Twenty
Mark Easterbrook’s Narrative¹
I
Ringing up Ginger² on the following morning, I told her that I was movingto Bournemouth the next day.
“I’ve found a nice quiet little hotel called (heaven knows why) the DeerPark. It’s got a couple of nice unobtrusive side exits. I might sneak³ up toLondon and see you.”
“You oughtn’t to really, I suppose. But I must say it would be ratherheaven if you did. The boredom⁴! You’ve no idea! If you couldn’t comehere, I could sneak out and meet you somewhere.”
Something suddenly struck me.
“Ginger! Your voice… It’s different somehow….”
“Oh that! It’s all right. Don’t worry.”
“But your voice?”
“I’ve just got a bit of a sore throat or something, that’s all.”
“Ginger!”
“Now look, Mark, anyone can have a sore throat. I’m starting a cold, Iexpect. Or a touch of ’flu.”
“’Flu? Look here, don’t evade⁵ the point. Are you all right, or aren’t you?”
“Don’t fuss. I’m all right.”
“Tell me exactly how you’re feeling. Do you feel as though you might bestarting ’flu?”
“Well—perhaps… Aching a bit all over, you know the kind of thing—”
“Temperature?”
“Well, perhaps a bit of a temperature….”
I sat there, a horrible cold sort of feeling stealing over me. I wasfrightened. I knew, too, that however much Ginger might refuse to admitit, Ginger was frightened also.
Her voice spoke⁶ again.
“Mark—don’t panic. You are panicking—and really there’s nothing topanic about.”
“Perhaps not. But we’ve got to take every precaution. Ring up your doc-tor and get him to come and see you. At once.”
“All right… But—he’ll think I’m a terrible fusspot.”
“Never mind. Do it! Then, when he’s been, ring me back.”

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