“Yes, if I must, but will I ever see my poor husband again?” she mocked as the door was closed in front of her.
I entered a room full of sophisticated machinery presided over by an expensively dressed doctor. I told him what I thought was wrong with me and he lifted the offending foot gently up onto an X-ray machine. Moments later he was studying the large negative.
“There’s no fracture there,” he assured me, pointing to the bone. “But if you are still in any pain it might be wise for me to bind the ankle up tightly.” The doctor then pinned my X-ray next to a set of others hanging from a rail.
“Am I the sixth person already today?” I asked, looking up at the row of X-rays.
“No, no,” he said, laughing. “The other five are all of the same man. I think he must have tried to fly over the ravine, the fool.”
“Over the ravine?”
“Yes, showing off, I suspect,” he said as he began to bind my ankle. “We get one every year but this poor fellow broke both his legs and an arm, and will have a nasty scar on his face to remind him of his stupidity. Lucky to be alive in my opinion.”
“Lucky to be alive?” I repeated weakly.
“Yes, but only because he didn’t know what he was doing. My fourteen-year-old skis over that ravine and can land like a seagull on water. He, on the other hand,” the doctor pointed to the X-rays, “won’t be skiing again this holiday. In fact, he won’t be walking for the next six months.”
“Really?” I said.
“And as for you,” he added, after he finished binding me up, “just rest the ankle in ice every three hours and change the bandage once a day. You should be back on the slopes again in a couple of days, three at the most.”
“We’re flying home this evening,” I told him as I gingerly got to my feet.
“Good timing,” he said, smiling.
I hobbled happily out of the X-ray room to find Caroline, head down in Elle.
“You look pleased with yourself,” she said, looking up.
“I am. It turns out to be nothing worse than two broken legs, a broken arm and a scar on the face.”
“How stupid of me,” said Caroline, “I thought it was a simple sprain.”
“Not me,” I told her. “Travers—the accident this morning, you remember? The ambulance. Still, they assure me he’ll live,” I added.
“Pity,” she said, linking her arm through mine. “After all the trouble you took, I was rather hoping you’d succeed.”
THE LOOPHOLE
“THAT ISN’T THE version I heard,” said Philip.
One of the club members seated at the bar glanced round at the sound of raised voices, but when he saw who was involved, only smiled and continued his conversation.
The Haslemere Golf Club was fairly crowded that Saturday morning. And just before lunch it was often difficult to find a seat in the spacious clubhouse.
Two of the members had already ordered their second round and settled themselves in the alcove overlooking the first hole long before the room began to fill up. Philip Masters and Michael Gilmour had finished their Saturday morning game earlier than usual and now seemed engrossed in conversation.
“And what did you hear?” asked Michael Gilmour quietly, but in a voice that carried.
“That you weren’t altogether blameless in the matter.”
“I most certainly was,” said Michael. “What are you suggesting?”
“I’m not suggesting anything,” said Philip. “But don’t forget, you can’t fool me. I employed you myself once and I’ve known you for far too long to accept everything you say at face value.”
“I wasn’t trying to fool anyone,” said Michael. “It’s common knowledge that I lost my job. I’ve never suggested otherwise.”
“Agreed. But what isn’t common knowledge is how you lost your job and why you haven’t been able to find a new one.”