The Shadow of the Sycamores by Doris Davidson

out.
    The pharmacist walked round behind the counter again. ‘Right, then, um …’
    ‘Roddy,’ supplied the boy.
    ‘Good. You can go back to The Sycamores now, Roddy, and let the Superintendent know that we are keeping your friend here until tomorrow.’
    A distant memory returned to Henry. ‘Janet said to send the bill to him.’
    ‘Fay will attend to that later.’
    After making sure that Roddy had turned the gig round safely and was on his way again, the chemist said, ‘We had better introduce ourselves. My name is Joseph Leslie and this is my daughter, Fay.’
    ‘I’m Henry Rae.’ The effort of talking was beginning to tell on him, however, so he sagged back, utterly drained.
    ‘Fay, my dear, take Henry up to the sitting room and make him a bed on the couch. I think he will be quite comfortable there for one night.’
    The stairs to the upper storey were steep and he was forced to lean quite heavily on the girl as they negotiated the bend on the top landing. ‘I’m far too heavy for you,’ he whispered. ‘Sorry.’
    ‘No, no,’ she smiled, tightening her hold on his waist. ‘I’m as fit as a fiddle. Father says I should have been a boy.’
    It did not take long for her to settle him down with a pillow under his head and a large eiderdown to cover him and, in no time, he had fallen asleep.
    When he awoke some time later, a middle-aged woman was knitting in a chair nearby and he lay without moving, studying her and deciding that she must be the pharmacist’s wife. Her hair was just a shade lighter than her daughter’s gold, the shape of her head and the way she was holding it were exactly the same as Fay’s …
    Something alerted her to his scrutiny and she looked up at him. ‘Ah, so you have come back to the land of the living, have you?’ She put her knitting into the sewing stool at the side of her chair. ‘How do you feel now?’
    He sat up a little. ‘Better, I think. I’m ashamed of being so weak.’
    ‘You have no need to be. Joseph said you had lost a great deal of blood. Is your hand still very painful?’
    ‘It is a bit but I could easily have gone back with Roddy.’
    ‘In the gig? No, no, you were certainly not fit for that. But now that you are sitting up and taking notice, will you be all right on your own while I prepare supper?’
    ‘Yes, thank you.’ He was quite glad to relax when she went out and closed his eyes to go over what had happened. He couldn’t remember much about what had been done to his hand – all he could think of was the girl’s beautiful face.
    After some deliberation, he decided that she wasn’t one of those raving beauties he’d seen in books and magazines, who wouldn’t have lowered themselves to speak to anybody like him, but she had been kind and quite concerned. She had actually held his uninjured hand, clasped him against her until they climbed the stairs, had spoken to him sympathetically, had looked at him as if she actually liked him.
    Her fair, golden hair was loosely curled, swinging round her shell-like ears and swan-like neck. He gave a rueful giggle. He couldn’t think of anything original – every writer and poet compared girls’ ears to shells and their necks to swans – but it was the only way to describe her. Her face was a sweet oval shape, with definite bones above rose-pink cheeks, one with a dimple, and a darling, darling mouth. Her father had said she should have been a boy? Thank God she wasn’t!
    He had drifted off again into a light doze when the rattle of dishes made him jump.
    ‘Oh, I’m sorry.’ It was Fay. ‘Did I wake you? Mother asked me to take you some of her broth and there’s beef stew and dumplings to follow.’ She laid the tray down on the davenport and crossed over to him. ‘Here, let me help you to sit up.’
    He had believed that he was quite able to sit up by himself, but he did need her support, her arms under his, her face so close that her breath fanned his cheeks. If this was heaven, he