Outside the cottage, lengthways against the wall lay the ancient ladder with its telltale broken rung; the accident had been some days ago. Inside the house, on his bed, lay Mr. Franklin, with his leg now in plaster, waiting.
He was listening for Mrs. Allum to go: the creak of the front door opening, pause as she got herself out and clicked the door shut behind her. Then the thump of footsteps to the front gate.
He was so impatient that he was already levering himself up to reach his crutches, seriously disturbing his late aunt's white cat, who had been asleep beside him. He hopped to the window and cautiously slid his head around the side to peer out.
His stealthy glance was at once met and held by the gaze of Mrs. Allum's pale, silent, silent-footed granddaughter. He had quite forgotten about this child, whose name he did not even know. He only knew that she turned up regularly with her grandmother for the housecleaning. He could not guess whether her stare now was hostile, or inquisitive, or just casual.
The child had been there when Mrs. Allum had found Mr. Franklin with a broken leg at the foot of the wrecked ladder. In a great fluster Mrs. Allum had arranged for the ambulance to go to the hospital. Then, while they waited, she had asked her employer why he was climbing ladders at his age, anyway.
He had said evasively, "To get a better view."
Mrs. Allum had said nothing, but sniffed.
After the ambulance, Mrs. Allum had gone back to her cleaning, until Mr. Franklin should be home again from the hospital. He now was, so that, at least, was straightforward. To her, what Mr. Franklin might have been up to was mysterious without being interesting. She had her own work and her own worries.
Now Mr. Franklin ventured another look through the window. Mrs. Allum was easing herself into the driving seat of her old car; the child was inside already.
An anxious moment ... Then the car started, the gears grumbled, and they were slowly off. Soon they would be at the corner, where the track met the long lane. As always, Mrs. Allum hooted at the corner, although no one could be coming. There was never any traffic, and the nearest house-and distantly at that along the main road-was the Allums' own.
He was by himself at last.
He opened the window wide and leaned out, twisting himself to one side as he did so. In this awkward and uncomfortable position, he could see beyond the track and right across the rough pasture that stretched down to the river, its boundary. He could see the old gray pony grazing and dozing, and there were the trees massed on the higher ground of the further riverbank, and between the pony and the trees, but on the nearer bank --
Yes, just there! There was the great log, once dredged up from the river-the log on which he so often sat, as if on a park bench put on the riverbank for his exclusive use.
There seemed to be nothing else of interest, but he studied this particular view intently.
The late-afternoon sunlight was confusing to his eyes. Without moving from the window, he stretched out an arm and opened a top drawer in his chest of drawers and took out his binoculars. He had bought these, when he first moved into the cottage, to watch the life on the river: moorhen and heron and (if he were ever very lucky) kingfisher.
Now he studied the riverbank around the log for something more, well, out of the ordinary.
No, nothing -- unless ... There seemed to be something like a small stump, probably only a few inches high, just to one side of the log. He had not noticed it before.
He stared at the stump, willing it to be something more than just a stump, imagining from moment to moment that it very slightly moved.
Then, suddenly and unmistakably, it moved.
It had turned slightly. Was it away from the cottage or toward it?
Continues...
Excerpted from The Little Gentleman by Pearce, Philippa Excerpted by permission.
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