Dialogues of the Dead by Reginald Hill

don't know if I'm that stupid. What's the E stand for?' 'What E?' 'E. Bowler. On your library card. That E. Come on. What are you hiding under your hat, Hat?' He looked at her doubtfully then took a deep breath and said, 'Ethelbert.' 'Ethelbert,' she repeated, savouring the name like a jam dough nut, then running her tongue round her lips as if to pick up the residual sugar. 'I like it.' 'Really?' He examined her closely in search of ambush. 'You'll be the first. Most people fall about laughing.' 'When you've got a name that makes you sound like an alcopop, you don't laugh at other people's names,' she said. 'Rye Pomona,' he said. 'I see what you mean. But it's nice. Isn't Pomona a place in Italy?' 'No,' she said. 'But it is Italian. Pomona was the Roman goddess of fruit trees.' She watched to see if he would lumber into a joke or ooze into a compliment. He nodded and said, 'And Rye, is that a nickname, or what?' 'Short for Raina,' she said. 'Sorry? Never heard that one.' She spelt it for him, and pronounced it carefully, stressing the three syllables, Rye-ee-na. 'Raina,' he echoed. 'Raina Pomona. Now that's really nice. OK, it's unusual, but it's not naff, like Ethelbert Bowler.' She found herself pleased that he didn't make a big deal of asking where the name came from but just took it in his stride. 'Don't undersell yourself,' she said. 'Think positive. Ethelbert Bowler ... it has an artistic ring .. . makes you sound like a minor Victorian watercolourist. Are you interested in art, Ethelbert? Under any of your hats?' 'I could probably dig out an old French beret,' he said cautiously. 'Why?' 'The Centre's new gallery opens week after next with a local arts and crafts exhibition. There's a preview the Saturday before, lunchtime. Care to come?' He said, 'Are you going by choice or because you're on the payroll?' She said, 'Does it matter? OK, it's sort of semi-duty. Centre politics, you wouldn't be interested.' 'Try me till I yawn,' he said. 'OK. The Centre's tri-partite, right? Heritage, Arts, Library. Library was easy, Percy Follows was Head of Library Services already, so he just slid into the new position. And it looked like Philomel Carcanet who ran the old municipal museum/art gallery op Shuttleworth Hill would likewise take over the new Heritage and Arts strands in the Centre. Except it's all proving a bit much for her. You yawning yet?' 'No, just breathing deeply with excitement.' 'Fine. Dead things Philomel is really good with, living things in any quantity scare her stiff. She was delirious with excitement when the builders' digging unearthed that mosaic pavement. Then they decided to incorporate it into this Roman Experience thing - you must have read about it, a Mid-Yorkshire marketplace at the height of the Roman occupation?' Hat nodded, he hoped convincingly. 'I believe you,' she said, not bothering to sound convinced. 'Anyway, that meant Phil had to start thinking about catering for live punters, live people again and it all got on top of her. So she's on sick leave. Meanwhile, someone's had to sort out the new gallery. Normally our Percy would run a mile rather than get involved with extra work, but there's a new factor. Word is that the council, Stuffer Steel apart, are contemplating appointing an overall director of the Centre. And our Percy imagines
    69 he's at the front of the queue for the job. But a trumpet sounds upstage left. Enter Ambrose Bird, the Last of the ActorManagers.' 'Who?' 'Where do you live? Ambrose Bird, who ran the old municipal theatre till it was closed last month, mainly as a result of Council lor Steel's opposition to the large grant needed to refurbish it up to health and safety standards. This has left the Last of the ActorManagers (that's his own preferred title) with nothing to act in or manage but the Centre's much smaller studio theatre. That was definitely a yawn!' 'No, it was the beginning of an interjection. I was going to guess that this Bird guy has decided he'd like to put