Read Online Hotel Mirador by Rosalind Brett - Free Book Online Page A

house, Sally brought all her mind to bear on the present. She told the driver to park in the shade and wait, walked lightly up into the little terrace and reached in to knock at the open door. Then she took a step into the small hall and stood there in its coolness, waiting for something to happen.
    The thin youth who had yesterday been clipping the shrubs came into view from a corridor. He bowed, said nothing and walked away, to return within a minute.
    “Monsieur is sorry, but he cannot see you, mademoiselle. Please be seated and I will bring some tea.”
    Sally shook her head. “No tea, thank you. Tell Mr. Ritchie I’ll wait till he’s free.”
    The servant looked uncertain, but disappeared. Again he materialized, bearing a tray which held the glass of mint tea which is indispensable even to the poorest hospitality in Morocco. Sally accepted it and placed the glass on a dark carved table. She sat in a chair which was uncomfortably but cleverly thonged in many-colored leather, crossed her ankles and relaxed as if she had all the time in the world. The servant hovered, swung his tray and vanished once more. Sally tried the mint tea and wondered if she would ever come to find it refreshing, as others did. She picked up an inlaid cigarette box and examined it, admired the panel of Moorish embroidery which hung on the wall above the table.
    Ten minutes ticked by, fifteen, twenty. Twice the servant’s head appeared round the corner of the corridor, and twice he stared at her perplexedly and withdrew. Then, finally, came the sound for which Sally’s ear had been waiting; a faint' rumble and squeak on the tiled floor. The invalid chair rolled into view and Mike Ritchie, a red lock drooping over his brow, came to a halt about a yard from Sally’s chair, and glared at her.
    “What do you want?” he demanded.
    She smiled, as if totally unaware of his anger. “Oh, good morning, Mr. Ritchie. I’m so glad you could see me. I’m alone today, and thought we might have a talk.”
    “I don’t want your pity.”
    “Good heavens,” she said with a show of surprise. “I don’t pity you. You pity yourself so much that there’s no need for anyone else to waste any on you. I came to correct a little misunderstanding. I’m not a nurse.”
    “No? Then what are you!”
    “A physiotherapist. You must have met one before, at (the hospital.”
    “There was a muscular creature of about fifty—no one like you.” He lifted his head and gazed through the doorway at the hot greens and reds of the garden. “All right. Say what you came to say.”
    “Right here in the hall?” He didn’t answer, so she went on casually, “Well, it was like this. Mr. Ryland was very worried about you because you wouldn’t go back to hospital for further treatment. He consulted the specialist who set your various bones, and was told you needed physiotherapy; but there was no one here in Morocco who could help you. So Mr. Ryland advertised in England, and eventually engaged me. I may not look it, but I’ve had quite a lot of experience.”
    “Not with my sort of trouble.”
    “You mean the mental part—no, perhaps not.”
    He looked at her fleetingly. “What do you mean—mental part?”
    She gave him her most disarming smile. “You see, I deal mostly with children, and they don’t have mental troubles over their condition. They’ve had polio, accidents, diseases of the bone and nerves, but in the hands of someone wearing a white overall they’re thoroughly contented and relaxed. It’s so much easier to help someone who believes in everything.”
    “I’m not a child.”
    “Yet you’re behaving like a certain type of child—the pampered type. We got a few of them at the Orthopaedic Home, but they’d mostly been tamed in hospital before we dealt with them. You’re older, and therefore more stubborn.”
    “Is that all?”
    “Well, no, it’s only the beginning, but I didn’t come to deliver a lecture, only to point out that with