elegant, weren’t a patch on the country roads in the Cotswolds, it was pleasant enough to walk through them.
‘I dare say dukes and duchesses live here,’ said Peter. ‘Do you suppose they’re very grand inside?’
‘Certainly—lovely curtains and carpets and chandeliers…’ She enlarged upon this interesting subject as they walked, until in one of the quiet streets they came upon a magnificent dark grey Bentley and Peter urged her to stop while he took a good look at it. He circled it slowly, admiring it from all angles.
‘I shall have one, when I’m a man,’ he told her, and laid a small, rather grubby hand on its bonnet.
‘Peter, don’t touch. The owner would be very angry if he were to see you doing that.’
She let out a great gusty breath when a quiet voice said in her ear, ‘A wise caution, Miss—er. You should exercise more control over your son.’
They had been standing with their backs to the terrace of grand houses. Now she shot round to face someone who was beginning to crop up far too frequently. ‘It’s you,’ she said crossly. ‘I might have known.’
‘Now, why do you say that?’
‘No reason at all. I’m sorry if Peter has annoyed you; he had no intention of doing so.’ She moved away and took Peter’s hand. ‘Apologise to this gentleman, dear. I know you meant no harm but we mustn’t forget our manners.’
The boy and the man studied each other. ‘I’m sorry,’ said Peter finally, ‘but it’s a super car and I wanted to look at it.’
The man nodded. ‘Goodbye, Peter; goodbye Miss— er.’
He watched them go, smiling a little. A pity he couldn’t remember her surname, and they were hardly on such good terms that he could address her as Eulalia.
‘You look cross, Aunt Lally,’ said Peter, as they reached a bus-stop and joined the short queue.
‘Not with you, love; that man annoyed me.’
‘Was he rich?’ Peter wanted to know. ‘He must be if he lives in one of those houses and drives a Bentley.’
‘I dare say he is, but I really don’t know. Here’s our bus.’
Peter told Trottie all about it when they got home. ‘Aunt Lally was a bit cross with him,’ he explained.
At Trottie’s enquiring look Eulalia said, ‘It was the man who bought the roses,’ in a voice which didn’t invite questions.
* * *
A week went by. Eulalia, fashioning bouquets and taking orders for beribboned, Cellophaned flowers to be sent to wives and girlfriends and mothers, longed silently for her old home, with its large untidy gardens and the fields beyond. She hoped that the people who had bought it were taking proper care of it and had left the frogs in the pool at the bottom of the garden in peace. It would have been nice to show them to Peter.
She gave her head a shake. Moaning over what was past and couldn’t be helped would do no good. Rather, she must think of ways and means for Peter and Trottie to have a holiday once school was over. Somewhere not too far from London, and cheap. A farm, perhaps…
The fine weather had come to stay, at least for a time, and they planned a trip to the Serpentine on Sunday. Trottie was going to have her dinner with one of her elderly friends and Eulalia saw her off before she and Peter, carrying their picnic lunch, set out.
They had got off the bus and were waiting to cross the road when a bunch of youths on motorbikes raced past. They were in high spirits and the road was almost empty and they were going too fast. The last one of all went out of control, mounted the pavement and knocked Peter down, narrowly missing Eulalia, and tearing away.
Peter lay awkwardly, his head on the kerb, an arm bent awkwardly under him. She knelt down beside him, panic-stricken but fighting to keep sensible.
‘Peter—Peter, darling? Can you hear me?’ When he didn’t answer she felt for his pulse and was relieved to find his heart beating strongly. She took off her cardigan and slid it under his head but she didn’t move his arm in case it was broken. Then she stood up as a bus came lumbering along on the other side of the road. She waved and shouted to the driver and he stopped his bus, and the conductor came running across the street.
‘He was knocked down,’ said Eulalia in a voice which shook just a little. ‘I must get him to hospital…’
The conductor was a spruce little man and he looked helpful. ‘The bus passes Maude’s ‘ospital. We’ll have him aboard—quicker than waiting for an ambulance or a taxi.’
‘Bless you. He’s concussed and I think that arm’s broken.’
‘Leave it to me, miss. You go ahead of me; ’e can lie on yer lap. We’ll have ’im right as rain in no time.’
Between them they lifted Peter, and Eulalia lifted the arm gently and laid it across Peter’s small chest and then hurried to the bus. There was only a handful of passengers aboard and no one complained at the delay as she got in, received Peter on to her lap and held him close as the bus pulled away. The hospital was indeed only a very short drive and the driver took his bus into the forecourt and down the ramp to Casualty and then got down to help his conductor carry Peter in. Eulalia paused just long enough to apologise to the other passengers for the delay, and ran after them.
They were standing, the two of them, explaining to a nurse as Peter was laid on a trolley. “Ere she is,’ said the conductor. ‘She’ll give yer the details.’
He and the driver shook hands with her, looking bashful at her thanks. ‘Can’t keep the passengers waiting,’ said the driver. “Ope the nipper’ll be OK.’
‘Your names?’ asked Eulalia. ‘Quickly, for I must go to Peter.’
“E’s Dave Brown and I’m John ’Iggins, miss. Glad to ’ave ’elped.’
She kissed them on the cheek in turn and hurried after the trolley.
Peter had his eyes open now and she took his hand in hers. ‘Peter? It’s all right, love. You fell down, you’re in hospital and a doctor will come and see if you’re hurt.’
‘If you’ll give the details to the receptionist,’ said the nurse, ‘we’ll get him comfy and get someone to look at him. An accident, was it?’
Eulalia told her briefly and took herself off to the reception desk, and by the time she got back Peter was on an examination couch. His clothes had been taken off, the sleeve of his injured arm cut to allow the small arm to be exposed. He was trying not to cry and she went and held his good hand, wanting to weep herself.
The young doctor who came in said, ‘Hello,’ in a cheerful voice, then, ‘So what’s happened to this young man?’
He was gently examining Peter’s head as he spoke. He peered into his eyes, then turned his attention to the arm. ‘Can you squeeze my finger, old chap?’ he wanted to know, and at Peter’s whimper of pain, said, ‘I think an X-ray first of all, don’t you? So we can see the damage.’
He smiled
