Читать книгу Time and the Hour - Howard Spring - Страница 22

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Anthony sat in front of the toboggan and Chris behind him. “To begin with, we’ll go down like this, feet first,” Anthony explained. “It’s the way kids always start. But it’s not much fun. Lying on the sledge, belly-down, and shooting along head first—that’s the real fun.”

They sat at the top of the run. Chris clutched Anthony firmly round the waist. “Don’t do that. Remember, I’ve got to do the steering, and I don’t want you pulling me about. Grab the sides.”

“Let’s play that we’re in Siberia. Ponies are pulling us, and wolves are after us.”

“You can play anything you like, but don’t mess me about. I’ve got to keep my mind on what I’m doing.”

They shot to the bottom of the hill. It wasn’t much of a run. They were down well inside a minute. Then they pulled the sledge to the top and did it again. They did it four times.

“How are you liking it?” Anthony asked.

“I think it’s dull—just running down a street and walking up again.”

It’s more than that, Anthony thought. It’s the cold air brushing your face, and the shouts of the boys and girls, and the lighted windows reeling by, and the stars above you, and your breath like smoke. What’s wrong with that? Why pretend it’s something else?

“All right,” he said obligingly. “We’ll have the wolves this time. And, what’s more, we’re going down head first. You’ll be at the back, so you can howl like a wolf. I’ll be in front, so I’ll neigh like a horse. But it won’t be very good. I’m not much at neighing.”

Anthony never remembered whether he neighed or not, or, whether Chris howled. What he remembered was the snowball thrown by a boy at the side of the road. It was a hard snowball that didn’t explode in white dust but gave his eye a stinging and unexpected blow. The toboggan slewed beam-on to the run, and another, following it, crashed it amidships. He and Chris were lying in the gutter. The other toboggan, having heaved them aside, had recovered from its check and gone on. No one was going to allow a little thing like that to spoil a night’s enjoyment. Chris Hudson was blubbering. Anthony said: “Oh, shut up. Let’s get going again,” and he got to his feet in order to do so. Then a howl was wrenched out of him. Someone was screwing a red-hot gimlet through his knee. He went down into the snow again with a crash. “Something’s gone bust,” he admitted.

Chris was on his feet, none the worse, and a woman who had been leaning in the gate nearby asked: “Are you all right there? Are you hurt?”

She came through the gate and looked down at Anthony lying in a heap in the dirty snow that was lit by a street-lamp. “Are you all right?” she repeated.

Chris said: “He shouldn’t have come into Ackroyd Park.”

The woman laughed and asked: “Why on earth not?”

“Because his auntie told him not to.”

“Well,” she said, “I’m not sure that boys should always do what their aunties tell them.”

This encouraging view of life and the agreeable scent that was coming from the lady led Anthony to ask: “Do you live here?”

“Yes.”

“May I come in and sit down for a moment, please? I think my leg needs resting.”

“Certainly you may come in,” she said, “and certainly, if one may judge from the howl you let out, your leg needs more than resting. Go and ring at the front door,” she commanded Chris, “and say I’d like Mr. Freilinghausen to come out here for a moment. And you,” she told Anthony, “lie where you are. Don’t try to stand on that leg. What’s your name?”

“Anthony Bromwich, ma’am.”

Lying there at her feet, he was not aware of the shock that passed over her face, or of the slight delay before she asked: “Why doesn’t your aunt like you to come into Ackroyd Park?”

“I don’t know, ma’am. But she’s dead nuts against it.”

Then there was a short black-out following a spasm of pain; and the next thing Anthony knew was that he was indoors. He was lying on a couch in a small warm room. A rather stout man was bending over him, and someone had removed his trousers and stockings and shoes. The man was aware now of being observed, and said: “I am Mr. Freilinghausen. You are lucky, young man, to have had your accident outside my gate. Now let me have a look at you.”

He warmed his chubby hands at the fire, rubbing them briskly. “Now,” he said, “you look to me the sort of boy who will not howl, though I expect you’ll want to. Howl if you must.”

The warm hands came very gently down on to Anthony’s left knee, feeling softly, and then not so softly, while the face was turned away, concentrated, as though registering through touch, and without sight, what lay beneath the skin and within the bone. Anthony writhed, and everything within him called on him to howl, but he would not. He bit his lip, clenched his teeth, and held on, looking up at the dark concentrated face. Then suddenly he saw the face contract into swift resolution, and he felt the hands, which till now had merely explored, seize his knee like the two jaws of a vice; and now he could hold back the howl no longer, and it came out full-throated. And then the man was standing up, that stern concentration all gone, and he was smiling. “Well,” he said. “Well, well. You were a good boy. I should have screamed the house down.”

Anthony lay back. The sudden brief agony had drained him. But it was fading, and presently he smiled. The man said: “Well, now we must celebrate,” and he touched a bell.

Then the lady was in the room, and Chris Hudson, and a maid carrying a tray.

The lady asked: “Is he all right?” and Mr. Freilinghausen laughed. “As right as rain. Nothing broken. Everything displaced. Now we have clicked it all back. See.” He took hold of Anthony’s leg, raised it, and gently flexed the knee. “It works,” he said, “but he must not play football to-morrow.”

“Will he be able to walk to-morrow?”

“Oh, yes. He could walk now, but he had better not. He had better sleep where he is, on that couch, to-night. To-morrow he can go home. You, young man,” he said to Chris, “will perhaps explain to his people.”

There were two bowls of soup on the tray that the maid had brought in, and Mr. and Mrs. Freilinghausen sat and watched the boys eat. The lady, Anthony thought, was very beautiful. He could not keep his eyes off her. Whenever she looked at him it was briefly: a glance, and she turned her face quickly away. And when Chris Hudson was gone and Anthony was tucked up on the couch for the night, his mind kept asking: “Where have I seen her before?” But he decided that he had not seen her before, that the night’s unusual happenings were creating an illusion; and, with his pain ebbing away, he felt very tired and was soon asleep.