‘Ha, Hayward. First, as usual. I’m afraid there’s little to be done. We must all get out. I’ll see to my sister. Will you help Miss Mayfield?’

She heard – and it was the last thing she did hear for a space – the ends of the broken bones in her shoulder grate together as Tom Hayward lifted her. Pain screamed through her. And even Tom Hayward’s strength could not lift her out of the mud. She sank . . . and drowned.

25

SOMEBODY MUST HAVE PULLED HER HEAD FREE AT last, for she could hear again. What she heard made little sense at first.

‘. . . let you know and leave the girl with you,’ a man’s voice said. A woman’s – calm, very soothing – replied:

‘We should see what the damage is. You might worsen it, jolting all the way to Selbury. After all, I did my first aid. There’s no blood.’

The next voice – and it was recognizable; it was Ethel’s – spoke with gruesome delight.

‘That was Miss Thorby was bleeding! Coo, you should hev seen . . .’

The man’s voice said, ‘Shut up. You’ve made enough of yourself for one night.’

Now I must open my eyes, begin to think and plan again.

She was in the Land-Rover about which Bobby Maverick had talked so much at the beginning of the autumn term. It stood under a glaring bright light in some open space with buildings – yes, the Maverick’s farm yard.

‘It’s all right,’ Mrs Maverick said. ‘Everything’s just all right now. I’m just seeing whether it’s best for Tom to try to get through to Selbury now or wait till morning.’

‘My shoulder,’ Miss Mayfield said, ‘the right.’

Hands that were gentle, but not fumbling, probed the hurt, and presently Mrs Maverick said:

‘Well, thank God for that. It’s only your collarbone. And them I do know about. All my brothers broke theirs one time or another, and Tom’s done his in twice. Could you put your good arm round my neck and lean on me? That’d be better than lifting. It’s only a step.’

It was almost a step too much; the big warm kitchen, when they reached it, swung like a merry-go-round.

‘I’m all right,’ Miss Mayfield said. ‘But I feel better . . . with my eyes shut.’

Mrs Maverick’s unhurried voice went on issuing orders.

‘Hand me those scissors. . . . Tom, get that child my slippers; they’re beside the bed. . . . You, Ethel, open that cupboard – there’re two hot-water bottles. Fill them out of the kettle that’s on the stove. . . . Tom, show the child the spare room. . . .’

All the time her hands were busy, bandaging both Miss Mayfield’s shoulders. Why both? Not that it mattered. There was the same relief that had come when she cupped her elbow in her hand. She forced herself to the surface for long enough to say:

‘That feels better already. Thank you.’