‘And you shouldn’t drink after you’ve hit your head either,’ I said, dredging up another remnant of that long-ago first aid course.
‘I didn’t hit my head, it’s a dirt mark,’ he said in a remarkably even tone, ‘and even if I had, I was going so slowly that it would only have been a light tap. Why else do you think that stupid dog is still alive after I hit her full on?’ His face set in strained lines. ‘She came out of the vines like a rocket - she was after a pheasant - and I didn’t see her until it was too late. It was entirely my fault. I wasn’t concentrating. I was looking at the cottage and wondering what it was like inside.’
‘Well, now you know,’ I said cheerily, trying to divert an imminent case of self-flagellation. ‘You’ll have to wait a while before you can do the grand tour upstairs, as the steps are pretty steep, but it’s just as nice as it is down here. And, given the number of times Lily’s been getting out recently,’ no need to point out whose fault that was, he’d find out if he was around when Janey next met Venetia, ‘the only surprising thing is that she hasn’t had a prang with a car before now.’
Fortunately the doctor chose that moment to rap on the door, and he quickly changed his mea culpa expression for the tense look of someone who is afraid that what’s coming is about to hurt. Dr Dupont was a shapely brunette in her early thirties who must have been the pin-up of her year at medical school, and instead of smelling of disinfectant like your average doctor moved around in a waft of expensive and distinctly un-medical scent. To my relief she spoke fluent, if strongly accented, English. Even if Robert’s French was good enough to tell her what the matter was, mine was certainly not up to following medical speak and I had a feeling I’d be for it from Janey unless I was able to give her a full report.
Dr Dupont sat down beside Robert, inviting him to tell her how he’d injured himself, feeling his knee gently with slim, perfectly kept hands. When he winced slightly she warned him she might have to hurt him a little more, though she’d try her best not to, and advised him to concentrate on something else to take his mind off any pain. So he did - focusing on the impressive cleavage that was revealed as her loose linen jacket fell open while she bent over him. It was probably her patent method for distracting her male patients, though I trusted she kept the buttons done up if they suffered from high blood pressure.
A couple of minutes later she finished her examination and announced that in her opinion there was no need for him to have an X-ray; the knee was badly bruised but nothing seemed to be broken. If it didn’t start to improve in two days he was to come and see her again. And how long ago had he had his last tetanus injection?
Robert hesitated, obviously wondering if he could risk a blatant lie. ‘About three years ago, I think.’
She shrugged charmingly. ‘No need for another, then.’ From the look of intense relief on his face I suspected Robert had a needle allergy, the sort that ends up with an increasingly short-tempered doctor pursuing you down the corridor as you back away from the fearsome instrument he brandishes in his hand. I speak from experience.
The doctor issued a prescription for heavy duty painkillers and two different unguents to deal with the swelling and the bruising, instructed him to rest his knee as much as possible, to use a stick if he had to walk about and not to even think of driving back to England for the time being. He said she must have passed his car on her way in and she admitted that in the circumstances this last instruction was probably unnecessary. Oh, and could we ask Monsieur Morrison if she could have another case of red wine. If he would drop it off at her surgery when he was passing it would be very kind.
She departed in a blazing whirl of energy to go and dazzle some other patient. Robert gazed after her. ‘I’ve got a lady GP in London but she doesn’t look like that. Doesn’t smell so good either.’
‘Nor does mine,’ I agreed, ‘which is rather a relief since he’s sixty if he’s a day with a large moustache. His patients might start to wonder if he were to begin drifting around in a cloud of Diorissimo.’
I went to make Robert another cup of tea, refusing to allow him any alcohol, though I think this second request was made more for form’s sake than because he was really desperate for a strong drink. ‘Thanks, Nella,’ he said as I came back. ‘I really appreciate all this.’
‘What else did you expect me to do?’ I demanded, only half joking. ‘Leave you draped over your car unable to move in the hope that some other vehicle might just happen to come down the road and rescue you, while I fed Lily biscuits and finished my book? Anyway, I thought that if I made you feel really grateful you might feel slightly less like decking me each time you see me.’
His eyebrows shot upwards. ‘I can’t think what you mean,’ he said in a haughty voice. ‘I never hit women.’
‘Only threaten to,’ I muttered. ‘Several times.’
He shrugged. ‘Can you blame me? After what you’d done?’
I looked away and fidgeted about uncertainly. ‘At the time no, but what makes me nervous is that you still look as if you want to strangle me.’
‘Do I?’ he asked, looking startled. ‘I don’t, not any longer, so perhaps the expression’s just habit. In all honesty I can’t say you’re top of my list of favourite people, but really, I suppose I ought to thank you.’ His tone didn’t make it sound as if he was overflowing with gratitude though. ‘If it wasn’t for you I’d be at the Bar, and I’d have made a lousy barrister. My heart wasn’t in it.’
‘Hence the reason why you never did any work?’
‘Precisely,’ he said, unsmiling, ‘but I’d been headed for the law for so long it seemed stupid to jack it all in at the last moment. And only someone off their head, or with a one-way ticket to Australia, would have voluntarily faced my mother’s weeping and wailing once she realised the law courts were going to have to do without a Winwood for the foreseeable future.’
I thought of Mrs Winwood, all fluttering draperies and a delicate constitution that took a turn for the worse whenever she was crossed. Funny how she got better the moment you did what she wanted. The first person who ever spoke of the tyranny of the weak must have been thinking of Robert’s mother.
‘So all in all an enforced career change was undoubtedly a good thing, though I’d have appreciated it happening another way.’
In nine years I really should have got over cringing every time I thought of what I’d done to him but at the acid tone in his voice I could feel the flush rising in my cheeks. ‘You don’t think I’d have undone it if I could?’ I demanded in a low voice. ‘You knew I was sorry—’
‘Yes, well, that’s known as repenting after the event,’ he said coldly.
‘I could hardly do it before, could I?’ I snapped, realising a little too late that this was hardly a conciliatory way to behave. But as they say, in for a penny in for a pound. Besides, I was getting fed up with continual self-abasement. ‘As things turned out, you didn’t do too badly, did you? You said yourself it was all for the best. So isn’t it about time you started doing a bit of forgiving and forgetting?’ Judging from his expression he had no intention of doing either. I took a deep breath and said in a slightly less heated voice, ‘Yes, I agree that I was deeply at fault, behaved like a cow, call it what you will, but damn it, Robert, you bear some responsibility for what happened too.’
‘How come?’ he asked in a frosty voice.
‘You kicked off the whole chain of events by sleeping with my best friend.’
‘She wasn’t your best friend,’ he corrected me. ‘She wasn’t a friend of yours at all, in fact, unless your friends normally try to pull your boyfriends.’
‘So that makes sleeping with her while you were going out with me all right?’
‘No,’ he said calmly. ‘It doesn’t. And I didn’t.’
I could feel my mouth falling open like a goldfish’s as he added, ‘But I did afterwards. What was the point of refusing what was on offer? You’d had your revenge, so I thought I might as well have my p
leasure.’
‘It wasn’t revenge,’ I said weakly, still trying to get my head around what he’d just told me. ‘I had no idea that you were supposed to be going to London the next day.’
‘Didn’t you?’ he asked sharply.
‘No! You never told me.’ He stared at me as if trying to read my mind and see if I was telling the truth. After a fraction of a second I saw him nod slightly. I took a deep breath. ‘I thought you were going straight round to see Natasha—’
‘So you decided to put a spoke in my wheel,’ he said with an unamused smile.
‘Something like that,’ I admitted. ‘Not very clever or nice but I was so upset and furious I couldn’t think straight.’
‘Going to claim mitigating circumstances due to acting while of unsound mind?’ he asked with raised brows.
‘So all that law study didn’t go to waste after all. I suppose I could, but I’d rather go for provocation.’
He eyed me with an expression that suggested bad knee or no bad knee he wasn’t going to stay immobilised for long if I went on in this way. ‘Funny,’ he said. ‘Provocation will be my defence too - when your lifeless body is found at my feet.’
So much for trying to clear the air, I thought. Maybe in another nine years Robert might be ready to consider forgiving and forgetting. It didn’t seem likely though. Then to my surprise he said, ‘Since it appears I’m going to have to stay here for God knows how long until this bloody knee gets back into driving condition, it’s going to be pretty unfair on Janey and Venetia if I’m constantly at loggerheads with you. They appear to like you.’ It sounded as if he thought this was highly eccentric of them. ‘And so perhaps we ought to have a...’ He seemed to be having a problem finding the exact words he was looking for. I doubted they were ‘loving friendship’.
‘Armed neutrality?’ I suggested helpfully after a few seconds.
‘I was going to suggest something a little more cordial, like peace.’
OK, so it was naive of me to feel a pang of disappointment that any making up Robert was doing was for Janey and Venetia’s sake and not mine. But beggars can’t be choosers so I smiled and said, ‘Fine. That’s even better. Peace it is.’
CHAPTER 8
Janey arrived back a few minutes after Robert and I agreed our momentous peace accord and looked distinctly relieved to see that her rash gesture in leaving her guest alone with me hadn’t resulted in having to clear body parts up off the floor. She reported that Lily was fine; in fact Lily had recovered so well that she’d taken one look at the vet, whom she’d encountered before and obviously remembered, turned a double somersault, slipped her collar and shot out of the door. She had a remarkable turn of speed for someone operating one leg short and it had taken the vet, Janey and both assistants several minutes before they could catch her.
Unfortunately the news on Robert’s car wasn’t quite so good. Monsieur Carreau from the garage arrived at about the same time as Janey came back. He walked solemnly and slowly around the car with an ‘it’s only good for scrap’ expression, sighing in such a gloomy manner that it could be heard in the cottage. Robert’s face grew steadily more depressed as each hearty gust seemed to put another thousand francs on the bill. Just as I thought he was going to expire with tension Monsieur Carreau appeared at the door, refusing to come in because he was wearing his overalls, and announced that while it would only take hours to beat out the damaged wing and realign the wheel, repairing the headlight was quite another matter.
Lots of head-shaking and tutting followed. The whole thing had to be replaced, and as it was a foreign make of car, and not a new one either - more tutting - he doubted he could get a new headlight locally, maybe not even in the département. He sucked in air through the gap in his teeth saying that he might even have to send to Paris for the new part, and we all knew what they were like up there. He cast his eyes up to heaven expressively; it might take weeks, years even before the spare part arrived. Now if only Monsieur was driving a sensible French car he’d be able to get a new headlight without any problem, this afternoon even; in fact, he had a very nice Renault in the garage if Monsieur was interested in doing a part exchange... Monsieur made it quite clear that he wasn’t and forced the garage owner to admit it was perfectly possible to get a new headlight by the weekend, even if it did have to come from Paris. As the garage was closed on Mondays (judging by the size of the stomach under his overalls this was so its owner could sleep off a substantial Sunday lunch), Monsieur could pick his car up on Tuesday.
Robert didn’t look as thrilled as Monsieur Carreau evidently expected him to be by this news and started muttering about needing to be in London by the weekend which produced a whole volley of Gallic shrugs and ‘Boff’s and ‘Bah’s.
‘Remember what the doctor said about resting your knee,’ I put in. ‘There’s no way you’ll be fit enough to do that long drive back to England until well after the weekend, so you might as well stop grumbling and accept it.’
The look Robert gave me was a reminder that our newfound entente wasn’t all that cordiale, though his voice was mild enough when he spoke. ‘I haven’t started grumbling - yet,’ and turned to extract a commitment that the car really would be ready on Tuesday, and not on Wednesday, or even Friday. Monsieur Carreau didn’t appear to be willing to be pinned down; he expostulated, shrugged, protested at speed and volume in an almost impenetrable accent, waved his hands in the air, then when Robert didn’t back down, shrugged again and with a broad smile swore the car would be back in perfect working order by Tuesday lunchtime at the very latest. To show he had no hard feelings about being pushed into a corner he even offered Robert a lift back to the château as his car was larger than Madame’s Twingo and easier for someone with long legs and a bad knee to get into. As they left I heard Monsieur Carreau expansively suggesting that maybe a diversion for a ‘petit Ricard’ at the bar in the village would be a good idea.
I was overflowing with that virtuous feeling you get when you’ve been up and about and engaged in healthful pursuits while everyone else is still festering in bed. I’d woken up early yet again, and instead of lying around as usual, I’d been spurred by thoughts of Venetia and her fantastic figure to get up and do some serious exercise to try to get my own, considerably less fantastic figure, into shape. Swimming, even if it’s a leisurely breaststroke in a sunwarmed pool the temperature of tepid milk, is supposed to be one of the best exercises around. And floating counts as winding down and relaxation - that’s good for you as well. All before breakfast too.
I must be turning over a new leaf, I thought as I hung my costume out on the line to dry, my mind full of pleasant visions of going to the gym and actually working out rather than gossiping with my mates Liz and Jackie. A loud toot from the road behind me interrupted this unlikely fantasy and I turned to see Janey leaning out of the window of a black Twingo and waving frantically. ‘I’m just off to the market. Do you want to come with me and have a look around?’ she called.
‘Love to,’ I said. ‘Hang on a moment while I get my shoes.’ I dashed in, told a sleepy Maggie and Phil, who were morosely sipping coffee in the kitchen, where I was going, grabbed my handbag and departed at high speed saying over my shoulder that Janey was waiting so I didn’t have the time for a lengthy shopping list, though I did hear something about ‘melons’ floating after me.
Janey was staring out of the car window, frowning at nothing in particular. She jumped as I opened the door, turning with a startled expression as if she expected to see the local axe murderer rather than someone she’d just invited to come along for the ride. ‘Is everything all right?’ I asked as I got in. ‘You look as if you’ve woken up with all the worries of the world on your shoulders.’
‘I haven’t. Tom takes care of all of those,’ she said tersely as she started the car.
It wasn’t the sort of tone that invited you to go on and ask a few invitingly nosy questions. I wondered what they’d had a flaming row about and decided to change
the subject. Tact, that’s my middle name. ‘So how’s your patient?’
‘Which one?’ she asked with a grimace. ‘The spotted one is doing a massive amount of lead swinging, holding up her paw, whimpering every time anyone looks at her, and generally implying that the only thing to take her mind off the pain is a constant flow of dog treats. The two-legged one is being hideously tough, refusing to accept any help and making us all feel acutely uncomfortable to be near such stoicism. However, the most affected and least stoical is Venetia who has been prostrated by an acute case of guilty conscience over not latching the gate properly. She bursts into tears at every possible opportunity, wailing that she can never forgive herself for so nearly causing Rob’s death. This despite him telling her, several times, that he was never anywhere near being killed. However, if she doesn’t shut up soon she will be.’
I laughed. ‘No wonder you’re making an early escape to the market.’
‘Not kidding,’ she said in heartfelt tones. ‘Breakfast was altogether too much. I merely asked Venetia if she’d had a good run - I wasn’t really that interested in the answer, you appreciate - and she began to gulp in the most ominous way saying that, thanks to her, Rob wouldn’t be able to have a run for ages.’
‘But he doesn’t go for runs,’ I said.
‘Why should a little matter like that make any difference when you’re wallowing in gallons of guilt? And Rob’s nearly as bad. When he isn’t being noble and brave he constantly apologises for nearly squashing Lily and landing himself on me for another week. It’s driving me bonkers!’
She slowed down, pulling over to the verge to allow a high-wheeled vine tractor that looked like some sort of lunar buggy to pass by on the other side and said, ‘Luckily, it doesn’t seem to have occurred to him yet that he might find himself stuck here for considerably longer than a week.’
‘Why?’ I asked curiously.
She swung out again. ‘I’m no doctor, but you saw how he could hardly walk yesterday. Is he really going to be fit in under a week for a ten-hour drive to Dover?’
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