It's funny that when Mr P. phoned me and I answered my mobile in the bedroom of Villa Casanova in Venice all those months ago, it would set in motion a chain of events that would almost kill him.
In effect what he was really saying "I'd like you to come round and put me in hospital."
Today's drive up to the P's mansion held a certain amount of foreboding, that is proper foreboding, not irrational foreboding.
I don't think Mrs P. was best pleased with my attempt to kill her husband. Naturally she was the first person I met coming out of the back door.
"It was really all my fault" I confessed.
(The fact is even in the unlikely event of Mr P wearing a hard hat it wouldn't have done anything for the collapsing of the lung which was due to the blow on the back.)
"It's nice of you to say so."
Due to Mr P's height the scar on the back of his head will be largely out of sight to anyone closer to the average.
This whole incident isn't really something that can be made light of, I find.
"He's still looking a bit pale" I remark to the gardener.
"He's looking a *uck of a lot better than last Monday though!" was his answer.
No comments:
Post a Comment