Hospital in the Highlands (14 page)

Robert Strathallan was tired, and the idea of the anticipated dinner party at the Provost’s house did not exactly delight him as he parked his car and let himself into the house. There was more to being a consultant at the Glen than he had imagined, and variety enough for anyone’s taste. Take today, for instance, a normal operating day: two appendectomies; three T and A’s; an emergency Caesarian section with the baby already well in the breech position; a nasty-looking injection abscess to be cut and drained and several restitchings.

Not a big list if you considered what went on in the city hospital, but there every surgeon was a specialist, nowadays, and his operations confined to one area only of the human body. Then again big hospitals had big operating theaters and big staffs to man them. The Glen had himself and young Gairlarroch, who was a nice enough laddie and very willing but not much use in a
n
emergency. He was inclined—at the sight of a hemorrhage—to shout “somebody get a doctor!” and how he had ever qualified Robert couldn’t imagine. Sister Birtle was heavy going, too. She was sometimes so afraid of intruding that he didn't know the moment the scalpel touched his gloved hand.

“Slap it in, Sister!” he had urged today. “Slap it in hard. You won’t hurt me and we’ll all know what to do next.”

It hadn’t seemed hard work until today, somehow, but maybe he was a little under par himself. One person’s absence couldn’t make all that much difference. Or could it?

“Darling!” came a soft, feminine, velvet voice. “You’re back! You look all in, Robbie. Come and sit down and have a sherry. I’ve done something rather terrible.”

He followed her into the large sitting room, relaxing visibly as his eyes admired the clean, slim lines of a Scots lassie: the same lines that bespoke the thoroughbred in other things. Hunting-hound, deer and woman; all should be slim and classically graceful.

It was good to be gently persuaded to lie full length on the sofa and have a cushion pushed under one’s head: to open one’s eyes and see Jenny’s laughing, jade and amber, unusual, unforgettable eyes.

“Now, what terrible thing have you done?” he wanted to know as she clinked two glasses and sat on the humpty, her creamy shoulder so close to his hand that he could have stroked it and gone on exploring the mysteries of her flesh had he so desired. “Have you bought a red hat, or some other impossible frippery, carrot-top?”

“Robbie!” she protested and laughed at the same time. “I’ve been here all day waiting for your return, whether you believe it or not. Actually I—I cancelled our dinner engagement with the Provost. Do you mind?”

Don’t be angry, her eyes now confidently besought: you couldn’t be angry with
me
!”

“I think you’re a genius, Jen. What did you say?”

“Well, I asked the hospital what time you’d be free, and then I calculated that you’d be an absolute rag by the time you were bathed and dressed. I told the Provost just that. He took it quite well; he said the birds weren’t so meaty as his wife had hoped and that two less to feed might ease the culinary burden. You’re not annoyed with me, then? I was only thinking of
you
.”

“How can I be annoyed with my Jenny?”

Though she now turned her head so that her ripe lips were available he continued to sip his sherry, however.

“We had that delightful kiddy here again this morning. Hamish’s girl friend. What’s her name?”

“Pixie?”

“Yes, that’s it. I
do
like her. She’s so amusing.
‘
Mrs.
Huntingford?’ she asked at one point, and her curiosity was killing her. ‘Would Mr. Huntingford have stayed behind in Canada then?’ ‘Yes, unfortunately, Pixie,’ I said, not knowing
how to tell her. Then dear Purdie came to my rescue. ‘In the cemetery, child,’ she said in
a stage whisper, and we all looked embarrassed together. The young
do
trip merrily into trouble, don’t they?”

“Hm,” Robert said non-committally. He looked at Jenny, his Jenny she had been when she was the girl next door, so to speak. She whom he had adored when he was a youth, and whom he had pursued steadfastly and yet unobtrusively, while as skilfully she eluded him. “No, Robbie,” she would refuse his kisses, sealing his lips with her finger. He had adored her shyness, her modesty. Or was she simply without emotion in those days? The green-gold eyes had burned brightly as the youth’s who cried “Excelsior!” but they always looked beyond him, kept their tender glances for Niall Huntingford, who had come with a fortune in his pocket to look for Scottish acres as rich as those fertile plains he had left behind in Saskatchewan.

Whatever there was about the Canadian, it was he whom Jenny had married, and he, also, whom she had buried five years later, and could now refer to as though embarrassment was the
o
nly emotion his name conjured up.

“We were going to call at Rowans, Purdie and I,” Jennie went on in her soothing velvet tones, “but Pixie remembered that sister Flo wasn’t home.”

Robert looked at her warily. She was the only person in the world to whom he had confided the inconclusive story of himself and The Glen’s Sister in Charge. Jenny was softness and understanding. She hadn’t chosen him for her mate but she loved him as a brother, he was sure.

“Oh?” he asked.

“He’s here. The
fiancé
,” Jenny continued, gently. “They’re staying up at the Eagle together.”

“Together?’ he echoed. “You mean they’re—”

“Not married, silly,” she cooed. “There hasn’t been time. I’m sure it’s just to get away from the family for a bit.”

“If he’s with her he’ll want to get married, or worse,” Robert said grimly. “She’s a very attractive and beautiful girl. What
would
they be doing up there?”

“Discussing the future, no doubt. She has her own life to live, you know, darling.”

“I do know. She told me.”

“She didn’t mean to make a fool of you,” Jenny went on sweetly, “and you mustn’t make a fool of yourself, Robbie. It’s so easy to make a lot out of a little. I’m sure that’s what you’re doing. She didn’t mean to get involved with you. She loved her Jim. The sooner you accept the facts the better.”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

P
erhaps the high altitude had something to do with it, but on that last day of her brief break from work, Flo Lamont was at times almost happy. She was too loyal a person to presume that her happiness stemmed from the fact that she was now free of Jim Darvie, with whom she had once been in love sufficiently to want to be his wife.

They were both free and Jim was obviously happy, too, a fact she did not in the least resent.

Of course Jim had every cause for happiness, while she ... Ah, well! while there was life, this golden morning, there was hope, and all the wonderful cream-complexioned redheads in the world couldn’t take away the remembrance that Robert Strathallan had done her the great honor of asking her not only to share his tartan but his life, and no matter how often she thought of the harsh words he had since hurled at her, she was convinced that he was not one to rebound into another’s arms unless he was a man whose love was so little a part of his true nature that it could be assumed like a mask and as easily discarded.

On the morrow she hoped to see him with her mind at rest on the subject of Jim for the first time since her errant heart had strayed. Perhaps he would ask a direct question about her break, which would call for a brief and telling explanation that the engagement was over—on both sides—with no undue regrets. After that who could tell what might happen? He could express' complete indifference, which was unthinkable; or snub her, which would be punishing; or (please God!) hesitantly suggest they meet somewhere when they were free, and because of this delightful possibility the other alternatives must be taken as a risk.

So Flo found she could sing softly as she tied the laces in her strongest brogues and went to meet Jim in the stone porch outside the hotel, from which there was a wonderful view of glen and loch on a clear day, not forgetting five other Bens purple in the distance.

"Isn’t that something?” Jim wanted to know, pointing his pipestem downwards. “I swear you can see the rocks at the bottom of the loch, and there’s near a hundred foot of water in parts, so I’m told.”

“They also say the level never varies, even when there’s a drought,” said Flo. “Thank goodness there’s no mist today! I listened to the weather forecast and there are some high temperatures expected lower down, but no mention of thunder. It’s a truly perfect summer’s day.”

Jim glanced sidelong at her.

“You know something, Flo? I’m glad I’m spending it with
you.
I mean that. I don’t know how to put it, but this could have been such a wretched day for one or both of us if things had gone agley. Am I getting through to you?”

“Yes,” she smiled. “We’re parting with a handshake instead of a kiss, figuratively speaking, and I’ve shaken hands with some very nice people, in my time.” He looked rather sombrely into the brown eyes, so she went on hurriedly: “Got the sandwiches, Jim?”

“Yes, I have. Plenty of them, too.”

“Well, let’s go.” She started off down the rough road leading from the hotel. “We will be back by four o’clock or five, Jim?”

“I expect so. Why?”

“I have to go to work tomorrow, you know, and that means I must get back to Rowans this evening in order to prepare. Will you—stay the night with us?”

“I’d rather not, thanks. I don’t think you really want me to. There’s a train leave for Glasgow about ten. That’ll do me.”

“Have you cabled Jill yet?”

“No,” he said cheerfully. “I was going to. But as I’m flying back on Tuesday there’s no point in going to all that expense, is there?”

“When will you learn that there’s no expense love
doesn't
warrant, Jim Darvie? It’s people like you get all these stories circulating about Scotsmen!”

Flo had never before climbed Ben Allan. Always it had appeared to frown on her from above the town, but today it was quite a friendly old fellow, offering inviting little sheep-tracks just when it seemed that only sheer, rock cliff lay ahead. Two hours later they arrived, breathless and triumphant, on top of that same cliff, harried by the wind, the air cold and invigorating and clean.

“Hungry?” shouted Jim.

“Ravenous.”

Flo wondered if her cheeks were as red as Jim’s, as he hauled her into the lee of a rocky bluff and spread an oilskin.

“Gosh! but it’s cold!” he decided, and his teeth were chattering. “After Malaya this must be quite a change,” she said as she undid the rucksack he had been carrying. She turned suddenly. “It’s not doing you any harm, is it, Jim? I mean—maybe your blood’s thin?”

“Just pour the coffee, Sister, and not so much professional solicitude if you don’t mind. No—after you!”

“Shut up and drink!” she insisted, passing him the scalding Thermos cup. “There was I blathering about the high temperatures today. Maybe we should have walked downwards?”

“Never! I’d rather freeze on a mountain any day than cook in the valley. You’ve got my sandwiches, I think, the ones with mustard on?”

Flo’s twisted grimace agreed with him.

“You can’t be cold after that lot,” she told him. “Are we going right to the top?”

“Certainly. We’ll put our own little offerings on the cairn and go down the other side.”

“Why not go down this same side?”

“Because one never does, my girl. You’re
o
bviously no mountaineer.”

“I only thought this is the side the sun shines on. I was thinking of you.”

“I’ll survive!”

On the peak the wind was a scream of noise and it was a constant battle to keep one’s balance. Flo scrambled and laughed, placed her stone offering in a gap in the cairn, while Jim insisted she was cheating and climbed up to put his on top; then they were joined by two other couples who had already climbed from the Glen Todd side.

Jim asked one of the men if the going was difficult.

“No, not at all, old chap,” came the Englishman’s reply. “There’s a little ice in parts the last five hundred feet. Watch that and you’re all right.”

“Ice!” said Flo warily as she saw her first patch, black on a rock. “I can’t believe it’s summer, somehow.”

“Probably froze the mist the other night, and this is a cold, barren land, this Northland of yours. Funny!
O
ne does miss the sun even though there’s no wind on this side. It could be the Arctic.”

“Are you very cold, Jim?”

He was now looking almost blue, and she blamed herself for not insisting that they take his lack of acclimatization more into account.

“Don’t fuss, Flo. I’ll warm up with soup and the rest. Let’s speed up, shall we?”

S
peeding up certainly stirred the blood, but it also made one less sure-footed. Once Flo slid a couple of yards on a patch of ice, which pulled her up short and made her take care. Occasionally Jim was nearly a quarter of a mile ahead of her, shouting, “Come on, Flo! Slow-coach!”

She was soon quite warm, herself, and when she caught up with Jim she asked how he was feeling.

“As though I’ve got ice in my veins. I can’t feel my feet.” “Let me see if there’s any coffee left.”

“There isn’t. I drained the flask half an hour ago. I’m sorry! Did you want some?”

“No. I was thinking of you. We’ll soon be down now,
w
on’t we?”

“Yes. Another hour will find us on the road, and we’ll thumb a lift back to the Eagle. Come on!”

“Don’t go too quickly, Jim. There’s still a steepish patch ahead.”

“I’m going to slide down it. It’s scree.”

“Oh, no!”

“You follow the track, dear. I honestly can never resist a scree.”

He waved to her just before he disappeared from her sight, and when she peered over there was no sight of him.

“Jim!” she shouted hopefully, but only her own voice came back to her in echo.

Suddenly she felt very lonely and not a little angry that Jim should have gone off and left her like this. It wasn’t exactly chivalrous of him, and how was he to know that the track was any safer and surer than the scree? Robert would have given her his hand the whole of the way, not left her to fend for herself. She was already a mass of bruises and scratches and she was tired, not used to climbing mountains as Jim was.

More than half an hour later she arrived at a point below the scree and looked around, then upwards. The scree, black, composed of loose granite chippings, was in three tiers, like a birthday cake. Had Jim known that? She expected to see him sheltering, smoking his pipe somewhere, for it was warmer at this level, though the afternoon was advancing.

There was no sign of life, however, apart from an occasional ambulant rock which turned out to be a sheep.

Now she could see the ribbon of the road distant by the long, sweeping lower slopes of the mountain. There was still a mile or two to go, but surely Jim wouldn’t have gone on without her farther than the scree?

She tried calling his name again, but only the startled sheep replied.

“He would have heard and answered, even from the road,” she thought desperately. “Where is he? What’s happened?”

Then, as though miraculously answering her question, her toe kicked something which rolled. She picked it up. It was a tobacco tin of the brand Jim favoured. It was almost full, too. As it wasn’t very likely Jim would discard his tobacco, it was clear that the tobacco had left
h
is person without his knowing. Maybe it had rolled out of his pocket while he was slithering down the scree ...
if
he had completed his short
c
ut. If not then he was still up there—somewher
e
...

Flo looked upwards again, but though she could clearly see the three jutting bands of shale, she could not see what lay on the platforms between. There was no peace of mind in not knowing, so the only thing for it was to go up and see. But only desperation makes possible the feat of climbing
up
a scree, and Flo did it desperately, not only once, but twice, for on the first platform she found the battered rucksack, ripped at the seams, and knew that Jim must be even higher.

Breathless and bleeding, Flo finally arrived on the platform below the scree where Jim had disappeared from view. He couldn’t have known there was a sheer drop of a fifteen-foot crag at the end of the slope. With his numbed limbs he should never have attempted it, and yet there had been no talking him out of it, and now hers was not the right to insist. He was lying near a boulder, close to the second slope, and though he was breathing she didn’t like the look of the pool of congealed blood which had flowed from a wound in the side of his head.

Concussion?

Fractured skull?