Hartsend Read Online Free Page B

both hopeful of improving themselves and the world. But perhaps this was where the problem lay. He himself firmly believed in doing good by stealth. Not letting the left hand know what the right was doing, as it were. To make a living out of this, as ministers of religion did, was, in Duncan’s eyes, to make the whole business rather more public and presumptuous than it ought to be. Moreover he had been told that this particular clergyman was happy to quote, in his sermons, from newspapers predominantly left of centre. Today’s denim trousers served only to confirm his doubts. The man was, after all, only a few years younger than himself.
    â€˜â€˜Still on holiday, Duncan?’’ the minister began as they drove off.
    When had they reached first name terms? Feeling something under his feet, he bent down, hoping he hadn’t trodden on anything valuable, but it was a brown paper bag, with the words ‘‘Burger King’’ on it. That would account for the rather odd smell then. He left it where it was.
    â€˜â€˜The college closes for the whole two weeks, but I have some extra days,’’ he replied. He wanted to ask if they might drive a little more slowly, the lane being narrow and the hedges high, but politeness forbade.
    â€˜â€˜And how’s your mother keeping?’’
    â€˜â€˜She’s very well, thank you.’’ He gripped the side of the seat as inconspicuously as he could. Was this the right answer? Perhaps if she was ‘‘very well’’ she might be expected to come to church? She had not forgiven the previous minister for remaining on holiday when Captain Crawfurd died, meaning that the man from the next parish, a stripling in his twenties, had had to conduct the service. She still gave money regularly, of course and she had not transferred her lines, but she didn’t attend. He himself went faithfully to Communion three times a year, and to Remembrance Sunday.
    The girl in the back seat was just visible in the side mirror. She was exceptionally pretty, and fair-haired like her father, but her face was spoiled by something Duncan could only describe as a disdainful expression. Not an easy child, he decided.
    â€˜â€˜And your friend, Miss Crosthwaite. I tried to call in the other day, but there was no reply. She hasn’t gone away, has she?’’
    â€˜â€˜No, I don’t think so.’’
    Duncan felt a pang of guilt. He should have called in himself. Or at least dropped in a card. His mother had sent one, but he should have done something himself.
    He hated visiting the sick. It was more than twenty years since his father died, but he still remembered vividly the hospital foyer where they’d sat day by day in that final week, waiting for visiting hour to begin: olive green fake-leather benches, a sludge-coloured carpet, potted artificial plants on either side. In the excessive warmth, he’d felt he was suffocating at the bottom of some murky pond, surrounded by underwater weeds.
    He’d been shocked to see how drawn and pale Lesley was at the funeral. Black didn’t suit her at all. He’d fully intended to speak to her but she was constantly with someone or other, and when he caught her eye, she seemed not to recognise him. Besides, he was afraid of saying the wrong thing. It was so easy to say the wrong thing in such situations where conversations jumped and jittered around so.
    The minister was talking about his son, home from university apparently, and how they couldn’t get him up in the mornings. Duncan felt for the sheet of paper in his pocket. There were very specific items on the list. Puréed lemon grass. Pastry shells. Rösti potato mix and raclette cheese. Those very small Belgian chocolates in the shape of Christmas puddings.
    Days of servants were of course long, long gone, but Mrs Flaherty would attend the day before the party to help clean and set things out, and on the day