Read Online Tread Softly by Wendy Perriam - Free Book Online Page B

when learning ballroom dancing – slow, slow, quick, quick, slow. There was nothing quick about this process, though. Dragging herself up even a single step was a major undertaking.
    â€˜That nightie’s most unsuitable,’ Phil admonished. ‘It’s too long. It’ll trip you up. Have you nothing shorter?’
    Lorna shook her head. She had borrowed the exotic lacy creation from a friend, concerned less with its length (the friend was five foot ten) than with arousing Mr Hughes’s passion.
    â€˜Well, hitch it up and tie it with your dressing-gown cord.’
    The dressing-gown was borrowed too: Ralph’s navy-blue-striped towelling one, which must have looked a shade incongruous with six inches of frilly pink satin trailing below it. But her own night-clothes were non-existent. Normally she slept in her skin or a T-shirt, and, working such long hours, had never found much use for dressing-gowns.
    Phil held the crutches for her while she balanced on one foot and made the necessary adjustments.
    â€˜Right, let’s continue,’ Phil said testily, handing back the crutches. ‘We haven’t got all day. Bring the bad foot up with the crutch. No, leave your right foot where it is. You want both feet on the same stair.’
    Lorna tried to concentrate. She was going home the day after tomorrow, and if she didn’t learn to negotiate the stairs she would starve when Ralph was out.
    â€˜Now we’ll try going down. The bad foot leads, remember – “The bad go down to hell.’’’
    Agnes had been a great one for hell. Adulterers were banished there without mercy or exception – including adulterers in intent. When Mr Hughes had popped in yesterday Lorna had stripped him naked and seduced him. Strangely, today she had lost all vestige of desire. If he came slavering to her bed she would simply show him the door.
    â€˜Now we’ll walk along the corridor back to your room. Both crutches forward first, please, then move the bad foot up to them, resting it on the heel. It’s not hurting, is it?’
    â€˜Yes.’
    â€˜Well, it shouldn’t be.’
    â€˜And so’s my back. In fact my back’s almost as bad as my foot.’
    â€˜That’s because you’re not mobile.’
    â€˜Actually, Janice said she thought it might have been damaged during the op.’
    Janice was the other physiotherapist and as different from Phil as Mary Poppins from Attila the Hun. She was young, petite and giggly – a friendly chatterbox who had admitted in an unguarded moment that patients were sometimes manhandled in theatre. ‘And, you see, if you’re moved awkwardly when you’re anaesthetized it can cause an injury.’
    Especially if you’re anaesthetized for four solid hours, Lorna had bitten back.
    Sergeant-Major Phil, however, dismissed the idea out of hand and continued relentlessly with her drill. ‘Take more weight on the arms! No, don’t grip the crutches so tightly. Relax, relax! You’re far too tense. And look up, not down. Bend your knees. You’re holding them too stiff. Take smaller steps. There’s no need to stride out like that – you’re not competing in a marathon.’
    Nor ever likely to. Any increase in pace was simply to propel herself back to her room so she could flop out on the bed. They were nearly there, thank heavens.
    â€˜Right, I’ll see you tomorrow, Mrs Pearson. And don’t forget: practice is essential.’
    And so is a rest from my labours, Lorna thought, undoing the special shoe on her bad foot. Provided by the hospital, it was a monstrosity in air-force blue, a cross between a trainer and a sandal, but fastening with Velcro straps and made large enough to fit over the bandages. Not exactly this year’s fashion sensation.
    Her foot was throbbing and burning, and her back hurt so much it was impossible to get comfortable. In fact she felt worse today