course of ten lessons was coming to an end, and she could now, with care, speak in what Mrs St Aubyn called ‘an unaccented tone’, but which Red thought of as an English accent.
Considering it money well spent, Red decided to spend the fee she’d got from the commercial on extending the course of lessons. If she could do a cockney accept there was a chance of getting a part in the soap set in London’s East End. And if she could sign a contract for a long-running part then there was no way that her father could make her go back to Australia.
Travelling home on the tube late one afternoon, Red noticed that the line went through Pimlico and, having made her decision, thought that she might as well break off her journey to go to Mrs St Aubyn’s house and book another set of lessons before someone else got there first.
It was a grey, dark day, and there was a light showing in the first-floor window and another through the fanlight over the front door, so Red rang the doorbell, confident that the voice coach was at home.
She waited but no one came, although Red thought that she heard a noise inside. Again she rang, waited, and was about to turn away, thinking that the lights must have been left on as a burglar deterrent, when she heard the noise coming from inside for a second time, and louder now. A strange sound, almost like a baby crying.
Ever curious, Red stooped to the letter box and lifted the flap to peer inside. There was an inner flap obscuring her view; she worked her hand inside, pushed the flap up, and gave a gasp of horror. Mrs St Aubyn was lying at the bottom of the staircase and looked as if she was trying to crawl towards the door. She cried out, the sound now a distinct cry for help.
‘Stay right there,’ Red yelled. ‘I’ll get an ambulance.’
She ran to the next-door house and rang the bell insistently, at the same time hammering with the knocker.
‘What is it? What on earth’s the matter?’ the middle-aged man who came to open the door demanded.
‘It’s Mrs St Aubyn; I think she must have fallen down the stairs. Could you call an ambulance? Oh, and we’ll need the police; they might have to break down the door.’
The man came to look for himself before he would phone, but then was more than helpful. ‘You wait here for the ambulance,’ he instructed once the phone call had been made. ‘I’ll go out the back and see if there’s a window open. We don’t want to have to break the door down unless it’s absolutely necessary.’
A police car was pulling up at the kerb just as the neighbour came hurrying back. ‘There’s a bathroom window partly open at the back,’ he said, panting slightly. ‘Only a small one, though.’
The policemen looked dubiously at the thickness of the solid front door and went through the man’s house to have a look for themselves. Red, impatient at the delay, went with them. It was a very small window, only about eighteen inches by nine, and on the second floor.
‘That’s no good; we can’t get through there,’ one of the policemen said, and went to turn away.
‘I could.’ Red caught his arm.
The policeman looked at her tall, slim figure but he shook his head. ‘I couldn’t let you do it. And anyway, we haven’t got a ladder.’
‘I’ve got one,’ the neighbour offered.
‘Great.’ Red grinned. ‘Let’s go get it.’
‘Now you wait a moment, miss. It’s too dangerous; you might fall.’
‘Off a ladder?’ Red laughed. ‘My dad used to take me mountain climbing back home almost as soon as I could walk. Going up a ladder is nothing. And it’ll be a lot quicker than breaking the door down.’
Overcoming his protests, Red propped the ladder against the wall below the window and climbed it easily. Glancing down at the upturned faces of the men below, she was glad that she was wearing trousers instead of a skirt.
Getting through the window was a little tricky; she had to go in head first and wriggle her hips through the gap, then almost fell inside. But she agilely picked herself up and ran into the house and down the stairs to open the door for the paramedics.
Mrs St Aubyn had broken her ankle. She had also banged her head and wrenched her shoulder as she’d tried to grab for the banister rail during her fall down the stairs. It appeared that she had been lying there for at least a couple of hours, although the paramedic said that she’d probably have passed out for some of the time. She was in pain and tearful, but seemed glad that Red was there, gripping her hand as her leg was put into a kind of splint.
‘Please—win you call Linus for me?’ she begged. ‘Tell him what’s happened and where I am.’
‘Yes, of course I will,’ Red soothed. ‘Just tell me his number.’
‘It’s five, nine, three, six, two, eight—oh, no, I mean it’s six, eight, two... Oh, dear, I—I can’t seem to remember.’ And Mrs St Aubyn again began to weep.
‘It’s the bump on your head. You’re probably a bit concussed,’ the paramedic told her.
‘His number is in the book on my desk.’
‘I’ll find it.’ Red ran into the study and found the book, then realised that she didn’t know Linus’s surname. Carrying the book, she ran into the hall as the paramedics lifted Mrs St Aubyn onto a stretcher. ‘What’s his full name?’
“L-Linus Hunt,’ she gasped, then gave a groan of pain as someone touched her injured shoulder.
‘Are you coming to the hospital with the lady?’ one of the paramedics asked Red.
‘What? Oh, yes, I suppose so. Just a minute while I write down this number.’
Flipping through the book, Red found the name. There were two numbers beside it; hastily she wrote them down on a piece of paper and thrust it into her bag, which a policeman had handed to her.
‘Don’t worry about the house; I’ll look after it,’ the neighbour told her as she went to follow the stretcher, adding, ‘Look, here’s Felicia’s handbag. You’d better take that with you.’
The hospital was overworked and understaffed. Although Mrs St Aubyn was whisked away at once, it was quite a while before Red had given all the details she knew to the clerk. Not that they were many. She had no idea with which doctor the voice coach was registered, or who was her next of kin. Red didn’t even know if she was still married.
It suddenly seemed terrible that Red had spent all those hours alone with her tutor and yet knew so little about her. But maybe Linus Hunt would know. She had to queue to use the public phone, but as soon as she was able called his number.
‘This is Cornucopia Productions,’ a female voice answered. ‘I’m sorry there’s no one here to take your call at the moment, but if you’ll leave your name and number your call will be returned as soon as possible.’
An answering machine. Great. It must be his work number, Red realised, and there would naturally be no one there at this time of night. There was no point in leaving a message. Red fed in some more money and called the second number.
