The Mushroom Man

Начало книги

Father Tudor Harcourt had a problem. At such times he found it a great comfort to have a silent, somewhat one-sided conversation with God.

Occasionally, the Almighty showed him the answer. He was not an impatient man: had he known that he was pencilled in for a personal audience in the next fifteen minutes he would have waited.

He'd reached the part of the lane where the county council had regravelled the road. Why on earth did they waste the taxpayers' money every year resurfacing perfectly acceptable country lanes, used only by agricultural vehicles and elderly clerics on equally elderly bicycles?

The three-speed Raleigh didn't roll as freely on the new surface, so he had to pedal more. Then there was the increased risk of a puncture. He winced as loose chippings, picked up by the tyres, rattled under the mudguards. The gravel was deepest along the edges of the road, so he steered into the middle, where the small amount of traffic had worn a smoother passage.

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