-
Главная
-
- Книги
-
- Авторы
-
- Колин Маккалоу
-
- Поющие в терновнике
-
- Стр. 43/535
Для того чтобы воспользоваться озвучкой предложений, необходимо
Войти или зарегистрироваться
Озвучка предложений доступна при наличии PRO-доступа
Купить PRO-доступ
She
followed
the
sound
to
where
he
was
stretched
out
in
the
hay
,
and
snuggled
down
beside
him
with
her
arms
as
far
around
his
chest
as
they
would
reach
.
"
Oh
,
Frank
,
I
'm
so
glad
you
're
back
,
"
she
said
He
groaned
,
slid
down
in
the
straw
until
he
was
lower
than
she
,
and
put
his
head
on
her
body
.
Meggie
clutched
at
his
thick
straight
hair
,
crooning
.
It
was
too
dark
to
see
her
,
and
the
invisible
substance
of
her
sympathy
undid
him
.
He
began
to
weep
,
knotting
his
body
into
slow
twisting
rails
of
pain
,
his
tears
soaking
her
nightgown
.
Meggie
did
not
weep
.
Something
in
her
little
soul
was
old
enough
and
woman
enough
to
feel
the
irresistible
,
stinging
joy
of
being
needed
;
she
sat
rocking
his
head
back
and
forth
,
back
and
forth
,
until
his
grief
expended
itself
in
emptiness
.
The
road
to
Drogheda
brought
back
no
memories
of
his
youth
,
thought
Father
Ralph
de
Bricassart
,
eyes
half
shut
against
the
glare
as
his
new
Daimler
bounced
along
in
the
rutted
wheel
tracks
that
marched
through
the
long
silver
grass
.
No
lovely
misty
green
Ireland
,
this
.
And
Drogheda
?
No
battlefield
,
no
high
seat
of
power
.
Or
was
that
strictly
true
?
Better
disciplined
these
days
but
acute
as
ever
,
his
sense
of
humor
conjured
in
his
mind
an
image
of
a
Cromwellian
Mary
Carson
dealing
out
her
particular
brand
of
imperial
malevolence
.
Not
such
a
highflown
comparison
,
either
;
the
lady
surely
wielded
as
much
power
and
controlled
as
many
individuals
as
any
puissant
war
lord
of
elder
days
.
The
last
gate
loomed
up
through
a
stand
of
box
and
stringybark
;
the
car
came
to
a
throbbing
halt
.
Clapping
a
disreputable
grey
broad-brimmed
hat
on
his
head
to
ward
off
the
sun
,
Father
Ralph
got
out
,
plodded
to
the
steel
bolt
on
the
wooden
strut
,
pulled
it
back
and
flung
the
gate
open
with
weary
impatience
.
There
were
twenty-seven
gates
between
the
presbytery
in
Gillanbone
and
Drogheda
homestead
,
each
one
meaning
he
had
to
stop
,
get
out
of
the
car
,
open
the
gate
,
get
into
the
car
and
drive
it
through
,
stop
,
get
out
,
go
back
to
close
the
gate
,
then
get
in
the
car
again
and
proceed
to
the
next
one
.
Many
and
many
a
time
he
longed
to
dispense
with
at
least
half
the
ritual
,
scoot
on
down
the
track
leaving
the
gates
open
like
a
series
of
astonished
mouths
behind
him
;
but
even
the
awesome
aura
of
his
calling
would
not
prevent
the
owners
of
the
gates
from
tarring
and
feathering
him
for
it
.
He
wished
horses
were
as
fast
and
efficient
as
cars
,
because
one
could
open
and
close
gates
from
the
back
of
a
horse
without
dismounting
.
"
Nothing
is
given
without
a
disadvantage
in
it
,
"
he
said
,
patting
the
dashboard
of
the
new
Daimler
and
starting
off
down
the
last
mile
of
the
grassy
,
treeless
Home
Paddock
,
the
gate
firmly
bolted
behind
him
.
Even
to
an
Irishman
used
to
castles
and
mansions
,
this
Australian
homestead
was
imposing
.
Drogheda
was
the
oldest
and
the
biggest
property
in
the
district
,
and
had
been
endowed
by
its
late
doting
owner
with
a
fitting
residence
.
Built
of
butter-yellow
sandstone
blocks
hand-hewn
in
quarries
five
hundred
miles
eastward
,
the
house
had
two
stories
and
was
constructed
on
austerely
Georgian
lines
,
with
large
,
many-paned
windows
and
a
wide
,
iron-pillared
veranda
running
all
the
way
around
its
bottom
story
.
Gracing
the
sides
of
every
window
were
black
wooden
shutters
,
not
merely
ornamental
but
useful
;
in
the
heat
of
summer
they
were
pulled
closed
to
keep
the
interior
cool
.
Though
it
was
autumn
now
and
the
spindling
vine
was
green
,
in
spring
the
wistaria
which
had
been
planted
the
day
the
house
was
finished
fifty
years
before
was
a
solid
mass
of
lilac
plumes
,
rioting
all
over
the
outer
walls
and
the
veranda
roof
.
Several
acres
of
meticulously
scythed
lawn
surrounded
the
house
,
strewn
with
formal
gardens
even
now
full
of
color
from
roses
,
wallflowers
,
dahlias
and
marigolds
.
A
stand
of
magnificent
ghost
gums
with
pallid
white
trunks
and
drifting
thin
leaves
hanging
seventy
feet
above
the
ground
shaded
the
house
from
the
pitiless
sun
,
their
branches
wreathed
in
brilliant
magenta
where
bougainvillaea
vines
grew
intertwined
with
them
.
Even
those
indispensable
Outback
monstrosities
the
water
tanks
were
thickly
clothed
in
hardy
native
vines
,
roses
and
wistaria
,
and
thus
managed
to
look
more
decorative
than
functional
.
Thanks
to
the
late
Michael
Carson
's
passion
for
Drogheda
homestead
,
he
had
been
lavish
in
the
matter
of
water
tanks
;
rumor
had
it
Drogheda
could
afford
to
keep
its
lawns
green
and
its
flower
beds
blooming
though
no
rain
fell
in
ten
years
.
As
one
approached
down
the
Home
Paddock
the
house
and
its
ghost
gums
took
the
eye
first
,
but
then
one
was
aware
of
many
other
yellow
sandstone
houses
of
one
story
behind
it
and
to
each
side
,
interlocking
with
the
main
structure
by
means
of
roofed
ramps
smothered
in
creepers
.
A
wide
gravel
driveway
succeeded
the
wheel
ruts
of
the
track
,
curving
to
a
circular
parking
area
at
one
side
of
the
big
house
,
but
also
continuing
beyond
it
and
out
of
sight
down
to
where
the
real
business
of
Drogheda
lay
:
the
stockyards
,
the
shearing
shed
,
the
barns
.
Privately
Father
Ralph
preferred
the
giant
pepper
trees
which
shaded
all
these
outbuildings
and
their
attendant
activities
to
the
ghost
gums
of
the
main
house
.
Pepper
trees
were
dense
with
pale-green
fronds
and
alive
with
the
sound
of
bees
,
just
the
right
lazy
sort
of
foliage
for
an
Outback
station
.
