High Master of Clere

by Jane Arbor

  ‘Oh, Mother, there’s simply no one like you!’ In a surge of tenderness and gratitude, Verity kissed her quickly and went.

  At the other end of the line was Bob Wales, spilling his news in an eager torrent of words.

  ‘Verity, my poppet, I hoped I’d get you—Now, take a load of this, will you? Rosemary has accepted me and we’re going to be married in the spring!’

  ‘Good heavens, Bob! Congratulations! When did you get around to proposing?’ asked Verity.

  ‘On Christmas Eve. In a supermarket. You know, I’d always wondered what supermarkets were for. Now I know. You’d be surprised at the degree of privacy you can get on the non-business side of a stack of detergents—Anyway, what do you think she said? That she’d thought I never would come to the boil! Women! I ask you—you can’t win! But I want you to meet her, so if I switch my calls to your phone, may I bring her over to lunch today? It’s all right. She’s had measles.’

  ‘Measles? Oh, of course—Then do, Bob, please.’ As Verity replaced the receiver she was thinking that this was what her mother had meant by life having to go on.

  Care about things like quarantine. People inviting themselves to meals. Longing to be left to nurse one’s heartache, but saying ‘Yes, do’ because friendship demanded it—She went back to the kitchen. ‘That was Bob. He wants to bring his Rosemary Baird to lunch. Can we make the turkey carcase stretch that far?’ she asked her mother, as if whether they could or not was their only care in the world.

  Mrs. Lytton’s smile was good to see. ‘That’s my girl,’ she said. ‘Keep it up.’

  The flat after-days of Christmas took an upward curve to New Year, levelled again to anti-climax, became another week ... two ... three.

  Between Christmas and New Year there had been cards of the ‘Wish you were here’ variety from both Klosters and Davos, though not the looked-for letter from Guy Tabor—an omission which taxed Mrs. Lytton’s optimism sorely. And when a later card from the Dysarts dropped the casual news that though they had seen something of him, he had now left Switzerland for Munich on Viking Vision business, she admitted the probable failure of his mission.

  ‘Though it was worth a try, dear, wasn’t it?’ she wanted Verity to agree.

  The weather played tricks; snowed picturesquely, thawed hideously, offered Lance the promise of enough frost for skating, then snatched it back overnight, substituting first fog and then gales which tore inland from the sea, thundering at doors, nagging at window-frames and shrieking a twenty-four-hour defiance among Clere’s chimney-pots.

  The patience of the nine detainees in the Sanatorium wore thin, and keeping them amused and occupied became a major problem before their prison sentence ran out. And even when Bob pronounced them free of quarantine, there were still twin brothers whose home was too distant to make the journey there and back worth while for the remaining few days of the vacation.

  ‘We’ll make it up to the Lamb boys by taking them to the ice pantomime,’ planned Mrs. Lytton. ‘We’d all go, and if the Pedeckers and the Percevals would come too, we’d make a party of it—hire a mini-bus for a matinee performance and give the boys high tea in Norwich afterwards. Lance dear, trot over to South and East and count heads, and I’ll phone for seats and the bus when we know how many we shall be. Oh, and I expect Matron would go too.’

  But on the morning of the jaunt Matron, who had returned a day or two earlier, slipped a disc in reaching to a high shelf of the linen cupboard and found herself immobilized by pain.

  ‘It’s nothing very much. I’ve done it before,’ she told Verity, who was counting linen with her. ‘It’s just that, while one has it, one can’t—ouch!’ She broke off, pressing her hand to the small of her back, and Verity ran to her, alarmed by the blanching of her face.

  Verity ordered, ‘You must go back to bed and I’ll ring Dr. Wales,’ though Matron protested that all she needed was a couple of aspirins and to lie flat for an hour, Verity overruled her and after helping her to undress, telephoned to Bob.

  Bob came, approved Matron’s self-prescription but ruled that the ‘lying flat’ must be total and must continue for at least two days, when he would see her again.

  ‘She oughtn’t to raise herself, even to feed. Can you fix that?’ he asked Verity.

  ‘Easily. I’ll cut up her meals and spoon them to her myself,’ Verity promised, and when Matron reminded her of the Norwich expedition, was more than half glad to be able to cry off it.

  The departure of the mini-bus at noon left Clere emptier than it had been for months or was likely to be again for many more.

  There remained one or two maids in the school houses, Rosa and Matron and Verity. From the window of Matron’s room Verity watched Martin taking his under-gardener and a tumbril to the shore to collect seaweed for the garden beds, and even the men working on the new wing during the morning disappeared at lunchtime in the final and abandoning way builders have. It was as if the onslaught of the wind had beaten Clere to a state of coma, and the effect was almost eerie.

  Under protest Matron drank from a feeding-cup and took minced fish from a spoon, claiming that she had every sympathy with the hospital patient who had once told her sourly that in his opinion the only person capable of feeding or washing a face was the man who lived behind it. She fretted continually about all the work she should be doing, but after lunch Bob’s sedatives took over and she fell asleep.

  When that happened Verity decided to walk into the village to post a letter. She propped a message on Matron’s bedside table—‘If you wake, stay put—or else! Shan’t be long away’—not knowing then how soon she would be back; nor that she was not to reach the village that day.

  She had just stepped outside when she heard it—a high long cry, driven down the wind, which stopped her in her tracks, chilling her blood.

  What could it be? She knew most of the seabirds’ calls and she was fairly sure the sound had been human, not animal. There—again! But as she turned into the wind and began to run, a boy was running towards her from the direction of the new wing.

  She waited, recognizing him. He was one of the builder’s apprentices, his name was Ron and he had a special buddy, Ted. Panting, he almost fell into her arms, incoherencies fighting for utterance and nervous tears starting.

  His clutch on her arm was vice-like. ‘It’s Ted, miss! Up on the platform! He’s hurt! That’s him callin’ out—don’t you hear him? He’s bad—something terrible. I don’t know what to do for him ... bleeding...’

  ‘He’s bleeding?’ Verity took Ron by the shoulders and shook him steady. ‘Now, tell me what’s happened? Quickly. Because if he is bleeding, it’s important that I know what to tell the doctor. What is Ted doing up the tower, anyway? I thought you had all knocked off work for the day?’

  ‘So we had, miss. The gaffer said that was too windy, so he took us off. We thought—Ted and me—that we was off for the day, so we left our tools behind. But the gaffer, he had another job lined up and he went spare when we said—’

  ‘All right, Ron, cut it. What happened to Ted?’

  ‘I’m tellin’ you. We was sent back to fetch our kits and just as we was comin’ down Ted says, “That girder we didn’t finish fixin’ this morning looks out of true to me” and lays a holdt of it, and the end of it springs free—they’re whippy like, see—and hits him right here’—Ron’s fist went to his lower ribs—‘and cuts clear into him—Awful!’

  Verity winced too, but realized she must summon at least enough surface composure to serve both Ron and herself.

  She said, ‘Listen. You’ve got a first aid cabinet on the site? Then take from it cotton wool and linen enough to make a big pad. And scissors to cut through Ted’s denims—yes, cut—and lay the pad over file wound and hold it on to help to staunch the blood. He’s lying down? Then don’t move him. Just the pad—you understand?’

  It was little enough, but all she felt she could trust to the boy while she summoned expert help and attention for Ted. For a moment sh
e looked after Ron to make sure he went, then ran herself to the telephone to ring Bob’s number.

  It was Mrs. Wales who answered, saying, to Verity’s sick dismay, that Bob was out, she didn’t know where. She had been resting when he had left. ‘He could be back any minute, of course. Is it something urgent, dear?’

  Verity explained quickly, adding, ‘I’ll have to call Dr. Wilks at Grangeover instead. But ask Bob to come as soon as he gets in, in case he can get here first, will you, Mrs. Wales?’

  ‘Of course. Meanwhile, why don’t you dial 999 for the Brancaster ambulance to save time?’

  Verity did that after ringing Dr. Wilks, only to find him out too, though she left the same message for him as for Bob. Some valuable minutes were used in explaining her right to call the ambulance out. Then she ran to Matron’s room to seek her advice.

  At Verity’s touch on her shoulder Matron woke at once. But she was dazed by the sedative and at first did not grasp the gravity of Verity’s news. When she did,

  ‘Is the boy still conscious?’ she asked.

  ‘He was.’

  ‘Then as he mustn’t be moved and he can’t be brought down until one or other of the doctors and the ambulance come, I’ll have to go up to him.’

  ‘You can’t!’

  ‘Nonsense. I must—’ But since the morning her spine had ‘locked’ and the effort even to sit up was too much.

  She lay back, sweat beading her forehead.

  ‘You’re right. I’m a broken reed. But if the lad is still losing blood, minutes count. So someone must ... One of us must—’

  Momentarily Verity had to close her eyes against her vision of the tower; the nightmare climb she would not dream of attempting in calm weather, let alone in a gale-force wind. Then, praying she had never told Matron of her fear of heights, she said, ‘Yes, that means me. What must I do when I get up there?’

  Matron put out a hand and grasped hers. ‘Verity, my dear, I’m sorry. But you do see I’ve got to send you? And thank goodness you’re trained in First Aid. So listen—You know the first thing to see to is the bleeding, and if he is still conscious and no help has come, you must put him out.’

  ‘You mean—give him something to do that?’

  ‘Not by mouth. He might choke. Can you administer an injection, do you think? You’ve watched me.’

  Verity nodded doubtfully. ‘But may I? I mean—’

  ‘Strictly speaking, no. But I’ll take full responsibility for both the dose and giving you the order. Circumstances make their own rules. So take the key to the drug cupboard and bring back the D.D. cabinet and a syringe to me.’

  Minutes later—and it was consolation at least that so few had actually passed since Ron came running—Verity was at the foot of the first ladder up the scaffolding. She craned upward. A month ago the top platform had been three times her own height lower than it was now and she had funked it then. But it was no good funking it now. Somehow she had to cope ... had to. She began to climb.

  At first it was no worse than climbing a ladder to reach a high apple, though she would usually choose to forgo the apple. And after all, men and boys swarmed up and down the tower several times a day. Nothing to it, most people would say. And hadn’t Ira Cusack gone up these same ladders without a second thought?

  But as she went higher Verity knew that reason had as little to do with this primitive panic within her as it had with the fear of thunder in some people or with claustrophobia in others. It wasn’t to be reasoned against, only accepted and fought, if you must fight it, as she must. She tried to concentrate on the need for her errand, on Matron’s trust that she would be equal to the job when she got there. She peered up to see if she could spot Ron looking down. If she had only thought of it, she might have signalled him down, to make the climb up behind her, guarding her. At least, so far as she could tell, Ted’s agonized cries had stopped, which could mean he was no longer aware of pain...

  Feverishly she kept her mind busy as she climbed. And of course the important thing, people said, was never to allow yourself to look down—

  She looked down.

  Far below the earth whirled and tilted, seemed to run up to her, receded ... steadied for long enough to make her aware that something was crawling on it down there. The something halted. A car. Bob’s or Dr. Wilks’s, please God—But the universe was tilting again and, sobbing in her throat, she crossed her arms on the rung above her and dropped her head on them, shutting the horror out.

  She lay on the ladder, nerving herself to open her eyes and go on. There was a shout from below, but the wind blew away her answering call and she dared not glance down again nor take a hand from the ladder to wave a signal that she was going on up ... some time.

  There was no second shout and perhaps she blacked out briefly. For the next thing she knew was that the ladder was vibrating under someone else’s weight on it. Then whoever it was reached a rung or two lower down and his hands were on the uprights at her waist level, his body close behind her own.

  She looked at the hands, at the tweed of the sleeves above them. Daniel’s hands. Daniel’s...? How could they be? His nearness prevented her turning more than her head as she faltered, ‘You? But—You’re still in Switzerland ... aren’t you?’

  He was unamused at the absurdity. ‘Yes. Sliding down the Matterhorn. And what do you think you’re doing? Are you mad?’ he demanded.

  She braced herself. ‘No. I’ve got to get up to the platform. There’s—’

  ‘You are mad.’ He answered his own question. ‘Whether you’re doing this for a dare or whatever, you’re coming straight down now if I have to pull you down, rung by rung, you little—little foolhardy idiot!’

  ‘No! Daniel, listen, please! There’s a boy up there—one of the builders’ lads—Ted, you know? His friend Ron is with him, but there’s no one else on the site or about School, and Ted has been injured by a girder. Matron is back, but she’s in bed, so that left only me to go up to Ted until the doctor and ambulance come. I’ve called them, but—’

  She felt Daniel tense behind her. ‘And what do you mean to do when you get up there?’

  ‘Give him what First Aid I can. He’s bleeding. And if he’s still conscious, inject him.’

  ‘Can you do that?’

  ‘If I have to. Medically it’s unethical, but Matron is taking the responsibility for ordering it. So you see—’

  Very quietly, almost humbly, Daniel said, ‘Yes, I see. But that it had to be you, of all people! All right, then. Shall we go? I’m with you. Right behind you, in fact, so don’t kick me in the face, will you, my?’

  The wind carried the last word away. But she hoped it had been a comradely ‘dear’.

  Up on the platform they found Verity need not use her syringe. A merciful coma had allowed Ted to slip away from his pain for a time. Thankfully she took over from Ron, doing what she could for the jagged tear in his stomach wall, while Daniel handed lint and bandages from the pack she had brought up with her and Ron rigged a tarpaulin shelter from the wind for Ted.

  Then there was nothing to do but keep watch over him and wait. Ron suggested he should go down and direct up the doctor and ambulance crew when they arrived, and they let him go.

  Verity knelt by Ted’s inert body and Daniel sat, resting on his hand, beside her. ‘Verity, where did you get the courage to manage this?’ he asked.

  She gestured vaguely. ‘I don’t know. Matron said it had to be done, so I did it.’

  ‘Did she know you suffered from this height fear when she asked you?’

  ‘I was afraid I might have mentioned it some time, but no, I’m sure she didn’t.’

  ‘And how did it happen that there was no one else here to do it instead?’

  Verity told him, then asked, ‘You haven’t said yet why you’re back today. Weren’t you supposed to be staying until Friday?’

  ‘Yes, but I brought Ira back with me. We got in by an early flight this morning.’

  ‘Ira?’ In Veri
ty’s hearing he had always called Ira ‘Miss Cusack’ before, and her heart sank.

  ‘Yes. I dropped her at West House on the way in. Jane is bringing Nicholas by a later flight and an ambulance is to meet the plane to take him straight to King’s Lynn Hospital by road—’ Daniel broke off, meeting Verity’s startled look. ‘What’s the matter? Mrs. Lytton got my letter about Nicholas, didn’t she?’

  Verity shook her head. ‘No. No—we’ve heard nothing yet. Why, has he had a skiing accident or something?’

  ‘No, worse, I’m afraid. I supposed you knew. I was with him when it happened. A stroke. He was telling me he had decided to retire early from teaching. At Easter perhaps or, at latest, in the summer. He hadn’t mentioned his decision to Jane, but he had been feeling under the weather for some time. He got so far, then he suddenly slumped forward, unconscious, and didn’t come round for nearly twenty-four hours. I left Davos at once and moved in at Klosters to be with Jane and Ira, and we laid on our return as soon as we could.’

  Verity said, ‘Poor Nicholas! Is he any better now? Will he recover completely in time?’

  ‘Not so fully, I’d say, that he’ll teach again, except perhaps for some part-time coaching or locum work. He’ll be sadly missed in his House, but I’m glad retirement wasn’t forced on him. He had already made up his mind to go.’

  ‘And—Jane?’ Verity wondered if Daniel understood all her question implied, but seemingly he did.

  ‘Yes—Jane,’ he echoed, frowning. ‘I’m afraid Jane Dysart is facing a hard lesson—namely, that for most men there’s a cracking-point and she has been driving Nicholas too fast towards his for too long.’

  ‘You know then how ambitious she has always been for him?’ asked Verity.

  Daniel looked surprised that she need ask. ‘Well, she doesn’t attempt to hide that he has disappointed her, does she?’ he countered. ‘A woman with ambition, a man without any—it’s the wrong way round, and I’m afraid it explains a lot—about Jane. So perhaps in charity it’s “Poor Jane” too. Meanwhile, though I’ll have to get a replacement for Nicholas at once, he needn’t take up residence at West until the Dysarts are ready to move out, and of course Ira will be—’