He thanked them through chattering teeth. He was on his way to see his girlfriend in Hackney, he explained. He was a seasoned cyclist, rode miles, he added proudly, but like a fool he’d taken a shortcut recommended by a friend and lost his way …
‘You poor boy,’ said Mrs Selby. ‘You shall have a hot meal and go straight to bed.’
Professor Forsyth said quietly, ‘After a good rub down and dry clothes. You said that there will be no chance of a hot bath? He does need to get warm …’
The vicar spoke. ‘If everyone here will agree, we will use the hot water for a bath for this lad. There will still be just enough for a wash for the rest of us.’
There was a murmur of agreement and he led the young man away.
‘But I wanted a bath,’ said Sybil furiously.
‘But you’re warm and dry and unlikely to get pneumonia,’ said James, in what she considered to be an unfeeling voice.
The electricity went out then.
He told everyone to stay where they were, flicked on the lighter he had produced from a pocket and asked Mrs Selby where she kept the candles.
‘In the cupboard by the sink,’ said Philly. ‘I’ll get them.’
There were oil lamps, too, in the boot room beyond the kitchen. He fetched them, lighted them, and carried one upstairs to the vicar and his charge. The people in the kitchen were surprised to hear bellows of laughter coming from the bathroom.
Philly had filled a hot water bottle, and when the Professor reappeared thrust it at him. ‘He’ll have to sleep in your bed,’ she told him, and when he nodded she went on, ‘I’ll bring blankets down here and when everyone has gone to bed you can have the sofa. You won’t mind?’
‘Not in the least. Shall I take some food up? Clive—his name’s Clive Parsons—is ready for bed.’
‘Mother has warmed some soup. Katie can bring it up—she’s the youngest. She’s been doing her homework; she’s very clever and nothing disturbs her until it’s finished. But she should be here in a minute.’
‘Homework in the dark?’ he asked.
‘She’ll be reciting Latin verbs or something. I told you she was clever.’
The professor, beginning to enjoy himself enormously, laughed, received the hot water bottle and, presently back in the kitchen, devoted himself to improving Sybil’s temper.
This was no easy task, for she had taken refuge in a cold silence, which was rather wasted as everyone else was busy relating their experiences in the snow and speculating as to what it would be like in the morning.
Presently the vicar came to join them. Katie had taken a bowl of soup with a dumpling in it up to Clive and had left him to enjoy it while they all gathered round the table.
The beef, stretched to its limits, was eked out by great mounds of mashed potatoes and more dumplings and was pronounced the best meal eaten for years. There was more tea then, and everyone helped to clear the table and wash up. Sybil’s wistful excuses that she would like to help but she had to take care of her hands went unheeded. The professor, in his shirtsleeves, washed the dishes while Mr Downe dried them and Mrs Downe and Mrs Selby found more candles and candlesticks.
Philly had her head in the kitchen cupboard and the girls were laying the table for breakfast.
‘Porridge?’ queried Philly to the room at large. ‘For breakfast,’ she added.
There was a general murmur of agreement but Sybil said, ‘I thought porridge was what poor people in Scotland ate. I’ve never eaten it.’
The doctor said briskly, ‘Well, now will be your chance. It’s the best breakfast one can have on a cold winter’s morning.’
She glared at him. ‘If no one minds, I’ll go to bed.’
Philly gave her a hot water bottle and a candle. ‘I hope you feel better in the morning,’ she said kindly. ‘Remember about the hot water, won’t you?’
The doctor abandoned the sink for a moment and went to the door with Sybil.
He gave her a comforting pat on the shoulder. ‘You’ll feel better in the morning,’ he told her bracingly. ‘We are very lucky to have found such generous kindness.’
He smiled down kindly into her cross face, aware that the feeling he had for her at that moment wasn’t love but pity.
Sybil shook off his hand and turned to Katie, waiting to show her the way, and followed her without a word.
There had been a cheerful chorus of ‘goodnight,’ as she went, now followed by an awkward silence. The professor went back to the sink. ‘Sybil has found everything rather upsetting,’ he observed. ‘She will be fine after a good night’s sleep.’
‘Which reminds me,’ said Philly. ‘Clive’s in your bed. I’ll get some blankets and a pillow for the big sofa in the sitting room. You’re too big for it, but if you curl up you should manage.’
Everyone went thankfully to bed, leaving the professor, with one of the reverend’s woolly sweaters over his shirt, to make himself as comfortable as possible on the sofa. As he was six foot four inches in his socks, and largely built, this wasn’t easy, but he was tired; he rolled himself in the blankets and slept at once.
He opened his eyes the next morning to see Philly, wrapped in an unbecoming dressing gown, proffering tea in a mug.
Her good morning was brisk. ‘You can use the bathroom at the end of the passage facing the stairs; Father’s left a razor for you. The water isn’t very hot yet, so I’ve put a jug of boiling water on the kitchen table for you.’
He took the mug, wished her good morning, and observed, ‘You’re up early.’
‘Not just me. Rose has gone to wake the Downes, but we thought we’d better leave Clive until you’ve seen him—in case he’s not well.’
‘Very well. Give me ten minutes.’
In a minute or two he made his way through the quiet cold house. Someone had drawn the curtains back and the white world outside was revealed. At least it had stopped snowing …
He found the bathroom, shaved with the vicar’s cut-throat razor, washed in tepid water, donned the sweater again and went to take a look at Clive.
He had recovered, except for the beginnings of a nasty head cold, and professed himself anxious to go to breakfast.
‘No reason why you shouldn’t. If you’re still anxious to get to London as soon as the road’s clear I’ll give you a lift. We can tie your bike on the roof.’
With the prospect of the weather clearing, breakfast was a cheerful meal. The porridge was eaten with enthusiasm—although Sybil nibbled toast, declaring that she hadn’t slept a wink and had no appetite. But her complaining voice was lost in the hubbub of conversation, heard only by the doctor sitting next to her.
‘If the snowplough gets through we will be able to leave later today,’ he told her, and then, hearing Philly saying in a worried voice that the hens would be snowed in, he volunteered to shovel a path to their shed.
So, in the vicar’s wellies and with an old leather waistcoat over the sweater, he swung the shovel for a couple of hours. When he had cleared a path Philly came, completely extinguished in a cape, carrying food and water to collect the eggs. ‘Enough for lunch,’ she told him triumphantly.
The worst was over; the sun pushed its way through the clouds, the snowplough trundled through the village and they lunched off bacon and egg pie with a thick potato