Dandruff Hits The Turtleneck Page 24

  Chapter Twenty Four

  Thaw

  For the next two days the routine that had been forced upon the eight individuals scarcely altered. The instinct that arrives with the wisdom of maturity dictated the pattern of the long hours they were reconciled to spending in each other’s company. They had all formed an opinion of the people they wanted to get to know a little better, and whom they found interesting, and conversely, they knew who they would prefer to avoid like the proverbial.

  Somewhat interestingly, Arnold Matson had observed, all the guests tended to prefer their own space, which was quite understandable given the amount of claustrophobia the scenario had enforced upon them all. Chit-chat was, of course, part and parcel of the everyday routine, but even when it came to basic pastimes like a game of cards, where one would imagine three or possibly four people participating, solitaire tended to be the format which was favoured.

  The hour or so which followed the evening meal, when the ritual of sharing a table had given way to a period of communal relaxation, had become a fascinating human-observational post for Arnold Matson. His immense love and knowledge of the behaviour of insects and animals was now in its element, as he settled back with his after-meal coffee to studiously observe the mannerisms and idiosyncrasies of his house guests. Their routines, while not extraordinary, were incredibly consistent; whether it was the meticulous application of Edith Moseley’s lip moisturiser, the extraordinarily exaggerated nose blowing feats of Councillor Ted Scampi, or the simplistic contentment of man and beast as old Harold Garstang runs a friendly and reassuring hand over his beloved pet dog’s belly.

  The thoughtful studiousness of Reginald Frimpton as he cuddled his post-meal brandy, the repeated flecking behind Moot Point’s left ear as he repeatedly tried to disturb something that clearly didn’t exist, Stribley Wainwright’s ritualistic removal of his trilby as he examined the hat-band for the umpteenth time to remind himself of his dead father, and the Reverend Colin Wheatsheaf slowly moving his head from right to left and then back again, as he kept a silent, loving and attentive eye on the members of his flock. It was all a pattern. A beautiful, simplistic ritual that may as well be a field full of cattle as they settled for the long, inevitable evening…

  The issue of who belongs where in the natural world can sometimes be sidestepped with ‘varieties,’ ‘races’ or sub-species. Seventeen and a half thousand species of butterfly have been described – but they are divided into a hundred thousand subspecies. All this points to the quandary faced by those who make lists. Where do the boundaries lie? In the silence of the night, icicles are slowly beginning to melt as eight individuals drift on a sea of imagination, helplessness and darkness.