Free So Bad a Death by June Wright Page B

grace.
    Once free of the straps Tony revelled in his unexpected freedom. I was trying to keep within the shadow of the lion, for I had no wish to be spied upon from the Hall. It gave you that feeling. The square squat tower seemed like an enormous eye which embraced all within its vision with a sinister contemplativeness. I made a half-hearted attempt to put Tony back into the pusher, but his immediate howls of protest were more likely to gain attention than his wandering inside the gate. Yvonne could not be much longer, so I let him stray to a threatened boundary.
    It was another glorious autumn day. I moved round the pillar and propped myself up against it in the sun, closing my eyes against the glare.
    Presently Tony let out a yelp. He came running up, one finger in his mouth and tears pouring with that amazing rapidity unequalledby any other than a child. When I knew he was hurt my concern at the noise he was creating vanished. I explored his finger carefully. A jagged thorn had torn the skin and imbedded itself. It looked very nasty and was quite capable of making itself unpleasant if action was not taken immediately. I held his fat wrist firmly palm up, pulling at the fast-disappearing head of the thorn.
    â€œHold still, my treasure,” I adjured, but he kept jerking his hand away.
    A voice spoke from behind me. “Could I be of assistance, Mrs Matheson?”
    I glanced over my shoulder and then straightened up. It was Ames. The ubiquitous, versatile Ames. I recognized the smooth, courteous voice.
    Ames advanced towards Tony and bent down.
    â€œMay I see? Perhaps my wife could fix it.”
    I studied him as he bent over Tony. He was long and firmly built with a well-shaped head. He appeared to be in his late thirties but was of the type who mature early and retain the same age for many years. That afternoon he wore khaki overalls and boots, for he had been working in the garden. I was to see Ames in many garbs. He dressed to each of the multitudinous jobs he handled and was sartorially perfect in each.
    He straightened up. “Come into the Lodge, Mrs Matheson. I’ll get some hot water and tweezers. We’ll have that thorn out in no time.”
    â€œThis is very kind of you,” I said, following him to the tiny porch. The door of the Lodge opened directly into a living-room pleasant with sun-faded chintzes and flowers.
    Two people sat there.
    â€œHarriet,” Ames introduced his wife, “this is Mrs Matheson.”
    â€œHaven’t we met before?” I asked Mrs Ames. She turned her face full round and I saw the port-wine stain. “In Mr Cruikshank’s shop, was it not?”
    She nodded without speaking and turned her face to profile again.
    â€œAnd my father, Mrs Matheson.”
    The white-haired, handsome man rose, slipping his unlit pipe into his pocket. “We heard the commotion. Has the little chap hurt himself badly?”
    â€œA thorn,” Ames explained. “Harriet, will you have a look at it, please?”
    Mrs Ames rose and came across the room to Tony, keeping the scar turned away from me. Ames went away for the hot water.
    â€œYou have a professional touch,” I told Harriet Ames pleasantly, watching her firm, unhurried hands.
    A small boy came into the room bearing an enamel kidney dish with bandages and antiseptic on it.
    â€œPut it on the table, Robin,” Mrs Ames said in her toneless voice.
    â€œThis is your boy?” I glanced from mother to son. He had gone to stand by his grandfather’s chair. The old man rested his hand on the dark curls. Robin was a beautiful child with a poise that would have shamed an adolescent.
    Mrs Ames did not reply, but merely nodded again and held out her hand for the bowl of water as her husband came back into the room.
    Tony, his attention taken up by this remarkable specimen of his own generation, allowed his finger to be bathed and dressed without a murmur. I saw a smile pass between the two little