The Queen of the Tambourine Read Online Free PDF Page B

and your dog snarled uncertainly and slunk off and sat with his back to the audience under the stairs. “I said BASKET ,” roared your friend. Both dogs made for these with hung heads. They sat tense, with upward-rolling eyes, curious and yet accepting. Tom Hopkin shut the door on them and we walked into the sitting room while I watched the snow melting all over him and his glasses clear, like a robot weeping. Eyes that were not at peace.
    â€œCould you,” he asked, “turn a few things off?”
    â€œOff?”
    â€œThe noise.”
    I did. Television. Tape-deck.
    â€œRadio?” he asked.
    I did.
    â€œWas that the party?”
    â€œWell, yes. I thought you might be an intruder.”
    â€œAh.”
    â€œYou see, Joan has obviously changed. We don’t know much about her now. The last friend who came, a Kurd, got very drunk. He wore a green dress.”
    â€œOh, Tacky,” he said.
    â€œI’ve no idea. It’s possible.”
    â€œGood deal of hair?”
    â€œOh, well, yes,” I said and he said, “How prettily you blush in the firelight. I do hate to ask, but is there anything to eat? I’ve not eaten since yesterday.”
    â€œIt’s Christmas Day—nothing to eat?”
    â€œI’ve been on a plane. I don’t eat on planes. I fast. I sip water.”
    â€œDo you—eat ordinary food? There’s turkey and everything. And plum pudding and mince-pies.”
    I went to the kitchen where the dogs gave me puzzled glances, but stayed put. I prepared a feast. I said, “It will take a few minutes to warm up the plum-pudding,” and he came to the kitchen door and said, “ Plum pudding. What a beautiful Victorian memory. “Christmas was once every day. Gastronomically. You are an old-fashioned girl. D’you think, as it heats up, I might take a bath?”
    He was sopped through, I now noticed. I could hardly say no. Indeed, before I could say anything he was off up the stairs and there was a roaring of taps.
    I followed and said, “Here’s a towel,” and his bare arm came round the door for it. “Hang on,” he said. “Could you be sublime?” and passed out all his clothes. All of them. Socks. Y-fronts. Shoes. “Could you just drape them round the stove?”
    â€œAnd what will you wear?”
    Silence.
    â€œWould you like some of Henry’s?”
    â€œWould it be possible? A dressing-gown would do. Until mine are dry.”
    â€œYes. All right. Henry’s dressing room’s on the left,” and, downstairs, arranging brandy-butter in a fresh glass dish, I called up, “Take anything. He has packed all he needs,” and poured myself a huge glass of wine, using the goblet vase which I usually put tall flowers in, and which stands on the kitchen sill. We had taken not one sip of wine at Christmas dinner. Henry and Charles had now and then lifted their glasses, wetted their top lips and dolefully dabbed at their mouths with sacramental slowness. I had drunk nothing.
    I refilled the vase.
    â€œOn our knees would be nice,” said Tom Hopkin, your friend, suddenly appearing, and I spun round and shrieked, for he was wearing full evening dress. Black tie and rose-coloured smoking jacket and Henry’s favourite evening shoes. His face was rose-coloured, too. His hair silky, blond and clean. “What-ho,” he said twirling Henry’s monocle on a chain. “We don’t do much of this in Bangladesh.”
    I said, “On our knees ?” The curate’s anxious face sprang to mind. “Are you a parson?”
    â€œA parson? I’m the British Council. I meant the supper. Could we have our supper on our knees?”
    I waved the glass dish about.
    â€œSupper,” he said. “Here—out of the way—I’ll finish it. Go and put a dress on. A nice one. Take a glass of wine with you,” and he topped up the vase.
    So I went upstairs and