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- Колин Маккалоу
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- Стр. 366/535
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He
stayed
talking
to
Mrs.
Smith
and
the
maids
for
a
long
time
.
They
had
grown
much
older
in
the
years
since
he
had
left
,
but
somehow
age
suited
them
more
than
it
did
Fee
.
Happy
.
That
's
what
they
were
.
Genuinely
almost
perfectly
happy
.
Poor
Fee
,
who
was
n't
happy
.
It
made
him
hungry
to
see
Meggie
,
see
if
she
was
happy
.
But
when
he
left
the
cookhouse
Meggie
was
n't
back
,
so
to
fill
in
time
he
strolled
through
the
grounds
toward
the
creek
.
How
peaceful
the
cemetery
was
;
there
were
six
bronze
plaques
on
the
mausoleum
wall
,
just
as
there
had
been
last
time
.
He
must
see
that
he
himself
was
buried
here
;
he
must
remember
to
instruct
them
,
when
he
returned
to
Rome
.
Near
the
mausoleum
he
noticed
two
new
graves
,
old
Tom
,
the
garden
rouseabout
,
and
the
wife
of
one
of
the
stockmen
,
who
had
been
on
the
payroll
since
1946
.
Must
be
some
sort
of
record
.
Mrs.
Smith
thought
he
was
still
with
them
because
his
wife
lay
here
.
The
Chinese
cook
's
ancestral
umbrella
was
quite
faded
from
all
the
years
of
fierce
sun
,
had
dwindled
from
its
original
imperial
red
through
the
various
shades
he
remembered
to
its
present
whitish-pink
,
almost
ashes
of
roses
.
Meggie
,
Meggie
.
You
went
back
to
him
after
me
,
you
bore
him
a
son
.
It
was
very
hot
;
a
little
wind
came
,
stirred
the
weeping
willows
along
the
creek
,
made
the
bells
on
the
Chinese
cook
's
umbrella
chime
their
mournful
tinny
tune
:
Hee
Sing
,
Hee
Sing
,
Hee
Sing
.
Tankstand
Charlie
he
was
a
good
bloke
.
That
had
faded
,
too
,
was
practically
indecipherable
.
Well
,
it
was
fitting
.
Graveyards
ought
to
sink
back
into
the
bosom
of
Mother
Earth
,
lose
their
human
cargo
under
a
wash
of
time
,
until
it
all
was
gone
and
only
the
air
remembered
,
sighing
.
He
did
n't
want
to
be
buried
in
a
Vatican
crypt
,
among
men
like
himself
.
Here
,
among
people
who
had
really
lived
.
Turning
,
his
eyes
caught
the
glaucous
glance
of
the
marble
angel
.
He
raised
his
hand
,
saluted
it
,
looked
across
the
grass
toward
the
big
house
.
And
she
was
coming
,
Meggie
.
Slim
,
golden
,
in
a
pair
of
breeches
and
a
white
man
's
shirt
exactly
like
his
own
,
a
man
's
grey
felt
hat
on
the
back
of
her
head
,
tan
boots
on
her
feet
.
Like
a
boy
,
like
her
son
,
who
should
have
been
his
son
.
He
was
a
man
,
but
when
he
too
lay
here
there
would
be
nothing
left
living
to
mark
the
fact
.
She
came
on
,
stepped
over
the
white
fence
,
came
so
close
all
he
could
see
were
her
eyes
,
those
grey
,
light-filled
eyes
which
had
n't
lost
their
beauty
or
their
hold
over
his
heart
.
Her
arms
were
around
his
neck
,
his
fate
again
within
his
touch
,
it
was
as
if
he
had
never
been
away
from
her
,
that
mouth
alive
under
his
,
not
a
dream
;
so
long
wanted
,
so
long
.
A
different
kind
of
sacrament
,
dark
like
the
earth
,
having
nothing
to
do
with
the
sky
.
"
Meggie
,
Meggie
,
"
he
said
,
his
face
in
her
hair
,
her
hat
on
the
grass
,
his
arms
around
her
.
"
It
does
n't
seem
to
matter
,
does
it
?
Nothing
ever
changes
,
"
she
said
,
eyes
closed
.
"
No
,
nothing
changes
,
"
he
said
,
believing
it
.
"
This
is
Drogheda
,
Ralph
.
I
warned
you
,
on
Drogheda
you
're
mine
,
not
God
's
.
"
