White Boots. Noel StreatfeildЧитать онлайн книгу.

       Chapter Three THE RINK

      OLIVIA WENT TO the rink with Harriet, for the more Harriet thought about the girl on the poster, standing on one skate with the other foot high over her head, the more sure she was that she would be shy to go alone to a place where people could do things like that. Dr Phillipson was very kind, but he was a busy, rushing, tearing sort of man, who would be almost certain merely to introduce her to the manager by just saying, “This is Harriet,” and then dash off again. This was exactly what happened. Dr Phillipson called for Harriet and her mother just after lunch, took them to the rink, hurried them inside into a small office in which was a tired, busy-looking man, said, “This is Harriet, and her mother. Mrs Johnson, Harriet, this is Mr Matthews, the manager of the rink. I’ve got a patient to see,” and he was gone.

      Olivia took no time to make friends with Mr Matthews. She heard all about something called his duodenal ulcer, which was why he knew Dr Phillipson, and all about how Dr Phillipson had taken out his wife’s appendix, and of how Dr Phillipson had looked after his twin boys, who were grown up now and married, and only when there were no more illnesses left in the Matthews’ family to talk about did Olivia mention skating.

      “Dr Phillipson tells me you’re going to be very kind and let Harriet come here to skate. He wants her to have exercise for her leg muscles.”

      Mr Matthews looked at Harriet’s legs in a worried sort of way.

      “Thin, aren’t they? Ever skated before?” Harriet explained she had not. “Soon pick it up, I’ll show you where you go for your skates and boots. Cost two shillings a session they will.” He turned to Olivia. “I’ll have a word with my man who hires them out, ask him to find a pair that fit her; he’ll keep them for her, it’ll make all the difference.”

      The way to the skate-hiring place was through the rink. Harriet had never seen a rink before. She gazed with her eyes open very wide at what seemed to her to be an enormous room with ice instead of floor. In the middle of the ice, people, many of whom did not look any older than she was, were doing what seemed to her terribly difficult things with their legs. On the outside of the rink, however, there were a comforting lot of people who seemed to know as little about skating as she did, for they were holding on to the barrier round the side of the rink as if it was their only hope of keeping alive, while their legs did the most curious things in a way which evidently surprised their owners. In spite of holding on to the barrier quite a lot of these skaters fell down and seemed to find it terribly difficult to get up again. Harriet slipped her hand into her mother’s and pulled her down so that she could speak to her quietly without Mr Matthews hearing.

      “It doesn’t seem to matter not being able to skate here, does it, Mummy?”

      Olivia knew just how Harriet was feeling.

      “Of course not, pet. Perhaps some day you’ll be as grand a skater as those children in the middle.”

      Mr Matthews overheard what Olivia said.

      “I don’t know so much about that, takes time and money to become a fine skater. See that little girl there.”

      Harriet followed the direction in which Mr Matthews was pointing. She saw a girl of about her own age. She was a very grand-looking little girl wearing a white jersey, a short white pleated skirt, white tights, white boots, and a sort of small white bonnet fitted tightly to her head. She was a dark child with lots of loose curly hair and big dark eyes.

      “The little girl in white?”

      “That’s right, little Lalla Moore, promising child, been brought here for a lesson almost every day since she was three.”

      Olivia looked pityingly at Lalla.

      “Poor little creature! I can’t imagine she wanted to come here when she was three.”

      Mr Matthews obviously thought that coming to his rink at the age of three brought credit on the rink, for his voice sounded proud.

      “Pushed here in a pram, she was, by her nanny.”

      “I wonder,” said Olivia, “what could have made her parents think she wanted to skate when she was three.”

      Mr Matthews started walking again towards the skate-hiring place.

      “It’s not her parents, they were both killed skating, been brought up by an aunt. Her father was Cyril Moore.”

      Mr Matthews said “Cyril Moore” in so important a voice that it was obvious he thought Olivia ought to know who he was talking about. Olivia had never heard of anybody called Cyril Moore but she said in a surprised, pleased tone:

      “Cyril Moore! Fancy!”

      At the skate-hiring place Mr Matthews introduced Olivia and Harriet to the man in charge.

      “This is Sam. Sam, I want you to look after this little girl; her name is Harriet Johnson, she’s a friend of Dr Phillipson’s, and, as you can see from the look of her, she has been ill. Find boots that fit her and keep them for her, she’ll be coming every day.”

      Sam was a cheerful, red-faced man. As soon as Mr Matthews had gone he pulled forward a chair.

      “Sit down, duckie, and let’s have a dekko at those feet.” He ran a hand up and down Harriet’s calves and made disapproving, clicking sounds. “My, my! Putty, not muscles, these are.”

      Harriet did not want Sam to think she had been born with flabby legs.

      “They weren’t always like this, it’s because they’ve been in bed so long with nothing to do. It seems to have made them feel cotton-woolish, but Dr Phillipson thinks if I skate they’ll get all right again. I feel rather despondent about them myself, they’ve been cotton-woolish a long time.”

      Sam took one of Harriet’s hands, closed it into a fist and banged it against his right leg.

      “What about that? That’s my spare, that is, the Japs had the other in Burma. Do you think it worries me? Not a bit of it. You’d be surprised what I can do with me old spare. I reckon I get around more with one whole leg and one spare than most do with two whole legs. Don’t you lose ’eart in yours; time we’ve had you on the rink a week or two you’ll have forgotten they ever felt like cotton-wool, proper little skater’s legs they’ll be.”

      “Like Lalla Moore’s?”

      Sam looked surprised.

      “Know her?”

      “No, but Mr Matthews showed her to us, he said she’d been skating since she was three. He said she used to come in a perambulator.”

      Sam turned as if to go into the shop, then he stopped.

      “So she did too, had proper little boots made for her and all. I often wonder what her Dad would say if he could come back and see what they were doing to his kid. Cyril Moore he was, one of the best figure skaters, and one of the nicest men I ever set eyes on. Well, mustn’t stop gossiping here, you want to get on