music,' he said, looking into her brown
eyes. 'That's interesting, because that's all you do these days, right? You
used to write all your own songs, and now you're just performing these
traditional folksongs, like you're feeling there's something that old stuff can
teach you. Is that this, uh, Matt Castle? His influence?'
'No ... No, Matt was a long time ago, when I was in
Manchester. He ... Look, if you don't mind ...'
He was losing her. He couldn't
bear it. He tried to hold her eyes, babbling. 'Manchester? That's the North of
England? See, why I find that interesting, this guy was telling us at the
conference this afternoon, how the English are the least significant people -
culturally that is - in these islands. Unlike the Scottish, the Welsh, the
Irish, the English are mongrels with no basic ethnic tradition...'
She smiled faintly. 'Look, I'm sorry, I ---'
'See this guy, this Irish professor - McGann, McGuane? -
he said there was nothing the English could give us. Best they could do is
return what they took, but it's soiled goods. At which point this other guy,
this writer .... No, first off it was this Cornish bard, but he didn't make
much sense ... then , this writer -
Stanton, Stanhope? - he's on his feet, and is he mad ...This guy's face is white .
I thought he was gonna charge across the room and bust the first guy, the
professor, right in the mouth. He's going, Listen, where I come from we got a
more pure, undiluted strain of, uh, heritage, tradition ...than you'll find
anywhere in Western Europe. And the guy, this Stanfield, he's from the North
...'
Moira Cairns said, 'I'm sorry,
I really do have to make a phone call.'
And she turned and glided out of the doorway, like the
girl in the Irish folksong who went away from this guy and mov'd through the
fair.
' ...the North of England,' the American said to the
stag's head.
This wasn't a new experience for him, but it was
certainly rare. You blew it, he told himself, surprised.
She could feel him watching
her through the doorway, all the way down the passage.
Was he the one?
She took a breath of cool air. The man was a fanatic.
Probably one of those rich New Yorkers bankrolling the IRA. Surely there was
some other unattached female he could find to sleep with tonight. Why were
fanatics always promiscuous?
And was he the one whose examination she could feel all
over her skin, like she was being touched up by hands in clinical rubber
gloves?
'Phone?' she said to a butler-type person in the
marble-tiled hallway.
'Next to the drawing room, madam, I'll take you.'
'Don't bother yourself, I'll
find it.'
Dong.
She'd found herself, for no obvious reason, while this
smoothie American was trying to come on to her, hearing the name Matt Castle,
then saying it out aloud apropos of nothing ... and then ...
Dong.
This was the dong .
The hollow chime. Not the link, not the ping.
Aw, hey, no, please ...
The phone turned out to be in the room where she'd left
her guitar, where it would be safe - the black case lying in state, like a
coffin, across two Jacobean chairs. Safe here, she'd thought, surely. This is a
castle. But she'd take it with her when she'd made her call.
She stood in front of the phone, picked it up and put it
back a couple of times. She didn't know who to ring.
Malcolm. If in doubt, call Malcolm. She was planning,
anyway, to strangle the bastard for tonight. 'You'll enjoy it,' he'd insisted.
'You'll find it absolutely fascinating. Rory's
eyes. 'That's interesting, because that's all you do these days, right? You
used to write all your own songs, and now you're just performing these
traditional folksongs, like you're feeling there's something that old stuff can
teach you. Is that this, uh, Matt Castle? His influence?'
'No ... No, Matt was a long time ago, when I was in
Manchester. He ... Look, if you don't mind ...'
He was losing her. He couldn't
bear it. He tried to hold her eyes, babbling. 'Manchester? That's the North of
England? See, why I find that interesting, this guy was telling us at the
conference this afternoon, how the English are the least significant people -
culturally that is - in these islands. Unlike the Scottish, the Welsh, the
Irish, the English are mongrels with no basic ethnic tradition...'
She smiled faintly. 'Look, I'm sorry, I ---'
'See this guy, this Irish professor - McGann, McGuane? -
he said there was nothing the English could give us. Best they could do is
return what they took, but it's soiled goods. At which point this other guy,
this writer .... No, first off it was this Cornish bard, but he didn't make
much sense ... then , this writer -
Stanton, Stanhope? - he's on his feet, and is he mad ...This guy's face is white .
I thought he was gonna charge across the room and bust the first guy, the
professor, right in the mouth. He's going, Listen, where I come from we got a
more pure, undiluted strain of, uh, heritage, tradition ...than you'll find
anywhere in Western Europe. And the guy, this Stanfield, he's from the North
...'
Moira Cairns said, 'I'm sorry,
I really do have to make a phone call.'
And she turned and glided out of the doorway, like the
girl in the Irish folksong who went away from this guy and mov'd through the
fair.
' ...the North of England,' the American said to the
stag's head.
This wasn't a new experience for him, but it was
certainly rare. You blew it, he told himself, surprised.
She could feel him watching
her through the doorway, all the way down the passage.
Was he the one?
She took a breath of cool air. The man was a fanatic.
Probably one of those rich New Yorkers bankrolling the IRA. Surely there was
some other unattached female he could find to sleep with tonight. Why were
fanatics always promiscuous?
And was he the one whose examination she could feel all
over her skin, like she was being touched up by hands in clinical rubber
gloves?
'Phone?' she said to a butler-type person in the
marble-tiled hallway.
'Next to the drawing room, madam, I'll take you.'
'Don't bother yourself, I'll
find it.'
Dong.
She'd found herself, for no obvious reason, while this
smoothie American was trying to come on to her, hearing the name Matt Castle,
then saying it out aloud apropos of nothing ... and then ...
Dong.
This was the dong .
The hollow chime. Not the link, not the ping.
Aw, hey, no, please ...
The phone turned out to be in the room where she'd left
her guitar, where it would be safe - the black case lying in state, like a
coffin, across two Jacobean chairs. Safe here, she'd thought, surely. This is a
castle. But she'd take it with her when she'd made her call.
She stood in front of the phone, picked it up and put it
back a couple of times. She didn't know who to ring.
Malcolm. If in doubt, call Malcolm. She was planning,
anyway, to strangle the bastard for tonight. 'You'll enjoy it,' he'd insisted.
'You'll find it absolutely fascinating. Rory's
Similar Books
