Read Online The Saint Zita Society by Ruth Rendell - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Ruth Rendell
Ads: Link
watching him.
He had always supposed, he said, that the banister, wooden, probably walnut, pale grey-brown and polished, was a solid piece, the length of a tree’s height, but of course it wasn’t, it was cunningly put together by some kind of interlocking system, maybe consisting of four pieces in all. You could only see the joins if you looked closely. This construction, he said to Montserrat, made mending a loose rail much easier. As if to prove it he took hold of the banister itself and began tugging it.
By this time Lucy had appeared. Instead of the yellow suit, she was dressed in white shorts, a white T-shirt and whitetrainers, the smooth brown skin of her long legs making a nice contrast. With her, looking disgruntled, were her daughters, similarly attired.
‘We’re all going for a run round the park, aren’t we, girls?’ The girls made no reply but Hero pulled a face. ‘So we thought we’d come and see what Daddy was doing on our way.’
‘Now you’ve seen,’ said Preston sourly, ‘you can get going.’
‘No, but, darling, what
are
you doing?’
‘Trying to mend the banister,’ said Rabia who had appeared behind her with Thomas in his pushchair. ‘Better to wait for my cousin Mohammed who is coming very kindly on a Saturday and therefore giving up his day of rest.’
Preston ignored her. He was vigorously shaking the banister. There was a noise halfway between a groan and a crunch and the whole section of polished wood came away in his hands. He nearly fell over backwards, uttering an expletive which made Matilda say in the tone listeners thought would one day land her a job as headmistress of a girls’ public school, ‘Daddy, you’re not supposed to say words like that in front of
us
. You should remember Thomas is only sixteen months old.’
‘I’m sorry, kids,’ said Preston, still clutching the section of banister. ‘I really am. I shouldn’t have said that.’ His eyes turned to his son and rested there, growing anxious. ‘Is that a rash I can see on his neck, Rabia?’
‘I am sure it is not, Mr Still.’
‘What’s that redness, then?’
‘It is because his scarf is red. Now see when I move it.’
Thomas began to chortle because he thought he was being tickled. His neck appeared white as milk away from the scarf.
‘Oh, well, you know best. If there’s any doubt about it you’ll run him along to Dr Jefferson, won’t you?’
All but Montserrat melted away, Lucy driving her daughters before her like an aggressive shepherd with his flock. Rabiahad to carry the pushchair down the steps on her own. It was rather cold and rain was forecast. But indoors the habitual heat prevailed and Preston, sitting on the stairs where he had wrenched the loose rail out of the section of banister, said irritably, ‘All it needs is some glue. Have we got any glue?’
‘I don’t know. I shouldn’t think so.’
‘Well, have a look, will you? And, Montserrat, would you make me a cup of coffee?’
‘It’ll have to be instant.’
She made the coffee. Zinnia never came on Saturdays. Perhaps Preston would have forgotten about the glue by this time. There was none in the any of the cupboards under the kitchen’s two sinks. He had moved, was now sitting in a (reproduction) eighteenth-century French chair halfway along the gallery, the banister and its one intact rail on his lap, the other in his right hand. Montserrat, walking slowly to avoid spilling the coffee, wondered why Lucy had married him, he was so hairy. At ten in the morning – she had heard him shaving at eight – he already had a five o’clock shadow seven hours too early. His body and his legs must be a sight to behold. Like a gorilla! And he had a small but increasing belly. No wonder Lucy preferred Rad Sothern even if he was about six inches shorter.
‘Now you’ve done that,’ he said, letting her put the coffee cup on the floor, ‘perhaps you’ll go out and buy some glue.’
Montserrat knew that ‘perhaps’
He had always supposed, he said, that the banister, wooden, probably walnut, pale grey-brown and polished, was a solid piece, the length of a tree’s height, but of course it wasn’t, it was cunningly put together by some kind of interlocking system, maybe consisting of four pieces in all. You could only see the joins if you looked closely. This construction, he said to Montserrat, made mending a loose rail much easier. As if to prove it he took hold of the banister itself and began tugging it.
By this time Lucy had appeared. Instead of the yellow suit, she was dressed in white shorts, a white T-shirt and whitetrainers, the smooth brown skin of her long legs making a nice contrast. With her, looking disgruntled, were her daughters, similarly attired.
‘We’re all going for a run round the park, aren’t we, girls?’ The girls made no reply but Hero pulled a face. ‘So we thought we’d come and see what Daddy was doing on our way.’
‘Now you’ve seen,’ said Preston sourly, ‘you can get going.’
‘No, but, darling, what
are
you doing?’
‘Trying to mend the banister,’ said Rabia who had appeared behind her with Thomas in his pushchair. ‘Better to wait for my cousin Mohammed who is coming very kindly on a Saturday and therefore giving up his day of rest.’
Preston ignored her. He was vigorously shaking the banister. There was a noise halfway between a groan and a crunch and the whole section of polished wood came away in his hands. He nearly fell over backwards, uttering an expletive which made Matilda say in the tone listeners thought would one day land her a job as headmistress of a girls’ public school, ‘Daddy, you’re not supposed to say words like that in front of
us
. You should remember Thomas is only sixteen months old.’
‘I’m sorry, kids,’ said Preston, still clutching the section of banister. ‘I really am. I shouldn’t have said that.’ His eyes turned to his son and rested there, growing anxious. ‘Is that a rash I can see on his neck, Rabia?’
‘I am sure it is not, Mr Still.’
‘What’s that redness, then?’
‘It is because his scarf is red. Now see when I move it.’
Thomas began to chortle because he thought he was being tickled. His neck appeared white as milk away from the scarf.
‘Oh, well, you know best. If there’s any doubt about it you’ll run him along to Dr Jefferson, won’t you?’
All but Montserrat melted away, Lucy driving her daughters before her like an aggressive shepherd with his flock. Rabiahad to carry the pushchair down the steps on her own. It was rather cold and rain was forecast. But indoors the habitual heat prevailed and Preston, sitting on the stairs where he had wrenched the loose rail out of the section of banister, said irritably, ‘All it needs is some glue. Have we got any glue?’
‘I don’t know. I shouldn’t think so.’
‘Well, have a look, will you? And, Montserrat, would you make me a cup of coffee?’
‘It’ll have to be instant.’
She made the coffee. Zinnia never came on Saturdays. Perhaps Preston would have forgotten about the glue by this time. There was none in the any of the cupboards under the kitchen’s two sinks. He had moved, was now sitting in a (reproduction) eighteenth-century French chair halfway along the gallery, the banister and its one intact rail on his lap, the other in his right hand. Montserrat, walking slowly to avoid spilling the coffee, wondered why Lucy had married him, he was so hairy. At ten in the morning – she had heard him shaving at eight – he already had a five o’clock shadow seven hours too early. His body and his legs must be a sight to behold. Like a gorilla! And he had a small but increasing belly. No wonder Lucy preferred Rad Sothern even if he was about six inches shorter.
‘Now you’ve done that,’ he said, letting her put the coffee cup on the floor, ‘perhaps you’ll go out and buy some glue.’
Montserrat knew that ‘perhaps’
Similar Books
