He turned and actually galloped, if a donkey ever galloped, and Georgia stopped being resigned to giving amusement to small boys, stopped being mildly put out by bumps, and became terrified instead. She could tell from the screams that pushed aside the peals of laughter that the children were frightened as well, frightened for her, and had she not been so scared she might have found room for triumph, a triumph that that blasé pair were worried for her.
But there was no time for anything except to hang on. Didn't this donkey know then that donkeys never move out of choice, that if they have to they proceed only by placing one reluctant foot after the other?
She told Peaceful so. She yelled it at him. And all the time they climbed, and climbed, you would not have credited that a burdened donkey could climb so fast. Then, reaching the top of a foothill, the down slope to the other side came so abruptly it took Peaceful by surprise. And Georgia. Over his head she went flying to the ground, by some miracle the donkey stepped over and not on her, then, probably scared at what he had done, he went cantering off.
But Georgia lay still.
By the time Grip Smith, summoned by two boys with an urgency he had not thought they were capable of, had got into his car and headed in the direction Peaceful had taken, Peaceful had crossed to another valley, and the landscape was empty of both donkey and girl. The ochre and pumice hills, for in summer the damson bloom and the bruisey blue of the Troodos tops either rubbed off or faded as the cooler heights descended to the hotter sea level, camouflaged everything with their nothing tone. He cursed that neutrality for its concealment, and yet, he thought, surely against the parched scene he could pick up the sight of a pink girl.
He saw nothing but the ochre and pumice, and some slender spires of thistle squills, their sky-blue tufts the only field flowers able to brave the down-soaking August sun.
Grip drove till he could drive the car no farther. He left it and began fanning the slopes by foot. He called her name. In a situation like this, you could not call Miss Paul… nor even Georgia.
'Georgie,' he shouted, borrowing from Bish and Seg, 'Georgie!'
There was no answer. Georgia, lying where she had landed, was incapable of answering. She was concussed.
Several times Grip Smith went almost within yards of her, rock outcrop hiding her, but his calling did not reach her, and he went on.
She could not have said at what period she regained consciousness, for when a blurred awareness did reach her, she could not remember anything, neither who she was, where she was, what had happened. She just lay there.
But slowly, bit by bit, things began to unravel. She remembered thankfully from a first aid course that a skull blow that rendered one unconscious for a period could be less serious than a relatively slight blow causing no unconsciousness but having grave delayed results.
She felt confident she belonged to the first category, so after resting a while, she began to test herself, not wishing to do more damage again to a possibly damaged, if now numbed, limb. She began from her toes upwards… wriggling the toes… relaxing them… making rigid the shins, calves, thighs. She was thankful that everything seemed intact.
Ribs, pelvis, stomach, all felt uninjured, shoulders, neck, back. No, she was sound, and yet she knew she could not get up.
She must get up. She had no doubt she was being looked for, but in the position that Peaceful had deposited her, she could be looked for all night. She must at least get up sufficiently to make some sign, wave a bush or something, shout.
Shouting seemed the best thing to begin with. She opened her mouth, but nothing came out.
'Help! I'm here. Help!' She said it in her mind, and framed it with her lips, but still nothing happened.
The light was beginning to fade, so it must be some hours since she had climbed on to Peaceful to show the boys the pleasures of riding. Night would come, and though perhaps there were no more pleasant nights in the world than Cypriot night, with their barely less warmth than day, their bright starshine, she did not feel at all keen on staying here till then. Staying here for the next day. Staying here for ever unless rescue came, for she still could not move. It must be her spinal column, yet she did not feel any pain. Was that a grave sign, as the lack of unconsciousness was grave?
She shut her eyes and tried to relax. Even if I have to stay here all night, she knew, there'll be no fears of savage animals; the last lion on Cyprus was millenniums ago. She did not fancy a curious fox, though, a rodent… nor, looking up in terror at flapping wings, death from the sky.
But it wasn't, of course, though the shock of it did not help the state of shock that Georgia was already suffering but had not diagnosed in herself. The shock of a flamingo hovering over her, then putting down almost on her chest.
The Pink One had found her. Rising up again, the wading bird did a complete circle, then he landed a second time.
Close behind him came Grip Smith, two small boys, Yiannis, Olympia, Georgiou, Andreas, Button—no cat, since cats leave rescuing to heroes, but a repentant Peaceful, who must have returned home. All the family.
Grip Smith brushed them all back, then knelt beside Georgia. Rolling up his sleeves, he began to finger her.
'I'm all right,' Georgia said, 'I've done all that, I'm quite sound.'
He took absolutely no notice, she might just as well not have spoken; all he said was: 'Sore there? Tender here? A numbness? A pain?'
'No, no, no. No!' The last No was when he began to unfasten her shirt.
'Don't be a damn fool,' he said, 'I'm trying for your collarbone.'
'There's nothing,' she insisted in a quieter voice, 'but I just can't get up, somehow. Do you think'… tears began to roll… 'it's my spine?'
'It's your imagination. Sorry, I shouldn't have said that. It is now, but perhaps it wasn't then. When you regained consciousness, I mean.'
'And what is your diagnosis at that time?'
'Very apparent. You were shocked. Shock can keep crippling for hours, but not if it's attended to.' He nodded to Olympia, who came eagerly forward with a flask from which she proceeded to put hot liquid into a cup. When she had finished she handed it to Grip and he put the cup to Georgia's lips. The contents were extremely sweet, and she grimaced.
'Essential,' he advised. 'Drink up.'
The boys were hopping around in their eagerness to tell her something, and Georgia had a fair idea of what it was. It should have been Buttons who had led the rescue party, and perhaps given the time the dog would have, but a bird has an advantage, he can look down on a scene, and the Pink One had.
But— 'Flamingoes don't,' Georgia said faintly.
'This one did,' Grip stated, 'heaven knows how.'
'Perhaps we have a wonder bird.'
'I don't think so, I think he merely was doing a circuit, saw you and mistook you for a very large pink grub.'
'He eats worms,' she said faintly.
'I didn't like to call you that. When he found out you'd be indigestible, he just rose up again, but the kids took it for a signal, and—' Grip spread his hands.
'Factual as ever.'
'That's my metier,' he reminded her.
'Anyway, I'm thankful to him, if not thankful to Peaceful.'
'Yes, Miss Paul. About that donkey. Why was I not told about the donkey?'
'Would you have objected?'
'I'm doing the asking.'
'Then that was why I didn't tell you, in case you objected.'
'I would think that now you wished I had objected.'
She shook her head. 'I'm unhurt I'll get up soon.' But she was aware as she told him that that she still did not feel very able.
'Why did you do such a damn silly thing as ride a donkey?' he asked her.
'Everyone rides them here.'
'For a purpose, not for pleasure. I think this particular donkey realized that, and it was a shock.'
'There are shocks everywhere today,' she said. 'I also rode him to demonstrate to the boys the
joys of horseback.'
'On a donkey?'
'You know what I mean.'
'I do. What a pity it was wasted.'
'How do you know? The boys love Peaceful, I'm sure this little occurrence would never put them off.'
'They had no need to be "put on", like the swimming,' he said. 'I'm afraid they ride well already. They have certificates from an exclusive Paris Pony Club,;'
'They never told me,' Georgia objected.
'You never asked.'
'You never told me.'
'I didn't know until now.'
'You also didn't put your nose outside the door to find out. Your own—your own—' She had been going to say 'Your own little sons', but he intervened irritably:
'I have a deadline to meet. Good lord, what do you think I am?'
'Blind. You've employed me to prepare these boys for something that the more I see of them I realize they're better prepared for than those already there—Australia, I mean.' Good gracious, she was thinking, doesn't this man know anything at all about his family?
'In other words, you don't need this job?' he asked.
She did not want that, she wanted anything but that, but she wasn't going to beg to him. 'I just mean'… lamely… 'you haven't done any homework on them.'
'Any reason why I should?'
If you can't see it, she thought, heaven help you. Aloud she said: 'I'll get up now.'
He steadied her as she did, whereupon, to her dismay, she was sick, quite horribly and embarrassingly. Olympia ran forward in sympathy, but Grip Smith nodded her away and took out his own large white handkerchief.
'Yes, shock,' he diagnosed.
The spasm passed, and Georgia murmured in a little voice that she believed she could walk now, thank you.
The 'thank you' did not quite emerge. Not only telling him she could walk, but trying to demonstrate it, she moved forward a few inches, and gave a painful little cry.
At once he was down again, and examining her ankle closer than he had examined it before.
'A Potts' fracture unless I'm mistaken. You wouldn't feel it until you put weight on it. Not a serious one, but I'm afraid you won't be leaving the job as early as you wished after all.'
'You wished, and I could still leave.'
'You could, but I don't wish any more, I'd have compensation to pay, even though you have only yourself to blame for this damn thing, and if I have to part out I may as well have some return.'
'You really mean I can sit while I work.'
He did not argue that. Nor did he wait to tell her what he proposed to do now. Turning to Yiannis, he instructed him to go ahead and bring the car as near to the scene as was possible. He told Olympia to go back to the house and prepare a downstairs bed. He told Georgiou and Andreas something, the boys something. Undoubtedly, thought Georgia, he told the Pink One, Peaceful and Buttons something, for he was a telling kind of man.
Just to prove that, he turned and told her what she was to do, told her by taking her up bodily and firmly and carrying her up the hill then down the slope to the car.
Here Yiannis sat behind the wheel waiting. Grip Smith got into the back seat, still with Georgia in his arms, and in that arrangement they drove back to the house.
CHAPTER FIVE
Olympia had arranged a downstairs room that overlooked the garden and the hills from one window, the sea from the other. Georgia, when she protested that she could have stopped in her own bedroom, was cut short by Grip.
'You're a lightweight, Miss Paul, but I don't fancy carrying you up and down a flight of stairs.'
'I'm only very slightly fractured,' she answered. 'I could have managed, if slowly, myself.'
'We haven't had a doctor's opinion yet, any X-ray, so I don't know how gravely or slightly you've hurt yourself. But I do know that crawling up stairs would certainly benefit neither a grave nor a slight condition. What is it? Are you frightened my typewriter will annoy you? I assure you I can take it to another quarter, either that or send my work out, or even exchange Old Faithful for a noiseless model.'
'Which you would hate,' she smiled impulsively. She had had a writer friend in Sydney, and she knew how attached writers become to their ancient machines.
'Yes, I would hate,' he agreed. He ran his fingers through his brown hair; the gesture gave him a rather boyish look. 'As a matter of fact,' he admitted, 'its bang is my release, if you can understand that.'
'I can. And please don't try to smother the noise. I quite like it Any protest was because I felt I could be disrupting the family.'
He looked at her and seemed about to say something, then must have changed his mind.
The doctor came and diagnosed Georgia as a Potts' fracture case, as Grip had said.
'Doctor Agrippa Smith,' Georgia could not help saying.
He bowed acknowledgment. Yet just to make sure… to make sure, as he put it, that she couldn't come on him for future compensation… nonetheless he drove her down to the hospital to be X-rayed.
'You are a fuss,' she complained. 'Doctor Papademetriou saw no need.'
'Doctor Papademetriou wouldn't be called upon to support your injured ankle for life.'
'Neither would you.'
He gave a long, oddly disconcerting stare. 'I wouldn't be so sure of that, Miss Paul.'
It was a pleasant convalescence, if it could be called that, if convalescences ever are pleasant. She would lie back on her many cushions, gazing through one window at the long pale beaches edged with shining ribbons of flawless blue sea, through the other window at scattered white houses and churches with fingerpoint spires climbing the ochre foothills to plum-coloured mountains. There was a goat track curving up into the sunlight on one hill that she was resolved to follow as soon as she was able. The boys could come, too, though probably, she smiled to herself, they would leave her far behind, having been expertly trained at some expensive European gymnasium for such feats. What a complete surprise their efficiency had been… and why hadn't their father known?
She had been speaking the truth when she had told Grip that she quite enjoyed the typewriter. Its rhythm relaxed, never annoyed her, and, punctuated by the domestic sounds in the house, the children's laughter outside the house, it all made for a rather pleasant clamour.
Only one thing intruded, and that was the future of the boys as regarded the Pink One. Georgia did worry about that.
One afternoon the typewriter stopped. Georgia was not aware that it no longer tapped since it had become such a background sound to her until Grip Smith said from the doorway of her room: 'Why so pensive?'
She was absurdly glad she had gone to the trouble today to tie a ribbon round her fair hair. She could not have said why she had done so, why she had put on some lipstick. She also could not have said why she was pleased now.
'Come in,' she invited politely. She thought how wrong it was to invite someone into their own house, and apologized for doing it.
'Your sanctum,' he reminded her. He accepted her invitation, took up a chair and put it beside the deep divan bed that he had hired for her, then had ordered to be carried downstairs.
'You haven't answered me,' he continued.
She decided not to argue with him, for she was pensive, and it might help to share her concern.
'I was thinking of the boys,' she admitted, 'as regards the Pink One.'
As he waited for her to go on, she did.
'It's all only a little short of an obsession with them, and that's not good. Oh, they love Peaceful, Buttons and Purr, but it's the Pink One that fills their life. They associate themselves with the flamingo, and one day—'
'There'll be a flamingo flying south?'
'Yes.'
'But they will be going south, too.'
'Not where the Pink One will be going. Look, Mr. Smith, I know all of us, and particularly children, have obsessions. Teddy bears, for instance.'
'Much more concerning, I should say, for after all, a flamingo as flesh and blood is sur
ely a more desirable outlet.'
'But a bear is there. There so long as the one who needs it embraces it. This other comfort will go.'
'Good, then. The addiction will be nipped in the bud.'
You fool, she felt like saying, with your two complex sons, made complex, I'm sure, by their complex parents, the addiction is already in full flower.
But— 'Something else will happen,' she said instead,, 'when the Pink One leaves it will be a small amputation.' As he did not comment, she went on, 'Too much obsession is never a good thing. For instance, a mother addiction—'
He got up abruptly and strode to the window overlooking the garden and the bay. 'Perish that thought,' he said forcibly.
She looked at him wonderingly, wondering many things… wondering whose fault it was that these children had needed a wading bird to bring them to normal, average little people, not strictly normal or average, they were both too individual for that, and always would be, but a different story now from the withdrawn, bored, blasé beings they had been, their mother's fault in her odd upbringing or their father's fault in his absence of any upbringing at all?
What had happened to the Smith marriage? How long ago? How deep a cleft? Temporary or permanent? And if temporary, was it remedial? But most of all she wondered: Why am I wondering this?
He had returned to the bedside chair.
'I'm stuck,' he said, changing the subject.
She followed what he meant, and nodded sympathetically. 'Run out of thoughts?'
'That's something that doesn't happen much in current factual stuff, it can't, though just now—' He hesitated, something she had never known this self-sufficient man do before.
'I'm working on two things,' he said a little abruptly. 'I thought I'd give some copying out. Can you tell me where to go?'
She couldn't. Her brother had done his own, except when she had been here and been happy to take over the job. She told him how she had helped John, insinuating that she would gladly do the same now for him.
He brushed that aside. 'I didn't take you on as a secretary.'
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