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The vicar shook his balding head with regret. ‘I’m afraid he did not wake up while in my charge, Miss, and since he’s not in my house now, I can’t say whether he might have woken up by now.’
‘Not in your house?’
‘I live alone, Miss, and am more used to taking care of souls than earthly bodies. So I gave the unfortunate man into the care of Mrs Fotheringay, a kind lady living just above the cliffs, at the edge of the village. She has a room where she takes in lodgers during summertime, and with true Christian charity she agreed to put the unfortunate gentleman up for a few days.’
‘Where? Where exactly does this Mrs Fotheringay live?’
‘You know him, then? The man who was washed ashore?’
‘Yes, yes!’ At least I hope so. Oh God, please let it be him. ‘Tell me, where can I find this Mrs Fotheringay?’
Stepping out of his door, the vicar pointed down the village. ‘Just go down the main street until you come to the big oak. Turn right and carry on until you see a red brick house with pretty green shutters. That’s Mrs Fotheringay’s house.’ He gave me a kind smile. ‘I hope your, um… friend is all right.’
‘Thank you, Vicar! Thank you so much!’ I had already started running down the street, when I screeched to a halt. Blast! Quickly, I turned around again. I had nearly forgotten to ask the most important question.
‘Vicar, that room that he’s in - will he have to pay for it?’
The vicar blinked at me, taken aback. ‘Um… I don’t think so, no.’
‘Thank God!’ A wide grin spread over my face. ‘That means he really will be all right!’
If it’s him, that is.
Not wasting another second, I went tearing down the street. Not even the sand in my socks could hold me back now!
The house was there, just as the vicar had described it: red brick and abominably pretty green shutters. It also had an ornate brass doorknocker, which I grabbed and smashed against the wood hard enough to crack the paint. After a while, hesitant footsteps approached from the other side, and the door opened a crack.
‘Yes?’
‘Mrs Fotheringay?’
At hearing that it was a woman outside, and not a mad axe murderer, the person on the other side widened the crack slightly.
‘Yes. Who is this?’
‘My name is Lilly Linton. The vicar gave me directions to your house. I’m here about the man you’ve taken in.’
‘The castaway?’
I couldn’t help grinning at hearing that term applied to Mr Ambrose. It made me think of some fellow in a Robinson Crusoe getup, with a huge beard, a jacket made from goatskin and an old-fashioned rifle over his shoulder. Just thinking of Mr Ambrose in that outfit made me want to burst into giggles.
But then I remembered that it might not be Mr Ambrose I was about to see, and my urge to giggle ceased abruptly.
‘Yes. The castaway. Please, Mrs Fotheringay. I know it is late, but will you let me in? I… I was on the ship that went down, and have been searching for a man who was with me for five days now, and…’
My desperate pleas trailed off as the door swung open the rest of the way. In the doorway stood a crinkly little lady with the kindest smile I had seen since nearly drowning. Atop her brown hair, shot with grey, sat a homely-looking brown bonnet, and her shabby beige dress looked to me like the garment of an elderly angel who had retired to a nice cloud in the country.
‘Oh, my poor dear! Come in! Come in, please!’ I was grasped by both hands and pulled inside. ‘You were on the ship when that dreadful accident happened?’
If it was an accident…
But I didn’t say that out loud. Instead I just nodded.
‘Oh, dear Lord! Come into the sitting room and have a cup of tea, my dear! We’ll find you a nice place by the fire. You’re shivering!’
‘Perhaps later, thank you. Your guest, the man…’
‘Of course, what was I thinking?’ Squeezing my hand again, the old lady tugged me down the hall. ‘I’ll take you to him right now, dear.’
