“It’s . . .” began Adrian, but the fat man had disappeared.
There was a long pause broken only by a squeal from Rosy. It was one of her pleased squeals, but in a completely different key to the one she normally used. Adrian could only hope that this augured well. Perhaps she would think that the fat man was another elephant and take to him. Suddenly the fat man reappeared, his pink baby face wreathed in smiles. He danced across to the sofa his hands clasped as though in supplication, his eyes shining.
“An elephant,” he cooed shrilly. “A real, live elephant. My dear fellow, you couldn’t have brought me anything I’d like better. I haven’t had an elephant since I was in Nagarapore. And she likes me too. She actually put her trunk round my neck.”
“Oh, yes. She’s very friendly,” said Adrian.
“I remember,” said the fat man dreamily, “I used to have a hundred and one of them. Ah, those happy days. The tiger hunts, the pomp, the ceremony . . .”
“I’m sorry to interrupt you,” said Adrian, but I wonder if it would be possible for me to see a doctor? I rather think I have broken my arm.”
“My dear fellow, anything,” said the fat man. “But you must stay quite still and we’ll bring the doctor to you. Sam will be back in a minute and then everybody will be organised. In the meantime, might I have the privilege of putting your elephant in our barn?”
“Of course,” said Adrian. “It’s very kind of you.”
“I assure you,” said the fat man earnestly, “the privilege is mine.”
“Her shackles are in the back of the cart,” said Adrian, “and if you could possibly give her something to eat?”
“Don’t worry about a thing,” said the fat man, holding up one plump finger. “I will attend to everything.”
He disappeared through the front door, and Adrian heard his shrill voice talking to Rosy. Presently there was the rattling and the rumbling of the cart disappearing round the back of the pub and within ten minutes the fat man came back, dancing his way, pigeon-toed, across the great flagged kitchen, looking like an enormous pink cloud of goodwill.
“More brandy?” he fluted. “Deadens the pain.” He sloshed brandy into two glasses with great abandon and handed one to Adrian.
“Your very good health, Mister, er um . . .” said Adrian.
The fat man stared, round-eyed, looking ludicrously like a gigantic baby who has just had a safety-pin jabbed into its buttock.
“My dear sir,” he shrilled, “how remiss of me. I never introduced myself. What with the excitement of the elephant and everything. Peregrine Filigree at your service.” He bowed as low as his stomach would permit him.
“Adrian Rookwhistle,” said Adrian, not to be outdone in courtesy, “at your service.”
“Splendid,” said Mr. Filigree, “absolutely splendid. Now all we have to do is wait for Sam. Are you, by any chance, hungry?”
“Actually, no,” Adrian admitted. “I’m feeling too ghastly to eat anything.”
The fat man made his way over to an outsize leather chair and wedged himself into it securely.
“Now, tell me, my dear sir,” he said very solemnly, interlacing his fat fingers, “just before you fainted, you said that you had been attacked by a drain. Everything is possible in this world, I know, but I would simply adore to hear the details.”
“It wasn’t a drain, it was a train,” said Adrian, and he went on to tell Mr. Filigree of his adventures on the railway line. He was feeling warm and drowsy and the pains in his body somehow did not seem to belong to him. He was also feeling slightly drunk, for Mr. Filigree’s brandies were lavish, to say the least.
“Extraordinary,” said Mr. Filigree, round-eyed as he listened to Adrian’s story. “Quite extraordinary. I remember when I had to give orders to build the Great TransSiberian Railway, we had tremendous trouble with the wolves. Not only eating the labourers, you understand, but getting stuck on the lines as well. Huge packs of them, my dear sir.”
“Fashinating,” said Adrian, articulating with difficulty, “abschlutely fashinating.”
“Ah!” squeaked Mr. Filigree suddenly. “Listen!”
Dimly Adrian was conscious of the clop of horse’s hooves on the road outside.
“That’ll be Sam,” said Mr. Filigree beaming.
He leapt to his feet and danced away across the kitchen like an errant balloon. He threw open the front door.
“Sam! Sam!” he shouted into the night “Come quickly, we’ve got an elephant.” And then he danced back to Adrian and beamed down at him. “Such excitement,” he said.
For some reason, Adrian had expected Sam to be a tall, thin and rather lugubrious individual to counteract Mr. Filigree’s circular, baby-face charm; so he began to wonder whether the brandy was even more potent than he suspected when through the front door walked a slender girl of about twenty-three. Even her long skirts and the thick shawl that she had pinned around her shoulders could not disguise the slender attraction of her figure. She had a heart-shaped face and a nose with all the retroussé charm of a Pekinese, short bobbed hair the colour of burnished chestnut, and immense eyes that Adrian discovered later were leaf green flecked with gold. She paused in the doorway, looking at Adrian with astonishment, and Adrian, with a groan of pain, threw back the goose-down quilt and tried to get to his feet.
“No, no, no,” said Mr. Filigree in shrill anguish. “You mustn’t move. Sam, this poor man has been hit by a train and he’s brought us the most beautiful elephant.”
The girl drew off her gloves slowly and then moved across the kitchen towards them. To Adrian’s hazy gaze she appeared to float rather than to walk, but he attributed this to the brandy.
“What on earth are you talking about, father?” she said.
“He’s got an elephant,” said Mr. Filigree triumphantly, as though this explained everything. “Think of that, Sam. A real elephant here.”
The girl gave a short, exasperated sigh and then turned to Adrian and held out her hand.
“I am Samantha Filigree,” she said, smiling in a way that made Adrian, for no apparent reason, blush to the roots of his hair. “I’m afraid that my father’s not very good at explaining things. Perhaps you would care to fill in the gaps?”
Once more, his eyes fixed firmly on Mr. Filigree’s excitedly heaving stomach, Adrian told about his accident. Samantha drew in her breath sharply when he had finished and then turned and surveyed her father ominously while he made vague, flapping motions with his hands and turned pink.
“And what have you done about this?” she enquired. “Done?” said Mr. Filigree with injured innocence. “Why, everything, my dear. I’ve given him brandy and put the elephant in the barn.”
“Really,” said Samantha, “you are hopeless. Here’s this poor boy lying here, mortally injured for all you know, and all you can do is prattle on about elephants.”
“Well, I thought I’d leave it until you came back, my dear,” said Mr. Filigree placatingly. “You always do these things so much better.”
Samantha gave him a withering, look and turned to Adrian.
“I’ll get a doctor for you straight away,” she said. “But first, let me make sure how serious it is.”
Deftly the removed the quilt and examined Adrian as swiftly and as impersonally as though he had been a joint of meat. Adrian bit his lips in an effort not to cry out as she gently manipulated his right arm.
“Yes,” the said at last, going over to an oak dresser, pulling open a drawer and taking out an enormous pair of scissors, “you’ve got a broken arm, probably a cracked rib, and a lot of minor bruises.”
She walked back to the sofa twirling the scissors in her competent hands.
“I say,” said Adrian, nervously eyeing the flashing blades, “don’t you think we ought to wait until the doctor . . . ?”