climbed out and opened the rear door, helping her son to the ground. He was tall for a boy of seven, but the sickness had left him thin and lifeless. His cheeks were sallow, his skin rough. With nursing him and being ill herself, she felt as bad as he looked. But she smiled encouragingly, and said, “I suppose Jock wouldn’t like to look round the new house?”
“I just told you, Mum, he’s sick. Gosh, when you’re sick, you don’t want to do a thing except die, like the way Frank did. So if it’s all the same to you, he’ll hang around in the car.”
“As you wish.” It still hurt to be reminded of the death of her older boy Frank after many months of the sickness.
Venice came to her rescue. “Wouldn’t you like to play outside, Algy, while Mummy and I look over the house? There’s an exciting-looking garden here. Only don’t fall in the Thames, or you’ll get awfully wet.”
Mayburn was a quiet house, set on the river not too far from the suburb of London where the Timberlanes lived. It had stood empty for six weeks, and the estate agent who gave Patricia the keys assured her that now was the time to buy, since the bottom had fallen out of the property market. This was her second visit to the property; on the first occasion, she had come with her husband, but this time she wanted someone slightly more receptive to see it. Arthur was all very well, but he had these money troubles.
The attraction of the house was that it was small, yet had a fairly long strip of ground behind, which led down to the river and a little landing stage. The place would suit them both; Arthur was a keen gardener, she loved the river. It had been so lovely, earlier in the summer, when both she and Algy were feeling a little better, to bundle up in warm clothes and sail on one of the pleasure steamers from Westminster Pier, up or down the river, watching the city slide past. On the river, the feebleness of convalescence had taken on almost a spiritual quality.
She unlocked the front door and moved in, with Venice behind her. Algy trotted off round the back of the house.
“Of course, it looks a bit ghastly at present,” Patricia said, as they walked through the echoing rooms. “The last owners were nuts on white paint — so colourless! But when it’s redecorated, it’ll be a different proposition. I thought we might knock this wall down — nobody wants a breakfast-room nowadays — and then there would be this lovely view down to the river. Oh, I can’t tell you how glad I’ll be to get out of Twickenham. It’s a bit of London that gets worse every year.”
“Arthur still seems to like it,” Venice said, observing her friend closely as Patricia peered out of a window.
“Arthur’s… well, I know that we’re closer to the factory than we should be here. Oh, of course times are difficult, Venice, and this beastly radiation sickness has left everyone a little depressed, but why doesn’t Arthur buck up a bit? It may sound awful, but he bores me so much nowadays. He’s got this new young partner now, Keith Barratt, to cheer him up…”
“Oh, I know you’re sweet on Keith,” Venice said, smiling. Patricia turned to her friend. She had been beautiful before her illness and before Frank died; now that her vivacity had fled, it was noticeable that most of her beauty had resided in that quality. “Does it show? I’ve never said a thing to a soul. Venny, you’ve been married longer than me. Are you still in love with Edgar?”
“I’m not the demonstrative type that you are. Yes, I love Edgar. I love him for many things. He’s a nice man — kind, intelligent, doesn’t snore. I also love him because he goes away a lot, and that eases the relationship. Which reminds me, he’ll be back from his medical conference in Australia this evening. We mustn’t be too long here. I must get back and do something for dinner.”
“You do change the subject, don’t you?”
Through the kitchen window, they had a glimpse of Algy running in long grass, on a pursuit no one else would ever know about. He ran behind a lilac tree and studied the fence which divided this garden from the next. The strangeness of the place excited him; he had spent too long in the familiar enclosure of his bedroom. The fence was broken at one point, but he made no attempt to get into the next garden, though he thought to himself how enjoyable it would be if all the fences fell down in every garden and you could go where you liked. He ran a stick experimentally along the fence, liked the result, and did it again. A small girl of about his own age appeared on the other side of the gap.
“You’ll knock it down better by pushing it,” she said.
“I don’t want to knock it down.”
“What are you doing, then?”
“You see, my Daddy’s going to buy this house.”
“What a mouldy shame! Then I sha’n’t be able to creep into the garden and play any more. I bet your mouldy old father will mend the fence.”
Leaping to his father’s defence, Algy said, “He won’t, because he can’t mend fences. He’s not a handyman at all. He’s completely useless.” Catching a clearer glimpse of her through the bushes, he said, “Gosh, you’re bald, what’s your name?”
“My name is Martha Jennifer Broughton, and my hair will all grow on again by the time I’m a big girl.”
He edged closer to the fence, dropping the stick to stare at her. She wore a jumper and a pleated skirt, both red, and her face was open and friendly; but the dome of her head was utterly naked. “Gosh, you aren’t half bald!”
“Doctor MacMichael says my hair will grow again, and my dad says he’s the best doctor in the world.”
Algy was put on his mettle by small girls who claimed to be authorities on medical matters. “I know that. We have Doctor MacMichael too. He had to come to see me every day because I’ve been at Death’s Door.”
The girl came closer to her side of the fence. “Did you actually see Death’s Door?”
“Jolly nearly. It was very boring on the whole. It uses up your resources.”
“Did Dr. MacMichael say that?”
“Yes. Often. That’s what happened to my brother Frank. His resources got used up. He went right through Death’s Door.”
They laughed together. In a mood for confidences, Martha said, “Aren’t Doctor MacMichael’s hands cold?”
“I didn’t mind. After all, I’m seven.”
“That’s funny, I’m seven too!”
“Lots of people are seven. I ought to tell you my name’s Algernon Timberlane, only you can call me Algy, and my father owns a factory where they make toys. Shall we have to play together when I come to live here? My brother Frank who got buried says girls are stupid.”
“What’s stupid about me? I can run so fast that nobody catches me.”
“Huh, I bet! I bet I could catch you!”
“I tell you what, then — I’ll come in your garden, ’cause it’s a good one; it hasn’t got flowers and things like ours has, and we’ll play Catch.” She climbed through the broken fence, lifting her skirts daintily, and stood in his garden looking at him.
He liked her face. He could smell the sweet smell of the afternoon; he saw the pattern of sunlight and shadow fall across her head, and was moved.
“I’m not supposed to run fast,” he said, “because I’ve been ill.”
“I thought you looked pretty awful. You ought to have some cream on your cheeks like I do. Let’s play hide- and-seek then. You’ve got a smashing old summer-house to hide in.”
She took his hand. “Yes, let’s play hide-and-seek,” he said. “You can show me the summer-house, if you like.”
Patricia had finished measuring the windows for curtains, and Venice was smoking a cigarette and waiting to go.
“Here comes your devoted hubby,” she announced, catching sight of a car turning in at the drive. “He promised he’d be here half an hour ago. Arthur’s always late these days. I want his advice on this primitive brute of a cooker. Is Keith driving him?”
“Your luck’s in, my girl: yes, he is. You go and let them in and I’ll slip out and collect Algernon. We really ought to be off.” Venice let herself out of the back door and called Algy’s name. Her own children were older than the Timberlanes’, and had escaped most of the effects of the sickness; Gerald, in fact, had suffered no more than a seeming cold, which was all the external evidence of the sickness most adults showed.
