make sure I saved her money on the local shops. She walked into the
kitchen and took a box out of a drawer. The kitchen windows were also
curtained. She came back with a five-pound note I wasn’t sure would be enough.
When I got out of the house, I was
coldly sweating. If I had any sense I would now, having stuck myself with it,
honourably do her shopping, hand it to her at the door, and get on my way. I
wasn’t any kind of a crusader, and, as one of life’s more accomplished actors,
even I could see I had blundered into the wrong play.
It
was one o’clock before I’d finished her shopping. My own excursion to the launderette
had been passed over, but her fiver had just lasted. The list was quite
commonplace; washing powder, jam, flour, kitchen towels... I went into the pub
opposite the store and had a gin and tonic. Nevertheless, I was shaking with
nerves by the time I got back to Number 19. This was the last visit. This was
it.
Gusts of white sunlight were blowing
over the cliff. It was getting up rough in the bay, and the no-swimming notices
had gone up.
She was a long while opening the door. When
she did, she looked very odd, yellow-pale and tottery. Not as I’d come to
anticipate. She was in her fifties, and suddenly childlike, insubstantial.
“Come in,” she said, and wandered away
down the passage.
There’s something unnerving about a big
strong persona that abruptly shrinks pale and frail. It duly unnerved me,
literally in fact, and my nerves went away. Whatever had happened, I was in
command.
I shut the door and followed her into
the room. She was on the settee, sitting forward. Daniel still wasn’t there.
For the first time it occurred to me Daniel might be involved in this collapse,
and I said quickly: “Something’s wrong. What is it? Is it Daniel? Is he OK?”
She gave a feeble contemptuous little
laugh.
“Daniel’s all right. I just had a bit of
an accident. Silly thing, really, but it gave me a bit of a turn for a minute.”
She lifted her left hand in which she
was clutching a red and white handkerchief. Then I saw the red pattern was
drying blood. I put the shopping on the table and approached cautiously.
“What have you done?”
“Just cut myself. Stupid. I was chopping
up some veg for our dinner. Haven’t done a thing like this since I was a girl.”
I winced. Had she sliced her finger off
and left it lying among the carrots? No, don’t be a fool. Even she wouldn’t be
so acquiescent if she had. Or would she?
“Let me see,” I said, putting on my firm
and knowledgeable act, which has once or twice kept people from the brink of
panic when I was in a worse panic than they were. To my dismay, she let go the handkerchief,
and offered me her wound unresistingly.
It wasn’t a pretty cut, but a cut was
all it was, though deep enough almost to have touched the bone. I could see
from her digital movements that nothing vital had been severed, and fingers
will bleed profusely if you hit one of the blood vessels at the top.
“It’s not too bad,” I said. “I can
bandage it up for you. Have you got some TCP?”
She told me where the things were in the
kitchen, and I went to get them. The lights were still on, the curtains were
still drawn. Through the thin plastic of the kitchen drapes I could detect only
flat darkness. Maybe the prison wall around the garden kept daylight at bay.
I did a good amateur job on her finger.
The bleeding had slackened off.
“I should get a doctor to have a look at
it, if you’re worried.”
“I never use doctors,” she predictably
said.
“Well, a chemist, then.”
“It’ll be all right. You’ve done it
nicely. Just a bit of a shock.” Her colour was coming back, what she had of it.
“Shall I make you a cup of tea?”
“That’d be nice.”
I returned to the kitchen and put on the
kettle. The tea apparatus sat all together on a tray, as if waiting. I looked
at her fawn fizzy head over the settee back, and the soft coal-fire
kitchen and took a box out of a drawer. The kitchen windows were also
curtained. She came back with a five-pound note I wasn’t sure would be enough.
When I got out of the house, I was
coldly sweating. If I had any sense I would now, having stuck myself with it,
honourably do her shopping, hand it to her at the door, and get on my way. I
wasn’t any kind of a crusader, and, as one of life’s more accomplished actors,
even I could see I had blundered into the wrong play.
It
was one o’clock before I’d finished her shopping. My own excursion to the launderette
had been passed over, but her fiver had just lasted. The list was quite
commonplace; washing powder, jam, flour, kitchen towels... I went into the pub
opposite the store and had a gin and tonic. Nevertheless, I was shaking with
nerves by the time I got back to Number 19. This was the last visit. This was
it.
Gusts of white sunlight were blowing
over the cliff. It was getting up rough in the bay, and the no-swimming notices
had gone up.
She was a long while opening the door. When
she did, she looked very odd, yellow-pale and tottery. Not as I’d come to
anticipate. She was in her fifties, and suddenly childlike, insubstantial.
“Come in,” she said, and wandered away
down the passage.
There’s something unnerving about a big
strong persona that abruptly shrinks pale and frail. It duly unnerved me,
literally in fact, and my nerves went away. Whatever had happened, I was in
command.
I shut the door and followed her into
the room. She was on the settee, sitting forward. Daniel still wasn’t there.
For the first time it occurred to me Daniel might be involved in this collapse,
and I said quickly: “Something’s wrong. What is it? Is it Daniel? Is he OK?”
She gave a feeble contemptuous little
laugh.
“Daniel’s all right. I just had a bit of
an accident. Silly thing, really, but it gave me a bit of a turn for a minute.”
She lifted her left hand in which she
was clutching a red and white handkerchief. Then I saw the red pattern was
drying blood. I put the shopping on the table and approached cautiously.
“What have you done?”
“Just cut myself. Stupid. I was chopping
up some veg for our dinner. Haven’t done a thing like this since I was a girl.”
I winced. Had she sliced her finger off
and left it lying among the carrots? No, don’t be a fool. Even she wouldn’t be
so acquiescent if she had. Or would she?
“Let me see,” I said, putting on my firm
and knowledgeable act, which has once or twice kept people from the brink of
panic when I was in a worse panic than they were. To my dismay, she let go the handkerchief,
and offered me her wound unresistingly.
It wasn’t a pretty cut, but a cut was
all it was, though deep enough almost to have touched the bone. I could see
from her digital movements that nothing vital had been severed, and fingers
will bleed profusely if you hit one of the blood vessels at the top.
“It’s not too bad,” I said. “I can
bandage it up for you. Have you got some TCP?”
She told me where the things were in the
kitchen, and I went to get them. The lights were still on, the curtains were
still drawn. Through the thin plastic of the kitchen drapes I could detect only
flat darkness. Maybe the prison wall around the garden kept daylight at bay.
I did a good amateur job on her finger.
The bleeding had slackened off.
“I should get a doctor to have a look at
it, if you’re worried.”
“I never use doctors,” she predictably
said.
“Well, a chemist, then.”
“It’ll be all right. You’ve done it
nicely. Just a bit of a shock.” Her colour was coming back, what she had of it.
“Shall I make you a cup of tea?”
“That’d be nice.”
I returned to the kitchen and put on the
kettle. The tea apparatus sat all together on a tray, as if waiting. I looked
at her fawn fizzy head over the settee back, and the soft coal-fire
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