Black Is the Colour of My True Love's Heart by Ellis Peters

Author:Ellis Peters [Peters, Ellis]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
ISBN: 9781784972844
Publisher: Head of Zeus
Published: 2015-07-29T16:00:00+00:00

7

‘After dinner, if you’re not bored with the subject by now,’ promised Professor Penrose, switching off the record-player, ‘we’ll go on considering this odd question of historical origins, and try to find out why some of the events celebrated found their way straight into folk song, and why others, some of the bitterest, too, on occasion, became “innocuous” nursery rhymes. It’s a far cry from a feudal social tragedy like “The trees they do grow high” to “Ring a ring o’ roses”, you might think, but which of them came into being as catharsis for the more unbearable memory? Or didn’t you know about “Ring a ring o’ roses”? The ring of roses was the outcrop of bubonic ulcers, the pocket full of posies was the bunch of herbs you carried to try and ward off infection, the sneezes were one of the initial and ominous symptoms, and once you’d got that far you all fell down and stayed down until the cart came along to collect. And some inspired Tom Lehrer of the plague year turned it into a nursery game! Well, after all, you all know what happened to “Gulliver”. It’s a way we have with the unendurable, to give it to the children to play with.’

He could afford to invite them to suppose that they were bored, because he knew they were not. Professor Penrose was not a boring man. He slammed his notebook shut, not having glanced at it throughout, and waved his arms at them as at refractory chickens.

‘Out! Shoo! Go and get a breath of fresh air before dinner.’

And out they went, vociferous, argumentative and contented, at least as far as the walled garden and the terraces, there to continue with even greater animation the discussion which would be resumed on its scholarly plane after dinner. On the terraces even the non-singers burst into song. At times they sounded like a choir tuning up on several different test pieces at the same moment.

‘I always knew I’d be good as a filibuster,’ remarked the professor complacently, finding himself shoulder to shoulder with Liri Palmer on their way out. ‘Nobody’s ever encouraged me to try how fast and how long I could talk, before.’

She gave him a clear look, and said unexpectedly: ‘You’re a wicked old man. I like you.’ She looked, as always, in full possession of herself, her secrets and her thoughts, but the signs of strain were there, once you knew what to look for; her air of withdrawal, the austerity of the set of her lips, the sombreness of the steel-blue eyes that were not interested in illusory hopes. He liked her, too; he liked her very much, but there was nothing he could do for her, except talk fast enough to divert attention from her when she was not singing, and listen to her with gratitude when she was.

‘Only one more day,’ he said, ‘and we can send them all home.’

She said: ‘Yes,’ with a brief and shadowy smile, and went

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