“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 . . . ?”
“Don’t be silly,” said Samantha coolly. “We’ve got to get that coat off you before your arm swells up any more. It will be agony taking it off the normal way, so I’m afraid you will just have to sacrifice the coat.”
Skilfully, and to Adrian’s surprise without causing him any pain, she cut neatly up the sleeve of his coat and then performed a similar operation on the sleeve of his shirt.
“There,” she said with satisfaction. “Now, you just lie still while I go and get the doctor.”
“More brandy?” suggested Mr. Filigree, determined not to be outdone in medical proficiency by his daughter. “I remember in Egypt when the slaves were dropping off the pyramids, at sometimes two a day, we always got them brandy.”
“He can have some,” said Samantha firmly, “but I want you to remain sober. I shall be back in half an hour or so.” She nodded molly to Adrian and floated out into the night.”
“I do assure you,” said Mr. Filigree, handing Adrian a glass of brandy, “I do positively assure you that I, my dear sir, have never been drunk.” He gave a surreptitious look at the door then poured some brandy into his own glass. “Women,” he fluted, “women in moments of crisis are always apt to lose their heads and say things they do not mean.” He gulped the brandy down thirstily. “It’s the fragility of their nature,” he went on earnestly. “Samantha’s a good child, but rather apt to have a sharp tongue when she loses control of a situation. Do you follow me?”
To Adrian it appeared that Samantha had the situation under considerably more control than her father, but he did not like to say to. So he nodded portentously Mr. Filigree wedged himself once more into his arm chair and sat back beaming rosily and expansively at Adrian.
“I’m always telling Sam,” he said, wagging an admonitory finger at Adrian, “I’m always tailing her that if one follows the Scriptures one can’t go far wrong. ‘Take a little brandy to settle your stomach after a train accident.’ I think you’ll find it in Nebuchadnezzar, or somewhere like that, but alas, women are so frail compared to us men.”
He drank thirstily from his glass, shot a quick glance at the door and then leaned forward as far as his stomach would permit and fixed Adrian with a baleful eye.
“Do you realise,” he said, with such earnestness that his voice disappeared into a falsetto squeak like that of a bat, “do you realise that women cannot remember the past?”
By now Adrian was enveloped in a warm rosy haze of brandy and he was not following Mr. Filigree’s arguments with any great attention.
“Wash that?” he said.
“Women,” repeated Mr. Filigree very solemnly, “cannot remember the past.”
“All the women I’ve met do,” said Adrian bitterly. “Generally in the most ghastly detail.”
“Aha!” said Mr. Filigree, wagging his finger again, “the immediate past perhaps, but no further than that.”
“Well, how far do you want them to go?” asked Adrian, leaning back and closing his eyes.
“You can go right back,” squeaked Mr. Filigree, “if you try hard enough. But it’s the fact that women have such limited intelligence that makes my task all the harder.”
“Really?” said Adrian, half asleep.
“Yes,” said Mr. Filigree firmly, pouring himself some more brandy. “Even when they do remember, it’s some stupid, footling detail, like the colour that was being worn at court, or who was whose lover.”
Adrian mulled this over for a minute or so while Mr. Filigree watched him anxiously.
“Do you know?” said Adrian, opening his eyes suddenly, “I haven’t the least idea what you’re talking about.”
Mr. Filigree sighed in remorse, his double chins and his vast stomach rippling with the reverberations.
“You are not yourself,” he said sorrowfully. “To-morrow, when you are better, I will explain it all to you. Now you go to sleep, the doctor should be here very soon.”
“Thank you,” said Adrian, and he dosed his eyes and immediately sank into a deep and peaceful sleep.
Adrian lay looking at the oak-beamed ceiling, flooded with early morning sunlight, in some satisfaction. It was a week since he had arrived at the Unicorn and Harp and it was the first morning on which he had woken feeling really fit. The evening of his arrival Samantha had returned with Dr. Hunchmould, a short stocky little man who walked like a clockwork toy and whose breath whistled through his nostrils like bagpipes. With Samantha, coolly efficient, helping him and Mr. Filigree dancing about ineffectually, Dr. Hunchmould had stripped Adrian down, put three stitches in a long gash in his thigh, bound up his cracked ribs and encased his broken arm in plaster from wrist to elbow. The pain Adrian suffered was considerable, and by the time the doctor had finished he was exhausted. Mr. Filigree, delighted at being able to perform a useful function, bad carried Adrian up the narrow stairs to a small bedroom—cuddled under the thick thatch of the roof—and put him to bed. For the next two days Adrian hardly remembered anything except that Samantha always seemed to be there, smoothing his pillow, holding his head as he vomited into a large china chamber pot covered with rosebuds, and giving him soothing, cooling drinks when his fever got high. He wondered hazily how she managed to get any sleep, for whenever he opened his eye; either during the day or the night, she always seemed to be there, sitting patiently on a chair by his bed, concentrating on some tapestry she was making. Now that he felt better, he was overwhelmed with embarrassment at the trouble he must have caused her. He wiggled his toes into a cool part of the bed, stretched experimentally, and then wished he had not, for his body still ached and twinged.
The door opened suddenly and Samantha came in bearing a tray with his breakfast.
“Good morning,” she said, smiling. “Flow are you feeling?”
“Much better,” said Adrian, blushing as he always did when she fixed her large green eyes on him. “I think, in fact, I could get up. I’m afraid I’ve caused you far too much trouble as it is.”
“Nonsense,” said Samantha briskly, placing the tray on his lap. “You get these eggs down you. They’re fresh this morning. Father went into the village for them.”
“How’s Rosy?” asked Adrian anxiously.
“Fine,” said Samantha raising her eyebrows. “Why? Shouldn’t she be?”
“She doesn’t normally take to women,” explained Adrian.
“Well, she’s taken to me,” said Samantha, “and she adores father. I think she thinks he’s a kind of elephant.”
She sat quietly watching him while he ate the eggs and drank the tea; then she deftly removed the tray and straightened his pillows.
“The doctor’s coming to-day to take out your stitches,” she said. “So you’ll just stay where you are until he tells us whether you can get up.”
“Look,” said Adrian, “there’s something I must tell you. Can you spare five minutes?”
“You’re looking a bit flushed,” said Samantha surveying him critically. “You sure you haven’t got a temperature?”
“No, no,” said Adrian, “I’m just worried.”