Giant’s Bread. Агата Кристи

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СКАЧАТЬ style="font-size:15px;">      ‘Vernon—my darling—Mummy’s own darling—What have they done to you?—How awful—how terrible—My child!’

      She was crying. Vernon began to cry too. He was suddenly frightened. Myra was moaning and weeping.

      ‘My little child. All I have in the world. God, don’t take him from me. Don’t take him from me! If he dies, I shall die too!’

      ‘Mrs Deyre—’

      ‘Vernon—Vernon—my baby—’

      ‘Mrs Deyre—please.’

      There was crisp command in the voice rather than appeal.

      ‘Please don’t touch him. You will hurt him.’

      ‘Hurt him? I? His mother?’

      ‘You don’t seem to realize, Mrs Deyre, that his leg is broken. I must ask you, please, to leave the room.’

      ‘You’re hiding something from me—tell me—tell me—will the leg have to be amputated?’

      A wail came from Vernon. He had not the least idea what amputated meant—but it sounded painful—and more than painful, terrifying. His wail broke into a scream.

      ‘He’s dying,’ cried Myra. ‘He’s dying—and they won’t tell me. But he shall die in my arms.’

      ‘Mrs Deyre—’

      Somehow Nurse Frances had got between his mother and the bed. She was holding his mother by the shoulder. Her voice had the tone that Nurse’s had had when speaking to Katie, the under-housemaid.

      ‘Mrs Deyre, listen to me. You must control yourself. You must!’ Then she looked up. Vernon’s father was standing in the doorway. ‘Mr Deyre, please take your wife away. I cannot have my patient excited and upset.’

      His father nodded—a quiet understanding nod. He just looked at Vernon once and said: ‘Bad luck, old chap. I broke an arm once.’

      The world became suddenly less terrifying. Other people broke legs and arms. His father had hold of his mother’s shoulder, he was leading her towards the door, speaking to her in a low voice. She was protesting, arguing, her voice high and shrill with emotion.

      ‘How can you understand? You’ve never cared for the child like I have. It takes a mother—How can I leave my child to be looked after by a stranger? He needs his mother … You don’t understand—I love him. There’s nothing like a mother’s care—everyone says so.’

      ‘Vernon darling—’ she broke from her husband’s clasp, came back towards the bed. ‘You want me, don’t you? You want Mummy?’

      ‘I want Nurse,’ sobbed Vernon. ‘I want Nurse …’

      He meant his own Nurse, not Nurse Frances.

      ‘Oh!’ said Myra. She stood there quivering.

      ‘Come, my dear,’ said Vernon’s father gently. ‘Come away.’

      She leant against him, and together they passed from the room. Faint words floated back into the room.

      ‘My own child, to turn from me to a stranger.’

      Nurse Frances smoothed the sheet and suggested a drink of water.

      ‘Nurse is coming back very soon,’ she said. ‘We’ll write to her today, shall we? You shall tell me what to say.’

      A queer new feeling surged over Vernon—a sort of odd gratitude. Somebody had actually understood …

      When Vernon, later, was to look back upon his childhood, this one period was to stand out quite clearly from the rest. ‘The time I broke my leg’ marked a distinct era.

      He was to appreciate, too, various small incidents that were accepted by him at the time as a matter of course. For instance, a rather stormy interview that took place between Dr Coles and his mother. Naturally this did not take place in Vernon’s sick room, but Myra’s raised voice penetrated closed doors. Vernon heard indignant exclamations of ‘I don’t know what you mean by upsetting him … I consider I ought to nurse my own child … Naturally I was distressed—I’m not one of these people who simply have no heart—no heart at all. Look at Walter—never turned a hair!’

      There were many skirmishes, too, not to say pitched battles fought between Myra and Nurse Frances. In these cases Nurse Frances always won, but at a certain cost. Myra Deyre was wildly and furiously jealous of what she called ‘the paid Nurse’. She was forced to submit to Dr Cole’s dictums, but she did so with a bad grace and with an overt rudeness that Nurse Frances never seemed to notice.

      In after years Vernon remembered nothing of the pain and tedium that there must have been. He only remembered happy days of playing and talking as he had never played and talked before. For in Nurse Frances, he found a grown up who didn’t think things ‘funny’ or ‘quaint’. Somebody who listened sensibly and who made serious and sensible suggestions. To Nurse Frances he was able to speak of Poodle, Squirrel and Tree, and of Mr Green and the hundred children. And instead of saying ‘What a funny game!’ Nurse Frances merely inquired whether the hundred children were girls or boys—an aspect of the matter which Vernon had never thought of before. But he and Nurse Frances decided that there were fifty of each, which seemed a very fair arrangement.

      If sometimes, off his guard, he played his make-believe games aloud, Nurse Frances never seemed to notice or to think it unusual. She had the same calm comfortableness of old Nurse about her, but she had something that mattered far more to Vernon, the gift of answering questions—and he knew, instinctively, that the answers were always true. Sometimes she would say: ‘I don’t know that myself,’ or ‘You must ask someone else. I’m not clever enough to tell you that.’ There was no pretence of omniscience about her.

      Sometimes, after tea, she would tell Vernon stories. The stories were never the same two days running—one day they would be about naughty little boys and girls, and the next day they would be about enchanted princesses. Vernon liked the latter kind best. There was one in particular that he loved, about a princess in a tower with golden hair and a vagabond prince in a ragged green hat. The story ended up in a forest and it was possibly for that reason that Vernon liked it so much.

      Sometimes there would be an extra listener. Myra used to come in and be with Vernon during the early afternoon when Nurse Frances had her time off, but Vernon’s father used sometimes to come in after tea when the stories were going on. Little by little it became a habit. Walter Deyre would sit in the shadows just behind Nurse Frances’ chair, and from there he would watch, not his child, but the storyteller. One day Vernon saw his father’s hand steal out and close gently over Nurse Frances’ wrist.

      And then something happened which surprised him very much. Nurse Frances got up from her chair.

      ‘I’m afraid we must turn you out for this evening, Mr Deyre,’ she said quietly. ‘Vernon and I have things to do.’

      This astonished Vernon very much, because he couldn’t think what those things were. He was still more puzzled when his father got up also and said in a low voice:

      ‘I beg your pardon.’

      Nurse СКАЧАТЬ