Free Undercurrent by Frances Fyfield Page A

not even tell if he were dealing with rich, poor or middling. Confused, he was failing to notice the hardening of her tone. She was standing with her hands thrust firmly into her pockets, with something to say.

    'Francesca Chisholm let that son of hers be looked after by poofters. Poor little sod. What are men like that doing looking after a child?' The last word was almost spat. Then Granny controlled herself. She patted his arm and attempted a smile.

    'Eh, don't listen to me. You seem a nice enough man. You take care, now. No more falling over, eh? Not unless you're really pissed. No need otherwise, is there?'
    'You've been very helpful. . .'
    She pulled on the doorbell and hurried out of sight before it was answered. He watched her go.

    The hallway was richly warm and colourful as he stepped inside; the brindled dog yapped a welcome and sniffed at his trouser leg. Tim was dressed in the voluminous jellaba, this time held at the waist by a bulky sash of green silk. There were spectacles pushed back into his hair and he was waving a ladle.

    'Oh Senta, do stop. He knows you're pleased to see him. Aren't we all? Come in, Henry, come in.
    We were worried about you; thought you'd got lost. No sightings of you for hours. Did you enjoy the bacon and eggs? Oh dear, what have you done?'

    Henry was a medium-sized man (Henry Evans, Mr Normal, he had once heard himself described) while Tim was tall, staring down at the lump on his forehead with great concern. 'Not fighting, I hope?' Tim questioned. 'Not so soon? Peter!' he yelled in a voice surprisingly deep and loud. 'Come and take over!'

    The pair of them stood and surveyed him in the gaslight of the hall. Dirt on his trousers, lump on head, slight grazes on hands. They seemed to come to an unspoken conclusion, sealed by simultaneous nodding. 'Hot bath, don't you think, Tim, while you get on with supper and I deal with his clothes?' Another nod. Henry was frog-marched down the corridor, through the kitchen, into the bathroom he had loathed this morning, but which was now comfortingly warm. Tim turned on taps with a greater skill than Henry had managed when he'd secured this morning's trickle. Water gushed into the bath with the force and noise of an angry fountain; steam rose.

    'Put your jacket and keks outside the door when you're ready,' Peter said. 'I'll press them. And when you're lying in the bath, try and keep this pressed against that swelling. It'll bring it down.' He handed Henry a wad of damp white muslin, smelling sweetly of lavender.

    Henry did as he was told. This had become more than habitual. Handed clothes through a chink in the door, somewhat shyly, felt them plucked from his grasp and the door closed. Sank into a deep bath and held the muslin wad to his forehead. The room was clouded with steam; it was like bathing in a mist, floating free into profound warmth. From the kitchen, he could hear the radio sounding the hour. . . b eep, beep, beep. . . followed by the echo of big Ben: This is Radio Four news , overlaid with conversation.

    It occurred to him that he had never in his life been administered to by men, with the exception of his father when he had been a very small child, before they both grew into their gruffer courtesies, and that this sensation of being looked after, fussed over in a fashion bearing on the intimate should make him feel uncomfortable, and for a moment it did. The door opened a crack; he saw the steam rush towards it, watched as his trousers and jacket, neatly assembled on a hanger, were left on the knob and the door shut again. He told himself he should be deeply suspicious; men were not kind to men, especially strangers. It was odd, possibly sinister, but in the end, he could not be bothered to think about it.

    There was too much else. Such as why - when his falling in the street, just when he was so close, had made enough noise to attract those passers-by - why had she, whoever she was, failed to stop?
    Francesca would have