Hartsend Read Online Free Page A

untarnished in its dust covering in one of the spare bedrooms. Duncan considered that he had been very kind to Mrs Fleming, changing shifts to suit her, listening with a smile to her chatter about the baby, generally helping her to find her footing. The husband didn’t appeal to him particularly, with his leather jacket and untidy hair, but still, he thought now, he might have gone, if invited.

Preparing for the Party
    As he stood waiting for the bus, which was more than a few minutes late, Duncan fingered the folded paper in his raincoat pocket. He glanced somewhat sternly at the masculine-looking woman with razor-short hair who was standing beside him in the shelter and whose child was alternately sniffing loudly and coughing without a hand over his mouth. This, Duncan had long since concluded, was a circumstance absolutely to be expected. Although he had a car, it was hardly used. Far more responsible to travel by bus, which was good for the environment, but not quite so good for one’s own health. He had solved the problem of keeping his clothes clean by wearing his old navy Barbour, but the thoughtlessness of most individuals, combined with limited ventilation, inevitably resulted in a soup of seasonal viruses which all passengers were compelled to sup, whether they would or no.
    It was extremely annoying, but there was nothing one could do. If he had a bad cold, and here he stared ineffectively at the woman again, he would travel by car. Had any medical research been done on the effect of bus travel on public health? He made a mental note to run a search when he was back at the library.
    His destination was the delicatessen in the next village. Many of the ingredients for his mother’s New Year gathering had been mail-ordered as they were every year; the salmon pinwheels and smoked duck mousse from an Aberdeenshire smokehouse had already arrived, along with oatcakes and small biscuits for cheese, while the various cheeses themselves had come from Ayrshire. Tesco would deliver basic items, but still there were some small things that only a delicatessen could provide. For these specialities, one had to go from Hartsend to the neighbouring township, which was more middle class and provided more for middle class needs. It had more or less the same number of shops as Hartsend, but they differed significantly in nature. There was no betting shop and the florist sold only flowers, not fruit and vegetables as well. There was an optician’s and an independent shoe shop. There was also a small but very exciting second-hand bookshop, where Duncan had sometimes found poetry first editions at remarkable prices. It troubled his conscience that the owner seemed unaware of the value of his stock, so he always put something in the RSPCA tin on the counter, which seemed to him rather a noble deed since he was not over fond of cats or dogs.
    Deep in pleasurable if somewhat anxious anticipation – for the shop might be shut, the owner was erratic as well as unenlightened – Duncan didn’t at first realize that his name was being called. The speaker, inside a small black car, tried again.
    Stooping, peering in, he recognised the parish minister, disguised in a shabby blue sweater and denim jeans. There was a young girl in the passenger seat.
    â€˜â€˜I’m only going to Carbennie,’’ Duncan said, adding several thankyous and smiling in case his refusal might seem ungracious.
    â€˜â€˜That’s on my way, jump in,’’ said the minister.
    â€˜â€˜I’ll go in the back, Dad,’’ the girl said, getting out quickly, before Duncan could speak.
    His hand thus forced, and constitutionally unable to be rude, he got into the front passenger seat. He felt that his dislike of the man was irrational. In theory, they had a great deal in common. They were possibly the only two in the village who could read both Greek and Latin. More importantly, they were both on the side of decency,