10 lb Penalty - Dick Francis [53]
I leaned forward and slid an arm under her neck to see if she could sit up, and to my relief she let me help her do that, until she was sitting in the road with her knees bent and her head and her hands on her knees.
She’d broken no bones, I thought gratefully. The fractures were internal and mental and couldn’t be mended.
She said tearfully, trying to wipe blood with her fingers, “Have you got a tissue?”
I hadn’t.
“There’s one in my bag.”
Her handbag, I knew, was in the Range Rover.
“I’ll get it,” I said.
“No ... Benedict ... don’t leave me.”
“Call an ambulance,” the truck driver advised bullishly. “I missed her, I know I did. It’s not my fault she’s bleeding.”
“No, it’s not,” I agreed, standing up. “But you’re a big strong guy and you can help by picking up the lady and carrying her to that goldish Range Rover over there.”
“No fear,” he interrupted. “I’m not getting her blood on me, it’s not my sodding fault, she ran straight out in front of me.”
“Yes. OK,” I said. “It wasn’t your fault. But you did at least stop, so if you’d help and take her along to that vehicle, and if I just jot down your name and the firm you work for, that owns the truck, then I’m sure you can carry on with whatever you were doing.”
“No police,” he said.
“You don’t have to call the police to an accident unless someone’s been injured, and you didn’t injure this lady, as you said.”
“Straight up? How do you know that? You’re only a boy.”
I’d learned it in the course of reading for my driving license, but I couldn’t be bothered to explain. I bent down and tried to get Orinda to her feet, and she stood up shakily, clutching me to stop herself from falling.
I put my arms around her awkwardly. She was trembling all over. My father would simply have scooped her up and carried her to the Range Rover, but apart from my doubt of having adequate strength, I was embarrassed by the difference in our ages. Ridiculous, really. I felt protective, but unsure.
A couple of cars went by, the passengers craning their necks with curiosity.
“Oh, come on, missus,” the driver said suddenly, picking up her scattered shoe and putting it on for her, “hold on to my arm.”
He offered her a rocklike support, and between the two of us Orinda walked unsteadily, setting her feet down gingerly as if not sure where the ground lay. In that fashion we reached the Range Rover and installed Orinda in the front passenger seat, where she relaxed weakly and thanked the driver.
“Hey!” he said suddenly, surveying the highly noticeable vehicle. “Doesn’t this motor belong to that politician? Some funny name?”
“Juliard.”
“Yeah.”
“I’m his son,” I said. “This lady, that you cleverly missed hitting, and that you’ve helped just now, she is Mrs. Orinda Nagle, whose husband was the MP here before he died.”
“Cor!” Surprise at least stopped the whine of self-justification. I reckoned he was already rehearsing a revised tale to his masters. “I live in Quindle,” he said. “They say your father’s got no chance, the way things are, but maybe I’ll vote for him now anyway. Can’t say fairer than that!”
I wrote down his name, which he gave willingly, and the name of the furniture firm he worked for, and the telephone number, and he positively beamed at Orinda and told her not to worry, and drove off in his truck giving us a smile—a smile—and a wave.
Alderney Wyvern, all this time, had remained, as if the soles of his shoes were glued to the ground.
A few people had come out of the houses because of the noise of horn and brakes, but as there’d been no actual crash, and as Orinda had stood up and walked away, their curiosity had died quickly.
For once, with