A Death of Distinction Read Online Free Page B

will. I’m sure of that, Quattrell as good as gave me the nod last night.’
    He sounded so confident that she didn’t voice her own doubts about the strident local element who were vociferously opposed to his scheme. The new block, if and when completed, would come within fifty yards of a children’s playground. That it would merely consist of additional offices, and be staffed by civilians, made little difference to the objectors, who were out to make trouble.
    In a rare gesture of spontaneous affection, she kissed him. He looked surprised, but pleased, and patted her cheek. ‘Be back about twelve. I’ll dodge the mess today. Sandwich for lunch, eh? After last night, I’d better be on short commons for a bit.’ He drew in his flat stomach, well aware that he weighed no more than he had when she’d married him, twenty-one years ago.
    Smiling, rattling his keys, he made for the front door, pausing, as she knew he would, to filch the newspaper and read the front page before flinging it on to the back seat of his car and driving off with it.
    He was halted by the appearance of Flora flying down the stairs clad only in flip-flop mules and a short nightshirt with a naughty slogan across the bosom, calling out, ‘Da! Wait for me – I want to ask you something.’ Dorothea tut-tutted as she went out to the car arm in arm with her father, just as she was, barely decent. The front door opened and the garden door, insecurely caught on the latch, burst open as was its wont. Dorothea forgot them both.
    From where she knelt, pulling on her garden clogs, she could see the left-hand border, twin to the right, in summertime effulgent with colour, heady with scent, and was reminded of what she’d meant to do this week. During this last long spell of wet weather, when it had been too damp even for her to contemplate working outdoors, she’d spent the time in her dark little room under the eaves rearranging, on squared paper, some of the plants and shrubs in the borders, seeking for better plant associations, and she now had all sorts of exciting projects in view.
    It was there that Flora had found her the other day, with her head bent over her plan, occasionally looking up from it to consider the sodden garden below, and getting a whiff of fragrance from the sprig of Daphne odora in a vase on her desk.
    â€˜Blimey, it’s gloomy in here! Don’t you want a lamp on, Mother?’
    â€˜No, thank you.’ Dorothea spoke absently, surveying her handiwork. ‘I’m just wondering whether the colours are too pale towards the middle – here?’ Had she followed received gardening wisdom too slavishly, or did the pale froth of pastels need something more daring, a touch of thunder-purple, or perhaps crimson? She had it – a Cosmos atrosanguineus, its delicate feathery plumes and purple-black flowers would make a perfect foil for the strong heads of the pale pink phlox and that creamy scabious ...
    â€˜Moth- er! The garden’s perfect as it is. Why d’you want to make more work for yourself?’
    â€˜More work? Good gracious, the work in a garden’s never finished – and if it were, I wouldn’t want it. Don’t you see?’
    â€˜Heavens, no!’ Flora threw herself into the sagging old armchair next to the bookshelves, crammed with Dorothea’s gardening books. ‘I’ll never understand how anybody can enjoy breaking their back and their fingernails gardening! I suppose I’m far too lazy, not like either you or Da.’ She always called Jack Da, the name he’d called his own father. ‘There are better ways of enjoying yourself.’
    Oh, Flora, Flora! thought Dorothea now, preferring not to imagine the ways Flora had meant, pushing aside these troubling thoughts with the decision to drive down after lunch and order the Cosmos from the specialist nursery she used. Only first, she must finish the snowdrops or she