Convalescence (2 page)

“You did well,” Amy said quietly to me when she came to take away the dirty crockery. “You had enough there to feed a horse…a small horse.”

I grinned at her. I liked Amy.

“Rummy. Do you play rummy, Jimmy?”

“Yes,” I said and watched as Mrs. Rogers dealt three hands of seven cards. I had hoped that Amy might join us in the parlor, but she obviously had other duties to attend to.

By nine o'clock the last hand was being dealt. Miss Holt was keeping score in pencil on a slim white notepad.

“Rummy,” she announced suddenly and laid her cards down on the table in front of her, seven cards running in sequence from three to nine.

“Oh, you're too good for me, Elise,” Mrs. Rogers said.

Miss Holt inclined her head, accepting the compliment and then stood and clapped her hands together once. “Right, James. Bedtime.”

“But it's only nine o'clock,” I protested.

“And plenty late enough,” she said in a voice that brooked no argument.

“Will I see Uncle Thomas tomorrow?” I said to Mrs. Rogers. Apart from greeting us when we first arrived, I had seen or heard nothing of him since.

“Maybe,” the elderly woman said. “Your uncle's a very busy man.”

“Come along, James,” Miss Holt said, walking to the door and opening it. “Upstairs to wash and clean your teeth. I'll look in on you before you settle down.”

I said good night to Mrs. Rogers and walked from the room, feeling sad that the day had finished so abruptly.

I climbed the stairs wearily and was about to enter the bathroom when my bedroom door opened and Amy stepped out onto the landing. For a second her eyes widened and she looked flustered.

“You surprised me,” she said. “I was just turning down your bed.”

“I'm sorry,” I said. “I didn't mean to startle you.”

Her face relaxed and her smile returned. “Never to worry,” she said. “Sometimes this house can take you unawares. No harm done. Good night.”

I wanted to ask her what she meant by that, but she had already turned and was disappearing down the landing towards the stairs.

I walked into the bathroom and saw my washing things had been laid out on the marble shelf above the washbasin. Quickly I sluiced my face and ran a brush over my teeth.

Five minutes later I was in my room and undressing for bed.

I had not long climbed into bed and pulled up the sheets when Miss Holt came into the room without knocking and walked over to the bed.

“Put out your hand.”

I did as I was told and she dropped two orange pills into it and handed me a glass of water from the dresser. “Take those,” she said.

I tossed them into my mouth and washed them down with a gulp of water.

“Right,” she said when she was satisfied I'd swallowed them. “Sleep well.” She turned and walked to the door, but only took two steps before turning and coming back to the bed. She thrust out her hand. “Give me your wireless.”

I could hear it playing softly beneath the sheets—the Beatles' “Ticket to Ride”. I'd forgotten it was on. “But I like listening to it. It helps me get off to sleep.”

“James, give it to me,” she insisted, jabbing her outstretched hand at me.

With a sigh I fished out the radio from under the covers and dropped it into her palm.

As her fingers closed over it she said, “If you spent more time trying to sleep and less listening to that awful, cheap pop music, you might recover quicker. I'm going back to London the day after tomorrow. I would like to give your doctor some good news about you.”

“You're going back?”

“Yes. This was only a temporary arrangement to see you settled in. I'm sure your uncle and Mrs. Rogers are more than capable of looking after you. I'm needed back at the hospital.” She turned abruptly and walked to the door. This time she completed the journey and opened it. “Come and see me in the morning. You can have your wireless back then.”

“It's called a transistor radio.”

She gave me what could best be described as a cross between a patronizing smile and a contemptuous sneer. “Yes, I'm sure it is.” She reached out and flicked the light switch, plunging the room into darkness, and then she was gone, my radio with her.

It took a while but gradually my eyes adjusted to the gloom. There was still a grayish light filtering into the room through the net curtains, and slowly the furniture began to take shape. Whether it was the nap in the afternoon or because my mind was replaying the events of the day, I'm not sure, but sleep was elusive. I tossed and turned for ages before I made a decision and slipped out of bed, crossing to my suitcase and opening it.

I found my penlight quickly, tucked into one of the zip-up pockets of the case. I flicked it on and shone the beam down onto the pile of yet-to-be-unpacked clothes.

Before I left the hospital I had been reading
No Boats on Bannermere
by Geoffrey Trease, and I was about halfway through. It belonged to the hospital library, but I'd tucked it into my case under a pile of shirts, with the thought that I would return it to the hospital when I next went there. I had every intention of doing so—I was not a thief—but at least I would get a chance to finish it first.

I took it back to bed and climbed in, raising my knees under the covers and pulling the sheet up over my head to make a tent, and spent the next hour or so reading, until my eyelids began to droop. I switched off the penlight, shut the book and closed my eyes.

The next thing I was aware of was opening my eyes again to the morning sun streaming into the room.

Stretching and yawning, I pushed back the covers and swung my feet to the floor. The floorboards were polished wood, but a rug had been placed at the bedside and it was warm under my bare feet. I found my slippers and put them on, then padded across to the window. I realized my room must be above the dining room because the view was almost identical—the lawn sweeping down to the trees, the rather grand summerhouse.

I could hear voices coming from below. I couldn't hear what was being said but the tone of the words was angry. I took a step forward and peered down. All I could see was the top of someone's head, and I recognized the confection of gray hair, clipped and pinned, that belonged to Mrs. Rogers. The other voice was male, but not my uncle's. This was a younger man's voice.

My curiosity was satisfied when a young man stepped into view. He was big and raw-boned, dressed in working clothes—denim dungarees and plaid shirt, with Wellington boots, the tops rolled down—and he had a shock of carrot-colored hair that curled over his head like a wooly hat. As he walked away from Mrs. Rogers, I noticed he had a pronounced limp, favoring his left leg. He'd only taken three strides away from her when he spun round and stuck two fingers up. I'd seen the gesture before in the playground at school and knew its meaning, and I wondered what the old woman had said to him to provoke such a reaction.

He must have sensed me watching him because he suddenly stared up at my window. I ducked back out of sight and when I looked again he was limping across the lawn in the direction of the summerhouse.

I went down to the dining room wearing just my dressing gown and slippers. Again the table was set for two, but judging from the toast crumbs on one of the plates and the coffee grounds in the cup next to it, I guessed I would be breakfasting alone.

“You've just missed her.”

I spun round. Amy was standing by the mahogany sideboard that stood against the wall. The old piece of furniture seemed to be groaning under the weight of three large metal dishes with domed covers, racks of toast and china cereal bowls, together with several larger cut-glass dishes containing mounds of various cereals.

“Your Miss Holt was here earlier. I think she's gone for a walk now,” Amy said.

“She's not
my
Miss Holt,” I said irritably. “I hardly know the woman. She was sent by the hospital to see that I settled in okay. She's leaving the day after tomorrow.”

“She seems a bit frosty.”

“She is. She's confiscated my radio. Reckons listening to
cheap
pop music will slow down my recovery.”

“And listening to Beethoven or Mozart will speed it up?”

“Apparently.”

She gave a derisive sniff. “Adults. Haven't a clue, have they?”

“How old are you?” I said.

“Nearly sixteen,” she said.

“So how long have you worked here?”

“Since leaving school last summer.”

“I wish I could leave school,” I said. “I've got to go back…when I'm better.” My last words caught in my throat and I started to cough, flopping down on one of the dining chairs, trying to catch my breath.

Amy just stared at me, a frown of concern etched across her brow. “What's wrong with you?” she said. I swear that if she hadn't been backed against the wall already, she would have taken several steps backwards.

“TB,” I managed once the attack subsided.

“That's not very nice,” she said. “People die of that.”

“I know. It killed my family.”

The color in her face drained, leaving it white, but a crimson blush soon replaced it once she realized what she'd just said. “Oh heavens! I'm so sorry…I didn't mean to…”

I waved away the apology. It wasn't the first one I'd heard and I was pretty sure it wouldn't be the last. “Please don't feel badly. It was a couple of months ago now. I'm over it,” I added. It was a lie, but I was trying to ease her discomfort.

She shook her head. “Me and my mouth. I only take one foot out of it so I can put the other one in, or so I've been told.”

“Is all that food for me?” I said, changing the subject.

She seemed to shake off her embarrassment. “You can eat whatever you like.” She lifted one of the domed lids. “Sausages and bacon here, and eggs and mushrooms there.” She nodded towards the other covered dishes. “Or there's toast—a bit cold now—or cereal.”

“Doesn't Uncle Thomas have breakfast?”

“Yes, but he takes it in his rooms. He has a suite of them in the west wing. He rarely eats here in the dining room.”

“Why's that?”

Amy shrugged. “I don't know. Likes his privacy, I suppose.”

Further conversation was halted by the appearance of Mrs. Rogers in the doorway. “Amy,” she said sharply. “Don't you have other duties to attend to?”

The crimson blush was back at Amy's cheeks. She lowered her eyes and nodded her head.

“Well, run along then, girl. I can see that Jimmy has what he needs.”

Nodding again, Amy rushed from the room.

Mrs. Rogers adopted Amy's post to the right of the sideboard. “Right then,” she said with a smile, “what's it to be?”

“Eggs and bacon,” I said, “please.”

“Very well,” she said, picked up a plate and began loading it from the covered dishes. “Amy's a bit of a chatterbox,” she said as she spooned rather congealed-looking eggs onto the plate. “She's a sweet girl and a very good worker, but I wouldn't place too much importance on what she might tell you. She has what you might call a fanciful imagination.”

“She didn't tell me anything. We were just chatting.”

She came across and set the plate down in front of me.

“Well, tuck in…and bear in mind what I said about Amy. I don't want her filling your mind with preposterous notions.”

I had no idea what the woman was talking about, so I crammed a forkful of eggs and bacon into my mouth and said nothing.

After I had bathed and dressed, I took myself out into the garden. It was a hot day, but there was still a faint trace of dew on the grass, so I stuck to the gravel paths that ran either side of the lawn.

The first path led me down to the stand of trees at the bottom of the garden, but there was no clear route through them, so I stood there for a moment, peering between the moss-covered trunks. I thought I could make out a pond or small lake in the distance, but I couldn't be sure.

I retraced my steps and took the other path. This one ended in a small clearing partly occupied by a long and low outbuilding made from what looked like ribbed asbestos painted apple green, with a rust-colored corrugated iron roof. There were a few grubby windows set in the walls. I went and peered through them.

There wasn't much to see—an old, battered workbench and tools that hung from racks attached to the walls, but not much else.

I walked to another window and looked inside.

“'Ere, what you up to?” a voice with a thick Dorset accent called.

With a start I spun round and found myself face-to-face with the young man with ginger hair.

“I wasn't doing anything,” I spluttered. “I just wanted to see what was in here?”

“Who are you anyway?”

“James,” I said. “James Bentley. Thomas Bentley's my uncle.”

Ginger narrowed his eyes and tugged at his ear. “So you're the master's nephew, are you? Heard you were coming to stay.”

“And who are you?” I said.

“You can call me Barnes. I'm the gardener and handyman for the estate.”

“Don't you have a first name, Mr. Barnes?”

“Sure I do. It's Andrew, but no one here uses it. It's Barnes, just Barnes, no mister. Anyway, you'd better get back to the house. There're sharp tools in the shed. Can't have you hurting yourself. It'll cost me my job.”

“They wouldn't sack you for something that wasn't your fault,” I said.

“How long have you been here?”

“I arrived yesterday afternoon.”

“Then don't talk about things you know nothing of. When you've been here longer you might understand that what I'm saying is the truth.” He rubbed a muddy hand across his brow, streaking it with dirt. “That Mrs. Rogers would have me out of here in the blink of an eye if I gave her half a chance. The old witch.”