A Girl’s Guide to Kissing Frogs. Victoria Clayton

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СКАЧАТЬ thanks. I want to see Dr Savage.’

      ‘Dr Savage has already got five patients lined up.’

      ‘I’ll wait.’

      She took her septic finger to join the other patients. I heard them whispering, then one of them said, ‘Do you think it runs in families?’

      ‘Booze, is it?’ said Glengarry. ‘I thought she was a bit –’ she tapped her temple – ‘you know, a natural.’

      ‘Poor Doctor Savage,’ said another. ‘It’s no wonder he …’ She cupped her hand over her mouth so I couldn’t hear the rest.

      ‘How’re the walking wounded today?’ asked Rafe as the car climbed an almost vertical road.

      Buster was leaning his chin on my shoulder, sighing from time to time as birds flew into his sight. He had a grey coat of stiff fur like wire wool, floppy ears, a square head, a heavy silver moustache and a soppy expression that betokened love for all humans in his golden eyes. Rafe said he was a Wirehaired Pointing Griffon.

      ‘Do you mean the patients or me?’

      ‘You, of course.’

      ‘Disgustingly cheerful, actually.’ I felt safe enough with Rafe driving to take in the wonderful views of banks of snow curling down to the road like giant breaking waves, their perimeters sparkling like foam where the sun melted them. ‘Considering.’

      ‘Considering what?’

      ‘What a sheltered life I’ve led and how thoroughly unappetizing the human body is when it goes wrong.’

      ‘It’s good of you to help your father out.’

      ‘Not really. I’m used to working hard and I’ve been horribly bored. It’ll give Dimpsie a chance to get the craft-shop accounts in order. And to be frank …’ I hesitated for a moment, then, remembering that Rafe had confided in me about his family, I rushed on ‘… I know Tom resents my reappearance under the paternal roof. I’m a drain on scant resources. Also he thinks I’m selfish and self-centred. So I thought I’d show willing. It’s mostly filing and answering the telephone … easy compared with trying to perfect a fouetté à l’arabesque when your feet hurt like hell and you’ve already been dancing for six hours. It’s just that I’ve lived in what I suppose is an artificial world devoted to the pursuit of beauty for so long that I’ve become squeamish.’

      ‘Are you longing to get back it? To the artificial world?’

      ‘It seems real when I’m in it. I don’t know anything else, you see. And when the dancing goes well it’s electrifying, like flying. You’re free and at the same time totally in control. It’s a extraordinarily wonderful sensation. Yes, I suppose is the answer to your question.’

      ‘Lucky you. I shouldn’t think many people feel like that about their work.’

      ‘Perhaps not. But of course it’s been at a price. There hasn’t been time to think about other things. Like how lovely this is.’ We had reached the high ground now, moorland without trees or hedges, the vast curves of rock, their featureless simplicity accentuated by the unbroken snow. ‘Isn’t it marvellous! Not a house, not a fence, not a telegraph pole. Even the road’s hidden beneath the slush. We might be in prehistoric times. I wouldn’t be surprised if we came across a man in wolf-skins carrying a mammoth tusk over his shoulder … Oh, look! Can you see in that little dip? There’s someone putting wood on a fire. And there’s a child helping him. They look quite ragged. Perhaps we have slipped back into another time.’

      ‘They’re probably burning the evidence of their last raid.’

      ‘You don’t mean – reivers?’

      Buster woofed gently into my ear in response to his master’s laugh.

      ‘You are a romantic! No, they’re tinkers. I expect they’re getting rid of things they’ve stolen that are too incriminating. The locals are up in arms because the rate of petty theft has shot up since the tinkers came and the police are too afraid to go to the campsite and confront them. There it is.’

      He pointed to the next valley where a row of caravans straggled beside a thin belt of trees – not the round-topped, brightly painted wagons of children’s picture books, but modern trailers. Instead of piebald horses there were cars, untidily parked. A woman came out to peg washing on a line. It blew into her face and she stepped back to wipe her cheek on her sleeve, then crossed her arms to hug her shoulders against the cold.

      ‘In the old days,’ said Rafe, ‘they were known as “muggers”.’

      ‘Because of the stealing?’

      ‘Because they sold pottery mugs to make a living.’

      We rounded a bend and the valley dropped out of sight. I saw a delightful little thatched and whitewashed inn nestling in the fold of a hill.

      ‘That’s the pub.’

      ‘It looks lovely!’

      It was lovely. Inside everything was made of wood, even the ceiling, but it was a marvellous silvery colour and not gloomy. Rafe said it was oak and part of the original sixteenth-century building. There was no one there but us so we had the table nearest the fire. On either side of it were high-backed settles which were awkward to get into because of my leg, but once inside I felt as though I was in the cabin of a man-o’-war – not that I’d ever been in one, of course, but I had seen the Hornblower film with Gregory Peck – because the slightest movement was accompanied by the creaking of ancient timbers. When I said this to Rafe he seemed amused.

      ‘I hoped you’d like it. When I was away I often thought of this place. I used to come here with Isobel when we were both at a loose end. The menu’s a bit limited. White wine all right to drink?’

      ‘Wonderful.’

      Drinking in the middle of the day was a hitherto unknown indulgence. We ordered steak and chips. The steak was the kind you needed your teeth sharpened into points to deal with, but the chips were excellent, really thin and dripping with fat. The tomato was pale pink and hard but I ate Rafe’s as well. Buster, who had been lying across our feet with his head resting on my cast, made short work of the bits of steak that were too tough to cut.

      ‘I thought because of your size – your extreme slenderness – you wouldn’t eat anything,’ he said, transferring a lettuce leaf and the last few chips from his plate on to mine.

      I was so moved by the idea that he had actually thought about me enough to wonder what I might eat that I felt a rush of affection, perhaps alcohol-induced, that made me say, ‘This is such heaven being in this lovely place on such a beautiful day with …’ I almost said ‘you’ but pulled myself back from the brink in time to say ‘… with an old friend.’

      Rafe appeared not to notice this effusion of feeling. ‘Sit, Buster. Quiet, sir!’ He looked sternly in the dog’s melting eyes. ‘I’m having a bit of trouble training him. He doesn’t seem as biddable as a labrador or a spaniel. The people I got him from assured me the breed was intelligent and quick to learn. Anyway, it’s too late to think of taking him back.’

      ‘Oh, no! He’s СКАЧАТЬ