Evil Angels Among Them Read Online Free Page B

observations, Gillian didn’t register the fact that Bryony had been unusually silent during their walk, so the child’s voice startled her out of her reverie.
    â€˜Mummy,’ Bryony said in a thoughtful voice, ‘why did Bad King John run away from the frogs? Was it like the plagues of Egypt? Frogs and blood and hail and caterpillars?’
    Gillian mastered the impulse to laugh, treating the question with the seriousness it deserved. ‘Oh, no, darling. Mr Gaze didn’t mean that sort of frogs. You know that we’ve explained to you about people –ignorant and prejudiced people – who use rude words to describe other people who are – different – than they are? Words like queer, and poofter, and dyke, and Paki, and darky?’
    Bryony nodded gravely. ‘Yes, I remember.’
    â€˜Well, “Frog” is a word like that. It’s a word that some people use to refer to French people. Because the French eat frogs’ legs.’
    â€˜I see.’ The girl digested the information. ‘Mummy, does that mean that Mr Gaze is ignorant and prejudiced?’
    Gillian hesitated. ‘Perhaps he’s just – uneducated,’ she temporised. ‘You and I know that it’s not nice to use words like that, but it’s also important to make allowances for people who don’t know any better.’
    Relieved, Bryony squeezed her mother’s hand. ‘I’m glad that Mr Gaze isn’t ignorant, Mummy. I thought that he was a nice old man. He knows lots of interesting stories, doesn’t he?’
    â€˜That he does.’
    â€˜But he talks so funny – sometimes I couldn’t understand him.’
    â€˜That’s because he’s always lived in Norfolk,’ Gillian explained. ‘I had a hard time understanding him myself. But he probably thinks that we talk funny.’
    By this time they had nearly reached Foxglove Cottage, set back a bit from the road, built in grey Norfolk flint. Even in February, the surrounding vegetation still winter-bare, it was a handsome dwelling, showing great promise for the future. There was still, Gillian noted, no sign of the removal van. But there was a woman standing in the drive, peering anxiously at Gillian’s red Metro. She looked up as they approached.
    â€˜Oh, hello,’ she said, her eyes raking them up and down. ‘Is this your car? I just looked out of my window and saw it sitting in the drive, and thought I’d better investigate. The house is vacant, you know, and you can’t be too careful.’
    Gillian replied deliberately. ‘Yes, it’s my car. We’re moving in today, but the removal van doesn’t seem to have arrived yet.’ She took the house keys from her pocket and jingled them in her hand. ‘I’m Gillian English,’ she added.
    â€˜Oh!’ Her neighbour’s surprise was evident. ‘I didn’t even know that the cottage had been sold!’ Recollecting herself, she put out her hand. ‘I’m Enid Bletsoe. I live just across the road, at The Pines.’ She inclined her head towards a modern bungalow, flanked by the eponymous evergreens.
    Accepting the proffered hand, Gillian took stock of her new neighbour: well-upholstered figure that couldn’t quite be described as stout, a square face with prominent jowls framed by grey hair in a style most reminiscent of the Queen’s, sharp dark eyes behind fussy spectacles, a mud-coloured padded three-quarter-length coat over a brown and white crimplene dress. She was aware that she was herself under intense scrutiny, and smiled in what she hoped was a disarming way. ‘How nice to meet you.’
    Enid Bletsoe found the smile encouraging, reinforcing the woman’s ordinary appearance, and the reassuringly domestic name of ‘English’. ‘Welcome to Walston,’ she said, then focused her attention on Bryony, her voice taking on the hearty tone that people