(11/20) Farther Afield Read Free Page B

carpet rushed upwards to meet me amidst whirling darkness lit with stars. The latter moved into a circle, as though about to embark on 'Gathering Peascods'. Suddenly, they vanished altogether, and I wondered why so many bells were ringing.
    When I came round I was sitting on the bottom stair with my face against Mrs Pringle's bosom.
    It was enough to bring me rapidly to full consciousness.
    'You bin and fell down,' said that lady reproachfully.
    There seemed nothing to add.

    Five minutes later, on the sofa, I found myself trying to control my chattering teeth and to assess the damage done.
    Mrs Pringle, who had collected the papers strewn all over the hall, now surveyed me lugubriously.
    'Well, you've made a proper job of it,' she told me, with some satisfaction. 'If you don't have a black eye by morning, I'll eat my hat. And something's not right with that ankle.'
    'Sprained,' I said. 'Nothing more, but my arm feels strange.'
    It hung down at approximately its usual angle, but felt queerly heavy.
    'Could be broken,' Mrs Pringle suggested, about to investigate.
    'Don't touch it,' I squealed. I lifted it carefully.
    'I don't think it can be broken,' I said. 'I mean there aren't any bones sticking through the flesh, and it isn't a funny shape, is it?'
    'Could still be broken,' replied Mrs Pringle, with conviction. 'You don't know much about it, do you?'
    I admitted that I was entirely ignorant when it came to anatomy. All I knew was that I was shaking and cold and for two pins would have howled like a dog.
    'I should like some brandy,' I said. 'It's in the sideboard.'
    Leaning back, I closed my eyes and gave myself over to being a casualty. Hell, how that ankle hurt! It would be swollen to twice the size in an hour, that was sure, and heaven alone knew what was the matter with my right arm.
    I took the proffered glass in my left hand and sipped the fire-water.
    'Where's Doctor Martin this morning?' I asked. 'He'd better look me over, I suppose.'
    'Wednesday,' said Mrs Pringle, seating herself heavily on the end of the sofa, far too close to my damaged ankle for my peace of mind. 'Wednesdays he's in Fairacre. He'll be at Margaret Waters sometime this morning, having a look at her bad leg. What a bit of luck!'
    'Who for?' I said crossly. 'Oh, never mind, never mind, I'll ring there and leave a message.'
    I struggled to my feet, screamed, and fell back on to the sofa again.
    'It's The Drink,' said Mrs Pringle, in a voice of doom. I remembered that the blood of dozens of Blue-Ribboners beat in her veins, and regretted that I had allowed her to administer brandy to me, even for purely restorative reasons.
    'No,' I managed to say, 'it's the ankle. Perhaps you would ring Miss Waters and ask her to see if Doctor Martin could call.'
    She went into the hall, and I swallowed the rest of the brandy. It was such a solace in the midst of my increasing discomfort that, for the first time in my life, I began to understand why people took to the bottle.
    I lay back and surveyed the room through half-closed eyes. A bump over my right eye was coming up at an alarming rate. Would it be the size of a pigeon's egg by the time the doctor arrived, I wondered? And why a pigeon's egg? Why not a hen's or a bantam's egg?
    Objects in the room had a tendency to shift to the left when I looked at them, and the curtains swayed in a highly distracting fashion. The clock on the mantel-piece grew large and then small in a rhythmic manner, and I began to feel as though the sofa had floated out to sea and we had run into a heavy swell.
    Above the rushing noise in my head, I heard Mrs Pringle's boom from the hall.
    'I'll tell her, Miss Waters. We'll be glad to see him. She looks very poorly to me – very poorly indeed. Oh, no doubt it'll be hospital with these injuries! Yes, I'll let you know.'
    ' I'm not going to hospital !' I shouted to the open door. Something crashed inside my head and, groaning, I turned my face into the sofa, giving the bump a second