Our man in Camelot

Mosby felt envious, but also benevolent. Whatever happened afterwards, he didn't want to spoil this moment of family togetherness: the least—and the most—he could do was to give them a last bit of privacy. He snored again.

'Come on then, love,' said Ozymandias, taking the little girl's hand and turning his back on the sea. As he did so another seventh wave swirled round their feet. When it receded the castle site was no more than a dimpled irregularity in the sand. The woman was right, the tide was coming in fast now. Another five minutes and it would be around his own feet, which would account nicely for their own movement from the beach—as he had intended it should.

He waited until the Englishman and his family had reached the cliff path before touching Shirley's shoulder.

Anthony Price - Our man in camelot

'You nearly spoilt it,' he explained.

'Uh?' She wrinkled her nose. 'Spoilt what?'

'The poetry. He was reciting poetry for his daughter. Shelley I think, or maybe Keats. I guess I'm a bit rusty.'

She looked up at him curiously. 'Shelley or Keats?'

'One or the other. Shelley for choice.'

'Well, well! I sure never would have tagged you as a poetry buff. Sex maniac—yes. Poetry buff—no. Or him, come to that.' She stared at the cliff path. 'He doesn't look like a civil servant either, come to that—

more like a retired quarter-back.'

'Don't underrate him.' Mosby left the 'or me' unsaid. 'Remember what Harry said: his IQ goes off the top of the graph.'

'If that child of his is already sold on Shelley and Keats then it runs in the family.'

Mosby shook his head. 'I think she just likes the performance.' He stood up, still staring down at her.

Sixty-six inches and one hundred and sixteen pounds, all nicely tanned and landscaped. And every inch, every pound, inaccessible. 'But now it's time for our performance, Mrs Sheldon. And we'd better be good.'

She rose effortlessly to her knees, fixing the bikini top as she did so. On mature consideration Mosby decided that she was as disturbing with it as without it.

She met his eyes. 'You've got that hungry look again, honey. Like you could eat me. It's getting kind of wearisome.'

Mosby turned away to gather up the towels. Hungry was right: it was a fact that starvation had to be less bearable when you travelled in permanent company with a three-star Michelin dinner, but it was a fact she would never concede. He was suddenly very glad that they were actually starting work at last.

As they topped the cliff path he saw at once that Harry had done his work well. There were still only two cars in the dusty little parking place, and the Englishman already had his head stuck under the raised bonnet of his.

As he watched, the man straightened up, scratching his head in a gesture eloquent of bewilderment. Very soon, when he realised that the trouble had no simple diagnosis, that bewilderment would turn into the despair of a holiday father marooned with his family five miles from the nearest telephone.

He raised the trunk of the Chevrolet and began to pack their gear. Just a little time now. Shirley was already establishing their curiosity by staring in a frankly American fashion.

Finally she came round the wing of the car.

'Say, Mose honey—' her voice carried clear as a bell in the stillness following the despondent whine of the Englishman's self-starter '—that poor man's having awful trouble with his car.'

Mosby straightened up. 'Huh?'

'Why don't you go and help him?' There was much more of the Old South in Shirley's voice than usual

—it was only half a mint julep away from the Southern belle's 'You-all'.

Mosby looked quickly at the other car, noted that the Englishman's wife had heard—she could hardly avoid hearing—and was looking at them, and ducked round the side of the car.

'You want me to go and help?' he said loudly.

'I think you ought to, honey.' The order was wrapped in velvet pleading. 'It'ud be neighbourly.'

Anthony Price - Our man in camelot

'I'm no goddamn mechanic. Besides, if he wants help he'll ask for it.'

'Honey, they don't ask—don't be mean. Go on.' The velvet wrap was off and he could hear the Fort Dobson psychologist's final admonition: the British expect American wives to wear the pants—true or false, they expect it. When Shirley wears them, that's better than waving a marriage certificate.

'Okay, okay. So I'll be a Samaritan if it makes you feel good,' he waved his hand in submission before pivoting away from her towards the Englishman's car.

For a moment the Englishman pretended not to see him, then he lifted his head.

'Got some trouble?' Mosby began tentatively.

Understatement of a summer's day. Trouble with a car here and now, and all sorts of trouble to come one way or another if everything goes according to plan.

The pale blue eyes blinked behind the spectacles. 'The bloody thing won't start, that's the trouble.'

'Could you use a second opinion?'