Beakbane went to the sink and peered at the fingers with a surprising nonchalance that made Frannie feel displaced.
‘I was a Red Cross nurse in the war,’ she said, as if by way of explanation, and helped free the ice cubes,again making Frannie feel inexperienced and in the way.
The screaming abated into an undulating, sobbing moan of pain. Edward hovered, looking very distressed. He put his arm around his friend but the boy shook him away and began screaming again, even more vehemently than before. His mother sat beside him, white-faced.
‘Look,’ the father said, ‘this bloody ambulance could take hours. I’ll drive him myself.’
‘No,’ Oliver said. ‘He’s got to go somewhere they can do microsurgery – they might be able to sew the fingers back. If you go to the wrong place you could waste valuable time; I think you only have a few hours before the nerve endings die.’
‘Six,’ Mrs Beakbane said, authoritatively. ‘My Harry lost his little finger in a lawnmower but we never found it until the following day.’
The father paced over to the sink, then turned away rapidly at the sight of the fingers. Frannie stood back and let Mrs Beakbane pack them carefully, using all the cubes, then they were placed with a couple of freeze packs inside a picnic cool-box.
Oliver phoned a doctor friend who gave him some names and suggested a hospital less than half an hour away, which seemed to relieve the father.
The ambulance arrived a few minutes later. The boy and his mother went in it, and his father followed in the Volvo. Frannie, Oliver and Edward watched numbly as they left. A couple of short pulses of the siren pricked the air and then there was silence.
They walked back towards the house, Oliver with his head sunk in thought, Frannie uncertain what to say. Edward stopped by the pond. Frannie waited a moment for him, then went inside. Mrs Beakbaneexcused herself, saying she had to go to a problem she had been dealing with in the tearoom.
Oliver poured the remnants of coffee in the percolator down the sink and turned the tap on. Frannie gathered the two mugs from the table and carried them across.
‘It’s OK – they can go in the machine.’ His words made Frannie feel even more useless. As if she hadn’t yet found her role. His eyes skimmed her face and he lowered his voice. ‘You have a bit of – er – warpaint on you.’
She touched her cheek with her fingers and saw blood on them. ‘Oh, God!’
She hurried upstairs to the bathroom. Her reflection in the mirror startled her. Streaks of blood ran down her forehead and cheeks. Her eye make-up had smudged and run. Her stomach rolled again. Sour bile rose in her throat and she puked it out. Then she stripped off and washed herself, put her trousers and top into the sink to soak, wrapped herself in a towel and went to her bedroom to change.
When she returned, Edward was sitting in the kitchen, glancing in a rather adult way through a newspaper. He looked up at his father.
‘Do you think they will be able to sew Dom’s fingers back on, Daddy?’
‘They can do pretty clever things with microsurgery these days.’
‘It’s a pity it wasn’t his left hand,’ Edward said. ‘Then at least he could still do sport.’
The comment hung over them and there was a long silence broken only by the sound of Captain Kirk grinding on a bone. Edward closed the
Daily Mail
and began turning the pages of
The Times
. ‘You didn’t remember to fix my Scalextric, Daddy.’
‘I did. The brushes had gone on one of the cars.’
‘It’s not working.’
Frannie frowned, wondered when Edward would have had time to play with any toys. And what he was searching for in the newspaper.
‘It is. Did you switch the transformer on?’
‘You’re useless, Daddy. You should have taken it to the man in Lewes to fix.’
‘Well, it was working last Sunday. I spent an hour on it.’
Edward seemed unconvinced. Oliver looked at his watch. ‘Right, let’s make some
‘I was a Red Cross nurse in the war,’ she said, as if by way of explanation, and helped free the ice cubes,again making Frannie feel inexperienced and in the way.
The screaming abated into an undulating, sobbing moan of pain. Edward hovered, looking very distressed. He put his arm around his friend but the boy shook him away and began screaming again, even more vehemently than before. His mother sat beside him, white-faced.
‘Look,’ the father said, ‘this bloody ambulance could take hours. I’ll drive him myself.’
‘No,’ Oliver said. ‘He’s got to go somewhere they can do microsurgery – they might be able to sew the fingers back. If you go to the wrong place you could waste valuable time; I think you only have a few hours before the nerve endings die.’
‘Six,’ Mrs Beakbane said, authoritatively. ‘My Harry lost his little finger in a lawnmower but we never found it until the following day.’
The father paced over to the sink, then turned away rapidly at the sight of the fingers. Frannie stood back and let Mrs Beakbane pack them carefully, using all the cubes, then they were placed with a couple of freeze packs inside a picnic cool-box.
Oliver phoned a doctor friend who gave him some names and suggested a hospital less than half an hour away, which seemed to relieve the father.
The ambulance arrived a few minutes later. The boy and his mother went in it, and his father followed in the Volvo. Frannie, Oliver and Edward watched numbly as they left. A couple of short pulses of the siren pricked the air and then there was silence.
They walked back towards the house, Oliver with his head sunk in thought, Frannie uncertain what to say. Edward stopped by the pond. Frannie waited a moment for him, then went inside. Mrs Beakbaneexcused herself, saying she had to go to a problem she had been dealing with in the tearoom.
Oliver poured the remnants of coffee in the percolator down the sink and turned the tap on. Frannie gathered the two mugs from the table and carried them across.
‘It’s OK – they can go in the machine.’ His words made Frannie feel even more useless. As if she hadn’t yet found her role. His eyes skimmed her face and he lowered his voice. ‘You have a bit of – er – warpaint on you.’
She touched her cheek with her fingers and saw blood on them. ‘Oh, God!’
She hurried upstairs to the bathroom. Her reflection in the mirror startled her. Streaks of blood ran down her forehead and cheeks. Her eye make-up had smudged and run. Her stomach rolled again. Sour bile rose in her throat and she puked it out. Then she stripped off and washed herself, put her trousers and top into the sink to soak, wrapped herself in a towel and went to her bedroom to change.
When she returned, Edward was sitting in the kitchen, glancing in a rather adult way through a newspaper. He looked up at his father.
‘Do you think they will be able to sew Dom’s fingers back on, Daddy?’
‘They can do pretty clever things with microsurgery these days.’
‘It’s a pity it wasn’t his left hand,’ Edward said. ‘Then at least he could still do sport.’
The comment hung over them and there was a long silence broken only by the sound of Captain Kirk grinding on a bone. Edward closed the
Daily Mail
and began turning the pages of
The Times
. ‘You didn’t remember to fix my Scalextric, Daddy.’
‘I did. The brushes had gone on one of the cars.’
‘It’s not working.’
Frannie frowned, wondered when Edward would have had time to play with any toys. And what he was searching for in the newspaper.
‘It is. Did you switch the transformer on?’
‘You’re useless, Daddy. You should have taken it to the man in Lewes to fix.’
‘Well, it was working last Sunday. I spent an hour on it.’
Edward seemed unconvinced. Oliver looked at his watch. ‘Right, let’s make some
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