"Robert Rankin - The Witches Of Chiswick" - читать интересную книгу автора (Rankin Robert)

as he could manage, but it didn’t help.
 It was no fun being different.
But different Will was, in more ways than one.
“I’m sorry, Dad,” said Will. “I’m sorry, Mum, too.”
The coffee was cooling on Will’s dad. Will’s mum mopped at his
waistcoast with a proprietary-brand dishcloth. “It’s all right,” she said,
without conviction. “It doesn’t matter, Will. You are what you is, as Frank
Zappa once said, and so long as you’re happy, we’re happy for you.”
“I am happy, Mum. I love you and Dad and I love my job too.”
“Tell me about this job of yours.” Will’s dad shooed away his wife’s
fussing fingers. “Is it at IKEA? Does it involve any two-by-one?”
“No,” said Will, “It isn’t and it doesn’t. Have you ever heard of the Tate
Gallery?”
“Is that a trick question?” Will’s mum lowered her prodigious bulk once
more onto her modified lounger and returned to her consumption of fried
eggettes. There were still eight left on her plate and she meant to finish
them before she began on her baconettes. “I mean, will there be a forfeit if
we get it wrong? Like there is at the supermarket?”
“It’s not a trick question, Mum. The Tate Gallery is an ancient building in
London Central. It houses paintings from the past. You remember art,
surely?”
Will’s mum made a face of considerable perplexity. “Was he a presenter
on daytime TV?”
“Of course your mother remembers art,” said Will’s dad, resuming the
demolition of his sausage mountain. “It’s when pictures were produced by
hand, using coloured pigments applied with a bundle of animal hair secured
at the end of a stick.”
“There’s no need to be obscene,” said Will’s mum. “Honestly, putting
ungodly ideas like that into the boy’s head.”
“It’s true,” said Will. “The bundles of animal hair were called brushes.”
“The boy is a regular hysteric,” said Will’s mum.
“Historian,” said Will’s dad. “And you have actually seen these pictures,
Will?”
“Not up close.” Will, sipped at his coffee, which came as it came, but
which was not altogether to his liking. “They are housed in the vaults deep
beneath the original gallery. They are far too precious and fragile to be put
on display any more. They are presently being re-photographed, so that
accurate reproductions can be made and displayed in the gallery. You’ll be
able to see the official reopening of the Tate on the home screen soon. And
all the reproductions of the paintings too.”
“Why?” asked Will’s mum. “What are these paintings for? What do they
do?”
“They don’t do anything. They are art. They are beautiful works of
human achievement. You simply look at them and appreciate them for what
they are.”
Will’s mum spooned in further eggettes. “Do they sing?” she asked.
“No. They don’t even move about.”
Will’s mum shrugged her ample shoulders. “Well, if you’re happy and
employed, I suppose that’s all that matters.”
“I am happy,” said Will. “There’s something about the past that has