“Rock and a hard place,” said Mr. Barlow. He took the socket wrench from his pocket and spun it between his fingers. “Show’s over. Guess I’ll get back to work. Nice talking with you, Lori. I’d have a doctor take a look at that thumb, if I were you. It’s gone a funny color.”
I was too worn out to tell him that he was responsible for my injury. I felt as battered as Jemma Renshawe, as if each harsh word, each angry look that had passed between my neighbors had left a bruise on my heart. I leaned on the low stone wall and stared blindly into the river while my thumb throbbed and my overloaded brain spun in circles.
A vehicle stopped behind me on the bridge and I turned to see Jack MacBride peering at me through the open window of his rental car. Bree was in the passenger seat and the backseat was filled with birdbaths.
“Are you okay, Lori?” Jack asked. “You look a bit crook.”
I understood his meaning and went along with it. I needed time to process the day’s kaleidoscopic events before I could explain them to my young friends.
“I don’t feel at all well,” I admitted.
“It’s my fault,” Jack said contritely. “You’ve been putting in too many hours at Uncle Hector’s.”
“Wait here,” Bree called across him. “We’ll unload the car, bung Betsy in the boot, and come back for you. You’re not cycling home today.”
“Thanks,” I said.
“What happened to your thumb?” Jack asked.
“What can I say?” I replied with a tired shrug. “I’m not a carpenter.”
“My fault again,” said Jack, rapping himself on the forehead with his fist.
“Don’t move, Lori,” said Bree. “We’ll be right back.”
They drove off and I turned to gaze at my beloved village. Finch looked tranquil, but I knew in my bruised heart that it was crumbling beneath the weight of its good fortune.
Eighteen
Jack and Bree returned with a makeshift ice pack—six ice cubes wrapped in a clean tea towel—and let me nurse my thumb in silence all the way home. While Jack stashed Betsy in the garage, Bree walked with me into the cottage. She offered to telephone Bill, but I declined, telling myself that, if Bill were Sally Pyne’s solicitor, he wouldn’t be able to leave his office until she’d had her say, which could take quite some time.
“Don’t be such a mother hen,” I chided Bree gently. “You should know by now that I can look after myself. Run along. I’ll be fine.”
“Okay,” Bree said reluctantly. “But if you need anything, ring me.”
“I will,” I said, forcing a smile. “Go!”
Bree and Jack departed and I dragged myself to the study. The room was blissfully still and silent and the ivy leaves cloaking the diamond-paned windows filtered the bright sunlight that had beaten down upon me atop the humpbacked bridge. I approached Reginald wordlessly, took him from his niche, and held him to my cheek, taking comfort, as I had done throughout my life, from the touch of his soft pink flannel. If my thumb hadn’t been as big as a bloated sausage, I would have sucked it.
With a sigh, I returned Reginald to his niche and took the blue journal with me to a tall leather armchair near the hearth. I leaned back in the chair, put my feet on the ottoman, propped the journal on my knees, opened it clumsily with one hand, and began to cry.
Lori, my child, what’s wrong?
“Everything,” I sobbed, looking down at the familiar handwriting through a flood of tears. “Mr. Barlow didn’t mow the cemetery and he didn’t help us fix the bird tables and Charles is mad at Grant and Grant is mad at Charles and Jemma embarrassed Elspeth and Rick won’t shoot Opal’s marmalades and Peggy’s buying the tearoom and Sally’s moving away because Henry’s going to be a big star and . . . and . . . and my thumb hurts,” I howled.
Why does your thumb hurt?
“I h-hit it with a h-hammer,” I replied tremulously.
I see. Have you had anything to eat or drink since breakfast?
“N-no,” I quavered miserably. “I didn’t sleep very well last night, either. T-tidal waves.”
Tidal waves disrupted your sleep? You poor thing. All right, my dear, here’s what you’re going to do. You will ring Bill and tell him to come home. I don’t care if he’s writing the Duke of Northumberland’s last will and testament, he’s to come home AT ONCE. While you’re waiting for him, you’ll reheat a cup of the chicken broth you made last week.
“B-broth,” I hiccuped, nodding docilely.
A hot, nourishing drink will lessen the effects of shock.
“Am I in shock?” I asked, vaguely surprised.
You’re dehydrated, malnourished, exhausted, injured, and, yes, you’re in shock. You may have a touch of sunstroke as well, if your tidal wave comment is anything to go by. Which is why, after you’ve swallowed every last drop of the broth, Bill will take you directly to the hospital in Upper Deeping.
“I don’t want to go to the hospital,” I wailed.
Of course you shall go to hospital. Your thumb may be broken. If it becomes infected, you could lose your entire hand.
The dire prognosis brought me up short. I stopped crying and stared at my distended digit in disbelief.