Kitabı oku: «Summer At Willow Tree Farm», sayfa 5
He coughed again, coming even closer to a laugh. ‘Did anyone ever tell you, your bedside manner is rubbish?’
‘Good thing I never considered becoming a nurse then, isn’t it?’ she said and was rewarded with an actual honest to goodness chuckle this time, albeit rough enough to sound as if someone had been sandpapering his larynx.
‘You’re not wrong.’
The door opened and Dr Grant walked into the room, followed by an older woman dressed in bright blue nurse’s scrubs and wheeling a metal trolley laden with what Ellie assumed must be the supplies needed to stitch Art’s hand.
‘OK, Mr Dalton, Tina is going to give you a tetanus shot and something to numb your hand and then I’ll get to work,’ Dr Grant said.
Art straightened on the bed, making the gown slip off one shoulder.
Apparently, the entertainment portion of the afternoon was now officially over. Sympathy whispered through Ellie. However annoying he was, and however many times he’d been stitched up before, this was liable to be unpleasant. And from the tension on his face, he knew exactly how unpleasant.
Watching Art get tortured wouldn’t have bothered her nineteen years ago after the way things had ended between them. But as the doctor and her assistant injected him, cleaned and irrigated the nasty gash and finally proceeded to stitch him – while Art remained stoic and silent and uncomplaining throughout the whole ordeal – Ellie had to admit that seeing him in pain now actually did bother her, a little bit.
*
‘You are not driving. Are you bonkers?’ Ellie marched ahead of Art across the car park and ignored his beyond stupid suggestion.
‘Why not? I’m fine now. And I’m a safer driver than you are.’
‘You’re not fine.’ She clicked the locks with the key fob and flung open the door. Settling in the driver’s seat, she waited for Art to climb in on the other side. The mulish expression on his face didn’t bother her as much as the white bandage on his hand which covered thirty-two stitches. She knew this because she had counted every single one.
As he wrestled with the seat belt with his right hand, she remembered that he was left-handed. She turned on the ignition and left him to struggle with the seat belt on his own.
‘I can drive one-handed,’ he said. ‘And even one-handed, I’ve got a better chance of getting us back alive than you have.’
‘Hardly. You’ve been shot full of enough painkillers to fell an ox, plus driving will only open up the wound.’ She crunched the gears, shifted into reverse, and wheeled into a three-point turn. Art gripped the dash like an old woman. She ignored the not-so-subtle hint. ‘And even though that would totally serve you right,’ she added, ‘the good Dr Grant’s just wasted twenty minutes stitching you up.’ Twenty minutes that had felt like twenty years. ‘And I’m not going to let you undo all her hard work just because you’re an idiot.’
A dark brow hitched up his forehead. ‘Since when did you become my keeper?’
‘Don’t worry, I’ll be resigning the position as soon as is humanly possible.’ With that in mind she accelerated down the country lane that led to the town’s main street. ‘And anyway, this is my car, so you don’t get a say.’
He didn’t reply, finally having conceded defeat. Feeling magnanimous in victory, she eased her foot off the accelerator as they headed over the speed bumps on the outskirts of town, and took her time getting onto the roundabout, waiting for a space big enough not to require the need to play chicken with any articulated lorries.
They’d been driving along the A30 for a good ten minutes, before he finally spoke again. ‘Thanks for helping me out. The cut was worse than I thought.’
The admission sounded weary and grudging.
‘Just a tad,’ she said, unable to resist a smile at his frown.
They drove on, the road passing the newbuilds on the outskirts of Gratesbury to wind through a landscape of fields banked by high hedges.
His eyelids kept drifting to half-mast and then popping open again. She remembered Josh doing the same thing as a toddler, when he was exhausted but didn’t want to go to bed. The thought made her think of Art as a boy, and the terror on his face when they’d walk into the unit.
‘Why didn’t you tell me you have a phobia of hospitals?’
His eyelids jerked open. He stared at her, the slow blink making her aware of exactly how long his lashes were.
He had the most amazing eyes, the tawny hazelnut brown embedded with flecks of gold. The bloodshot quality added to the glittery sheen of the low-grade temperature the good Dr Grant had told her to keep an eye on – because, at some point during today’s drama, she had become Art’s keeper.
‘I haven’t got a phobia. I just don’t like them much,’ he said, but his gaze flicked away as he said it and she knew he was lying.
How about that? She could still tell if Art Dalton was or was not speaking the truth. The way she had all those years ago.
It was a heady feeling, like discovering a superpower she thought she’d lost.
She drove down the track that led to the farm, recalling their exchange in the treatment room before Dr Grant had returned to give Art his thirty-two stitches.
OK, maybe she wasn’t totally immune to Art’s non-charms. But there would be no more flirting, with or without abs. Handling the fallout from one disastrous relationship was more than enough incentive to keep her libido on lockdown for the next decade, let alone the rest of the summer.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Driving into the farmyard, with Art dozing in the passenger seat, Ellie spotted a woman busy loading a muddy four-by-four while a young girl danced around beside her.
Art jerked awake as Ellie braked. As he hauled himself out of the car, the woman rushed towards them, the little girl bouncing behind her.
‘Art, what the hell happened to your hand?’ The woman’s eyebrows drew together. Tall and slim, with her long mahogany-coloured hair tied back in a ponytail, she looked elegant even in an ensemble of faded jeans, a baggy T-shirt and wellington boots.
‘Just had a disagreement with the rotary blade.’ Art lifted his bandaged hand as if to prove it was still attached. ‘It’s sorted.’
‘Give or take thirty-two stitches,’ Ellie added.
Art shot her his stop-being-a-drama-queen look.
‘Thirty-two stitches! In one hand?’ The woman crossed her arms over her chest, her concern escalating. ‘That sounds like some disagreement.’
‘Mummy, has Art lost his fingers?’ The girl clung to her mother’s leg, her eyes widening with a combination of fear and fascination. A puff of wild red hair surrounded a face covered in freckles, making her look like Little Orphan Annie after she’d been electrocuted.
‘No, sweetie, they’re still there,’ the woman murmured patting the child’s head. ‘Just about,’ she added under her breath.
Art crouched down and wiggled his fingers inside the bandage. ‘See, Melody, it’s all good.’ Straightening, he swept a sharp look over Ellie and Melody’s mother. ‘Stop scaring the children, ladies.’ He lifted the bag of medication out of Ellie’s hand. ‘I’ve got work to do.’ He rubbed the girl’s hair. ‘Bye, Melly,’ he said, then headed across the yard and disappeared behind the farmhouse.
What work did he think he was going to be doing on a farm with an injured hand? Ellie wondered, but stopped herself from shouting after him. Time to relinquish her responsibilities as Art’s keeper.
‘There goes the most stubborn guy on the planet,’ remarked the woman standing beside her.
‘You have no idea,’ Ellie murmured, the stomach muscles that had been knotted tight ever since Art had raced into the kitchen dripping blood finally starting to relax. ‘I had to practically kidnap him to get him to the doctor’s.’
‘Why does that not surprise me,’ the woman said, before unfolding her arms and offering Ellie her hand. ‘Hi, Tess Peveney, I’m Mike’s wife. You’re Dee’s daughter?’
Ellie nodded, returning the firm handshake.
Mike had to be the red-headed guy she’d met the day before. Melody had obviously inherited her father’s mercurial hair.
‘Ellie Preston,’ she introduced herself, her maiden name coming out more naturally this time. ‘It’s nice to meet you.’
‘You too. Sorry I missed the welcoming party yesterday. I was busy suffering the tortures of hell in Gratesbury. Otherwise known as helping out at a birthday party for sixteen four-year-old girls.’ She tucked her hands into the back pockets of her jeans and shuddered. ‘If I hear “Let It Go” or see another pink balloon, Barbie cupcake or sparkly deely bopper again in this lifetime I may have to be sectioned.’
Ellie laughed. ‘That sounds almost as traumatic as having to drag a bleeding man to Gratesbury’s minor injury unit.’
Tess grinned. ‘Nope, it’s much worse. I think I may actually have post-traumatic Frozen disorder.’
‘I like Frozen, Mummy,’ Melody piped up, hopping from one leg to the other. ‘Anna and Elsa are the best.’
‘I know how much you love Frozen, baby.’ Tess rolled her eyes for Ellie’s benefit, before addressing her daughter. ‘Run into the farmhouse and have a pee before we head for Salisbury.’
‘Do I have to?’ Melody begged, wiggling furiously.
Swinging her daughter around, Tess gave her a pat on the bottom. ‘Yes, because you need to…’ Taking a deep breath she launched into the Frozen anthem… ‘Let it go…Let it go.’
Her daughter ran off, struggling to complete the song’s chorus around her delighted giggles.
‘Are you going anywhere near the market in Salisbury?’ Ellie asked, once they had both stopped laughing. ‘I was supposed to be helping out my mum today on the stall.’
‘Actually, that’s exactly where we’re headed. Melly and I just finished baking the stall’s supply of strawberry shortbread and sourdough loaves. Or rather I baked and Melly ate as many strawberries as she could cram into her mouth.’ She swung round to indicate the trays she’d been loading into the car when Ellie and Art had arrived. ‘Why don’t you tag along?’
‘That would be terrific,’ Ellie said, pleased to get the chance to escape her unnecessary concerns about Art. Spending the rest of the afternoon in the company of women seemed like the perfect antidote to the morning’s drama.
*
Situated in the historic centre of Salisbury, the city’s main square had served the population since medieval times as a thriving community market. Presided over on one side by the majestic Georgian columns of the Guildhall, which now housed the city council, and hemmed by the patchwork of shopfronts ranging in style from half-timbered Tudor to redbrick Victorian, eight hundred years of the city’s history was here. As Ellie muscled her way from the car park behind the square through the crowds of shoppers buying everything from home-made soap to burritos, it was clear the Artisan Market was still a thriving place of commerce in the present day.
Indian spices blended with the scent of freshly roasted coffee and patchouli oil. The standard-issue green gazebos vied for space with gleaming metal food trucks and striped awnings, while the jubilant Caribbean riff of a steel band floated over the shouts of the traders and the general hubbub of people enjoying a sunny June afternoon getting lots of retail therapy. A pair of elderly ladies in floral prints inspected a stall laden with hand-sewn cushions next to a gang of teenagers with tattoos and nose rings clustered around another stall peddling multicoloured cupcakes.
‘How long has this market been in operation?’ Ellie shouted to Tess as they made their way through the labyrinth, laden down with a tray each of the strawberry shortbread Tess had baked. The few times she’d been to Salisbury in her teens all Ellie could remember was a market full of jumble sale knock-offs that she’d looked down her nose at as a London teenager with vast fashion sophistication.
Tess glanced back, Melody clinging to the hem of her T-shirt so as not to get lost in the crowd. ‘The Artisan Market? Quite a while. It’s a brilliant venue for us. It attracts a great foodie crowd. But, unfortunately, it’s only on one Sunday a month. Dee also runs a stall at the farmers’ market here every Wednesday and the general markets, on Tuesdays and Saturdays, when she’s not manning stalls at other farmers’ markets around the county.’
‘That must require a huge amount of work, doing all that baking?’ Ellie said, readjusting the tray. Her arms were already aching and they had two trays of bread still to transport.
‘We don’t just sell baked goods,’ Tess said. ‘Dee does amazing jams and preserves too. And Annie is a whizz with pastry – she’s on a mission to single-handedly reintroduce the wonder of quiche to the south-west of England – and Annie’s husband Rob makes some very nice elderflower fizz when he has the time,’ Tess replied. ‘But yeah, time is a problem because most of us are stuck doing day jobs. So Dee is the one who has to bear the brunt of the work.’ Tess shouldered her tray and sidestepped a queue of people lining up to buy themselves a dosa wrap from a Bombay street food stall. ‘Most of the speciality markets don’t run after Christmas,’ Tess continued. ‘So there is some chance to stock up and catch up on our sleep. But as most of our merchandise is freshly prepared, not much. And, to be honest, the time spent travelling to venues and setting up, and then clearing out, is also pretty prohibitive.’
Ellie spotted her mother’s stall ahead of them. The queue was even longer than at the dosa wrap one, with her mother in the centre of it all busy chatting with one of her customers while Josh and Toto packed their order into folding cake boxes.
Seeing them approaching, Dee raised a hand to greet them both.
Tess ducked round the crowd. She stacked her own tray and lifted Ellie’s out of tired arms, then began adding the cakes to the dwindling supplies on display.
‘Mom, me and Toto have been working all morning.’ Josh tugged Ellie’s arm to get her attention. ‘And Granny Dee says she’s going to pay us.’ He did a jaw-breaking yawn as Dee looped an arm around his shoulders.
‘He’s been terrific,’ Dee said. ‘A natural salesman just like Toto.’
Josh grinned up at his grandmother, basking in her praise, and Ellie felt the burst of warmth in her chest. However many mistakes she’d made in the last few months, however much she’d let Josh down, the hare-brained decision to bring him to Wiltshire might turn out better than expected in some regards.
However stilted her own relationship with Dee, Josh seemed more relaxed than she’d seen him in months.
Not so Toto though. The wave of regret was swift and fairly painful for Ellie as the girl’s gaze darted away from her.
Art had told her not to apologise to Toto, but then he was, and had always been, a hard arse. Having watched Josh struggle for over a year to find acceptance with any of the judgemental little body fascists at the expensive private school he attended in Orchard Harbor, Ellie knew she owed Art’s daughter an apology.
But that would have to wait, until after she’d given Dee news of the morning’s events at A and E. She drew Dee to one side while Josh and Toto helped Tess deal with the queue of customers.
‘Mum, I need to tell you something,’ she said.
‘I hope you don’t mind that I didn’t wake you,’ Dee said. ‘But you looked so peaceful, I didn’t want to disturb you.’
‘I don’t mind.’ Ellie smiled, strangely touched. When was the last time anyone had put her needs first? ‘Actually, as it turns out, it was a fortuitous thing I was at the farm, because Art had an accident and I had to take him to Gratesbury to get his hand stitched up.’
The colour leached out of Dee’s face. ‘Is he OK?’
‘Yes, as long as he doesn’t try playing dodgeball with a rotary blade again.’
Ellie gave her mother’s hands a reassuring squeeze when her colour failed to return. ‘He’s woozy from all the medication and not too happy with me. And I’m afraid your kitchen looks like the set of a slasher movie, but otherwise he’s fine.’
‘He let you take him to the hospital?’ Dee asked.
So Dee knew about Art’s hospital phobia? Ellie wondered if her mother knew where it came from. And anything about that gruesome scar on his stomach?
‘I insisted,’ she said.
Dee squeezed Ellie’s hands back then let them go. ‘I’m sure that’s an understatement.’ She gave a breathless laugh. ‘But thank you. And thank goodness you were there.’ She tucked her hair behind her ear in a nervous gesture.
Ellie wanted to question her mother further about Art’s phobia, when Toto’s panicked voice interrupted them.
‘Is my dad OK?’ The cake box in her hands had been scrunched into a ball. ‘Is he going to die?’
‘No, of course he isn’t.’ Dee captured the girl’s slender shoulders and folded her into a hard hug. ‘He cut his hand, but Ellie looked after him and it’s all fixed now.’ Dee sent Ellie a look of gratitude over Toto’s head.
Toto nodded mutely while concentrating on the mangled cardboard in her hands: ‘Thank you for looking out for my dad,’ she mumbled. ‘I’m sorry I made you mad yesterday.’
‘You don’t need to be sorry,’ Ellie said. ‘I was tired and cranky yesterday. I hope you can forgive me?’
‘OK,’ the girl whispered, but the wary expression remained. ‘Can I go home and make sure Dad’s alive? Please?’
‘Yes, of course,’ Dee said, but Ellie could see the concern cross her mother’s face. There were still two trays of bread to unload from the car, plus there were several hours to go yet before the market closed and the queue was only getting longer.
Ellie touched her mother’s arm. ‘Mum, you go ahead and take Toto and Josh back to the farmhouse.’ From the way Josh was yawning, she suspected the jet lag was about to slam into him. ‘I can assist Tess on the stall.’
It took quite a lot of effort to persuade Dee, but Ellie eventually managed to corral her mother and all three of the children to the car park – Melody having decided that hanging out with Josh and Toto would be much more fun than manning a market stall for the rest of the afternoon. After seeing them off, two questions nagged at her as she began the trek back to the stall with a tray of sourdough loaves.
Where had Art’s hospital phobia come from?
And where was Toto’s mother?
CHAPTER EIGHT
Two days later, Ellie sat in the kitchen and chewed at a ragged thumbnail after a morning spent picking strawberries with Josh for Dee’s latest batch of shortbread.
Nicole at Nails R Us on the corner of Main and Fifth in Orchard Harbor would have a fit if she could see the state of Ellie’s manicure.
‘Why don’t I show you how to use the bread maker this afternoon?’ her mother said, as she slid a plate of fennel and endive salad in front of her with a bowl of freshly baked bread rolls. ‘We’ve got a batch to make for tomorrow’s market in Swindon and it’s a lot less hard on the hands.’
Ellie breathed in the yeasty aroma and picked up her fork. ‘I’d certainly be quite happy never to see another strawberry again in this lifetime.’
But, as she tucked into her lunch, she recalled the hushed conversations and hidden looks directed at her during her visits to Nicole, as she pretended she didn’t know her husband had flirted with most of the women there and probably slept with a few of them too. Chipped polish and fruit stains suddenly seemed a small price to pay not to have to do the walk of shame each week at the local beauty parlour.
And running herself ragged with Tess on Sunday afternoon on the farm’s market stall had been an even better distraction than picking strawberries until her manicure died. Chatting to customers, wrapping what felt like a million cakes and loaves in paper until her fingers ached, and ringing the mounting sales up on the stall’s antique till had been so much more exhilarating than all the small talk she’d had to endure with her fair-weather friends in Orchard Harbor.
As she and Tess had packed up the empty trays, swept the debris, folded away the farm’s tables and gazebo and loaded everything into Tess’s car, the sense of achievement and camaraderie had been immense – so much more rewarding than attempting to ingratiate herself with women who she suspected had viewed her with pity or contempt.
‘Rob’s wife Annie does a mean manicure.’ Dee put a plate in front of Josh and took his DS out of his hands to replace it with a fork. ‘You, Tess, Maddy and Annie should arrange a girls’ night in soon so you can get your nails fixed.’
‘I’d love that,’ Ellie said as she split open a roll and slathered it with butter. She’d met Annie yesterday, and had warmed to her instantly. A petite woman with the will of a Trojan and a broad Northern accent, Annie Jackson had been busy corralling her twin toddlers, Jamie and Freddie, while she dropped off some of her husband’s home-made elderflower fizz for the weekend’s stall. Of course, the two of them had been forced to sample some of it with a slice of Dee’s banana nut bread. By the time they’d moved on to coffee, they’d discussed everything from the current state of US politics to the pee hazards involved when changing the nappies of baby boys. Ellie had conceded that Josh’s aim was nowhere near as hazardous as Annie’s two boys.
‘I’ll suggest it to Annie, then, so you guys can all get together soon,’ said her mother.
‘Won’t you be joining us?’ Ellie asked, surprised that the thought didn’t feel as uncomfortable as it probably would have three days ago, when she’d arrived.
Her mother picked up her fork. ‘I’m afraid manicures are totally wasted on me.’ The wistful tone told Ellie that there was more to the refusal, but she didn’t push. Maybe her mother was just being diplomatic, and wanted to let Ellie get to know the other co-op women on her own terms.
As Ellie finished her lunch, she watched Josh plough through his salad. While he’d never been a fussy eater, he wasn’t a particularly adventurous one either, but the last three days of exercise and fresh air had turned that around. As soon as Toto got home from school, the two of them headed off on another adventure and stayed out until supper.
In an attempt not to freak out when he returned each evening either covered in mud or with some unexplained raw spot on his elbow or chin, Ellie had kept busy, helping her mother with the cooking and KP duties. Dee had given her endless assurances that Toto knew how to stay safe on the farm, but even so Ellie had set some ground rules – such as no climbing on the combine harvester, or playing handsy with Art’s rotary blade.
And here was her reward. Not only had Josh spent very little time on his DS in the last few days, she suspected he’d never eaten so many fresh vegetables in his life. He was a little boy. A boisterous little boy, who had been overcautious for too long.
His nutritionist back home would be ecstatic.
‘When will Toto be back from school?’ Josh asked, around a mouthful of bread roll.
‘Not till four,’ Ellie replied. She’d learnt the bus schedule off by heart, because Josh asked the same question every lunchtime.
‘But that’s hours away and I’m bored,’ he said. ‘Toto says she’s got weeks and weeks of school left and I won’t have anything to do all day when she’s gone.’
‘You liked helping with the strawberries, didn’t you?’ Ellie asked. Why hadn’t she considered how bored Josh was likely to be with Toto at school most of the day?
‘But we’ve finished that,’ Josh said. ‘And it’s not as good as building a hideout with Toto.’
‘Maybe you could go and hang out with Melody until Toto gets back?’ Ellie said. Her mother looked after Tess’s daughter each morning while Tess was at work in Gratesbury, and Ellie knew Josh had helped to entertain her the day before.
‘Melody’s OK, but she’s only four,’ Josh said, exasperated. ‘And she’s a girl. All she wants to do is play with her doll. And sing dumb songs, really loud.’
Ellie didn’t think it would help to point out Toto was a girl too.
‘I tell you what, Josh,’ Dee cut in. ‘Why don’t I ring up the head teacher at Toto’s school this afternoon? Maybe you could go for a visit tomorrow? Would you like that?’
Josh chewed his lip – a sure sign of the nervousness and trepidation that had dogged his time in Charles Hamilton Middle School. Ellie was about to intervene, and explain to her mother that school was a problematic environment for Josh, when her son surprised her.
‘I could go to Toto’s school with her?’ He actually sounded curious.
‘I can’t promise anything,’ Dee said. ‘But if you’d like to go in with Toto for the day tomorrow, and try it out, I could certainly ask her head teacher. Marjorie’s a friend of mine and a lovely lady and I’m sure if I explained everything there might be a way to make it work. They have exchange visits with children from France all the time. I don’t see why this should be any different.’
‘Yes!’ Josh punched the air and bounced out of his seat. ‘Just wait till I tell Toto. I’m going to go get my stuff ready.’ He shot out of the room and Ellie heard him racing up the stairs.
‘Do you really think the head teacher will go for the idea?’ she asked her mother. ‘I don’t want to get his hopes up.’ Especially as she’d never seen Josh this enthusiastic about the thought of attending school.
‘Toto’s school is a new school, so they have places to fill at the moment. And Marjorie is the local organiser for the Women’s Institute – if there’s a way to make it happen, she’ll find it.’
‘I’m sure she will but what if…’
‘We’ll find something else for Josh to do,’ her mother interrupted gently. ‘There’s a million and one chores round here. Maybe he could help Art out in the workshop?’
‘And risk getting his hand chopped off? I don’t think so.’
Plus, she couldn’t see Art going for that idea. Art had taken his trademark sullenness to a whole new level in the last few days, skulking at the opposite end of the table during supper time as he picked at his food with his uninjured hand, his beard growth starting to make him look like a particularly disreputable pirate. Only last night, he’d chastised Toto for giggling too much at one of Jacob’s jokes. Toto had taken the harsh comment in her stride, obviously used to her father’s moods, but Josh had looked terrified. Her son tended to get anxious around men at the best of times, probably because he’d spent so much of his childhood trying and failing to attract Dan’s attention. And Art, with his no-frills parenting, was a great deal more intimidating than Dan.
‘It may surprise you to know that Art is actually great with kids,’ Dee said. ‘And he’s never usually clumsy. I still can’t imagine how he cut himself so badly.’
Ellie was reserving judgement on Art’s way with children. Toto and Melody might adore him, and Josh was clearly in awe of him, plus she could remember how he’d managed to hypnotise the other children at the commune when they’d been teenagers together, but that did not mean she was going to expose a child as sensitive as Josh to Art’s moods.
And she didn’t trust Dee’s opinion on Art, because it was fairly obvious she was a founder member of the Art Dalton Appreciation Society.
Ellie carried their used dishes to the sink and rinsed them off. ‘Here’s hoping the school visit pans out, so we never have to consider the nuclear option.’
‘I’ll go ring Marjorie now and see what she says,’ her mother announced as she placed the rest of the dishes in the sink. ‘Could you do me a favour while I’m handling that?’
‘Sure,’ Ellie said, placing a rinsed plate on the draining board.
‘Would you take some salad and bread into Art in the study?’ Dee opened a drawer and rummaged around. ‘And check up on him while you’re at it. I’m worried that hand may have got infected, he’s been so grumpy the last couple of days.’
Ellie dried her hands. ‘Isn’t that his natural state?’
What exactly did her mother mean by ‘check up on him’? She’d already done her shift as Art’s keeper.
‘I’m worried about him.’ Dee pulled a thin pencil-sized leather case from the drawer then held it towards Ellie.
‘What’s that?’ Ellie stared at the case as if it contained an unexploded nuclear warhead.
Please don’t let this be what I think it is.
‘A thermometer,’ Dee replied, shattering Ellie’s hopes. ‘All you need to do is take his temperature. It won’t take you a minute and it will put my mind at rest.’
Yeah, but it’s liable to make my mind explode.
‘I’m not sure I’m comfortable taking his temperature.’ Like, at all.
‘Why not?’
‘Because I hardly know the guy.’ And what I do know is only going to make this situation more supremely uncomfortable.
‘Don’t be silly.’ Dee lifted Ellie’s hand and slapped the thermometer into her palm. ‘Just get him to hold it under his tongue for two minutes. He’s more likely to do it for you than me.’
‘Why on earth would you think that?’ Ellie asked. Was her mother delusional?
‘Because he let you drive him to the hospital,’ Dee said, as if that made any sense at all. ‘And he hates hospitals.’
So saying, Dee rushed off, leaving Ellie holding the nuclear warhead.
Shoving the thermometer into her back pocket, she trooped down the hallway towards the office at the back of the house and rapped on the door.
‘Go away. I’m busy.’
Apparently, Mr Grumpy had gone from cranky to super cranky since yesterday evening.
With the nuclear warhead branding her bottom through her jeans, Ellie opened the door, certain that no superpower on earth was liable to stop this situation blowing up in her face.
She braced herself as she stepped into the cramped room. Art sat crouched over some papers, his hair swept back in untidy rows as if he’d spent the day running agitated fingers through it. An ancient desktop computer hummed in the corner like a demented bumble bee. The once white bandage was now an unhealthy shade of grey where his hand rested on the table.
