Hills End (17 page)

He realized then that everyone was congratulating him and that Harvey had made a startling recovery and was telling everybody all about it and was as full of cheek as a pocketful of puppies. It seemed that Harvey's faith in Buzz's ability to look after himself was boundless—either that or he had forgotten the dog completely—but Harvey's exciting story was only part of the noise. All of them were chattering and thumping Paul on the back and Gussie clung to his arm with two sticky hands and pulled on him while she kissed him on the cheek. Gussie was his sister, as he knew only too well, but he still blushed profusely and protested, ‘Have a heart, Gussie! Golly, everyone looking and all that!'

‘I think you're a hero,' said Frances bluntly.

‘He is, too,' said Maisie.

‘What about me?' squeaked Harvey. ‘I didn't even have a gun. I had to face him with my bare hands.'

‘You faced him all right,' said Gussie, ‘but only because you were too scared to run away.'

‘That's not true,' squealed Harvey. ‘Is it, Paul? You tell 'em, Paul. I was even so brave I ate my pie. Yes, I even ate my pie right in front of his horrible old nose.'

‘Yes,' said Paul. ‘Harvey was very brave.'

Harvey beamed and hitched up his pants. ‘What did I tell you? See!'

‘He must have been brave,' said Adrian, ‘to eat that pie. I bet it was so bad he had to run after it to catch it.'

‘There was nothing wrong with my pie,' said Harvey. ‘It was beautiful.'

Maisie shuddered, and Frances wailed. ‘My stew! My stew!'

‘Not again,' howled Adrian.

Frances floundered to the back of the shop and shouted in triumph, ‘No, it's not burnt at all. This time it's just right.'

‘Well, take it off the flame,' yelled Adrian. ‘Honestly, Paul, you wouldn't believe it, but this Frances is the world's worst cook. You know, she's used nine tins of stew just to cook three of them. If we don't change the cook we'll run up an awful bill. She'll put us in the poorhouse.'

Paul felt he didn't care very much one way or the other, and Adrian didn't either. Adrian was trying to take his own mind away from the awful risk that Paul had run, the risk that somehow he felt he should have run himself. He was even a little jealous of Paul's glory, but was a good enough lad to feel ashamed of his jealousy. Paul's concern for the moment was quite different.

‘What the dickens,' he said, ‘is all this sticky stuff?'

‘Honey,' said Gussie, ‘and there's too much of it to lick up.'

‘Lick up!'

‘What else can we do?' asked Gussie. ‘We've got nothing to wash in. I've already licked so much off my hands and clothes I don't think I'll ever look a bee in the eye again.'

‘For pity's sake!' said Paul. ‘Surely you people had enough sense to keep out of the honey?'

‘We had to get Butch in,' said Adrian. ‘There was no other way. And she's right, Paul. We haven't a thing to wash in. Plenty of soap, but no water.'

‘I've heard some things in my time,' said Paul. ‘No water!'

‘Not until the morning, anyway. Not until we can get outside. And I'm not going out there to fish a bucketful out of the ditch, not with that bull running wild, not in the dark.'

‘You'll have to do something, Adrian. Why don't you empty a couple of bottles of lemonade into the sink? That ought to raise a lather.'

‘Wash in lemonade?' squealed Harvey.

‘Why not?' said Paul.

‘Goodness!' said Maisie. ‘Like the film stars who take a bath in milk?'

‘A bath in lemonade?' Harvey scratched his head. ‘Ooh, that'd be good.'

‘I'll bet,' said Adrian, ‘it would be the first bath you ever took without complaining.'

‘What about Butch?' said Paul.

‘Frances has got him up the back, wrapped in blankets. His feet are in an awful mess. You'd better have a look at him. See what you think.'

‘Me? I don't know anything about that sort of thing.'

‘I thought you did,' said Adrian. ‘The way you felt his pulse and all.'

Paul remembered then that it wasn't so long ago that he had vowed to be a doctor. ‘Perhaps I will take a look at him,' he said.

‘What about our wash in lemonade?' squeaked Harvey.

‘You don't wash in lemonade,' growled Paul, ‘only the ones with honey on them.'

‘I'll soon fix that,' said Harvey.

‘You'd better not!'

Harvey pulled a long face and caught Frances's eye. ‘That's really stew you've got there, is it?'

‘I hope so,' said Frances, ‘but I don't think you'd better eat any, not after that pie.'

‘The pie was all right,' said Harvey. ‘Do you think I'm a pig or somethin', eatin' bad meat? The fridge was knocked over, see, and the door was open. Everything inside it was all right except the milk, and that was spilt all over the floor.'

‘If everything was lying in the open,' said Maisie, ‘the flies must have had a good time.'

‘Flies don't eat much. There was plenty for me.'

Maisie shuddered. ‘You horrible little beast!'

Paul knelt down beside Butch, and Adrian brought a light close. Butch was still unconscious, still very white and cold.

‘I think they call it a white faint,' said Paul.

‘Don't know what else they
could
call it.'

‘Or white unconsciousness, or something. Frances, if you're getting pneumonia, I think you run a temperature, don't you?'

Frances looked helpless. ‘I don't know, Paul. All I know is it's something that people are frightened of. I don't even know what it is, unless it's a very bad cold. Like flu, only worse.'

‘I had flu once,' said Gussie, ‘and ran an awful temperature. Mum said I was delirious and said all sorts of silly things.'

Harvey sniffed. ‘What does that prove? You're always sayin' silly things. I reckon all girls must be delirious most of the time.'

‘You be quiet, Harvey Collins, you horrid little boy.'

‘Yes,' growled Paul, ‘pipe down, Harvey. No one was talking to you, anyway…I don't think we should have a pillow under Butch's head. I reckon that's keeping the blood away. I reckon that's why he's so pale. He's probably fainted from hunger or something…I don't think he's sick. Honest, I don't.'

Frances was quite sure that Paul didn't really believe it, but she helped him remove the pillow from beneath Butch's head and place it beneath his hips. Adrian, on the other hand, was very impressed and was certain that Paul did know what he was doing. It couldn't do any harm, anyway, certainly couldn't kill Butch and might even cure him. If his brain needed blood the logical thing to do was to lower his head.

‘We'll see what happens, eh?' said Paul.

‘Mum's got a doctor's book at home,' said Maisie, ‘but I don't like the idea of going into the house to get it.'

‘We'll get it tomorrow,' said Adrian. ‘We might even have one up at our place. At least I can get into our house, even if it is pretty wet inside…What about that stew, Frances? I'm famished.'

‘Yes,' said Gussie, ‘I'm ravishing.'

‘I think,' said Paul, ‘the word you mean is “ravenous”. “Ravishing” means “beautiful”.'

‘I'm ravenous, too,' said Gussie, ‘but I can't help it if I'm beautiful. Who's fixing this lemonade for a wash? I'm dying to see what it does.'

‘Probably peel all your skin off,' grumbled Harvey.

‘I think it's a shocking waste,' said Frances. ‘I really do.'

‘Goodness!' exclaimed Gussie. ‘Listen to her! All that stew burnt and she's got the cheek to talk about waste. Come on, Paul. It was your idea. Give him the bottle-opener, Frances.'

Frances sighed and passed the bottle-opener to Paul and apparently for the first time noticed the condition of his raincoat.

‘Paul,' she shrieked, ‘that brand-new coat!'

Paul blinked, taken aback, and caught sight of the coat himself for the first time. He was still wearing it. One pocket was torn and it was all but covered in mud.

‘Oh, golly!' he said.

‘Is that all you can say?' screeched Frances. ‘They cost seven pounds nineteen and eleven. I saw it on the tag.'

‘All right, all right,' wailed Paul. ‘Keep your hair on. You don't think I did it on purpose, do you? What would you rather have—Harvey gored by a bull or a tear in a raincoat?'

‘That's not the point at all, Paul Mace. If we're going to use things that don't belong to us we've got to look after them.'

‘Golly, Frances, I'm not shouting for joy about it. I didn't know it had happened.'

‘You're being a bit hard, Frances,' growled Adrian.

‘You are, too,' flared Gussie. ‘You leave Paul alone, Frances McLeod. You're not even his sister. You're not allowed to growl at him, and I'll pay for it out of my bank. That's what I'll do.'

‘Thank you, Gussie,' said Paul, ‘but I'll pay for it myself…Righto, you sticky people. Two bottles in the sink and you'll all have to wash in it. You'd better grab a towel each from the shelf.'

Paul took the lamp and went out into the store-room, and Gussie glared at Frances. ‘You miserable thing,' she said, ‘just because you burnt the stew doesn't mean you can get cross with everyone.'

Frances looked so forlorn that they thought she was going to cry, so they left her to it. They all took a towel down from the shelf, even hopeful Harvey, and followed Paul out to the rear of the building.

And when she was alone Frances did cry.

Paul emptied two bottles of lemonade into the washbasin and offered Maisie the soap.

‘Away you go,' he said, ‘and if it doesn't lather I'm a Dutch uncle. It's foaming an inch deep already.'

Maisie smiled appreciatively, accepted the soap and waved the eager audience back. First she lowered her face over the basin and shrieked, ‘It
spits!
'

‘What did you expect it to do?' squeaked Harvey. ‘Pull your nose?'

‘Really, Harvey Collins!'

Harvey giggled and Maisie plunged her hands and the soap into the basin and instantly the lemonade foamed up to her elbows and she started shrieking again.

‘For pity's sake,' yelled Paul, ‘get on with it, you silly girl.'

‘Don't be an old sour-puss,' snapped Gussie. ‘Hop into it, Maisie.'

Maisie giggled and squealed and dipped her face into the basin and suddenly recoiled from it, panting and spluttering and licking her lips.

‘Oh, goodness!' she said. ‘I've lost the soap.'

‘I know you,' squealed Harvey. ‘You meant to lose it. You'll have drunk it all up before the rest of us can get near it.'

‘It is a bit of a circus,' tittered Adrian. ‘I don't think it's going to work.'

‘Of course it'll work,' said Paul sharply.

Maisie fished through the foam until she found the soap, but she was almost helpless with laughter. She shook all over and valiantly tried to lather the soap, but she might as well have tried to get froth from stone. Every time she touched the lemonade it hissed and bubbled, but the soap itself was dead. It wouldn't lather.

‘You're a Dutch uncle,' said Adrian to Paul. ‘Just as well you didn't promise to eat your hat.'

Paul wasn't very happy about it and didn't take the failure as well as he should have done.

‘All right,' he said, scowling, ‘wash yourselves any way you please. I don't care.'

He tramped from the storeroom, peeling off his raincoat and dropping it in a heap on the floor in front of Frances. He realized, as he glanced at her defiantly, that she had been crying. For the moment he didn't know what to do.

‘I'm sorry I was cross with you, Paul,' she said.

He looked down at his coat and was only an instant short of kicking it when his self-control asserted itself. He recovered the coat and smiled, even if it was a little grudgingly.

‘That's all right. I was pretty short with you, too. We're not going to do very well if we start fighting. Shake!'

They shook hands and laughed.

‘Did you really burn the stew, Frances?' he said.

‘I'm an awful cook, Paul. Truly I am. But I'll darn your coat for you tomorrow and sponge it clean and then you won't have to pay all that money for nothing.'

‘The soap wouldn't lather, either. I was so sure it would.'

‘We all make mistakes, Paul. We've all got to learn, you know, and from what I saw of that road this afternoon we might have to learn a lot more before we're through. Do you want some stew?'

‘Yes, please.'

‘You should have a wash first.'

‘As Harvey would say, the dirt will give it more body.'

She gave him a cup full of stew and a spoon. ‘It's not very fancy,' she said, ‘but I'll leave you with it. It sounds as though they're having trouble with Harvey.'

‘Trust Harvey. I suppose he's lapping it up instead of washing with it.'

Frances shuddered and skipped out of sight. Paul was aware of some slight surprise. He hadn't expected Frances to skip like a child. To him she seemed to have such an old head on her shoulders, but then he caught the aroma of the stew and suddenly felt almost sick with hunger. He wolfed it down, and was on his knees beside Butch when the others returned from the storeroom.

A faint touch of colour was coming back to Butch's cheeks and his flesh was less clammy. Paul realized that if Butch had developed any infection in his lungs probably the first symptom would be heavy or harsh breathing. That even happened with an ordinary cold, so he pressed an ear to Butch's chest and listened hard. There seemed to be no rattles or gurgling or wheezing. In fact, Butch seemed to be breathing easily and his heart was pumping firmly like a good diesel engine.