The pills Dr Mitcham had sent via the nurse with pretty teeth made less difference than I would have liked, so I lay with my eyes shut and pretended I was floating on the sea in the sunshine, with my grating bones and throbbing head cushioned by a gentle swell. I filled in the scene with sea-gulls and white clouds and children splashing in the shallows, and it worked well each time until I moved again.
Late in the evening my headache grew worse and I slid in and out of weird troubled dreams in which I imagined that my limbs had been torn off by heavy weights, and I woke soaked in sweat to wiggle my toes and fingers in an agony of fear that they were missing. But no sooner had the feel of them against the sheets sent relief flooding over me than I was drifting away into the same nightmare all over again. The cycle of short awakenings and long dreams went on and on, until I was no longer sure what was real and what was not.
So shattering was the night passed in this fashion that when Dr Mitcham came into my room in the morning I implored him to show me that my hands and feet were in fact still attached to me. Without a word he stripped back the bedclothes, grasped my feet firmly, and lifted them a few inches so that I could see them. I raised my hands and looked at them, and laced my fingertips together over my stomach: and felt a complete idiot to have been so terrified over nothing.
'There's no need to be embarrassed,' said Mitcham. 'You can't expect your brain to be in perfect working order when you've been unconscious for so long. I promise you that you have no injuries you don't know about. No internal damage, no bits missing. You'll be as good as new in three weeks.' His steady pale blue eyes were reliable. 'Only,' he added, 'you'll have a scar on your face. We stitched up a cut over your left cheekbone.'
As I had not been exactly handsome before, this news did not disturb me. I thanked him for his forbearance, and he pulled the sheet and blankets over me again. His blunt face suddenly lit up with a mischievous smile, and he said, 'Yesterday you told me there was nothing seriously wrong with you and you'd be out of bed today, if I remember correctly.'
'Blast you,' I said weakly. 'I'll be out of bed tomorrow.'
In the end it was Thursday before I made it on my feet, and I went home to Scilla's on Saturday morning feeling more tottery than I cared to admit, but in good spirits nevertheless. My father, who was still there but planning to leave early the next week, came to fetch me.
Scilla and Polly clicked their tongues and made sympathetic remarks as I levered myself out of the Jaguar at one quarter my usual speed and walked carefully up the front steps. But young Henry, giving me a sweeping, comprehensive glance which took in my black and yellow face and the long newly healed cut across one cheek, greeted me with, 'And how's the horrible monster from outer space?'
'Go and boil your head,' I said, and Henry grinned delightedly.
At seven o'clock in the evening, just after the children had gone upstairs to bed, Kate rang up. Scilla and my father decided to bring some wine up from the cellar, and left me alone in the drawing-room to talk to her.
'How are the cracks?' she asked.
'Knitting nicely,' I said. 'Thank you for your letter, and for the flowers.'
'The flowers were Uncle George's idea,' she said. 'I said it was too much like a funeral, sending you flowers, and he thought that was so funny that he nearly choked. It didn't seem all that funny to me, actually, when I knew from Mrs Davidson that it very nearly was your funeral.'
'It was nowhere near that,' I said. 'Scilla was exaggerating. And whether it was your idea or Uncle George's, thank you anyway for the flowers.'
'Lilies, I expect I should have sent, not tulips,' Kate teased.
'You can send lilies next time,' I said, taking pleasure in hearing her slow attractive voice.
'Good heavens, is there going to be a next time?'
'Bound to be,' I said cheerfully.
'Well all right,' said Kate, 'I'll place a standing order with Interflora, for lilies.'
'I love you, Kate,' I said.
'I must say,' she said happily, 'it's nice hearing people say that.'
'People? Who else has said it? And when?' I asked, fearing the worst.
'Well,' she said, after a tiny pause. 'Dane, as a matter of fact.'
'Oh.'
'Don't be jealous,' she said. 'And Dane's just as bad as you. He glowers like a thunderstorm if he hears your name. You're both being childish.'
'Yes, ma'am,' I said. 'When will I see you again?'
We fixed a luncheon date in London, and before she rang off I told her again that I loved her. I was about to put down my own receiver, when I heard the most unexpected sound on the telephone.
A giggle. A quickly suppressed, but definite giggle.
I knew she had disconnected; but I said into the dead mouthpiece in front of me, 'Hang on a minute, Kate, I – er – want to read you something- in the paper. Just a minute while I get it.' I put my receiver down on the table, went carefully out of the drawing-room, up the stairs, and into Scilla's bedroom.
There stood the culprits, grouped in a guilty huddle round the extension telephone. Henry, with the receiver pressed to his ear; Polly, her head close against his; and William, looking earnestly up at them with his mouth open. They were all in pyjamas and dressing-gowns.
'And just what do you think you're doing?' I asked, with a severe expression.
'Oh golly,' said Henry, dropping the receiver on to the bed as if it were suddenly too hot to hold.
'Alan!' said Polly, blushing deeply.
'How long have you been listening?' I demanded.
'Actually, right from the beginning,' said Polly shamefacedly.
'Henry always listens,' said William, proud of his brother.
'Shut up,' said Henry.
'You little beasts,' I said.
William looked hurt. He said again. 'But Henry always listens. He listens to everyone. He's checking up, and that's good, isn't it? Henry checks up all the time, don't you Henry?'
'Shut up William,' said Henry, getting red and furious.
'So Henry checks up, does he?' I said, frowning crossly at him. Henry stared back, caught out, but apparently unrepentant.
I advanced towards them, but the homily on the sacredness of privacy that I was about to deliver suddenly flew out of my mind. I stopped and thought.
'Henry, how long have you been listening to people on the telephone?' I asked mildly.
He looked at me warily. Finally he said, 'Quite some time.'
'Days? Weeks? Months?'
'Ages,' said Polly, taking heart again as I no longer seemed angry with them.
'Did you ever listen to your father?' I asked.
'Yes, often,' said Henry.
I paused, studying this tough, intelligent little boy. He was only eight, but if he knew the answers to what I was going to ask him, he would understand their significance and be appalled by his knowledge all his life. But I pressed on.
'Did you by any chance ever hear him talking to a man with a voice like this?' I asked. Then I made my voice husky and whispering, and said, 'Am I speaking to Major Davidson?'
'Yes,' said Henry without hesitation.
'When was that?' I asked, trying to show nothing of the excitement I felt. I was sure now that he had listened in to the telephone call which Bill had mentioned as a joke to Pete, who had not taken in what he said.
'It was that voice the last time I listened to Daddy,' said Henry, matter-of-factly.
'Do you remember what the voice said?' I forced myself to speak slowly, gently.
'Oh yes, it was a joke. It was two days before he was killed,' said Henry, without distress. 'Just when we were going to bed, like now. The phone rang and I scooted in here and listened as usual. That man with the funny voice was saying, Are you going to ride Admiral on Saturday, Major Davidson? and Daddy said he was.' Henry paused. I waited, willing him to remember.