Night Music by Jojo Moyes Read Free Book Online Page B

And, perhaps, protected them from the prejudices of those who might initially have been less welcoming to the men now known diplomatically – and against all evidence – as the Cousins.
    The shop window had misted, obscuring the relentless sheets of rain. Asad turned on the radio and melodic jazz flowed round them. Mrs Linnet gave a yelp of pleasure and fluttered her fingers. ‘Ooh!’ she exclaimed. ‘I love a bit of Dizzy, but my Kenneth can’t abide modern jazz.’ She lowered her voice conspiratorially. ‘He finds it too . . . isotonic. But, then, you lot are made for it, aren’t you?’
    Asad was too polite to let his silence stretch for more than an instant. ‘My lot?’
    She nodded. ‘Dark people,’ she faltered. ‘You . . . you’ve got rhythm. It’s – you know – in the genetics.’
    Asad considered this. ‘That would explain, Mrs Linnet, why on a day like this I’m barely able to contain myself.’
    It was with visible relief that Deirdre Linnet turned to the door.
    A familiar voice instructed dogs to stay, and Byron Firth brushed raindrops from his hair as he came in. ‘Good afternoon, Byron.’ Asad smiled.
    ‘I need a card,’ the newcomer told him.
    ‘They’re in that corner,’ Asad replied. ‘Was it for anyone in particular?’
    ‘Lily,’ he said quietly. ‘My niece. It’s her birthday.’ He seemed too large a presence for the shop, even though he was not as tall as Asad, and uncomfortable with himself, as if he were trying perpetually to make himself invisible. Perhaps that was why he worked in the woods, Asad thought. Permanently obscured from view.
    ‘Afternoon, Mr Firth,’ said Henry, bearing the tea into the shop and letting his eyes run over Byron’s dripping oilskins, his muddy boots. ‘I see you’ve been communing with Nature. And I believe we can announce that Nature, today, is the victor.’
    ‘Where are the handmade cards, Henry?’ Asad was scanning the shelves. ‘We did have some, didn’t we?’
    ‘We don’t stock the ones with ages any more,’ said Henry. ‘All the fours and fives would go and you’d be left with a ton of elevens.’
    ‘Ah. Here.’ Asad held out a pink card, decorated with sequins. ‘There was a woman who made these on the other side of town. That’s the last one and the envelope is a little bent so I can give you fifty pence off, if you would like it.’
    ‘Thanks.’ Byron handed over his money, and waited as Asad put the card into a brown-paper bag. With a nod to the shop’s proprietors, he tucked it inside his jacket and left. Through the steamy window it was just possible to see the elation of the dogs as their master stooped down to greet them.
    Mrs Linnet had been studying labels with unusual intensity. ‘Is that man gone?’ she asked unnecessarily.
    ‘Mr Firth has left the building, yes,’ said Henry.
    ‘I don’t think you should be serving the likes of him. Gives me the willies, that man.’
    ‘You wish,’ murmured Henry.
    ‘I don’t believe Mr Firth’s distant past has any bearing on whether we should sell him a birthday card for his niece,’ said Asad. ‘He has always seemed pleasant to us, if a little uncommunicative. Mrs Linnet, as a good Christian woman, I’m sure you’re familiar with the notion of penitence, and forgiveness.’
    ‘He’s the thin edge of the wedge, as far as I’m concerned. Word will get out,’ she said mysteriously, tapping her nose. ‘We’ll become a magnet for all sorts of undesirables. It’ll be paediatricians next.’
    Henry’s eyes widened. ‘Heaven forbid.’
    The little bell heralded the opening of the shop door again. A girl came in, a teenager, no more than fifteen or sixteen. She was wet, but she wore no coat and wasn’t carrying an umbrella. She was somewhat crumpled, as if she had been on a long journey. ‘Sorry to bother you,’ she said, pushing her hair out of her eyes, ‘but you wouldn’t happen to know where . . .’ she consulted a piece of paper