He nodded.
“I’ll tell her and follow you,” he said. “I might be useful, one never knows.”
It was only a few minutes’ run to the lodge.
‘This must be the husband of the ‘writing woman’ Nanny spoke about,’ Mona thought as they went. ‘He looks young to be Squadron-Leader, and still younger to have three children.’
She wondered what they had made of the lodge. She remembered the sitting room as it had been in the days when the gardeners lived there – frowsy, overcrowded, with heavy lace curtains veiling the windows so that the room was eerie and connected in her mind as a child with stories of witches and hobgoblins.
They drew up at the door and, not standing on ceremony, Dr. Howlett made no attempt to let Mona go first but hurried into the house. Mona followed him. The room seemed far larger than she remembered it and she had a quick impression of primrose yellow walls, of orange chintz curtains, of small, suitable pieces of old oak furniture.
Then all her attention was concentrated on the girl sitting by the fire holding a screaming child in her arms. She had a piquant prettiness, dark hair cut like a page-boy and almond-shaped eyes wide with fright. The child was about three and he was screaming with all the might of his lungs. There was blood everywhere, blood on his mother’s dress, blood on his own legs, on the floor.
“I tried to put a tourniquet on him,” Mrs. Archer was saying in a voice that held a rising note of fear.
“That’s all right,” the doctor said. “Don’t worry now, we’ll fix it in a few minutes.”
There was a large, ugly gash, which seemed as if it had severed the child’s hand in half.
“Hot water,” he added curtly, “and a basin if you have one.”
The Squadron-Leader stood helplessly, as if paralysed by his son’s appearance. Mona and Michael made a rush for the small kitchen. Michael found a bowl and Mona put the electric kettle on to boil. She went back into the sitting room just in time to hear Mrs. Archer murmur weakly,
“I’m terribly sorry, but I think I’m going to faint.”
Mona wasn’t sure afterwards how it happened, but the child was in her arms, there was the sickly-sweet smell of chloroform and then she was conscious only of a small, warm and surprisingly hard head nestling against her breast.
The doctor was sewing up the cut. He took no notice of the mother who was lying back in a chair with an ashen face while her husband fetched her a glass of brandy.
“Move him round a little bit, Mona,” Dr. Howlett said. “That’s right. Hold him steady now. That’s splendid.”
He finished the job.
Mona could not look at that tiny hand with its ghastly wound – instead she kept her eyes on the curly head, thinking how soft and fair it was and how white the little forehead against flaming gaiety of her dress.
She glanced up just once and found Michael’s eyes fixed on her. She looked away again, remembering almost with an effort that she was angry with Michael. It somehow seemed unimportant beside the child, so warm, heavy and strangely comforting in her arms.
‘I like children,’ she thought suddenly. ‘I ought to have had dozens of them – Lionel’s children and mine. I wonder what they would have been like. Handsome and naughty, I expect.’
For a moment she drifted into a reverie in which the child she held was really hers. She was almost startled to hear Dr. Howlett say,
“That’s splendid, thank you Mona. Will you carry him to his cot?”
“Is it upstairs?” she asked the Squadron-Leader.
“I’ll show you,” he said. “No, sit still,” he commanded his wife, “there’s no reason for you to move, Lynn.”
Mona followed the young father up the tiny, twisted stairs. He opened the door of the bedroom. Inside there was darkness and the sound of even breathing. He switched on the light and Mona saw two small beds and a cot in a row. Gently she lowered the child from her arms to the empty cot and covered him over with blankets.
“Lucky the others have slept through it,” the Squadron-Leader said in a low voice.
She looked in the other beds. A little girl of about five and a boy perhaps a year older were sleeping peacefully, their faces almost angelic in the relaxation that comes with sleep.
The doctor came up the stairs.
“He’s all right now,” he said. “He won’t be round for a little while. And I’ll leave your wife something to give him as soon as he wakes, something that will put him to sleep again. I expect you both want a good night after this.”
“It was a bit of a shock,” the Squadron-Leader answered with a grin. “What about a whisky, Doctor?”
“That’s just what I was going to prescribe for you,” Dr. Howlett answered. “And I’ll join you.”
They all went downstairs again. Mrs. Archer had moved now from the chair and was sitting on the hearthrug.
“I’m terribly ashamed of myself,” she said. “Will you forgive me, Dr. Howlett?”
“There’s nothing to forgive, my dear,” he replied. “I thought you behaved very well. At least you waited until we got here.”
Mrs. Archer looked at Mona and cried out,
“Oh, your lovely dress! how awful! I’m so sorry.”
Mona looked down and saw that a long stream of blood had stained the delicate chiffon.
“It doesn’t matter,” she answered. “I don’t expect I shall ever have the opportunity of wearing this dress again here in Little Cobble.”
“But I couldn’t be sorrier it’s happened,” Mrs. Archer insisted. “What can we do about it, Bill?”
Bill Archer looked as troubled as his wife.
