This summer, I decided to take Elizabeth and the Bentley and tour the Lake District. Everyone told me how beautiful it was, and so, indeed, we found it - but spoiled rather by the presence of so many common, rough people. Why can they not organise things better? All the best places are spoiled in this way, nowadays. The working man is too mobile. Everything went well, however, until we arrived a the little village called Skiddawthwaite. We actually needed to be in Rosseathwaite, where, I was reliably informed, there was a rather nice little hotel. I could see no signs for anywhere, so I stopped the Bentley to ask the way. I could see only one man, a tall chappy in his thirties, I would think. I opened the window a little and called to him to come over. Elizabeth opened the car door, and got out, saying she was going to stretch her legs. As I was asking the way, I heard Elizabeth cry out, and the man giving me directions ran round the back of the Bentley. I got out, and saw, to my dismay, Elizabeth lying on the floor behind the car, face white and drawn with pain.

“She stumbled on the edge of the kerb,” the man told me. “I think she’s hurt her ankle.” He had an execrable accent, all common northern vowels.

“Are you alright, darling?” I asked her.

“No, mummy, I think my ankle has gone,” she replied. Then, directed at the man:-

“Would you mind awfully helping me to my feet?”

“Thank you - we can manage,” I said, not wanting this person to interfere in family matters. I held out my arm to my daughter, but as soon as she tried to rise, she stumbled again, gasping with pain. The man moved forward.

“Let me take her into my cottage over there”, he said. “Then I’ll call the doctor.”

“Too kind,” I replied. “Really, I could not trouble you. Please help me to place my daughter back inside the motor car, and we will return to our residence, where we can consult our own physician.” “I don’t think she should wait to see a doctor,” he said. “Where do you have to go to?”

“London, of course,” I replied.

“That’s a long journey. I really think you should see a doctor now.”

My daughter settled things by fainting from the pain! He lifted her in his arms, as though she weighed nothing, and walked to the front door of his cottage.

“Just open the door - it’s not locked,” he told me. He carried her inside and set her down on the settee. While I made her as comfortable as possible, he went to the local doctor’s house, apparently at the other end of the village, and the doctor agreed to come to see her as soon as his afternoon surgery ended. The man was back home in five minutes to tell us all this, and the doctor followed five minutes later. He carried out his examination - very thoroughly, I must admit, for a rural practitioner.

“Not too much wrong, I think. I’m fairly sure it’s just a bad sprain, but I don’t want her to leave the village before tomorrow. I’ll be able to tell better then - the swelling should have gone down a lot if it is just a sprain, and I’ll know better whether to send her for an X-ray or not.” He turned to the man, who was hovering nearby. “Can you manage to put them both up, Ted? I suppose they could go to the hotel if not, but I’d rather she wasn’t moved.”

“No, that’s fine. I’ll manage,” he said. He bent, slipped one arm under my daughter’s bare legs, just above the knee, (I am always telling her that her skirts are too short, and she should wear stockings!), and the other round her waist. Then he straightened up, as though she weighed nothing, and lifted her. He carried her into another little room - all the rooms in the place were so small - which, it transpired, was his bedroom. He placed her on the bed, and when he straightened up, I could not help but notice a distinct bulge in the crotch of his trousers. Men! Just from touching my daughter like that. I think he saw I had noticed, because he had a funny smile on his face. Uncouth thing!....(cont)