by Betty Neels
She found the days passing very slowly. They were not monotonous, for thirty small children each doing his or her own thing hardly made for monotony, but they needed to be played with, taught their letters, how to count, how to feed themselves, and they needed to be cuddled and amused and kept clean. Suzannah was tired by the end of the day, and yet she went to her room reluctantly when the last of the children had been fetched home. She had told the professor stoutly that she wasn’t lonely, but that hadn’t been true; despite Horace’s cosy presence, she longed for someone to talk to. Preferably the professor; she admitted that, to her own astonishment. They might dislike each other, but even while he was poking his nose into her affairs he was reassuringly large and dependable; moreover, when he chose, he was a delightful companion. ‘Although I don’t like him,’ she told Horace, too often and too loudly.
It was a couple of weeks later, well into the middle of a snowy February, that fate took a hand once again. The children hadn’t gone out that morning—the weather was too bad. They sat at their little tables, painting and modelling with clay, evenly divided between Suzannah and Melanie while Mrs Willis had gone to supervise their dinners being prepared in the kitchen at the back of the house.
Suzannah, scraping modelling clay off an overenthusiastic moppet, twitched her small nose and then frowned. There was a faint smell of burning and not from the kitchen, for it was acrid, like scorching cloth.
Melanie was in the adjoining room with the door half-open. Suzannah opened it wide and called her, and then, as the smell was suddenly stronger and she could hear a faint crackling, she shouted urgently.
Melanie came across the room, frowning. ‘That’s no way to talk in front of the kids,’ she began. ‘Someone’s burning the dinner…’
‘I’m going to see what it is; look after my lot,’ said Suzannah, and didn’t wait for an answer. She shut the door after her and went into the hall. The kitchen was beyond the staircase and she could hear voices from it; the crackling was coming from somewhere upstairs, and as she began to run up them a puff of smoke eddied from under a door on the landing.
It was the door leading to Mrs Willis’s flat, and it was locked. She tore down the stairs again, breathless with fright, flung open the kitchen door and found the room empty. Mrs Willis and the cook were in the small room beyond where the bowls and the spoons were kept.
‘There’s a fire in your flat, Mrs Willis,’ said Suzannah, and without waiting for an answer she raced back again to where Melanie was rounding up the children for their dinners.
‘Don’t ask questions—there’s a fire upstairs, get the children’s coats and get them out—quick!’
Melanie was a nice girl, but not quick on the uptake. ‘Fire?’ she asked. ‘I thought it was the kitchen burning something…’
‘Oh, be quick, do!’ cried Suzannah, quite out of patience as well as being scared to death. She went to the small cloakroom off the hall and hauled out coats and hats and scarves and began putting them on the children whether they belonged or not. She was aware that Melanie had rushed up to her, clutching her arm, shouting that there was a fire and they must get out of the house, but she shook her off, still bundling the children into coats. ‘Of course there’s a fire!’ she shouted. ‘The children will catch their deaths without coats; for heaven’s sake wrap them up and get them out.’
Mrs Willis and the cook were there now, marshalling the children into the hall and out through the door and down the steps.
‘I’ve phoned the fire brigade,’ shouted Mrs Willis. ‘Get the children counted.’ A blast of unpleasantly hot air billowed down the stairs and she coughed. The last of the children were being hustled out when one small boy turned and ran back into the second of the playrooms. The smoke was thick now and a small tongue of flame whipped round the top of the stairs. Suzannah snatched up a woolly scarf, wound it round her face and plunged into the smoke. The child was at the back of the room, still comparatively free from smoke, searching frantically through the box of toys in one corner. Suzannah saw who it was then: Billy Reeves, small and undernourished and inseparable from the grubby teddy bear he dragged with him each day. Common sense told her that it was madness to delay there, but it might be quicker to find the bear and hurry Billy away from danger than try and prise him loose from something he was determined to do. She had learned a lot since she had joined the staff at the nursery school.
Spurred on by the child’s frustrated screams and sheer terror lest they wouldn’t be able to get out of the house, she hurled toys in all directions, found the bear, snatched up a suddenly happy Billy and rushed out into the hall. The stairs were well alight now, although the flames were not yet half-way down, but the smoke was worse. She clapped a hand over Billy’s mouth and nose and ran to the door just as the wooden ceiling above their heads began to fall in. A smouldering plank fell across them, and she pushed it away with a free hand, not noticing the pain as it scorched her. She almost fell through the open door and pushed Billy into Mrs Willis’s waiting arms.
‘Horace,’ she shouted to no one in particular, and galloped down the area steps to scoop him into his basket and rush back again. There was quite a crowd by now, and the fire engine’s reassuring siren very close, and hard on its heels a police car and an ambulance.
None of the children was hurt, but they were terrified and cold; they were stowed into the ambulance and taken the short distance to the hospital and a second ambulance took the rest and Melanie. Mrs Willis refused to go, and Suzannah, shivering with cold and well aware of her throbbing hand, stayed with her. Mrs Willis, usually so efficient, looked as though she would faint at any moment. She clutched Suzannah as the fire took hold. ‘My flat,’ she muttered, ‘and all the work I’ve put into the place…’
Suzannah put an arm round her. ‘The children are safe; you’ll get insurance and be able to buy another house. And there must be an empty hall or rooms where you can carry on—the children will need you.’
Mrs Willis blew her nose and wiped her eyes. ‘You’re right, it isn’t the end of the world. I’ve plenty of friends, too.’
She saw that Suzannah was shivering and noticed her hand. ‘You’re hurt, you must go to hospital and have that burn dressed. You were very brave to go after Billy I should have gone…’
‘I was the nearest,’ said Suzannah, and broke off as a police officer tapped her on the shoulder. ‘We’ll run you to the hospital, miss. That hand needs seeing to. There’s nothing more to do here. And you too, ma’am. You’re the owner? No need for you to catch your death of cold; we’ll drop you off if you’ve friends who’ll put you up until things are sorted out.’
‘At the end of this street.’ Mrs Willis got into the car beside Suzannah. ‘And what about you, Suzannah? Have you somewhere to go when you’ve had your hand seen to?’
Suzannah had Horace’s basket on her lap; his head was pressed up to the wires at its end and she was stroking him with a finger. She said cheerfully, ‘Oh, yes, I’ll be all right, Mrs Willis.’ The poor woman had enough to worry her.
The accident room was busy. Suzannah was sat down in a chair and told that someone would see her in a few minutes. The minutes ticked away while two road accidents were dealt with one after the other, which gave her more than enough time to wonder what she would do. She had no money and no clothes, only Horace, quiet in his basket beside her. She supposed that someone would tell her where she could get a bed for the night; the Salvation Army or perhaps the police would help. A cell, perhaps… She giggled tiredly and closed her eyes.
And that was how the professor found her; he had been called down to give his opinion of a severe head injury, and on his way back to the consultant’s room he saw her. She was a deplorable sight and smelled horribly of smoke. Her hair was full of bits and pieces and specks of soot, and there was a smear down the front of her skirt and the sleeve of her sweater was badly scorched. She had laid her burned hand across her chest to ease the pain, while the other hand clutched Horace’s baske
t.
The professor said something forcibly under his breath, and the house doctor with him said quickly, ‘I expect she’s from the nursery school. There’s been a fire there—the children came here to be checked, none of them hurt, luckily.’
‘When was this?’
‘Oh, an hour or so ago, sir.’
The professor swore quietly and the young surgeon looked at him in surprise. Professor Bowers-Bentinck never swore and seldom raised his voice, certainly never before a patient; he had the reputation of being a rather cold man, brilliant at his work and certainly very sure of himself.
‘I know this young lady,’ said the professor. ‘I want her taken up to theatre—they’ll be busy in the two main theatres, so put her in the surgery at the end, will you? Get a porter and do it now, if you please.’
She woke up when the porter brought a chair and still clutching Horace’s basket, only half awake, she was transported to the fourth floor where the theatre block was.
The surgery was a small room used for taking out stitches and minor cuts and dressings, and the young surgeon hovered round her, not quite sure what to do. He had suggested leaving the cat basket outside, but Suzannah had clung to it and even tried to get up and go. And, since the professor had left her in his care, the young man was in two minds as to what to do.
Suzannah sat watching him; any minute now he might snatch Horace from her and he was all she had left in the world. Two large tears trickled down her dirty cheeks.
The professor, coming quietly into the room with everything needed to deal with her hand, dumped the lot on his houseman, whipped out a very white handkerchief and wiped her face.
‘Oh, it’s you,’ wailed Suzannah, and gave a really tremendous sniff.
He took Horace’s basket from her and put it on the floor.
‘Indeed it is I. No, don’t worry about Horace, he’ll not be taken away. I will see to that hand before I take you to Mrs Cobb for the night.’
Suzannah sniffed, blew her nose, wiped her eyes once more and said, ‘No,’ and because that sounded rather rude, ‘Thank you very much, but I’ll be all right.’
The professor didn’t bother to answer. He beckoned his houseman nearer and began to clean her hand and dress it. He was gentle, but it hurt all the same. When she spoke it was because she felt that someone should say something. ‘I thought you were a brain surgeon.’
‘Oh, I am, but one does acquire the rudiments of first aid as well.’
A remark which drew forth an outraged snort from the house doctor.
The professor finished the job to his satisfaction and said, in the kind of voice which brooked no arguing, ‘You will wait here, Suzannah, with Horace. I shall return in about ten minutes.’
Whatever he had done to her hand had soothed it; the throbbing pain had eased and her one wish was to be allowed to sleep. She was scarcely aware of his going, and dozed off while the house doctor, left to mount guard, tidied away the considerable mess the professor had made.
She awoke when the professor came back, this time with a porter and a chair, and although she attempted to remonstrate with him he took no notice, but disappeared again. She was wheeled through endless corridors and into lifts and at last was trundled through a side door of the hospital.
The Bentley was there; the professor shovelled her carefully into the seat beside his, put Horace in the back of the car, thanked his assistants gravely and drove away.
Suzannah, more or less free from pain and her lungs clear of smoke, had revived. She said worriedly, ‘I smell awful,’ and then, ‘Where are you taking me?’
‘Back to my house. Mrs Cobb will take care of you. Tomorrow you can decide what you want to do. A little while ago you told me that you would be quite all right, but at the moment you are in no fit state to go anywhere but to bed.’
The word bed conjured up the blissful thought of sleep. ‘And you don’t mind having Horace, too?’
‘I have no doubt that Mrs Cobb will be delighted.’
He sounded impatient and she said nothing more; once she had had a good sleep, she told herself, she would think of what to do.
At his house he handed her over to Mrs Cobb, who tutted softly, gave Horace into Cobb’s care and led Suzannah upstairs. ‘A nice warm bath,’ she said comfortably, ‘and something tasty for your tea and then bed.’
‘Tea?’ asked Suzannah, ‘I don’t know what the time is…’
‘You poor child, you’re worn to a thread. The professor said you had been in a fire and got burnt, and very nasty that must have been.’
She began to remove Suzannah’s clothes. ‘And I’ll do what I can with this skirt and jumper of yours, but they are really beyond my skill. Of course, you’ve no clothes… Did they save anything from the fire?’
Suzannah was in the bath, her injured hand resting on its side. ‘I don’t know.’
She sounded near to tears, and Mrs Cobb said quickly, ‘Well, no matter, but I’ll wash that hair of yours.’
And presently, tucked up in bed, a light meal and a pot of tea disposed of under Mrs Cobb’s motherly eye, she curled up and slept. The bed was soft and warm, and she had no doubt that the room she was in was delightful, only she was too tired to bother to look.
The professor, coming home an hour or so later, was led upstairs by his housekeeper. ‘Just so’s you can see the young lady’s all right,’ said Mrs Cobb. ‘Very tired, she was and, begging your pardon, sir, filthy dirty.’
They stood together looking at Suzannah, deeply asleep—indeed, snoring very delicately.
‘I hear at the hospital that she went back into the fire to fetch a small boy who had escaped to find his teddy bear.’
‘Well, fancy that!’ declared Mrs Cobb. ‘Poor lamb, it’s a wonder that her wits aren’t turned.’
The professor said gravely, ‘Fortunately I believe Miss Lightfoot to be a young lady who will always keep her wits about her.’
They went back downstairs and he passed her and paused on his way to the study. ‘I’m dining out, Mrs Cobb. Don’t wait up—tell Cobb to lock up if I’m not back by eleven o’clock.’
It was a long-standing engagement he couldn’t put off, but he excused himself as soon as he reasonably could, getting home just before Cobb began his evening round.
‘I’ll be in the study, Cobb. Ask Mrs Cobb to look in on Miss Lightfoot before she goes to bed, will you?’ He opened his study door. ‘I’ll take a look as I go to bed.’
He said goodnight and sat down behind his desk. There were letters to answer and reading to be done. It was almost one o’clock when he got to his feet at last and went upstairs.
Suzannah, refreshed by her sleep, sat up in bed and looked around her. There was a rose-shaded lamp by the bed and the room looked charming in its soft glow. The furniture was maple, and the curtains and bedspread were rose-patterned in some heavy silk fabric. She examined it all slowly, aware at the same time that her hand was increasingly painful, and not only that, she was hungry. The dainty little carriage clock on the tallboy said half-past twelve. Everyone would be in bed by now. She lay back again and closed her eyes, but now sleep eluded her, and if she shut her eyes she could see the flames creeping further down the stairs and remember how terrified she had been while she and Billy searched for his teddy bear; the picture was so clear that she could smell the smoke…
The hands of the clock crawled round to one o’clock, which meant that there would be no one about for six hours. Looked at from one o’clock in the morning, the night stretched endlessly ahead.
She shut her eyes again and tried not to think about buttered toast and mugs of milky cocoa. She opened them quickly when the door opened and the professor walked in.
Anyone else would have said unnecessarily, ‘Awake?’ She was immensely cheered when he asked, ‘Hungry?’ and came to stand by the bed, looking down at her.
She nodded. ‘Oughtn’t you to be in bed?’ she asked.
He sat down on the bed. ‘I had to go to a very du
ll dinner party, and then I had some letters to write. I’m hungry, too. How about some sandwiches and a drink? Cocoa, tea, milk?’
‘Cocoa, please.’
He said, to her surprise, ‘I’m a dab hand at sandwiches. Give me ten minutes.’
He was very soon back, carrying a tray with mugs of cocoa and a plate piled high with sandwiches. He put it down on the bedside table and handed her a mug, and when she had drunk some of it he took it from her and put a sandwich into her hand. ‘Chicken,’ he told her, and took one himself, pulled up a chair and sat down. ‘Are you very wide awake?’
‘Yes.’ She spoke thickly through the sandwich.
‘Good. Listen to me. You will stay here tomorrow; you can’t get a job until your hand is better, and it will give you time to decide what you want to do. If you’re dead set on training as a nurse, I’ll see what I can do, though I don’t think it’s the life for you.’
‘Would I be a better teacher? Some small school…’
‘It needs careful thought,’ he said smoothly. ‘I think the best plan is for you to go and stay with my aunts and think about it—after all, it is your whole future—you don’t want a dead-end job.’
‘But I can’t go there.’ She accepted another sandwich and took a bite.
‘They will be glad to have you, and you can make yourself useful, picking up balls of wool, and finding their spectacles. They liked you.’
‘You are very kind, but I can’t impose on them, or you. I’m so sorry it’s always you who finds me.’ She finished the sandwich and he offered her the mug again, and she finished its contents down to the last drop.
‘Your hand is hurting?’
‘Well, yes, but it’s better now that I’m not hungry.’ She had a third sandwich in her hand, but with it halfway to her mouth put it down again. ‘I feel sleepy…’
The professor put down the plate and picked up the mug and studied its emptiness with satisfaction, and she muttered, ‘You put something in my cocoa.’
