Greybeard

“Doctor MacMichael says my hair will grow again, and my dad says he’s the best doctor in the world.” Algy was put on his mettle by small girls who claimed to be authorities on medical matters. “I know that. We have Doctor MacMichael too. He had to come to see me every day because I’ve been at

Death’s Door.” The girl came closer to her side of the fence. “Did you actually see Death’s Door?”

“Jolly nearly. It was very boring on the whole. It uses up your resources.”

“Did Dr. MacMichael say that?”

“Yes. Often. That’s what happened to my brother Frank. His resources got used up. He went right through

Death’s Door.” They laughed together. In a mood for confidences, Martha said, “Aren’t Doctor MacMichael’s hands cold?”

“I didn’t mind. After all, I’m seven.”

“That’s funny, I’m seven too!”

“Lots of people are seven. I ought to tell you my name’s Algernon Timberlane, only you can call me Algy, and my father owns a factory where they make toys. Shall we have to play together when I come to live here? My brother Frank who got buried says girls are stupid.”

“What’s stupid about me? I can run so fast that nobody catches me.”

“Huh, I bet! I bet I could catch you!”

“I tell you what, then — I’ll come in your garden, ‘cause it’s a good one; it hasn’t got flowers and things like ours has, and we’ll play Catch.” She climbed through the broken fence, lifting her skirts daintily, and stood in his garden looking at him.

He liked her face. He could smell the sweet smell of the afternoon; he saw the pattern of sunlight and shadow fall across her head, and was moved.

“I’m not supposed to run fast,” he said, “because I’ve been ill.”

”I thought you looked pretty awful. You ought to have some cream on your cheeks like I do. Let’s play hide-and-seek then. You’ve got a smashing old summer-house to hide in.”

She took his hand. “Yes, let’s play hide-and-seek,” he said. “You can show me the summer-house, if you like.”

Patricia had finished measuring the windows for curtains, and Venice was smoking a cigarette and waiting to go.

“Here comes your devoted hubby,” she announced, catching sight of a car turning in at the drive. “He promised he’d be here half an hour ago. Arthur’s always late these days. I want his advice on this primitive brute of a cooker. Is Keith driving him?”

“Your luck’s in, my girl: yes, he is. You go and let them in and I’ll slip out and collect Algernon. We really ought to be off.” Venice let herself out of the back door and called Algy’s name. Her own children were older than the

Timberlanes’, and had escaped most of the effects of the sickness; Gerald, in fact, had suffered no more than a seeming cold, which was all the external evidence of the sickness most adults showed.

Algy did not answer her call. As she walked over the unkept lawn, a little girl in a red outfit ran before her and disappeared behind a lilac tree. Half in fun, Venice ran after her; the girl wriggled through a gap in the fence and stood there gazing challengingly at Venice.

“I sha’n’t hurt you,” Venice said. She suppressed an exclamation at the sight of the child’s bald head. It was not the first she had met. “Have you been playing with Algy? Where is he? I can’t see him.”

“That’s because he drowned in the river,” the girl said, clasping her hands behind her back. “If you won’t be cross, I’ll come back and show you.”

She was trembling violently. Venice held out a hand to her. “Come through quickly and show me what you’re talking about.” The girl was back through the gap in an instant. Shyly, she took Venice’s hand, looking up to judge her reaction to the move. “My nails weren’t affected, only my head,” she said, and led the way down to a landing stage that jutted into the river along the end of the garden. Here her courage failed her, and she broke into a storm of tears. For a while she could not speak, until from the barricade of Venice’s arms she pointed a finger at the dark stream.

“That’s just where Algy drowned. If you look, you can see his face looking up at you under the water.” In alarm, Venice held the child tightly and peered down through the willow tree into the stream. Clinging round a root, half submerged and moving gently against the current, was something that did vaguely resemble a human face. It was a sheet of newspaper.

Patiently, she cajoled Martha into looking and seeing her mistake for herself. Even then, the girl continued to cry, for the shape of the paper was sinister.

“Now you run along home to tea,” Venice said. “Algy can’t be far away. I will find him — perhaps he ran round to the front garden and went indoors — and perhaps in a little while you will be able to play with him again. Would you like that?”