by Betty Neels
Fulk went back to the MacDows’ house after church, casually taking Eleanor with him. ‘And before you fly into a temper because you don’t want to come,’ he informed her as soon as they were out of earshot of the rest of the family, ‘I want to ask you something. Does Henry strike you as being his usual self?’
‘Oh, you’ve noticed it, too,’ she exclaimed, quite forgetting that she had intended to be coolly polite and nothing more. ‘You don’t think he’s sickening for something?’
‘I can’t tell, but I had an idea in church. Would your mother and father allow him to come and stay with me for a few weeks?’ He saw her sudden look of alarm. ‘No, don’t instantly suspect that he’s dying of some obscure disease—he’s a tough little boy and healthy enough, but he has a good brain, much above average, I should imagine, and he tends to work it too hard. A holiday wouldn’t do him any harm, away from lessons and even the remote chance of going to school. I’ll keep a fatherly eye on him and he’ll be free to roam where he likes. I live in the country, you know, and there’s plenty for him to do. I’ll see that if he must read, it will be nothing to tease that brain of his…’
They were almost at the MacDow croft. ‘Why are you doing it?’ asked Eleanor, then wished she hadn’t spoken, for it sounded rude and for the moment at any rate, they were friends. But Fulk only answered placidly: ‘I like the boy.’
‘It’s a marvellous idea,’ she ruminated, half aloud, and then choosing her words carefully: ‘Will there be anyone else? I mean, does anyone else live in your house?’
His smile held a tinge of mockery. ‘Still determined to think the worst of me, Eleanor?’ And when she said sharply: ‘No, of course not,’ he went on smoothly: ‘I’ve a housekeeper, a good sort who will feed Henry like a fighting cock—there are a couple of other people around too, but Imogen won’t be there; that’s what you really wanted to know, wasn’t it? And if you credit me with entertaining young women while she’s away then I must disappoint you—my household would do credit to a monk.’
‘I can’t think why you should suppose me to be interested in your private life,’ declared Eleanor haughtily. She tossed her head rather grandly, tripped up on a hidden lump of snow and fell flat on her face. Fulk scooped her up, stood her on her feet, brushed her down, kissed her swiftly and said gently: ‘There’s no need to get uppity.’ A remark she didn’t have time to answer because they were on the doorstep and Mrs MacDow was opening the door.
The schoolmaster was sitting in a chair drawn up to the fire, a pair of very out-of-date crutches by his side. He greeted them cheerfully and when Eleanor expressed surprise at seeing him there in his dressing gown, smoking his pipe and looking almost normal, he laughed and assured her that it was all the doctor’s doing.
‘Not ideal,’ murmured Fulk. ‘The crutches are heir-looms from some bygone age, but they’ll do until we can get you into Durness. They’ll do an X-ray and put the leg in plaster and a walking iron—all you’ll need then is a good stout stick.’
They stayed talking for a few minutes, lighthearted argument as to the ill-fated climbing expedition. ‘We should have been in a pretty bad way if you hadn’t come along,’ said Mr MacDow. ‘We knew a search party would come out after us sooner or later, but if they’d waited until there were enough men, the boys would have been in poor shape to tackle the scramble down. That was a brilliant idea bringing the bus, though how you managed to get it up there beats me.’
‘We had our difficult moments,’ Fulk acknowledged. ‘Luckily Eleanor proved to be a sort of pocket compass.’
They looked at her and she went a faint pink, so that she looked quite eye-catching, what with flushed cheeks and the fur hat crowning her brown hair. ‘I couldn’t have driven the bus,’ she pointed out, ‘and if the men had been here they would have found the way just as well—better, perhaps.’
‘They wouldn’t have fancied taking that bus,’ declared the schoolmaster. ‘We’ll be indebted to you, Doctor—I doubt if we’ll ever be able to do the same for you, but you’ve made a great many friends in the village.’
‘Thank you—and that reminds me, I wanted a word with you about young Henry. I’ve spoken to Eleanor already, but I should appreciate your advice before I say anything to Mr MacFarlane.’
Eleanor had to admit that he put his case very well; Mr MacDow agreed wholeheartedly that Henry was far too clever for his age. ‘A real boy, make no mistake about that,’ he observed, ‘but the laddie tires himself out, reading beyond his years; working away at problems, wanting to know this, that and the other. He could miss a few weeks at school and never know the difference. If you say it would do the boy some good then I’ll not say nay, Doctor, provided his father hasn’t any objection.’
The pastor had no objection at all and his wife was openly delighted. ‘What a dear man you are, Fulk,’ she exclaimed. ‘It’s just what will do him the most good; his head is stuffed with algebra and science and learning to play chess, and there’s no stopping him.’ She looked so happy and relieved that Eleanor bent to kiss her swiftly in understanding. ‘He’s over in the loft,’ said Mrs MacFarlane, ‘feeding Mrs Trot and the kittens, do go and tell him yourself.’ She added in an offhand way, ‘Go with Fulk, will you, Eleanor? Henry forgot to take the milk with him, and Mrs Trot will need it before the evening.’
Henry was sitting where his big sister usually sat, on the floor with the kittens playing round him, while Mrs Trot ate her dinner. He had heard them on the ladder and turned his head to watch them. ‘I thought it was you,’ he remarked. ‘It isn’t our dinnertime yet, is it?’
‘Almost.’ Eleanor chose an apple and offered it to Fulk before taking one for herself; they shared the sack of potatoes and munched contentedly for a minute or two until Fulk asked: ‘Henry, how do you feel about spending a week or two with me in Holland?’
The little boy’s face became one large grin. ‘Me? Honour bright? Just me? Oh, Fulk, how absolutely smashing!’ The grin faded. ‘I have to have a passport. I was reading about that the other day—I haven’t got one.’
‘That’s OK, that can be arranged, but we’ll need to go to Glasgow for it. I tell you what, if I take Eleanor back tomorrow, you could come with us and we could see about it on the way—that’s provided the roads are clear. We can get your photo taken and go to the Passport Office and see what they can do for us. If it’s OK, we’ll come back here and pack your bags.’
‘Oh, golly!’ Henry was on his feet, capering round the bare boards, only to stop abruptly. ‘I’ll have to leave the kittens.’ His face fell as he picked up the smallest and ugliest of them, the one no one wanted. ‘No one’s offered for Moggy.’
Eleanor felt a glow of warmth as Fulk exclaimed instantly: ‘I will—I’ve a dog and my housekeeper has a cat of her own, but we could do with a kitten. We’ll take him with us.’
‘I say—really? You mean that, Fulk?’
‘I mean it—I’m partial to kittens around the house.’
Eleanor’s tongue was too quick for her once more. ‘Supposing your Imogen doesn’t like him?’
Fulk turned a bland face to hers. ‘My dear girl, don’t you know that people in love are prepared to do anything for the loved one’s sake?’
An observation which depressed her very much; quite possibly Imogen was a very nice girl, prepared to sacrifice her own likes and dislikes just to please Fulk; which was a pity, because it was hard to dislike a nice girl, and she had made up her mind to dislike Imogen. She contented herself by saying: ‘Well, I wouldn’t know about that. I say, there’s really no need to take me back tomorrow—Edinburgh will be right out of your way, and the roads…’
‘Nervous? Surely not after yesterday’s little trip. We can go via Glasgow and if there’s any hitch or waiting about to be done, we can take you to the hospital and then go back there.’
He made it all sound so easy—convenient, almost. She found herself agreeing with him as Henry tidied the kittens back into their box, planted Mrs Trot beside them an
d announced that he was quite ready for his dinner.
The meal was an animated one, with everyone talking at once, and Eleanor was the only one, so she thought, to notice that Henry ate hardly anything at all. But she wasn’t; she looked up and caught Fulk’s eyes upon her and knew that he had seen it too and wasn’t going to say anything. Obedient to that dark glance, she didn’t say anything either.
The snow ploughs and the weather had done their work by morning; the roads were clear, the telephone and the electricity were once more functioning and although there was a good deal of snow still lying around it wasn’t likely to hinder them much. Fulk was at the manse by half past ten, having got up early and driven Mr MacDow, wedged on to the back seat, into Durness, where they had X-rayed the limb, clapped it in plaster and a walking iron and handed him back to Fulk, who had in turn handed him over to his own doctor’s care. He brought the news that the road to Lairg was more or less clear and beyond that there should be no difficulties, and they left at once, stopping to lunch in Inverness at the Station Hotel, where even the magnificence of the restaurant and the remarkable choice of food did little to increase Henry’s appetite. Of course, he was excited, thought Eleanor worriedly as she joined in the cheerful talk of her companions. Whatever was wrong with the boy’s appetite hadn’t affected his spirits.
The Panther made light work of the hundred and seventy miles remaining of their journey, so that they reached the Passport Office with half an hour to spare before it closed for the day and they would have been there sooner, only they had stopped on the way for some instant passport photos of Henry. Eleanor stayed in the little outer office while Fulk and Henry went to see what could be done. It was a dull little room, with nothing to read but pamphlets about emigrating and a stern warning of the dire punishment awaiting anyone who tampered with their passport. She read these interesting titbits of information several times, and then for lack of anything else to do, found paper and pen in her handbag and amused herself making a list of things she would like to buy; it was a long list and imaginative and she headed it boldly ‘Things I would like to have,’ and underlined it twice. She was on the point of crossing out the more frivolous items when Fulk and Henry came back, looking pleased with themselves; obviously they had been successful. She stood up, dropped her handbag, her gloves and the paper and asked: ‘Is it OK?’ to the two bent forms scrabbling round on the floor picking up her possessions.
Henry lifted his head. ‘Rather. Fulk talked—they were super. We’re to call and fetch it when we go.’
‘And when’s that?’
‘The day after tomorrow.’ Fulk spoke absentmindedly, Eleanor’s piece of paper in one hand. ‘What’s this—don’t tell me I shouldn’t read it for it’s not a letter. Besides, you shouldn’t drop things all over the place so carelessly.’
‘I was surprised,’ she excused herself. ‘It’s only a list.’
She put out a hand which he instantly took hold of and held. ‘Sable coat,’ he read in an interested voice, ‘Gina Fratini dress, Givenchy scarf, Marks and Spencer sweater, toothpaste,’ he chuckled and went on slowly, ‘surgical scissors, every paperback I want, roses for Christmas. Seems a pretty sensible list to me, but why roses for Christmas, Eleanor?’
She tugged at her hand to no good purpose. ‘Oh, it’s just something silly, you know…I mean, if anyone bothered to give me roses, masses of them, I mean, not just six in cellophane—when everyone else was having potted hyacinths and chrysanthemums, I’d know that I meant something to—to someone…’ She paused because he was looking at her rather strangely. ‘Like the sables,’ she went on chattily, ‘and the Givenchy scarf…’
‘But not the toothpaste,’ he suggested, half laughing.
‘No.’ She took the odds and ends Henry was holding out to her and stuffed them away and said brightly: ‘How nice that everything went off without a hitch. Aren’t you wildly excited, Henry?’
Henry said that yes, he was, and began to explain exactly how a passport was issued and the conditions imposed. ‘And wasn’t it clever of Fulk to know that he had to have a letter from Father to show them?’ he demanded. ‘I shall be glad when I’m grown up and can do those sort of things.’ He cast a disparaging look at his surroundings. ‘May we go soon?’
Fulk took them to tea; to the Central Hotel, large and impressive with its draperies and its mirrors and chandeliers. Henry looked round, his eyes wide. He had never been in such a place before for his tea, and it was an experience which he was enjoying. Eleanor blessed Fulk for his understanding of a small boy’s idea of a treat, and tried not to worry at the small meal her brother was making.
They took her back to Edinburgh when they had finished, going with her to the Nurses’ Home door, after a protracted walk across the forecourt because Henry wanted to know exactly where everything was and how many people worked in the hospital for how many hours and how much money. ‘I shall be a famous doctor,’ he told them, ‘a physician, like Fulk. Perhaps I might be your partner—you’ll probably be needing one by the time I’m grown up, Fulk.’
‘Very probably,’ Fulk agreed gravely. ‘Now let us say goodbye to Eleanor and make for home, shall we? It’s a long drive; you can sit in the back and go to sleep, if you wish.’
‘Go to sleep? Of course I shall sit with you in front and watch the dashboard and you can explain…’
‘You’re sure you want him?’ asked Eleanor, giving her brother a hug and looking anxiously at Fulk over his small shoulder.
‘Quite sure.’ He smiled and held out his hand. ‘Don’t work too hard,’ he advised her, and didn’t say goodbye, only put her case inside the door for her and then cast an arm round Henry’s bony frame and turned away. She was tempted to delay them with some question or other; she didn’t want to be left, but she remembered that he had a journey of many hours before him. She went through the door and closed it quietly without looking back.
She felt bad-tempered in the morning, due, she told herself, to the long car journey the day before and all the excitement during the blizzard. That it might also be due to the fact that Fulk hadn’t bothered to say goodbye to her was something she had no intention of admitting, not even to herself. Despite her best efforts, she was snappy with the nurses and found the patients tiresome too, and making the excuse that she had to wash her hair and make a telephone call home, she didn’t go, as she usually did, to the Sisters’ sitting room when she got off duty, but retired to her room, where she sat on her bed and brooded.
Hunger drove her down to supper, and in the babble of talk round the table, her unusual quietness was hardly noticed, although several of her closer friends wondered if she were starting a cold or merely feeling unsettled after her weekend. Probably the latter, they decided, and bore her off to drink tea with them, carefully not asking questions. Someone had asked her at breakfast that morning if she had found the blizzard very awful and she had answered so briefly that they had concluded that for some reason or other she didn’t want to talk about it.
She felt a little better the next morning, though; she was a girl with plenty of common sense, to let herself be put out by something which wasn’t important to her was plain foolish; she went on duty determined to be nice to everyone and succeeded very well, plunging into the daily problems of the ward with zest, listening to Miss Tremble’s everlasting grumbles and conducting a round with Sir Arthur and his retinue with her usual good humour and efficiency. It was at the end of this time-consuming exercise that he, sipping coffee in her office, remarked: ‘You look washed out, Sister. Shovelling snow evidently doesn’t agree with you.’
‘Shovel…how did you know that, sir?’ She put down her cup and eyed him in some surprise.
‘Van Hensum told me—he must have worked you too hard.’
She rushed to Fulk’s defence. ‘No—indeed no, Sir Arthur, I did very little, he was the one who did everything.’
‘H’m, well—he didn’t mention his own activities.’
She told her compan
ion at some length, sparing no details. ‘So you see,’ she concluded, ‘he was pretty super.’ She frowned; the whole family had got into the habit of using Henry’s favourite word. ‘He…’ she began; there was no other word— ‘He was super.’
Sir Arthur studied his nails and hid a smile. ‘I have always found Doctor van Hensum—er—pretty super myself, purely from a professional point of view, of course.’ He got up. ‘Many thanks for the coffee, Sister.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Dear me, is that the time?’ He wandered to the door and she accompanied him down the short corridor which led to the swing doors, where he nodded affably, muttered something about being late as usual and hurried away.
Eleanor went back into the ward and plunged into her work once more. The temptation to sit down somewhere quiet and think about Fulk was tempting but pointless. Her mind edged away from the idea that it would be nice if he were to call with Henry on their way to Holland, but Fulk didn’t do things to oblige people, only to please himself. This glaring untruth caused her to frown so heavily that Bob Wise, the Medical Officer on duty, walking down the ward to meet her, asked: ‘I say, are you angry with me about something?’
She hastened to deny it with such friendliness that he was emboldened to ask her to go out with him that evening. A film, he suggested diffidently, and brightened visibly when she agreed. He was a pleasant young man, very English; he had paid her what she realized was a rare compliment when he had first come to the hospital, telling her that she spoke like an English girl, a remark which she rightly guessed had been born from homesickness and the girl he had left behind him. They had become casual friends since then and from time to time spent an evening together.
So she went to the cinema with him and afterwards sat over a cup of coffee with him in a nearby café, while he told her the latest news of his Maureen. They had known each other since childhood; he had told her that the first time they had met, and their plans had been settled long ago. Eleanor, listening to him discussing the wedding which was at least two years away, wondered what it would be like to have your future cut and dried; to know that you would never be tempted to fall in love with anyone else—it would be wonderful to be as sure as that. She had fancied herself in love on several occasions, of course, but never so deeply that she had felt that life would stop for her when she fell out of it again. Her mother had declared on more than one occasion that she was hard to please; perhaps she was. She sighed a little and begged Bob to describe, just once more, the engagement ring he had bestowed upon Maureen.