Convalescence Read Free Page A

clothes.
    Before I left the hospital I had been reading No Boats on Bannermere by Geoffrey Trease, and I was about halfway through. It belonged to the hospital library, but I’d tucked it into my case under a pile of shirts, with the thought that I would return it to the hospital when I next went there. I had every intention of doing so—I was not a thief—but at least I would get a chance to finish it first.
    I took it back to bed and climbed in, raising my knees under the covers and pulling the sheet up over my head to make a tent, and spent the next hour or so reading, until my eyelids began to droop. I switched off the penlight, shut the book and closed my eyes.
    The next thing I was aware of was opening my eyes again to the morning sun streaming into the room.
    Stretching and yawning, I pushed back the covers and swung my feet to the floor. The floorboards were polished wood, but a rug had been placed at the bedside and it was warm under my bare feet. I found my slippers and put them on, then padded across to the window. I realized my room must be above the dining room because the view was almost identical—the lawn sweeping down to the trees, the rather grand summerhouse.
    I could hear voices coming from below. I couldn’t hear what was being said but the tone of the words was angry. I took a step forward and peered down. All I could see was the top of someone’s head, and I recognized the confection of gray hair, clipped and pinned, that belonged to Mrs. Rogers. The other voice was male, but not my uncle’s. This was a younger man’s voice.
    My curiosity was satisfied when a young man stepped into view. He was big and raw-boned, dressed in working clothes—denim dungarees and plaid shirt, with Wellington boots, the tops rolled down—and he had a shock of carrot-colored hair that curled over his head like a wooly hat. As he walked away from Mrs. Rogers, I noticed he had a pronounced limp, favoring his left leg. He’d only taken three strides away from her when he spun round and stuck two fingers up. I’d seen the gesture before in the playground at school and knew its meaning, and I wondered what the old woman had said to him to provoke such a reaction.
    He must have sensed me watching him because he suddenly stared up at my window. I ducked back out of sight and when I looked again he was limping across the lawn in the direction of the summerhouse.
    I went down to the dining room wearing just my dressing gown and slippers. Again the table was set for two, but judging from the toast crumbs on one of the plates and the coffee grounds in the cup next to it, I guessed I would be breakfasting alone.
    â€œYou’ve just missed her.”
    I spun round. Amy was standing by the mahogany sideboard that stood against the wall. The old piece of furniture seemed to be groaning under the weight of three large metal dishes with domed covers, racks of toast and china cereal bowls, together with several larger cut-glass dishes containing mounds of various cereals.
    â€œYour Miss Holt was here earlier. I think she’s gone for a walk now,” Amy said.
    â€œShe’s not my Miss Holt,” I said irritably. “I hardly know the woman. She was sent by the hospital to see that I settled in okay. She’s leaving the day after tomorrow.”
    â€œShe seems a bit frosty.”
    â€œShe is. She’s confiscated my radio. Reckons listening to cheap pop music will slow down my recovery.”
    â€œAnd listening to Beethoven or Mozart will speed it up?”
    â€œApparently.”
    She gave a derisive sniff. “Adults. Haven’t a clue, have they?”
    â€œHow old are you?” I said.
    â€œNearly sixteen,” she said.
    â€œSo how long have you worked here?”
    â€œSince leaving school last summer.”
    â€œI wish I could leave school,” I said. “I’ve got to go back…when I’m better.” My last words caught in my