скачать книгу бесплатно
Minutes ticked themselves slowly into an hour, but she managed a cheerful smile when Bas put a concerned head round the door.
‘They’ll wake soon,’ she assured him in a whisper. But they slept on: Peter sleeping the deep sleep of a healthy child, Paul deeply asleep too but with a mounting fever, his tousled head still against her shoulder. She longed to changed her position; she longed even more for a cup of tea. It did no good to dwell on that, so she allowed her thoughts free rein and wondered what the doctor was doing and who he was with. She hoped that whoever it was wasn’t distracting him from returning home at a reasonable hour.
It was a good thing that she didn’t know that on the point of his leaving the hospital in the Hague he had been urgently recalled…
When he did get home it was ten o’clock. Bas came hurrying into the hall to meet him, his nice elderly face worried.
‘What’s wrong?’ asked the doctor.
‘Little Paul. He’s not well, mijnheer. He’s asleep, but Miss Pomfrey has him on her lap; he’s been there for hours. Peter’s there too. Miss Pomfrey asked me to phone the hospital, but you were not available…’
The doctor put a hand on Bas’s shoulder. ‘I’ll go up. Don’t worry, Bas.’
Araminta had heard him come home, and the voices in the hall, and relief flooded through her. She peered down into Paul’s sleeping face and then looked up as the doctor came quietly into the room.
‘Have you had the mumps?’ she asked him.
He stopped short. ‘Good Lord, yes, decades ago.’
He looked at his nephew’s face, showing distinct signs of puffiness, then stopped and lifted him gently off her lap.
‘How long have you been sitting there?’
‘Since six o’clock. He’s got a temperature and a headache and his throat’s sore. Peter’s all right so far.’
The doctor laid the still sleeping boy in his bed and bent to examine him gently. ‘We will let him sleep, poor scrap.’ He came and took Peter in his arms and tucked him up in his bed, talking softly to the half-awake child. Only then did he turn to Araminta, sitting, perforce, exactly as she had been doing for the past few hours, so stiff that she didn’t dare to move.
The doctor hauled her gently to her feet, put an arm around her and walked her up and down.
‘Now, go downstairs, tell Bas to ask Jet to get us something to eat and send Nel up here to sit with the boys for a while.’
And when she hesitated, he added, ‘Go along, Miss Pomfrey. I want my supper.’
She gave him a speaking look; she wanted her supper, too, and the unfeeling man hadn’t even bothered to ask her if she needed hers.
‘So do I,’ she snapped, and then added, ‘Is Paul all right? It is only mumps?’
He said coolly, ‘Yes, Miss Pomfrey. Hopefully only mumps.’
She went downstairs and gave Bas his messages, then went and sat in the small sitting room. She was tired and rather untidy and she could see ahead of her several trying days while the mumps kept their hold on Paul—and possibly Peter.
‘Twelve days incubation,’ she said, talking to herself, ‘and we could wait longer than that until we’re sure Peter doesn’t get them, too.’
‘Inevitable, Miss Pomfrey. Do you often talk to yourself?’
The doctor had come silently into the room. He poured a glass of sherry and gave it to her and didn’t wait for her answer. ‘It will mean bed for a few days for Paul, and of course Peter can’t go to school. Will you be able to manage? Nel can take over in the afternoons while you take Peter for a walk?’
He watched her toss back the sherry and refilled her glass. Perhaps he was expecting too much of her. ‘See how you go on,’ he told her kindly. ‘If necessary, I’ll get some more help.’
‘If Peter were to get the mumps within the next few days I shall be able to manage very nicely,’ she said matter-of-factly.
‘It is to be hoped that he will. Let us get them over with, by all means.’
Bas came then, so she finished her second sherry far too quickly and went to the dining room with the doctor.
Jet had conjured up an excellent meal: mushroom soup, a cheese soufflé, salad and a lemon mousse. Araminta, slightly light-headed from the sherry, ate everything put before her, making somewhat muddled conversation as she did so. The doctor watched with faint amusement as she polished off the last of the mousse.
‘Now go to bed, Miss Pomfrey. You will be called as usual in the morning.’
‘Oh, that won’t do at all,’ she told him, emboldened by the sherry. ‘I’ll have a bath and get ready for bed, then I’ll go and sit with the boys for a bit. Once I’m sure they are all right, I’ll go to bed. I shall hear them if they wake.’
‘You will do as I say. I have a good deal of reading to do; I will do it in their room.’
‘Aren’t you going to the hospital in the morning?’
‘Certainly I am.’
‘Then you can’t do that; you’ll be like a wet rag in the morning. You need your sleep.’
‘I’m quite capable of knowing how much sleep I need, Miss Pomfrey. Kindly do as I ask. Goodnight.’
She wanted to cry, although she didn’t know why, but she held back the tears, wished him a bleak goodnight and went upstairs. She felt better after a hot bath, and, wrapped in her dressing gown, she crept into the boys’ room to make sure they were asleep. Nel, the housemaid, had gone downstairs again and they slept peacefully. Promising herself that she would get up during the night to make sure that they were all right, Araminta took herself off to bed.
She was asleep at once, but woke instantly at a peevish wail from Paul. She tumbled out of bed and crept to the half-open door. Paul was awake and the doctor was sitting on his bed, giving him a drink. There were papers scattered all over the floor and the chair was drawn up to the table by the window. She crept back to bed. It was two o’clock in the morning. She lay and worried about the doctor’s lack of sleep until she slept once more.
She was up very early, to find the boys sleeping and the doctor gone. She dressed, crept down to the kitchen and made herself tea, filled a jug with cold lemonade and went back to the boys’ room. They were still asleep. Paul’s face was very swollen but Peter looked normal. She had no idea how she would manage for the next few days; it depended on whether Peter got mumps, too.
She was going silently around the room, getting clean clothes for the boys, when the doctor came in.
She wished him a quiet good morning and saw how tired he was, despite his immaculate appearance. Despite his annoyance the previous evening, she said in her sensible way, ‘I hope you’ll have the good sense to have a good night’s sleep tonight. What would we do if you were to be ill?’
‘My dear Miss Pomfrey, stop fussing. I am never ill. If you’re worried during the day, tell Bas; he knows where to find me.’
And he had gone again, with a casual nod, hardly looking at her.
CHAPTER FIVE (#ulink_a2eb471d-fc59-5a3d-9973-8be0086c596e)
THE day was every bit as bad as Araminta had expected it to be. Paul woke up peevish, hot and sorry for himself, and it took a good deal of coaxing to get him washed and into clean pyjamas, his temperature taken and a cold drink swallowed. Bas had produced some coloured straws, which eased the drinking problem, but the mumps had taken hold for the moment and her heart ached for the small swollen face.
Nevertheless, she got through the day, reading to the invalid until she was hoarse, playing games with Peter and then taking him for a walk with Humphrey while Nel sat with Paul. They returned, much refreshed, armed with drawing books, crayons, a jigsaw puzzle and a couple of comics, had their tea with Humphrey in the sitting room and then went to spend the rest of the afternoon with Paul. He still felt ill, but his headache was better, he said, although it still hurt him to swallow.
‘You’ll feel better tomorrow,’ Araminta assured him. ‘Not quite well, but better, and when your uncle comes home I expect he’ll know what to do to take away the pain in your throat.’
The doctor came home just after six o’clock, coming into the boys’ room quietly, his civil good evening to Araminta drowned in the boisterous greeting from Peter and the hoarse voice of Paul. Humphrey, who had been lying on his bed, lumbered up to add his welcome and the doctor stooped to pat him.
Before the doctor could voice any disapproval of dogs on beds, Araminta said firmly, ‘I said that Humphrey could get on the bed. He’s company for Paul and comforting, too, so if you want to scold anyone, please scold me.’
He looked at her with raised eyebrows and a little smile which held no warmth. ‘I was not aware that I had given my opinion on the matter, Miss Pomfrey. I see no reason to scold anyone, either you or Humphrey.’
And, having disposed of the matter, he proceeded to ask her how the day had gone. He sat on the bed while she told him, examining Paul’s face and neck, taking his temperature, listening to his small bony chest, looking down his throat.
‘You’re better,’ he declared cheerfully. ‘You’re going to feel horrible for a few days, and you’ll have to stay in bed for a while, but I’ve no doubt that Miss Pomfrey will keep you amused.’
‘Does Miss Pomfrey—well, you mean Mintie, of course—amuse you too, Uncle?’ This from Peter.
The doctor glanced across at Araminta. ‘Oh, decidedly,’ he said, and smiled at her, a warm smile this time, inviting her to share the joke.
It was impossible to resist that smile. She agreed cheerfully and listened to Peter, like all small boys, enlarging upon the idea with gruff chuckles from his twin.
The doctor got up presently. ‘Ice cream and yoghurt for supper,’ he suggested. ‘Miss Pomfrey, if you would come down to my study, I will give you something to ease that sore throat. Peter, I leave you in charge for a few minutes.’
In the study, with Humphrey standing between them, he said, ‘You have had a long day. I’m afraid the next few days will be equally long. Paul is picking up nicely, and the swelling should go down in another five or six days. He must stay in bed for another day or so, then he could be allowed to get up, wrapped up warmly and kept in the room. Peter seems all right…’
‘Yes, and so good with his brother.’
‘I shall be at home this evening. I’ll keep an eye on the boys while you have dinner, and then if you would be with them for half an hour or so, I’ll take over. You could do with an early night…’
She said, before she could stop her tongue, ‘Do I look so awful?’
He surveyed her coolly. ‘Let us say you do not look at your best, Miss Pomfrey.’
He took no notice of her glare but went to his case. ‘Crush one of these and stir it into Paul’s ice cream. Get him to drink as much as possible.’ He added, ‘You will, of course, be experienced in the treatment of childish ailments?’
‘Yes,’ said Araminta. The horrible man. What did he expect when she’d been kept busy the whole day with the boys? Not look her best, indeed!
She went to the door and he opened it for her and then made matters worse by observing, ‘Never mind, Miss Pomfrey, as soon as the mumps have been routed, you shall have all the time you want for beauty treatment and shopping.’
She spun round to face him, looking up into his bland face. ‘Why bother? And how dare you mock me? You are an exceedingly tiresome man, but I don’t suppose anyone has dared to tell you so!’
He stared down at her, not speaking.
‘Oh, dear, I shouldn’t have said that,’ said Araminta. ‘I’m sorry if I’ve hurt your feelings, although I don’t see why I should be, for you have no regard for mine. Anyway,’ she added defiantly, ‘it’s a free world and I can say what I like.’
‘Indeed you can, Miss Pomfrey. Feel free to express your feelings whenever you have the need.’
He held the door wide and she flounced through. Back with the boys once more, she wondered if he would give her the sack. He was entitled to do so; she had been more than a little outspoken. On the other hand, he would have to get someone to replace her pretty smartly, someone willing to cope with two small boys and the mumps…
Apparently he had no such intention. Paul was soon readied for the night and Peter was prancing round in his pyjamas, demanding that he should have his supper with his brother.
‘Well, I don’t see why not,’ said Araminta. ‘Put on your dressing gown, there’s a good boy, and I’ll see what Bas says…’
‘And what should Bas say?’ asked the doctor, coming in in his usual quiet fashion.
‘That he won’t mind helping me bring supper up here for Peter as well as Paul.’
‘By all means. Ask him to do so, Miss Pomfrey, and then have your dinner—a little early, but I dare say you will enjoy a long evening to yourself.’
There was nothing to say to that, so she went in search of Bas.
Peter said. ‘You must say Mintie, Uncle. Why do you always call her Miss Pomfrey?’
‘I have a shocking memory. How about a game of Spillikins after supper?’
Araminta still felt annoyed, and apprehensive as well, but that didn’t prevent her from enjoying her meal. Jet sent in garlic mushrooms, chicken à la king with braised celery, and then a chocolate mousse. It would be a pity to miss these delights, reflected Araminta, relishing the last of the mousse. She must keep a curb on her tongue in future.
She went back to sit with the boys and the doctor went away to eat his dinner, urged to be quick so that there would be time for one more game of Spillikins before their bedtime.
‘It’s already past your bedtime,’ said Araminta.
‘Just for once shall we bend the rules?’ said the doctor as he went out of the room.
He was back within half an hour, and another half an hour saw the end of their game. He got up from Paul’s bed.
‘I’ll be back in five minutes,’ he told them, ‘and you’ll both be asleep.’
When he came back he said, ‘Thank you, Miss Pomfrey, goodnight.’
She had already tucked the boys in, so she wished him a quiet goodnight and left him there.
A faint grizzling sound wakened her around midnight. Peter had woken up with a headache and a sore throat…
She went down to breakfast in the morning feeling rather the worse for wear. The doctor glanced up briefly from his post, wished her good morning and resumed his reading. Araminta sat down, poured her coffee, and, since he had nothing further to say, observed, ‘Peter has the mumps.’
The doctor took off his spectacles, the better to look at her.
‘To be expected. I’ll go and have a look at him. He had a bad night?’
‘Yes,’ said Araminta, and stopped herself just in time from adding, And so did I.
‘And so did you,’ said the doctor, reading her peevish face like an open book. He passed her the basket of rolls and offered butter. ‘You’ll feel better when you’ve had your breakfast.’
Araminta buttered a roll savagely. She might have known better than to have expected any sympathy. She thought of several nasty remarks to make, but he was watching her from his end of the table and for once she decided that prudence might be the best thing.
She bit into her roll with her splendid teeth, choked on a crumb and had to be thumped on the back while she whooped and spluttered. Rather red in the face, she resumed her breakfast and the doctor his seat.
He said mildly, ‘You don’t appear to be your usual calm self, Miss Pomfrey. Perhaps I should get extra help while the boys are sick.’
‘Quite unnecessary,’ said Araminta. ‘With both of them in bed there will be very little to do.’
She was aware that she was being optimistic; there would be a great deal to do. By the end of the day she would probably be at her wits’ end, cross-eyed and sore-throated from reading aloud, headachey from jigsaw puzzles and worn out by coaxing two small fractious boys to swallow food and drink which they didn’t want…
‘Just as you wish,’ observed the doctor, and gathered up his letters. ‘I’ll go and have a look at Peter. Did Paul sleep?’
‘For most of the night.’
He nodded and left her to finish her breakfast, and presently, when he had seen Paul, he returned to tell her that Peter was likely to be peevish and out of sorts. ‘I’ll give you something before I leave to relieve his sore throat. Paul is getting on nicely. Bas will know how to get hold of me if you are worried. Don’t hesitate if you are. I’ll be home around six.’
The day seemed endless, but away from the doctor’s inimical eye Araminta was her practical, unflappable self, full of sympathy for the two small boys. Naturally they were cross, given to bursts of crying, and unwilling to swallow drinks and the ice cream she offered. Still, towards teatime she could see that Paul was feeling better, and although Peter’s temperature was still too high, he was less peevish.
