Roses for Christmas

by Betty Neels

  Fulk didn’t answer. He was fully occupied in keeping the bus steady; it took several attempts to get round the rocks and into the canyon, for the bus danced and skidded as though its wheels were legs, but once they were between the walls of rock, it was comparatively peaceful—true, the wind howled like a banshee and the snow was as thick as ever, but there was a semblance of shelter. Fulk skidded to a slow halt, leaving the engine running. ‘Journey’s end,’ he declared. ‘Now to find everyone and stow them away before we die of exposure.’

  They got out and stood, holding hands for safety’s sake, striving to pierce the gloom around them. ‘Someone’s shouting,’ cried Eleanor, ‘and there’s a torch—look, over there, to our right,’ and when she would have started off, found herself held firmly against Fulk.

  ‘No, wait—stay just where you are while I get the rope.’

  She hadn’t thought of that in the excitement and relief of knowing that the boys were safe and found; she waited patiently while he secured the rope to the bus and paid out a length of it, slinging the coils over one arm. ‘Now we can all get back,’ he pointed out, and took her by the arm. ‘Switch on your torch, the more light the better.’

  The boys were all together, close against an overhanging rock which afforded them some shelter, and when they would have plunged forward to meet them, Fulk shouted: ‘Stay where you are—where’s Mr MacDow?’

  It was Henry who shouted back. ‘He’s here, behind us, Fulk—he’s hurt his leg. He fell down outside the cave and now he doesn’t answer us any more.’

  Eleanor heard Fulk mutter something, then shout: ‘Is there anyone in the caves still?’

  There was a chorus of ‘No’s’ and a babble of voices explaining that when they had wanted to leave the caves the entrance had been almost completely blocked with snow. ‘We had to dig with our hands,’ explained Henry, and then: ‘Can we go home now—it’s cold.’

  Fulk was tying the rope round himself. ‘This minute,’ he bellowed hearteningly. ‘Eleanor, I’ll stay here and have a look at MacDow, get this lot collected up and hustle them into the bus and make sure that every one of them has a hand on the rope— Understood?’

  She heard herself say in a meek voice, ‘Yes, Fulk,’ and blundered away, going to and fro through the knee-deep snow, organising the little group of boys, making sure that they understood that they were to use the rope as a guide and never let go. She had them lined up and ready to start when Fulk loomed up beside her. ‘Could you manage to bring back a couple of splints—luckily Mr Wallace put a couple in the bus. MacDow has a fractured tib and fib.’

  She nodded and urged the boys to get started. It wasn’t far, but the snow was deep and the rope awkward to hold, but they made it at last and she opened the bus door in almost tearful relief and helped the boys on board. They were cold and frightened too and she would have liked to have given them the hot tea, but she must get the splints to Fulk first; she set them rubbing their arms and legs and taking off wet boots, dragged out the splints, and as an afterthought, the folded stretcher she found beside them, and made her unwieldy way back to where Fulk was waiting.

  He hailed her with a ‘Splendid girl!’ when he saw the stretcher, and proceeded to splint the broken leg, using Mr MacDow’s scarf as well as his own to tie it on, and when Eleanor would have helped get the schoolmaster on to the stretcher, he waved her on one side, lifting the man gently himself. When he was ready he shouted: ‘I hate to ask you, but can you manage the foot end? He’s a small man, thank the Lord; I’ll have to wind the rope as we go—do you think you can do it?’

  She nodded sturdily and they set off slowly because of winding the rope, which somehow he managed to do without putting the stretcher down, a mercy, actually, for she was quite sure that if she had had to put her end down she would never have been able to pick it up again. She was speechless with exhaustion when they arrived at the bus, and when she would have helped Fulk drag the stretcher on board and into the aisle between the boys, he shook his head and told her in a no-nonsense voice to get in first. She scrambled through the door, leaving it open and subsiding on to the nearest seat, feeling peculiar, vaguely aware that two of the boys were hauling on one end of the stretcher, helping Fulk, and that she was going to faint unless she did something about it. But it was Fulk who did that; she felt a great arm steady her while he held a brandy flask to her lips and poured the stuff relentlessly down her throat. She choked, said ‘Ugh!’ and felt almost at once much better.

  ‘How silly of me,’ she declared stoutly, and met his dark concerned gaze firmly. ‘I’m fine,’ she told him, feeling dreadful. ‘I’ll get some hot tea into these boys before we start back.’

  Just for a moment she thought that he was going to kiss her again, but he only smiled briefly, took the brandy from her and said: ‘I’ll follow behind with this, but MacDow first, I think, though I daresay he will prefer whisky.’

  She managed a smile at that and fetched the tea, doling it out into the plastic beakers her mother had thoughtfully provided. The boys were being very good, even laughing a little as they struggled out of their wet coats and boots. She went up and down the bus, pouring the drinks down their willing throats, handing out biscuits, climbing carefully over poor Mr MacDow, lying on the floor in everyone’s way; he was feeling easier now; he had come to nicely and the whisky had put fresh heart into him so that he took the biscuit she offered him and nibbled at it.

  The bus seemed quite crowded, what with a dozen small boys, recovering their spirits fast, the stretcher, herself and Fulk; there was a lot of melting snow too, and Eleanor, feeling an icy trickle in her neck, wondered which was worse, to be numb with cold or horribly damp. She forgot the unpleasantness of both these sensations in the sheer fright of the return journey. The boys more or less settled and Mr MacDow as comfortable as he could be made, she took her seat by Fulk once more, sitting speechless while he manoeuvred the bus backwards on to the road again, an undertaking which took some considerable time, and on their way at length, staring out at the white waste around her through the curtain of snow, she felt a strong urge to beg him not to go another inch, to stop just where he was and let someone come and rescue them; an absurd idea, bred from cowardice, she chided herself silently, and closed her eyes to shut out the awful possibilities waiting in store for them on the way down. She opened them almost immediately; if he could sit there driving so calmly, then she could at least do her part. ‘You need to keep a bit to the left,’ she warned him. ‘I’ll tell you when we reach the corner—shall we have to get out and dig again?’

  ‘Probably, but not you this time—I’ll take a couple of the bigger boys with me.’

  Which he did, and after that the journey became rather less of a nightmare; true, they skidded and bumped around and once shot across the road in an alarming manner, but the road was easier to make out as they descended it, so that she was able to leave her seat from time to time to see how the boys were faring, wrapping them more closely in blankets and taking round more biscuits. It was a relief to find that Mr MacDow had gone to sleep.

  She could hardly believe it when the bus rocked to an uneasy halt and Fulk shouted: ‘Everybody out—one at a time and no shoving!’

  Every house in the village had its lights on and the school house doors were standing wide; willing helpers helped the children out of the bus and hustled them inside where anxious mothers claimed their offspring and began the task of getting them into dry clothes, feeding them hot milk and massaging cold arms and legs. There were no men back yet, Mr Wallace told them, but he had done them proud, with a roaring stove and hot drinks and offers of help to get the children to their homes. They lifted Mr MacDow out last of all and carried him to the warmth of the stove and Eleanor, getting awkwardly out of her anorak and kicking off her boots, paused only long enough to call a brief ‘Hullo,’ to her father before going to help Fulk. The leg was set as well as it could be done with what they had at their disposal, and Mr MacDow, very white, was given another
generous dose of whisky before Fulk asked: ‘Is there a telephone working?’

  Mr MacFarlane shook his head. ‘I’m afraid not. The most I can promise is that the moment it’s possible they’ll get it mended—they’re very quick about it. Should MacDow be in hospital?’

  ‘It would be better for him, though it’s possible to manage as we are. Shall I just take a quick look at the boys? Those who live near enough could go home, the rest will have to be given a bed for the night. I’ve my case in the car, I’ll give MacDow something to ease the pain and get him home too. Is there someone to look after him?’

  ‘His wife—she’s expecting a baby, though.’ Eleanor sounded doubtful.

  ‘In that case, if she would be so kind as to put me up for the night I could keep an eye on him.’ He glanced round. ‘If I could have a hand, we could get him home—but we had better check the boys first.’

  A job which was quickly done. The boys seemed little the worse for their adventure, in fact, now that it was all over, they were beginning to enjoy themselves. They went, one by one, escorted by mothers, grannies and big sisters, until there was only Henry left.

  Fulk collected Mr Wallace and old Mr MacNab, who had stayed to help with the schoolmaster. ‘We’ll go now. Eleanor, stay here with your father and Henry, I’ll be back in ten minutes.’

  ‘Why?’ She was a little impatient; she wanted to get home and eat a huge meal and then go to bed and sleep the clock round.

  He didn’t answer her directly, only said: ‘Ten minutes,’ and went away, leaving the three of them by the stove. Eleanor fell asleep at once and only roused when Fulk’s voice wakened her with: ‘Come on, home.’

  She looked at him owl-eyed, said ‘Oh,’ in a lost voice and got herself to her feet, dragging on her anorak and boots once more and hunting for her torch, and then following the others out into the cold night. The snow had slowed its mad pace and the wind, although strong, was no longer a gale. It was dark too, for the electricity had failed while she slept. It was a miracle that it had survived so long, but they had their torches and with Fulk leading the way, battled their way in single file until the dim light from the oil lamp in the manse hall told them that they were home.

  Mrs MacFarlane had the door open before they could reach it, and whatever worry she had felt she effectively concealed now. ‘Into the sitting room,’ she greeted them. ‘There’s hot coffee ready and while you’re drinking it I’ll get Henry into a hot bath—he can have his supper in bed.’ She smiled at them all, although her eyes anxiously sought Fulk’s face. ‘He’s all right, Fulk?’

  He smiled reassuringly. ‘Cold and hungry, that’s all. Bed and bath are just the thing. He behaved splendidly—they all did.’

  Henry puffed out his chest. ‘I wasn’t really frightened,’ he declared, ‘though it was very cold.’

  His mother put a hand on his shoulder. ‘You shall tell me all about it, dear, but we mustn’t be too long; Eleanor will want a bath too—and Fulk.’ She glanced round as they were leaving the room. ‘You’ll spend the night, Fulk?’

  He explained about spending the night at Mr MacDow’s house. ‘But I would love a bath, if I may…’

  Mrs MacFarlane nodded briskly. ‘Of course, and you’ll stay for supper too—they won’t expect you back for a little while, will they? I’m on edge to hear all about it, but first things first.’ With which words she led Henry upstairs.

  They had their supper round the fire. Eleanor, warm at last from her bath, her hair plaited tidily and wrapped in a thick dressing gown, could have slept sitting there. She spooned her soup slowly, content to be back home and safe with Fulk sitting unconcernedly opposite her. She frowned a little, her tired mind grappling with the fact that it was possible to like someone very much even when one didn’t like him at all. It didn’t make sense, and she gave up presently, thinking that it was absurd to suppose that she had ever not liked him. After all, she had been a very little girl when she had vowed to hate him for ever—and a girl had a right to change her mind. She smiled sleepily at him and was strangely disturbed at his intent, unsmiling look. He said good night very shortly afterwards, and Eleanor went upstairs to bed, to wake in the night and wonder about that look. She turned over and curled herself into a ball under the bed-clothes; probably they would bicker just as they always did when next they met. It would be nice if they didn’t, she thought sleepily as she closed her eyes again.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  THE BRIGHT SUNSHINE and complete lack of wind just didn’t seem true the next morning. Eleanor took an astonished look out of the window, dressed quickly in an elderly kilt and thick jersey, and went downstairs to breakfast. Her mother looked up as she went into the kitchen. ‘There you are, darling,’ she said happily. ‘How lovely to have yesterday over and done with. Breakfast’s ready—don’t forget it’s church at ten o’clock.’

  Eleanor nodded. ‘I hadn’t forgotten, Mother, but there’ll be time to clear the path before I need to dress.’ She carried the plates to the table and went to call Henry. ‘When’s Margaret coming back?’ she asked as they sat down at the table.

  ‘As soon as the snow plough clears the road, and I imagine they will be out already—that was a freak blizzard, it didn’t get far. The men were telling me that the telephone was still working between Durness and the west coast, although the lines were down to the south of us, and beyond Lairg the roads are pretty clear. I wonder how Fulk got on at the MacDows’.’ He glanced at his son. ‘Henry, are you not hungry?’

  Three pairs of eyes stared at the youngest member of the family. Usually he ate as much as the three of them together, but now, this morning he was pecking at his food in a manner totally unlike him.

  ‘Do you feel ill, darling?’ his mother asked anxiously.

  ‘I’m just not hungry—I expect I’ll eat an enormous dinner to make up for it.’

  Eleanor studied him unobtrusively; he looked all right, a little pale perhaps, and certainly listless; could be that he hadn’t got over his chickenpox as well as they thought he had. Doctor MacClew might go over him again—she hoped worriedly that the boy hadn’t caught a chill; it would be a miracle if they all escaped with nothing at all.

  She had intended asking Henry to help her with the snow on the path between the manse and the little church, but instead she helped her mother wash up, made the beds and went outside on her own. There was still an hour before church and the exercise would do her good. She was almost ready when a large hand came down on hers, so that she was forced to stop shovelling.

  ‘Good morning,’ said Fulk. ‘None the worse for our little adventure, I see. Here, give me that and go and make yourself decent for church.’

  ‘No, I won’t,’ said Eleanor immediately. ‘For one thing, I’m dressed for it and you’re not.’

  He still had her hand fast. ‘And for the other thing?’ he prompted her softly.

  ‘Well, I don’t much like being told what to do.’ She looked up at him and the question tripped off her tongue before she could stop it. ‘Does Imogen do exactly as you say?’

  He didn’t look in the least put out, only a little surprised. ‘It’s hard to say; I don’t remember any occasion when it was necessary for me to ask her to do anything.’

  She blinked. ‘How funny!’

  The dark eyes became cold, he said silkily: ‘Funny? Perhaps you would explain…’

  She said hastily: ‘I didn’t mean funny funny—just strange. Don’t you see much of each other?’ She went on staring at him, asking for trouble and not much caring.

  ‘I hardly feel that it is any of your business, Eleanor, and if you’re trying to cast doubts into my head, I can assure you that it’s a waste of time.’ His voice was as cold as his eyes; he wasn’t bothering to conceal his anger. But she was angry too now, with him and with herself for starting the whole miserable conversation in the first place.

  ‘You’re awful,’ she said, making it even worse, ‘just as bad as you used to be; I might have known…I thought
just once or twice that I’d been mistaken, that you’d changed, but you haven’t.’ She tossed her head. ‘Here, take the beastly shovel!’ Her glance swept over his undoubtedly expensive tweeds and well-tailored camel hair topcoat. ‘You’ll look very silly shovelling snow in Savile Row suiting, but that’s your affair!’

  She flounced back indoors, muttering at his roar of laughter.

  When she came downstairs twenty minutes later, in her tweed coat and little fur hat, it was to find him in the sitting room, talking to the rest of the family, and he looked as though he had never seen a snow shovel in his life. He got to his feet as she went in and said gravely: ‘I like that hat,’ and added to the room at large: ‘It’s surprising what clothes do for a woman.’

  Her father turned round to look at her. ‘Indeed, yes. Fulk is quite right, my dear, that is a pretty hat, though I thought you looked very nice yesterday in that hooded thing.’

  ‘Father, my oldest anorak!’

  ‘Your father’s got something there—you did look nice. You looked sensible and trustworthy too, exactly the kind of companion a man wants when he’s on a ticklish job.’

  She gasped. ‘Well, I never…after all the things you said!’

  He grinned. ‘Coals of fire, Eleanor.’

  ‘A whole scuttle of them—what’s come over you?’

  He answered lightly, ‘Oh, a change of heart,’ and got to his feet again. ‘Ought we to be on our way?’

  The church was very full. Even those who usually attended only upon special occasions had turned up, deeming yesterday’s occurrence well worth a few prayers of thanks. The small building, bursting at the seams, rocked to the thankful voices, and Eleanor, who sang quite well in an amateurish way, sang too, a little off-key on the top notes but making up for that by her enthusiasm. Fulk, standing beside her, glanced at her several times, and Mrs MacFarlane, watching him, wondered if her daughter’s slightly off-key rendering of the hymns nettled him at all, then changed her mind when she saw the little smile tugging the corners of his mouth.