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Authors: Reginald Hill
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twang in them, but on the whole I’ve always T H E P R I C E O F B U T C H E R ’ S M E AT 4 9
steered clear of the lean and hungry ones. Not that this lass weren’t bad looking in a hollow- cheek modelly sort of way, with wavy brown hair, a good full mouth, a determined little chin, and soft blue eyes that fastened on Roote.
She said, “Franny, hi.”
“Clara,” said Roote. “Hi! Come and meet my old friend, Andrew Dalziel. Mr. Dalziel, this is Clara Brereton.”
She came toward us. She were a lovely mover even with the bags.
Fair do’s, probably being skinny helps here, though my Cap doesn’t get many complaints on the dance floor.
She said, “Nice to meet you, Mr. Dalziel,” like she knew how to spell it. And she was another who didn’t blink when she spotted how I were dressed.
I said, “Likewise, lass.”
“Why don’t you join us?” said Roote, giving her the full smarmy-charmy treatment.
She sat down, saying, “Just till Auntie comes. Teddy’s taking us to lunch at Moby’s. He’s supposed to be meeting us here.”
She looked relieved to set the bags down.
I said, “They don’t deliver round here then?” just to make conversation.
Roote chipped in, “Indeed they do, but there’s a small charge, and why pay that when you’ve got your own personal service?”
They smiled at each other. Something going on here? I wondered.
With Roote, owt’s possible. A gent would likely have made an excuse and left them to get on with it, but gents don’t find themselves sitting in public bars in their dressing gowns. Any road, I wanted to see how Roote would play it. But there weren’t time to make his play.
The door opened again and another woman entered, this one a bit more to my taste. The way her gaze fixed on Clara and Roote, I guessed straight off this were the aunt. She were knocking on, sixties bumping seventy, but well preserved, and built like a buffalo, with an eye to match. If there weren’t enough meat on young Clara to make a Christmas 5 0
R E G I N A L D H I L L
starter, there were plenty here for a main course with something left over for Boxing Day. Not bad looking for an old ’un, but in a very different way from her niece. No smooth pallor here, but weathered oak. Only thing in common were the determined chin that age had carved on her face into a bit of an icebreaker. This was a woman used to getting her own way.
She said, “There you are, Clara. You’ve got the shopping? Good. No sign of Teddy? No matter, so long as he turns up in time to pay the bill.
Time for a quick one here I think. Alan!”
The landlord was ahead of the game again. There was already a G
and T on the bar and an orange juice. No prizes for working out whose was which.
“Good day, Lady D,” said Roote. “I hope you are keeping well.”
“I am always well, Franny. I firmly believe most ailments are the invention of the medical profession to extort money from fools.”
She brayed a laugh like it never struck her some poor sod in a wheelchair might not find this all that funny. Roote just grinned and said, “If Tom Parker wants a living testimony to the health- giving properties of Sandytown, he need look no further than you.”
She preened herself and said, “Kind of you to say so, Franny. It’s true I have been blessed with a strong and lasting constitution. In fact, I do believe I never saw the face of a doctor in all my life on my own account, but only on the two unhappy occasions when I was told of the death of a husband.”
Roote looked solemn for a moment, then said slyly, “But surely, Lady D, you have seen the face of Dr. Feldenhammer, very much on your own account, and on occasions not so unhappy?”
She laughed archly, like a cracked hurdy- gurdy playing “The Rustle of Spring,” and I reckon if she’d had a fan, she’d have rapped his knuck-les with it as she said, “You naughty boy, that tongue of yours will get you into trouble one day.”
“Then I shall call on you
steered clear of the lean and hungry ones. Not that this lass weren’t bad looking in a hollow- cheek modelly sort of way, with wavy brown hair, a good full mouth, a determined little chin, and soft blue eyes that fastened on Roote.
She said, “Franny, hi.”
“Clara,” said Roote. “Hi! Come and meet my old friend, Andrew Dalziel. Mr. Dalziel, this is Clara Brereton.”
She came toward us. She were a lovely mover even with the bags.
Fair do’s, probably being skinny helps here, though my Cap doesn’t get many complaints on the dance floor.
She said, “Nice to meet you, Mr. Dalziel,” like she knew how to spell it. And she was another who didn’t blink when she spotted how I were dressed.
I said, “Likewise, lass.”
“Why don’t you join us?” said Roote, giving her the full smarmy-charmy treatment.
She sat down, saying, “Just till Auntie comes. Teddy’s taking us to lunch at Moby’s. He’s supposed to be meeting us here.”
She looked relieved to set the bags down.
I said, “They don’t deliver round here then?” just to make conversation.
Roote chipped in, “Indeed they do, but there’s a small charge, and why pay that when you’ve got your own personal service?”
They smiled at each other. Something going on here? I wondered.
With Roote, owt’s possible. A gent would likely have made an excuse and left them to get on with it, but gents don’t find themselves sitting in public bars in their dressing gowns. Any road, I wanted to see how Roote would play it. But there weren’t time to make his play.
The door opened again and another woman entered, this one a bit more to my taste. The way her gaze fixed on Clara and Roote, I guessed straight off this were the aunt. She were knocking on, sixties bumping seventy, but well preserved, and built like a buffalo, with an eye to match. If there weren’t enough meat on young Clara to make a Christmas 5 0
R E G I N A L D H I L L
starter, there were plenty here for a main course with something left over for Boxing Day. Not bad looking for an old ’un, but in a very different way from her niece. No smooth pallor here, but weathered oak. Only thing in common were the determined chin that age had carved on her face into a bit of an icebreaker. This was a woman used to getting her own way.
She said, “There you are, Clara. You’ve got the shopping? Good. No sign of Teddy? No matter, so long as he turns up in time to pay the bill.
Time for a quick one here I think. Alan!”
The landlord was ahead of the game again. There was already a G
and T on the bar and an orange juice. No prizes for working out whose was which.
“Good day, Lady D,” said Roote. “I hope you are keeping well.”
“I am always well, Franny. I firmly believe most ailments are the invention of the medical profession to extort money from fools.”
She brayed a laugh like it never struck her some poor sod in a wheelchair might not find this all that funny. Roote just grinned and said, “If Tom Parker wants a living testimony to the health- giving properties of Sandytown, he need look no further than you.”
She preened herself and said, “Kind of you to say so, Franny. It’s true I have been blessed with a strong and lasting constitution. In fact, I do believe I never saw the face of a doctor in all my life on my own account, but only on the two unhappy occasions when I was told of the death of a husband.”
Roote looked solemn for a moment, then said slyly, “But surely, Lady D, you have seen the face of Dr. Feldenhammer, very much on your own account, and on occasions not so unhappy?”
She laughed archly, like a cracked hurdy- gurdy playing “The Rustle of Spring,” and I reckon if she’d had a fan, she’d have rapped his knuck-les with it as she said, “You naughty boy, that tongue of yours will get you into trouble one day.”
“Then I shall call on you
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