want to know, could not watch them all the time or even half of it. As long as it was not Edward going into Joanna's room, something as yet unprecedented, but hanging over his household like the threat of thunder.
How immoral to wish away his sister's virginity on the first unrelated youth who tried to take it, but that was what Julian wished. If only she would leave before some accident of desire should upset her life . . . better if Edward went out fishing, even if it was to foul the sea shore as he did, leaving lines and hooks for seals, just as he
Especially not when he came in drunk and found Stonewall in charge of the till. There'd be trouble when Rick got back, which was why Stonewall hung around, because someone had to protect Rick from his dad.
It was no good. Even with his new, short haircut, to which his fingers flew all the time with nervous pride, Stonewall didn't have the power and it made him want to shout. Hit me instead, he wanted to say to Rick's dad, as if Rick would ever have let it happen. Instead, that surly man went out for another drink or two, came back and took Stonewall by his newly exposed ear and pushed him in the direction of home. Rick didn't prevent him.
`Go on with you,' he said gently. 'See you tomorrow.' Stonewall felt the urge to kick shins and scream. Rick's dad didn't like witnesses.
`Go away,' Julian muttered in his sleep. 'Physician, heal thyself.'
He was dreaming of a girl with red hair who had run on the beach. The background of the dream was the strident, fairground sound which emerged from the arcade, as if such sound could travel the half mile to where Julian Pardoe attempted to sleep and cursed himself for his own insomnia.
There was no excuse, no cause for alarm. The meal had been easier than anticipated, the guest, whose expertise could lighten his own burdens, had been the soul of charm to disguise, rather than hide, those over-intelligent eyes and that blatant talent for perception he somehow knew she possessed. Julian felt she could read his soul and all the shame printed on it, dismissed his imaginings as the kind of nonsense induced by red wine and over-ambitious food.
Besides, he had no soul to reveal. By day he was an automaton about his business, by night a heap of restless limbs, made fanciful only because he had embarrassed himself staring at her so much, read too much into those blue eyes, felt again that sickening guilt and despair. Take your time, he had told Miss Fortune, formal beyond the point of rudeness, wondering even then how soon he could phone Ernest Matthewson and get this paragon recalled to the safety of her own city.
Instead he found himself saying, Come into the surgery tomorrow and I'll tell you a bit about the estate, have the rest of the weekend to think about it. Don't feel you have to take meals with us.
Don't feel you have to stay.
Edward was acting out the role of serious, unconventional younger brother, quoting poetry and describing the land. He made it sound as if he owned it all, puffed himself up to look like a small man with a big career, like his father, instead of a boy who failed at everything he tried. The guest listened intently. Mother put half-eaten food on the stranger's plate while Julian's own abruptness shocked his sister and nothing fazed the guest. He had wanted everything settled, his father's family safe, but not like this. Not with the aid of a woman with hair like that, and those calm, amused eyes.
They had taken her over to the cottage, followed by the sheep with the crumpled horn which lived in the garden and was fed by Mother. Miss Fortune didn't seem to mind that either. There was nothing to surprise her frightful composure.
Julian turned restlessly, hearing again the creaking on the stair he had heard before and never wished to investigate. Could be his mother prowling, Edward going out fishing, he did not want to know, could not watch them all the time or even half of it. As long as it was not Edward going into Joanna's room, something as yet unprecedented, but hanging over his household like the threat of thunder.
How immoral to wish away his sister's virginity on the first unrelated youth who tried to take it, but that was what Julian wished. If only she would leave before some accident of desire should upset her life . . . better if Edward went out fishing, even if it was to foul the sea shore as he did, leaving lines and hooks for seals, just as he
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