snow bilowed over a chimney. He turned the corner, into a street that bore slightly downhil, becoming aware that he had to be careful not to fal. He looked down at his feet. He could already feel the wet seeping in and cursed the fact he had not worn sturdier boots. As he trudged on, he wondered again why he was pursuing al this. There was nothing to pursue realy. A man had died, one of milions in the last seven years or so. He had no moral imperative to find out exactly why or how; despite what everyone assumed, he had not been a close friend of John Emmett. There had already been a perfectly thorough judicial examination by the police and coroner. He felt cross with himself, with the situation and with the weather so early in the winter.
As he looked up, a cumbersome shape caught his eye between the swirls of snow. Whatever it was, it was moving slowly and unevenly towards him, though many yards away on the other side of the street. Thinking it was a woman caught out with a perambulator, he moved to help her, but even as he speeded up, the shape twisted, then seemed to sprawl sideways and stop. He tried to run towards what was evidently some kind of accident. As he got closer it dawned upon him that it was a wheelchair and before he could identify the faces he realised it must be Eleanor and Wiliam. Eleanor didn't see him, even when he was only a few yards away from where the chair had tipped over. Wiliam was stil half in it and seemed to be trying to pul himself clear. Eleanor had her arms under Wiliam's and her elbows were tucked into her sides as she tried to move him. Her boots were slipping and she heard Laurence only when he spoke their names. He looked first at Eleanor. Her face was grim and determined, but was lightened by relief as she recognised him.
'Could you steady the chair?' he said as he leaned forward and checked that Wiliam was simply stuck, not injured.
He placed his arms round the man's waist, but when the weight of him started to shift, he staggered slightly before regaining his balance. The unfamiliar distribution of Wiliam's legless body caught him by surprise and he felt a twinge of pain in his back. Suddenly he was standing, bracing himself, legs apart, with Wiliam pressed against him and his arms round his waist almost as if they were dancing. He could feel the slight roughness of the man's cheek, the dampness of his scarf.
Eleanor had got the chair upright; the edge of the tartan blanket seemed to have caught in the wheels and she tugged it angrily. Laurence lowered Wiliam onto the seat while she held the handles. He had always thought how wel Wiliam looked but now he saw the invalid in him: his eyes were closed, his face grey and his lips blanched, only the tip of his nose a bluish red. Eleanor glanced at Laurence and for a moment there seemed to be unfeigned gratitude in her face. Though her eyes were fierce, there was something else there; she was biting her lip and looked close to tears.
Wiliam's eyes jerked open. 'Helo.' The bleakness of his appearance disappeared as he tried to smile. 'A knight in damp but shining armour,' Wiliam said. 'We hadn't quite foreseen the weather changing so swiftly. Stupid of us. Felt a bit like Captain and Mrs Oates. Noble but foolish.'
The snow was settling on him and the tracks behind them showing where they had come to grief were already vanishing. Laurence took the handles from Eleanor. She nodded.
'Hold on,' he said.
The chair jerked forward, slewing to the side, and Wiliam coughed, but then it came under control. Laurence kept going rather than risk it stopping. It must always be quite a heavy task, even without the snow, which had brought the couple close to disaster on this occasion, and Eleanor was far slighter than he. He manhandled the chair off the pavement and across the road, with Eleanor beside him. On the far side she took off her sodden gloves and stopped as he tipped the chair back a little, then helped guide the wheels to the pavement. Her knuckles were raw and red.
Finaly they reached the bottom of the steps. There were only three but the snow had piled up against them. Laurence couldn't imagine how the Bolithos got in and out, even at the best of times. Should he try to lift Wiliam again? But Eleanor turned to the side, where there was a smal tradesman's gate he'd hardly noticed before. He helped her pul it open against the snow and, once through, they were in a narrow but more sheltered passage. It led to a bolted door with two sturdy planks nailed to the step. For the first time Eleanor looked a little more cheerful.
'Ingenious, don't you think?'
It was a relief to get inside. No fires were lit but it was warm compared with the street. Wiliam removed his gloves and scarf with stiff arms.
'Go and sit down,' Eleanor said as she spun the chair round towards the hal. 'I'm going to heat water and help Wiliam get into some dry clothes.' Wiliam made vague gestures of protest.
'Do you need any help?' Laurence said.
'Could you light the fire? Hang your coat there.' She gestured at a row of hooks.
He wandered into the dark drawing room and pressed his face to the window. The snow seemed to be stopping. He picked up some matches from a brass holder, turned on the gas tap and lit the mantles. They popped for a minute, then began to glow as he knelt to light the paper spils and ignite the coal already laid in the grate. He could hear Eleanor and Wiliam talking although their words were indistinct. The fire flickered and caught.
Even as the day outside finaly disappeared, this room looked as bright and warm as when he had first come here. He looked at the drawings that had created such an impression on him on his first visit. There was a good head and shoulders one of Eleanor. Standing by it now, he saw that Wiliam had sketched her in red pencil. It was dated only the year before. On an oak side table his eye was caught by a snap of her that he hadn't noticed either; it was taken a while back—she was with a smal group of nurses standing outside a building that from its shutters looked French or Belgian. He had to look hard to pick her out with her linen veil low on her forehead. On the other side of the table was a formal photograph of her and her son. He bent over to see Nicholas looking rather solemn as he sat on his mother's knee.
Eleanor, too, looked a little sombre as she gazed down at her child, her arms encircling him. Laurence focused on her image: she was quite different in stilness. In the flesh, the impression she gave was dominated by animation and inteligence and, of course, her striking colouring. In repose and in monochrome, she looked quite ordinary: just a mother with her son.
He didn't hear her when she came in the door behind him. There were spots of colour high in her cheeks and he waited to gauge her mood. She fiddled with a smal silver brooch that held her blouse colar together at the neck.
Eventualy she said, 'Thank you. I've helped Wiliam to bed to rest with a hot-water bottle.' A smile flickered. 'Do sit down, Laurence. I'm not about to show you the door this time. We wouldn't have got back without you.'
She sat down heavily in a deep chair with her legs straight out in front of her and her head back against the cushions. Her shoulders slumped. She gave him a rueful look.
