Enskubók

Sir Reginald Ashcombe came to St. Clement's Spa on a rainy Monday afternoon, carrying three suitcases and a rather unnecessary collection of medicines.

His doctor had recommended fresh air, mineral water and complete relaxation.

Reginald disliked all three.

At reception, he examined the elegant entrance hall and adjusted his silk cravat.

'Three weeks,' he informed the receptionist. 'And I should prefer a quiet room. I have had quite enough excitement for one lifetime.'

The receptionist glanced at his skull but wisely said nothing.

At breakfast the following morning, Reginald found himself sitting beside a beautiful nefrith lady.

'Those flowers are terribly arranged,' he remarked, studying the enormous roses on the table.

'How interesting,' she replied. 'I arranged them myself.'

There was a long silence.

'And where do you come from, Sir Reginald?'

'Yorkshire, madam.'

'That explains a great deal.'

He looked at her, uncertain whether he had been insulted.

For the first time in many years, he wished to continue a conversation.

Two days later, Reginald came across Lady Eleanor in the hotel library.

She was standing on a small wooden ladder, trying to reach a book on the highest shelf.

'Allow me,' he said, stepping forward.

Unfortunately, the ladder moved. Reginald caught it just in time, but his top hat fell into a basket of newspapers.

Eleanor climbed down, laughing.

'You have saved my life, Sir Reginald.'

'A simple matter of balance, madam.'

'Then perhaps you should practise it more often.'

On Thursday afternoon, Eleanor found Reginald reading alone in the drawing room.

'Come along, Sir Reginald. The gardens are beautiful today.'

'I had intended to finish this newspaper.'

'It is yesterday's newspaper.'

He folded it carefully.

They walked for nearly two hours, discussing books, roses and the strange habits of the other guests.

When Eleanor laughed at one of his remarks, Reginald felt unexpectedly pleased.

He had forgotten how agreeable it could be to spend an afternoon with someone.

On Friday, Reginald failed to appear at breakfast.

Concerned, Eleanor decided to come round to his room.

She found him sitting beside the window, wrapped in a blanket.

'I believe I have caught a cold,' he announced.

Eleanor looked at his bare ribs.

'You haven't any lungs, Reginald.'

'That does not mean I cannot feel a draught.'

She smiled and placed a small bunch of roses on his table.

'Then I shall close the window.'

He watched her quietly, suddenly grateful for the cold.

That evening, Reginald sat alone in the hotel drawing room.

He had spent the afternoon thinking about Eleanor's visit. Her laughter, her kindness, even her terrible opinions about poetry had become strangely important to him.

Slowly, he came to realise that he was falling in love.

The discovery was deeply inconvenient.

He was a gentleman of seventy-four, and a skeleton besides. Eleanor was beautiful, intelligent and full of life.

He looked at his reflection in the dark window.

'Absolutely ridiculous,' he whispered.

But he was smiling, in his own way.

On Saturday evening, Eleanor told Reginald that her stay was coming to an end.

'I leave tomorrow morning,' she said.

They were sitting together after dinner, listening to a pianist in the hotel salon.

'How unfortunate,' Reginald replied.

He wanted to tell her everything. Instead, he commented on the weather.

Eleanor waited, but he said nothing more.

'Goodnight, Sir Reginald.'

'Goodnight, Lady Eleanor.'

As she walked away, he remained perfectly still.

For once, his excellent manners had failed him completely.

The following morning, Reginald was packing when someone knocked at his door.

Eleanor entered, holding two railway tickets.

'I thought you might come with me,' she said.

'Where, exactly?'

'Home.'

Reginald stared at the tickets.

'My dear lady, I haven't got a home. Not one worth mentioning.'

'Then you had better share mine.'

For a moment, neither spoke.

'You understand,' he said at last, 'that I am not a particularly suitable companion.'

Eleanor took his bony hand.

'Reginald, I have never cared much for suitable men.'