Dead of Winter - James Goss [5]
Monsieur Pond is also very lovely, although he seems a little lost. They’re both suffering from bumps to the head from the crash of their carriage, at least that’s what their personal physician says. He tells me he is called Dr Smith and I like him ever so much, even if he is a bit nervous.
Whereas Monsieur Pond looks worried and severe, Dr Smith is quite smiley. He’s ever so clumsy, and I don’t think his suit quite fits him, but he’s very good fun. He likes talking to girls – quite unlike Dr Bloom. He smells nice, much nicer than Monsieur Nevil – so I suppose not all Englishmen are filthy. Dr Smith keeps telling me he isn’t a proper doctor, but Madame Pond clearly thinks the world of him. Monsieur Pond doesn’t seem quite so convinced – it would not surprise me if he was un petit peu jealous?
Dr Smith and Madame Pond were talking about perhaps playing some kind of ball game, but Monsieur Pond didn’t want to join in. He said that he wouldn’t be any good. I told him he was wrong, but he looked all cross, as though people are always telling him he is wrong.
Then the door opened and Dr Bloom came in. I could tell that Madame Pond – she has told me to call her Amy and so I shall – that Amy had never met him before. She found his presence intimidating – I have got so used to him filling up the room like a big, cross flamingo. But she just looked at him. I’ll tell you what happened, as it struck me as interesting, and I remember that you always found Dr Bloom so amusant…
‘Ah, up and about, my dear?’ he said, clapping her on the shoulder. ‘Oh it’s splendid, splendid. You’re looking better already, much better. It’s the air here, quite marvellous. It’s a miracle, I tell you. Just fill your lungs with it and you’ll be right as rain in no time.’ He pushed his glasses high up onto his beaky nose so that he could peer down at her. He always does that – I suspect to make himself look serious, but how can he expect to when he has that ridiculous white wig? He patted it down, but it still stuck up around his ears, making him look like a spaniel. Without even looking at me, he laughed. ‘I see you’ve met our youngest guest, dear little Maria. You must not let her tire you, Madame Pond. You really must rest up until you’re feeling more like yourself.’ He patted her carefully on the wrist and then turned to Dr Smith.
‘Well, I must say, it all seems very, very promising with the patient, I’m sure you’ll agree, Herr Dr…?’
‘It’s Smith, actually.’ Dr Smith smiled, bowing. ‘I’ve remembered that my name is Smith. Almost definitely. Good old English name, Smith. Hopefully means “noble, valiant warrior” and not “he who hits kittens with a hammer”. You’d be surprised the derivations of common surnames in the English countryside…’ He stopped, realising we were all staring at him, and coughed. ‘Sorry. Amy is better, you say?’ He coughed again. ‘Well, it is early… early days yet…’ and then he trailed off. ‘Dr… er? Now I’ve remembered my name only to forget yours. Whoops.’
‘His name is Dr Bloom,’ muttered Monsieur Pond. He was standing by the window, frowning down at the beach. He didn’t turn around, he just sounded cross. You remember how Papa would sound when the porridge was burnt? Like that, really.
‘Dr Bloom, of course!’ Dr Smith clapped a hand to his head. ‘Sorry. So sorry. I really don’t… I think last night has shaken my head up a bit more than I realised.’
Dr Bloom threw a friendly arm around his shoulder and squeezed him reassuringly. He was making them trust him, and no one should, should they, Mother? ‘Not at all, dear fellow, not at all. You’re all very lucky people. Why, when you were found on the beach, I nearly gave up all hope of you.’
‘Is there