Holy Terror in the Hebrides (19 page)

“Ye’ll no’ have the only emergency, ye know. I’m no’ saying yon lass isna bad, but there’ll be mair before we’ve done, and me the only doctor this side the island. I’ll do whit I can.”

And with that we had to be content.

“I’ll radio aboot yon helicopter, dinna ye worry. We’ll have yon uppity doctor here soon, I promise.”

I took a good deal more comfort from Davie’s promises than from the doctor’s.

The wind had dropped even in the little time we’d been in the cottage. It was no more now than a terrible storm, raining cats and dogs and with a wind you could stand up against. By comparison with the tempest we’d lived through, it felt like a spring drizzle.

Chris tucked my arm into his again as we walked through the stormy blackness, and kept me from falling more than once. He was silent the whole way back, but spoke as we neared the hotel. “I’ll go on up to the surgery. I only hope I can find the key and the medicine. You’re worn out; you go on in and get some rest.”

“Thanks, Chris, I’ll do that. And thanks for the moral support—as well as physically holding me up a time or two, come to think of it.”

“More of a man than you might have thought, in fact?” He laughed lightly and went on up the road, bent to the freezing wind.

I wished he wouldn’t be quite so defensive. I meant him no harm. But then I entered the hotel and forgot all about him in my anxiety for Teresa.

She was better, in a way. The oxygen had improved her color, but it was also keeping her conscious, and the pain in her eyes was terrible to see. She lay very still, with Hester in watchful attendance, but she turned her head to look at me when I came in to make my report.

“Help is on the way, Teresa,” I said brightly. “The doctor can’t get here until the storm dies down a little more, but she agreed that the oxygen was the right thing. And she’s prescribed some pain medication for you until she can get the glass out. Chris has gone to get it right now.”

“Thank God,” she said, and it sounded like a prayer. She closed her eyes, but a tear or two rolled out. Poor girl, she was doing her best, but how she must hurt!

I spoke a quiet word or two to Hester about dosage and general instructions. “There’s not much we can do, really, until the doctor gets here. She said Teresa’s not to be moved. Oh, and be sure she isn’t given water, only ice. Water might make her sick. It’ll be a while before we have help, but the storm’s really waning, I think.”

“Yes. God be thanked. Get you up to bed, now; you’ve done all you can and more than was to be expected, and there’ll be enough to do when you wake.”

It was excellent advice. I dragged myself up the stairs, stripped off my wet clothes, and fell on the bed; no sound of wind or rain disturbed me for hours.

I
T WAS ALMOST
noon when I woke, and then only with reluctance. I heaved myself off the bed and went to the window. The struggle with the shutters cost me a thumbnail, but when I finally got them open, the daylight was a blessing. The sky was still filled with clouds, but only a soft rain was falling. The wind was blowing fiercely, but no longer like all the forces of hell unleashed. I echoed Hester’s sentiment: God be thanked.

The devastation, though, was terrible to behold. Hester’s beautiful flowers were gone, as if they’d never existed, and her vegetable garden was a mass of mud. And that was the least of it. The garden shed was a flattened mess of wreckage. Slates littered what was left of the grass, probably slates from the roof of the hotel. I wondered how much roof was left. I turned away from the window, glanced at my ceiling, and saw a spreading stain of dampness that, as I watched, concentrated itself and began to drip steadily onto the bed.

Time to stop mourning and start moving. I wrestled the bed away from the wall, but there was nothing in the room to put under the drip. I draped a bathrobe around my underwear, wishing passionately that I had time for a bath, and dragged my still weary body downstairs.

“Did you sleep?” asked Hester, in the kitchen, looking as though she hadn’t.

“Yes, thank you. I need a saucepan, or something. My ceiling’s sprung a leak.”

“They all have.” She sounded ready to cry. “There’s not a pot, nor a pail, nor a basin in the house not being used to catch water. I’ll do you some lunch presently, though how I’m to cook with no pots . . .” She threw up her hands in despair and I changed the subject.

“How’s Teresa?”

“Much the same. She had a wee sleep after Mr. Olafson brought the medicine, but she’s not good.”

“I’ll go see her in a minute. What about Stan?”

Hester smiled, faintly. “Active and complaining. He’s not badly hurt. He ate his breakfast and wanted more, cheeky little beggar. He’s off sleeping, someplace.”

“Well, that’s good news, anyway. I’ll pet him if I see him. And Hester, don’t worry about feeding us. Cold cuts will be fine. You look as though you’re about to collapse any minute.”

“Oh, I’ll manage. There’s food enough and to spare ready in the freezer, if I can think how to heat it.” She managed a rueful smile.

“I’ll get out of your way, then. Do let me know, though, if there’s any way I can help.” I removed myself and went into the parlor.

Teresa had dropped into a light sleep. Grace put a finger to her lips when she saw me, and I beckoned her out into the hall.

“How is she?”

“Restless, and raving a bit. It’s the medicine, I suppose. I hope. She isn’t in quite so much pain, I think, but she keeps asking for water, and won’t take the ice I try to give her. Do you have any idea when the doctor will get here?”

“No, but soon, I should think. The wind’s dying down by the minute. She did say, the doctor, I mean, that there’d be other injuries she might have to deal with first. A storm like that—and there’s no other doctor on the whole west side of Mull.”

“Yes, well, we’re not talking about a population of millions, are we? She’s needed here, now.”

Privately, I agreed with her, but a year of living in the UK had taught me a certain amount of patience.

“This is a pretty remote place, don’t forget. And the pace of life is different here.”

“I wonder what the pace of death is,” said Grace sourly.

I noticed the circles under her beautiful eyes. She needed to be relieved. “Have you been up with her this whole time?”

“Since Jake woke me, yes. Someone with a modicum of medical knowledge had to be with her.”

I was diverted from my purpose. “I’ve been meaning to ask you, Grace, how is it you know so much about first aid? Did you train as a nurse?”

“No.” Her tone implied what a ridiculous question it was. “You know I work with the homeless. They have so many medical problems, any day can be an emergency at any meal center. I took a special course at Cook County.”

Her tone was both patronizing and dismissive, but my respect for her went up a notch. Cook County Hospital, in one of Chicago’s worst neighborhoods, isn’t a place for the faint of heart.

But this wasn’t the time to gush over Grace. I simply said, “I see. That explains it. Now, I’m going to take a bath and then relieve you. I’ve had some sleep; you haven’t, or not enough. I’ll be back in fifteen minutes.”

A sound from Teresa sent Grace back into the parlor before she could argue with me, as she was certainly about to do. I didn’t care. I was going to take over from her, and that was that. I had my own reasons for wanting to sit with Teresa.

It took me a little more time than I’d given myself, what with picking up my soggy clothes from the corner where I’d heedlessly dropped them hours before, and mopping the floor. I piled up some towels under the drip, got downstairs in reasonably good time, clean and clothed, and managed to remove Grace from her duty with no more of a fight than I had anticipated.

“I know where you are if I need you. And I promise to get you right away if the doctor comes. Go!”

Still grumbling, she went, and I settled down to listen very carefully to anything Teresa might say.

She was still asleep, and seemed to be resting fairly comfortably, when Hester poked her head in the door.

“Lunch, such as it is, is served,” she whispered. “Soup and sandwiches. Shall I bring you a tray?”

“Just sandwiches, thank you. Teresa might smell the soup and want some, and she’s not supposed to have anything to eat for a while. Have you had any word about when the doctor is supposed to get here?”

“Yes, David MacPherson talked just now to Andrew. In an hour or two, he says.”

She hurried away, and I breathed a great sigh of relief. In an hour or two Teresa would be taken off our hands, as a responsibility, at any rate, even if she had to stay where she was. Myself, I hoped she could be transported to Mull or even Oban.

The farther away the better, in fact, because I was beginning to be very worried about Teresa’s concern over water.

She wouldn’t take ice when it was offered to her. Evidently she wasn’t thirsty.

Why, then, did she keep mentioning water?

Could it possibly be that she, too, was wondering where the water in Fingal’s Cave had come from? Had her mind, in trauma, wandered back to another traumatic moment? She hadn’t seen Bob fall, but she had been with him on Staffa. Could she have seen him go into the cave, maybe a cave she’d just left? Suppose she’d been up to the top of the path and noticed it was perfectly dry? And then, when I’d said the rocks were wet . . .

But I hadn’t said they were wet. That was the one piece of information I’d kept to myself, except for telling the police. So had she seen the rocks? How else would she know?

Either they’d been wet when she was in there, and she’d thought of the significance only when Andrew mentioned the danger, or else she herself . . .

Now stop it!
my inner censor commanded.
Not Teresa!

But then, I didn’t want it to be any of them. I sighed. I was building an awful lot of theory on a very little evidence. Maybe Teresa just hated ice.

She stirred again, and again said, “Water . . .”

I stood eagerly and went over to her. “What is it, Teresa? Are you thirsty? They’ve told you, haven’t they, that you can’t have water, only cracked ice?”

She looked at me without comprehension, muttered something, and closed her eyes. I looked at her fingernails; they were taking on a bluish hue again. She wasn’t getting any better, that was for sure. I abandoned speculation and concentrated on looking after my patient.

H
ESTER CAME AND
went, bringing me sandwiches and removing the plate, and after several eternities the doctor arrived. The wind had died down enough that I could hear the beat of the helicopter blades as the machine landed, and then it was only a few minutes before the doctor strode into the parlor, bag in hand, looking tired but in control. She was older than I’d imagined, with short gray hair and a bluff, no-nonsense manner. She was accompanied by the paramedics from the helicopter.

The examination took only a few minutes, while Teresa, half conscious, twisted and moaned. Then the doctor gave her a shot of something that calmed her down, and rose.

“Well, she’ll need to go to hospital, but she canna be transported with all yon glass in her. I’ll have to get as much of it oot as I can, masel’. I’ll need a long, clean table, and clean sheets.” She looked at Hester, who was hovering anxiously.

“The kitchen table’s six feet long, if that’ll do.”

“Aye. Noo, are ye ready to lift her?” She took one corner of the blanket, the paramedics the others, and transferred Teresa, as gently as possible, to the stretcher. Her blood had soaked through the blankets to Hester’s couch, I noticed irrelevantly. It was never going to be the same again.

Everyone was banished from the kitchen while the grisly procedure was going on. I was just as glad. I don’t cope well with blood, myself, and I can’t stand to see anyone suffer. I drifted to the hall and stood, irresolute. I should wake Grace, as I’d promised, but she wasn’t needed right now, and the poor woman had to have some sleep.

Stan decided the matter for me. Thrown out of the kitchen with the rest of us, he walked across the hall, staggering a little, and headed for his favorite spot by the fire in the lounge. I followed, if only to see how he was doing.

While I had slept, others had been at work. The lounge was not a pleasant place this afternoon, but one could sit there, at least. The ruined furniture and sopping rugs had been removed, with what wearisome effort I could only imagine. There are few things as heavy and awkward as a large, wet rug. The hole in the wall was patched with plywood, ugly and impermanent, but at least offering some protection from the still-churlish weather. A few dining room chairs sat around, pretending to be comfortable armchairs.

Janet was the sole occupant of the room; she sat on the one couch that had apparently escaped the furies of the storm. Stan, of course, made straight for it and jumped up beside her. I scooped him up before he could make it to her lap. Like every cat I have ever known, Stan had an unerring instinct for the people who didn’t like him, and loved to torment them with his demanding presence. I settled him by my side, petted him until I thought he would stay there, and then peered over to look at what Janet was reading—or pretending to read. She had been turning the pages very fast and, apparently, at random. It didn’t surprise me that it was a gardening book.

“That’s a beautiful book,” I said with little hope of a response.

“Do you want it? I’m tired of reading.” She tossed the heavy book onto the cushion between us and woke Stan, but only momentarily, thank goodness.

“Not really. I want to talk. Do you mind? I’d like to take my mind off the storm, and the damage, and especially Teresa, poor dear.”

Janet shrugged.

I picked up the gardening book. “Do you suppose I could learn anything from this?” I persisted. “I’m a hopeless gardener, but I do love flowers. I understand you’re quite a gardener.”

“It’s my life.”

“Oh, you’re a professional landscape gardener, then?”

“Of course, what did you think?” And she turned her back to me and stared at a window. She didn’t see much; the shutters were still up.