"Bisson, Terry - England Underway" - читать интересную книгу автора (Bisson Terry)

"Not just Brighton, man, "the African said. For the first time, Mr. Fox
could hear a faint Caribbean lilt in his voice. "England herself is
underway."
England underway? How extraordinary. Mr. Fox could see what he supposed
was excitement in the faces of the other strollers on the Boardwalk all
that day. The wind smelled somehow saltier as he went to take his tea. He
almost told Mrs. Oldenshield the news when she brought him his pot and
platter; but the affairs of the day, which had never intruded far into her
tea room, receded entirely when he took down his book and began to read.
This was (as it turned out) the very day that Lizzie finally read the
letter from Mr. Camperdown, the Eustace family lawyer, which she had
carried unopened for three days. As Mr. Fox had expected, it demanded that
the diamonds be returned to her late husband's family. In response, Lizzie
bought a strongbox. That evening, England's peregrinations were all the
news on BBC. The kingdom was heading south into the Atlantic at 1.8 knots,
according to the newsmen on the telly over the bar at the Pig & Thistle,
where Mr. Fox was accustomed to taking a glass of whisky with Harrison,
the barkeep, before retiring. In the sixteen hours since the phenomenon
had first been detected, England had gone some thirty five miles,
beginning a long turnaround Ireland which would carry it into the open
sea.
"Ireland is not going?" asked Mr. Fox.
"Ireland has been independent since 19 and 21," said Harrison, who often
hinted darkly at having relatives with the IRA. "Ireland is hardly about
to be chasing England around the seven seas."
"Well, what about, you know...?"
"The Six Counties? The Six Counties have always been a part of Ireland and
always will be," said Harrison. Mr. Fox nodded politely and finished his
whisky. It was not his custom to argue politics, particularly not with
barkeeps, and certainly not with the Irish.
"So I suppose you'll be going home?"
"And lose me job?"

For the next several days, the wave got no higher but it seemed steadier.
It was not a chop but a continual smooth wake, streaming across the shore
to the east as England began its turn to the west. The cricket ground grew
deserted as the boys laid aside their kites and joined the rest of the
town at the shore, watching the waves. There was such a crowd on the
Boardwalk that several of the shops, which had closed for the season,
reopened. Mrs. Oldenshield's was no busier than usual, however, and Mr.
Fox was able to forge ahead as steadily in his reading as Mr. Trollope had
in his writing. It was not long before Lord Fawn, with something almost of
dignity in his gesture and demeanor, declared himself to the young widow
Eustace and asked for her hand. Mr. Fox knew Lizzie's diamonds would be
trouble, though. He knew something of heirlooms himself. His tiny attic
room in the Pig & Thistle had been left to him in perpetuity by the
innkeeper, whose life had been saved by Mr. Fox's father during an air
raid. A life saved (said the innkeeper, an East Indian, but a Christian,
not a Hindu) was a debt never fully paid. Mr. Fox had often wondered where
he would have lived if he'd been forced to go out and find a place, like