Little Girl Lost Read Online Free PDF Page B

said aggrievedly as they lay in bed that night, for the strapping tugged at her injured ribs and even breathing was a painful business. ‘You’ll have to watch that temper of yours, Len Dugdale, or you’ll find yourself in real trouble.’
    ‘But I can’t bear to see another feller reachin’ for you,’ Len had mumbled. ‘You’re so pretty that every man who looks at you must want you like I do. I know you’d never have married me if it weren’t for Becky comin’ so of course I’m scared all the time that you might meet someone you liked better’n me.’
    Sylvie had sighed. ‘I shan’t, because I’ve got you, and Becky, and a nice home,’ she said diplomatically. ‘Besides, I married you, didn’t I? So I’m not likely to look at another feller in – in that sort of way. Why, whatever would Father O’Reilly say?’
    Len had given a relieved sigh and laid a heavy arm across her shoulders. ‘I’ll try to remember that, ’cos I know you’re a good girl, and won’t play me false,’ he had said. ‘I know I ain’t handsome, nor I ain’t clever, but I’m crazy about you, little Sylvie.’
    Sylvie, with her ribs still tweaking whenever she moved, had decided that in future she would stay behind the counter and let someone else collect the dirty glasses from the bar, and tried to dismiss the incident from her mind. It was not as though she had ever given him any cause for jealousy; she supposed that some men were jealous by nature and the women who married them had to be aware of the fact.
    The affair of the crushed toes was a case in point. Len had been painting the window frames on the outside of the pub one Saturday afternoon and she had been holding the ladder when a passing workman had wolf-whistled, following it up with a shout of: ‘Wish you would hold my ladder, queen.’
    Sylvie had turned her head, the way one does when one is addressed, and had heard from above her a growl of rage which many a tiger would have envied. Len had leapt down from the ladder intent, she realised, on mayhem, and his heavy boots had landed crushingly on Sylvie’s sandalled feet and knocked her flying. Sylvie had shrieked – two of her toes had later proved to be broken – and the ladder, relieved so suddenly of Len’s weight, had also descended on her. The workman, though hampered by two heavy buckets full of whitewash, had made off down the road with amazing speed, the whitewash sloshing out of the buckets as he went and making curious patterns all along the flagway. Len would undoubtedly have followed him and wreaked revenge, but he could scarcely do so with his wife lying moaning on the pavement, a ladder on top of her and green paint everywhere. Instead, he had dragged her clear of the ladder and apologised anxiously, adding bracingly: ‘But you ain’t much hurt, I can tell; you’ve a good healthy colour. C’mon, let me help you indoors an’ make you a nice cup o’ tea.’
    Sylvie had been absolutely furious. Her head ached from the blow the ladder had given it, her crushed toes were sheer agony and here was her great oafish husband telling her that there was nothing wrong with her. And when she had tried to stand, she was unable to do so. ‘My . . . my feet . . . you landed on my feet,’ she had gasped. ‘Sometimes I really hate you, Len Dugdale.’
    He had been sorry then, had picked her up in his arms, and carried her tenderly into his mother’s kitchen. But on this occasion he had refused to take her to the hospital. ‘I dursn’t show me face there again, not after last time,’ he had mumbled, looking appealingly at his mother. ‘Send Bertie to Dr Hislop. He’ll come round if you give Bertie half a crown so he’s got the money in advance.’
    The doctor had arrived, examined the bump on her head and the state of her toes, and accepted without so much as a blink the explanation that the ladder had slipped and both Len and ladder had descended on poor Mrs Dugdale. Indeed, why should he