along Jericho Close. They turned as Jack, having held the gate for both the Ameses, closed it with a snap of the latch. "Hello, Leslie and Ian," Janet said, "and hello..."
"Jack," Ian said with a proprietary air.
"Jack Lamb," said Jack.
"I'm Leslie's neighbour Janet Hargreaves. Welcome to Wembley."
Mrs. Lancing had kept her gaze on him but swung her head aside as if attending to a commentary. "Aren't you quite a long way from home?" she not so much asked as informed him.
"Not any more."
"It's the kind of place you'd live, is it, in America?"
"It's the kind of hospitality I'd hope for, sure enough."
"And have you and Mrs. Ames known each other long?"
"Feels like it."
Leslie hardly hesitated. "I'd say that too."
"You'll have met here, I suppose, since Ian and his parents never managed a trip to America."
"Last week. The day you watched me arriving," Jack said. "I saw Leslie had a room to let. Turned out it was just the place for me to work on my new book."
"So do we take it that you work from home?"
"That's how I'd like to think of it, sure."
"I imagine it will do no harm to have another adult in the house to keep a check on things."
Leslie opened her mouth, but Jack was faster. "Seems to me Mrs. Ames is doing, you'll forgive me if you need to, goddamned fine under all the circumstances, and Ian's shaping up pretty well too if people give him the chance."
"Well—"
"Which is how it is with most of us, I was going to say."
"And I was about to say we're all entitled to our opinion."
"You bet, only maybe some—"
"I can tell one of us is starving," Leslie said, steering Ian away with an arm around his shoulders. "See you, Janet. Come for coffee soon."
Leslie's party was at the corner of Jericho Close when Jack said "Sorry if I said too much back there. Full of words, that's my problem."
"I don't think either of us was complaining, were we, Ian?" She might have taken Jack's arm if that wouldn't have seemed too forward, not to mention the risk of embarrassing Ian. Instead she was doubly, if silently, appreciative of being doubly escorted to the main road.
They were nearly at the restaurant when a boy who was emerging from a newsagent's stood and stared at them. He was about Ian's age, wearing leather and chains, and had a dull somewhat pudgy face that Leslie took to be the product of depression and too much junk food. He gripped his thighs, digging his thumbs into them, and scowled after Ian. "Friend of yours?" Jack murmured.
"Rupe Duke? He's nobody's friend much."
"Good Lord, that's who he is, of course." When Jack had closed the door of the restaurant behind them Leslie explained "He's the brother of the little girl... you know, the little girl..."
"Should anybody talk to him right now?"
"I think it's best left, Jack, if that isn't too English of me. Do you ever speak to him at school, Ian?"
"He isn't in my class."
That was presumably as much of an answer as Ian wanted to give, and Leslie was afraid that insisting might make him revert to his previous taciturn self. She followed the waiter to the table, where Jack told her and Ian more than once to order whatever they liked, after which he nearly deceived her by pretending to be the kind of American who ordered a meal and then asked the kitchen to hold the sauce, and succeeded in persuading Ian that there was a Cantonese delicacy called Butterfly Wing Soup, consisting of water in which the wings of butterflies were soaked until they vanished, and produced two lines of a limerick for Leslie—
"When he's writing his music, Ry Cooder Shouts out words that are ruder and ruder..."
—before desisting with a droll apologetic look. He challenged Ian to pick up the smallest amount of rice with chopsticks, though it looked as if Leslie would beat both of them until Jack lifted a single grain of rice to his apologetically smiling mouth. By this time Leslie had seen off more of the second bottle of Chablis than he had, thanks to his refilling her glass
"Jack," Ian said with a proprietary air.
"Jack Lamb," said Jack.
"I'm Leslie's neighbour Janet Hargreaves. Welcome to Wembley."
Mrs. Lancing had kept her gaze on him but swung her head aside as if attending to a commentary. "Aren't you quite a long way from home?" she not so much asked as informed him.
"Not any more."
"It's the kind of place you'd live, is it, in America?"
"It's the kind of hospitality I'd hope for, sure enough."
"And have you and Mrs. Ames known each other long?"
"Feels like it."
Leslie hardly hesitated. "I'd say that too."
"You'll have met here, I suppose, since Ian and his parents never managed a trip to America."
"Last week. The day you watched me arriving," Jack said. "I saw Leslie had a room to let. Turned out it was just the place for me to work on my new book."
"So do we take it that you work from home?"
"That's how I'd like to think of it, sure."
"I imagine it will do no harm to have another adult in the house to keep a check on things."
Leslie opened her mouth, but Jack was faster. "Seems to me Mrs. Ames is doing, you'll forgive me if you need to, goddamned fine under all the circumstances, and Ian's shaping up pretty well too if people give him the chance."
"Well—"
"Which is how it is with most of us, I was going to say."
"And I was about to say we're all entitled to our opinion."
"You bet, only maybe some—"
"I can tell one of us is starving," Leslie said, steering Ian away with an arm around his shoulders. "See you, Janet. Come for coffee soon."
Leslie's party was at the corner of Jericho Close when Jack said "Sorry if I said too much back there. Full of words, that's my problem."
"I don't think either of us was complaining, were we, Ian?" She might have taken Jack's arm if that wouldn't have seemed too forward, not to mention the risk of embarrassing Ian. Instead she was doubly, if silently, appreciative of being doubly escorted to the main road.
They were nearly at the restaurant when a boy who was emerging from a newsagent's stood and stared at them. He was about Ian's age, wearing leather and chains, and had a dull somewhat pudgy face that Leslie took to be the product of depression and too much junk food. He gripped his thighs, digging his thumbs into them, and scowled after Ian. "Friend of yours?" Jack murmured.
"Rupe Duke? He's nobody's friend much."
"Good Lord, that's who he is, of course." When Jack had closed the door of the restaurant behind them Leslie explained "He's the brother of the little girl... you know, the little girl..."
"Should anybody talk to him right now?"
"I think it's best left, Jack, if that isn't too English of me. Do you ever speak to him at school, Ian?"
"He isn't in my class."
That was presumably as much of an answer as Ian wanted to give, and Leslie was afraid that insisting might make him revert to his previous taciturn self. She followed the waiter to the table, where Jack told her and Ian more than once to order whatever they liked, after which he nearly deceived her by pretending to be the kind of American who ordered a meal and then asked the kitchen to hold the sauce, and succeeded in persuading Ian that there was a Cantonese delicacy called Butterfly Wing Soup, consisting of water in which the wings of butterflies were soaked until they vanished, and produced two lines of a limerick for Leslie—
"When he's writing his music, Ry Cooder Shouts out words that are ruder and ruder..."
—before desisting with a droll apologetic look. He challenged Ian to pick up the smallest amount of rice with chopsticks, though it looked as if Leslie would beat both of them until Jack lifted a single grain of rice to his apologetically smiling mouth. By this time Leslie had seen off more of the second bottle of Chablis than he had, thanks to his refilling her glass
Similar Books
