Free A Taste for Honey by H. F. Heard

away.
    â€œJust look,” he said, straining to see out the stall window, which was high and hard to see out of because of the manger underneath it. “If you look right, you see away to the road; straight ahead, meadows for quite a mile; and down to the extreme left, the road and the tops of the village roofs.”
    I stretched up to oblige him by looking out. To my relief he moved away.
    â€œThe little horse had a fine view, hadn’t she?” he asked.
    â€œYes,” I replied. “Yes.”
    After all, the man was only a fool and could become dangerous only if one insulted the memory of his dear departed mare (who perhaps in some way was, as psychologists say, “surrogate” for his dead wife). I would play the part he wanted me to play and as friends we would part—for good.
    â€œYes,” I said, straining up again and looking all round the view. “There are the woods and the meadows and the village roofs. As pretty an outlook as one could wish.”
    I turned around; I was alone. Panic took me. I began to rush toward the door. I noticed the honey still on the floor. That would not have checked me. What did check me was to find Heregrove in my path. He must have seen my alarm, but he showed no sign that he did.
    â€œYes,” he remarked, quietly carrying on the conversation, “it’s a nice little view.”
    â€œWhere did you go?” I blurted out.
    He looked surprised. “I was only looking in at the other stall. There’s room for a couple of horses here. The rats get in that side. I must set a trap there.” And then he did something which surprised me and yet queerly reassured me. “I’ve cut my finger on a nail I didn’t see down there when I was lifting a board to see the rat’s hole better,” he remarked, holding out his right hand. There was a piece of stained rag half wound round his index finger. “I always keep disinfectant about. Apt to get a nasty place if you don’t dress it at once when you work in stables and gardens. I can’t tie this up, though. Would you be so good just to knot it for me?”
    The fact that the man had hurt himself and would put himself in my power placed me again quite at my ease. He might be cracky, pretty certainly was, but he was certainly harmless.
    â€œGladly,” I said. I did feel glad with an almost unreasonable relief.
    I am fairly deft with my fingers and wound the bandage neatly, but a lot of the dressing, which he had put on very clumsily, got on my fingers and even on the cuff of my coat. In fact, I suggested taking off the whole bandage because it was clear that owing to his gaucheness he had got more of the disinfectant on the outside of the lint than on the inside. He wouldn’t hear of that.
    â€œNo, no, it will do finely as it is; don’t bother.”
    â€œBut are you sure,” I pressed, “that the dressing has covered the cut? And oughtn’t you have washed it out?”
    â€œI did,” he replied. “There’s a tap in the other stall. The cut was quite small, though deep. And this disinfectant, though it hasn’t a nice smell, is quite wonderful with cuts.”
    Well, he knew his own business best, and my job was to make a good getaway as soon as I could. Certainly the smell of the disinfectant was highly unpleasant; rank was the only word for it. I remembered as a child (smells bring back memories startlingly) being taken to the Zoo and becoming quite nauseated in the small-cat-house. “Small but strong,” my father had laughed; but I was retching when I got outside. And the smell of this dressing brought back that memory so strongly that suddenly I thought I should vomit. I hesitated to ask whether I could wash my fingers, but as Heregrove did not make the offer and my own overmastering wish was to get out of the stable, out of the place, out of his company, I started incontinently for the door.
    â€œBut your