‘Let’s go home,’ Molly said. ‘Our own lives . . . house . . . bed. And the shop.’
Keith ran his fingers down her back, in the way that she always enjoyed. ‘I’d like that,’ he said. ‘I’ve just about finished here. But I’d like to bide over for the memorial service. That’s if you don’t mind.’
‘Why do you want to?’ Molly asked.
Some flakes of plaster fluttered down behind Keith’s back. ‘I’ll tell you,’ he said. ‘It’s going to be a hoot. Apart from anything else, there’s going to be what the papers call a startling revelation which was not in the will. You mind Alice Wyper and her rabbit-skins? She’s not curing them half long enough. You know how nice and soft they feel before they’re really cured and dry? She’s stitching them up while they’re still like that, and a neat fit she’s making it, too.’
‘They’ll shrink when they get on the warmth of her,’ Molly said.
‘And she’s using a fine nylon thread, and stitching the skins by their very edges. I think the stitches’ll pull through and the whole thing’ll come to bits.’
Molly thought this over and smiled. Alice Wyper’s manner to Keith had been heavily flirtatious. ‘All right,’ she said, ‘we’ll stay over.’
A fresh trickle of water played suddenly over their heads. A chunk of ceiling fell nearby and water came pouring down. In seconds, the carpet was awash.
‘Irresponsible I may be,’ Keith said, ‘but it wasn’t me put a bullet through the water-tank.’
They clung together, helpless with laughter, while water and plaster rained down around them.
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