and seemed to find it terribly difficult to get up again. Harriet slipped her hand into her mother’s and pulled her down so that she could speak to her quietly without Mr Matthews hearing.
“It doesn’t seem to matter not being able to skate here, does it, Mummy?”
Olivia knew just how Harriet was feeling.
“Of course not, pet. Perhaps some day you’ll be as grand a skater as those children in the middle.”
Mr Matthews overheard what Olivia said.
“I don’t know so much about that, takes time and money to become a fine skater. See that little girl there.”
Harriet followed the direction in which Mr Matthews was pointing. She saw a girl of about her own age. She was a very grand-looking little girl wearing a white jersey, a short white pleated skirt, white tights, white boots, and a sort of small white bonnet fitted tightly to her head. She was a dark child with lots of loose curly hair and big dark eyes.
“The little girl in white?”
“That’s right, little Lalla Moore, promising child, been brought here for a lesson almost every day since she was three.”
Olivia looked pityingly at Lalla.
“Poor little creature! I can’t imagine she wanted to come here when she was three.”
Mr Matthews obviously thought that coming to his rink at the age of three brought credit on the rink, for his voice sounded proud.
“Pushed here in a pram, she was, by her nanny.”
“I wonder,” said Olivia, “what could have made her parents think she wanted to skate when she was three.”
Mr Matthews started walking again towards the skate-hiring place.
“It’s not her parents, they were both killed skating, been brought up by an aunt. Her father was Cyril Moore.”
Mr Matthews said “Cyril Moore” in so important a voice that it was obvious he thought Olivia ought to know who he was talking about. Olivia had never heard of anybody called Cyril Moore but she said in a surprised, pleased tone:
“Cyril Moore! Fancy!”
At the skate-hiring place Mr Matthews introduced Olivia and Harriet to the man in charge.
“This is Sam. Sam, I want you to look after this little girl; her name is Harriet Johnson, she’s a friend of Dr Phillipson’s, and, as you can see from the look of her, she has been ill. Find boots that fit her and keep them for her, she’ll be coming every day.”
Sam was a cheerful, red-faced man. As soon as Mr Matthews had gone he pulled forward a chair.
“Sit down, duckie, and let’s have a dekko at those feet.” He ran a hand up and down Harriet’s calves and made disapproving, clicking sounds. “My, my! Putty, not muscles, these are.”
Harriet did not want Sam to think she had been born with flabby legs.
“They weren’t always like this, it’s because they’ve been in bed so long with nothing to do. It seems to have made them feel cotton-woolish, but Dr Phillipson thinks if I skate they’ll get all right again. I feel rather despondent about them myself, they’ve been cotton-woolish a long time.”
Sam took one of Harriet’s hands, closed it into a fist and banged it against his right leg.
“What about that? That’s my spare, that is, the Japs had the other in Burma. Do you think it worries me? Not a bit of it. You’d be surprised what I can do with me old spare. I reckon I get around more with one whole leg and one spare than most do with two whole legs. Don’t you lose ’eart in yours; time we’ve had you on the rink a week or two you’ll have forgotten they ever felt like cotton-wool, proper little skater’s legs they’ll be.”
“Like Lalla Moore’s?”
Sam looked surprised.
“Know her?”
“No, but Mr Matthews showed her to us, he said she’d been skating since she was three. He said she used to come in a perambulator.”
Sam turned as if to go into the shop, then he stopped.
“So she did too, had proper little boots made for her and all. I often wonder what her Dad would say if he could come back and see what they were doing to his kid. Cyril Moore he was, one of the best figure skaters, and one of the nicest men I ever set eyes on. Well, mustn’t stop gossiping here, you want to get on the ice.”
“Mummy, isn’t he nice?” Harriet whispered. “I should think he’s a knowing man about legs, wouldn’t you? He ought to know about them, having had to get used to having one instead of two.”
The boots, with skates attached, that Sam found were new. He explained that new boots were stiffer and therefore would be a better support to Harriet’s thin ankles. Sam seemed so proud of having found her a pair of boots that were new and a fairly good fit that Harriet tried to pretend she thought they were lovely boots. Actually she thought they were awful. Lalla Moore’s beautiful white boots had made Harriet hope she was going to wear white boots too, but the ones Sam put on her were a nasty shade of brown, with a band of green paint round the edge of the soles. Sam was not deceived by her trying to look pleased.
“’ired boots is all right, but nobody can’t say they’re oil paintings. If you want them stylish white ones you’ll have to buy your own. We buy for hard wear, you’d be surprised the time we make our boots last. Besides, nobody can’t make off with these.”
Olivia looked puzzled.
“Does anyone want to?”
“You’d be surprised, but they don’t get away with it. If Harriet here was to walk out with these someone would spot the green paint and be after her quicker than you could say winkle.”
Olivia laughed.
“I can’t see Harriet walking out in these. I’m going to have a job to get her to the rink.”
Sam finished lacing Harriet’s boots. He gave the right boot an affectionate pat.
“Too right you will. I wasn’t speaking personal, I was just explaining why the boots look the way they do.” He got up. “Good luck, duckie, enjoy yourself.”
If Olivia had not been there to hold her up Harriet would never have reached the rink. Her feet rolled over first to the right, and then to the left. First she clung to Olivia, and then lurched over and clung to a wall. When she came to some stairs that led to the rink it seemed to her as if she must be killed trying to get down them. The skates had behaved badly on the flat floor, but walking downstairs they behaved as if they had gone mad. She reached the bottom by gripping the stair rail with both hands while Olivia held her round her waist, lifting her so that her skates hardly touched the stairs. Olivia was breathless but triumphant when they got to the edge of the rink.
“Off you go now. I’ll sit here and get my breath back.”
Harriet
