by A. D. Scott
A surgeon flew up from Edinburgh, arriving late next morning. During the five hours it took to perform the operation, McAllister answered questions put to him by DI Dunne, by the Reverend Macdonald, by Don McLeod, and all the other friends and relatives who called by. He chain-smoked all the while. He remembered none of what he was asked, what he said. He took the tea given to him. He took the flask Don put in his pocket. He waited.
He was alone when the theater doors opened and the nursing sisters came out.
“How is she?”
“Are you a relative?” one of the sisters asked.
“No, she’s my . . .” He didn’t have a word for his role in Joanne’s life.
“Sorry, relatives only.”
“For Christ’s sake, woman . . .”
The sister stepped backwards as though the profanity had physically struck her. “I will not tolerate such language. Please leave.”
The junior staff was standing well away from the confrontation. A surgeon still in his operating gown came out. Oblivious to the standoff, he disappeared through another swing door.
“Just tell me how she is.” He stepped towards the nurse, his voice that of a man in despair. Even in daylight he couldn’t see what she could see; his clothes had traces of blood and mud; the smell of unwashed body and cigarettes was rank.
She shrank back from him and would not budge. “Relatives only. Those are the rules.” She was the sister in charge; she would not break the rules for anyone.
“Mr. McAllister, sir, I thought I told you to go home hours ago.” The lumbering juggernaut of Sergeant Patience was coming down the corridor bearing tea. In his big hams of hands the cup and saucer looked like it came from a child’s tea set.
“Do you know this person?” the sister asked.
“Aye. Mr. McAllister, editor of the Gazette. He’s Mrs. Ross’s fiancé. I think we can bend the rules a wee bit since they’re as good as married.”
As good as married—Sister knew what that meant. She was minded to ban him from the hospital for that sin alone, never mind his blaspheming. But the policeman saw in her eyes the way her mind was thinking.
“I’ll call the Reverend Macdonald,” the sergeant said. “That’s the patient’s brother-in-law”—this part he addressed to the nurse—“he’s family, and I’m sure the minister’ll get permission from Matron for you to be with Mrs. Ross, sir.” Then his voice changed from gentle giant to fearsome Sergeant Patience. “In the meanwhile, Sister, I’ll take full responsibility for the breach of hospital rules. So please let Mr. McAllister . . .”
McAllister spotted the surgeon, now in immaculate grey-striped trousers and dark coat, come out of a room. He moved fast. Sergeant Patience stepped to the side, impeding the nurse, who was determined to stop any information being given to a blaspheming sinner, no matter he was as good as married.
“How is she?” McAllister asked.
“The operation went well,” the silver-haired gentleman surgeon said. He was a man married to a woman he adored. He knew how he would feel. “But her condition is serious. Mr. . . .?”
“McAllister. Mrs. Ross is soon to be my wife.”
“Mr. McAllister, your fiancée suffered a hemorrhage from the blow to her temple. Although the operation went well, it is too early to be certain of a full recovery.” He looked into McAllister’s eyes, saw the despair, and the intelligence. He held out his hand. “I won’t lie to you, there is a strong possibility of brain damage. She was left too long before being operated upon. All we can do is wait and hope for the best.”
McAllister took the hand, held it that moment longer than customary, and the man, not the surgeon, kept hold, saying, “She is young. She is healthy. You and your future wife have my best wishes.”
Thank God he didn’t tell me to pray, McAllister thought as he watched the man leave; the editor was a man who had left faith behind on a hillside in Spain.
When McAllister was alone, Sergeant Patience came over.
“One o’ the constables will drive you home.” It was an order. “Get some sleep ’cos DI Dunne is wanting to talk to you. Then you can come back to see how Mrs. Ross is doing.”
As he turned to leave, the sergeant said, “Congratulations on your future marriage, sir.” He smiled. Then winked.
McAllister knew that hugging the man would not be appropriate. He shook his hand instead.
• • •
The first time Joanne opened her eyes, it was dark, which terrified her, and she immediately closed them. She felt sheets under her, she felt her toes, could wiggle her fingers, but not much else. She could smell laundry detergent from the pillow. The scent of cleanliness reassured her. She opened her eyes again and the dim night-light the nurses kept on threw shadows on white walls, on a metal-framed bed. She went back to sleep for another half day.
The next time she woke she knew someone was in the room. “McAllister?” Her voice was no more than a whisper.
“It’s me, dear, your mother.”
That made no sense to her, so she went back to sleep.
The third time she knew it was him. He was sitting so close she could feel his breath. She lifted her eyelids as much as she was able, saw him, closed them, the corners of her mouth attempting a smile. Failing. She felt his hand, stroking the back of hers, touching so lightly it was like the brush of a feather.
Five minutes passed. She looked for him. He was there. The light hurt. Again she closed her eyes. But she could listen. She could hear as the dam of emotion and love and fear broke. In the dim light, in the privacy of the room, with Joanne barely conscious, he told her everything he could never say when her eyes were upon his.
He told her of her girls, of Mae Bell, of his love, of the moon and stars and the river, and the friends and the relatives and the cheers from the printers when told she was safe.
He told her of his terror, of his absolute awareness that he could not live without her. He stripped himself bare of his fears, his manliness, his Scottishness, his past, his present. He told her how his life was worth nothing without her.
“McAllister . . .” she murmured, and went back to sleep.
A nurse would come in every hour, always asking her the same questions.
“What is your name?”
“What’s the date?”
“Who’s the prime minister?”
She could answer her name. She became frustrated. “I told you! My name is Joanne Innes. No, that’s not right. Joanne . . . Mrs. Joanne Ross.”
When told the date, she could not remember the next time she was asked.
As for the prime minister, she said, “That stuck-up toff whatshisname.” Or, “Macdonald is it?” Or, “Go away with your bloody questions.” No one took offense at swearing in Intensive Care; they knew even the most mild of ladies could swear like troopers after a long period under anesthetic.
On the days that followed Joanne learned to squeeze McAllister’s hand. He had to concentrate hard to feel the pressure, but day by day she became stronger.
Sometimes, trying to move her arms, which were tied down to keep her from tearing out the drips, she called out, I’m sorry, Father. I won’t do it again. Once she said, to no one in particular, I’m sorry, I never get anything right.
She asked for her girls, frequently: in between waking and unconsciousness; when she opened her eyes; in between sentences; she would say, “Annie, Jean, is that you? Or, “Annie, Jean, come inside, supper is ready.” Or simply, “Annie. Jean. McAllister. Wee Jean.”
One time she lay back staring at the ceiling. “See yon, McAllister? See the wee fish? Coming out of the light fitting? They’re lost. Can’t find the sea.”
He wanted to hold her but was told he shouldn’t allow her to lift her head. Six days after the operation, she asked, “Annie, Jean, where are they?”
“You’ll see them soon.”
“I’ll not live in your house, McAllister. It’s your house.”
“I’ll buy a new house for us all.”
“Anywhere you want.” But she was asleep again.
Next day when he visited he said, “Your mother would like to visit.”
“No.”
“The girls are desperate to see you,” he said, “but they’re not allowed in. So . . .” He slowly wound up the bed so she could see out the window.
The room was on the ground floor, but all Joanne could see was the top of someone’s head. “Rob.” She smiled. Then the head disappeared.
The shrieks and giggles were distant but unmistakable, “Annie, Jean.” She tried to sit up.
“Wait.” McAllister opened the window.
Annie appeared first. Rob gave her a lift up, her foot in his clasped hands. She sat on the window ledge. “You look terrible,” she told her mother.
Joanne had to smile. “I know. But I’m getting better.”
Annie thought she looked so ill she might never recover, but said, “Mum, when are you coming home?”
Jean appeared next, on Rob’s shoulders.
“Hi, Mum. You look really weird,” she said.
McAllister laughed. “Hi indeed. You’ve been spending too much time wi’ your uncle Rob.”
Joanne could barely speak. But she could smile. Smile so much her head hurt and the stitches pulled. Tears came unbidden, streaming down her face, and it frightened her children.
“Are you having a baby, Mum?” Jean asked because she’d heard that hurt.
“Don’t be silly.” Annie was furious.
“No, I’m a wee bit sick.” Joanne’s voice was soft, but her girls heard.
“We’ve a new baby brother. His name is William. He’s gorgeous.”
Joanne smiled again. “Really?” She had no idea what Jean was talking about.
“We have to go now,” Rob told them. “Your mum needs to sleep.”
As they walked back with Rob to his father’s car, Jean asked, “What happened to Mum’s hair?”
“The doctor had to cut it off to put stitches in where she was hurt,” Rob explained.
“Mum’ll no’ like that.”
“Mum will get better, and come home, and her hair will grow again,” Annie said, her voice with a false confidence that made Rob reach for her hand. She let him. For once, she let herself be eleven again.
• • •
Mae Bell was sedated for the first two days. Dehydrated and exhausted, she had lost so much weight, her skin crinkled like a crepe bandage. As she had no relatives, no one was allowed to visit her except the Reverend Duncan Macdonald, in his capacity as hospital chaplain.
“I can’t pretend she’s my fiancée,” McAllister told them. “Although Joanne doesn’t know it, I’m engaged to her—as far as the hospital is concerned.”
“About time you made it official,” Don told him.
On the fourth day, Mae Bell was moved into the main ward. McAllister visited, held her hand. He was not good for her; he was too distraught at the thought of Joanne having irreversible brain damage. To be cheerful and sympathetic for Mae, he needed a strength he did not have.
Mae did not want to remember the ordeal and the events leading up to them, so the second time he came to visit, she said, “Go away, McAllister. Only come back when you can cheer me up.”
Rob and Frankie came together and separately; Rob was not good company either. He came in the visiting hour, asked how she was, told her Joanne was on the mend, saying nothing of the uncertainty for a full recovery, and left after ten or so minutes. Then he would drive back to work. Or home to sit with his mother.
Margaret McLean had taken him to the doctor just as she had when he was a boy. Dr. Matheson had read about the case in the Gazette. He and the rest of the community did not know that, when moved, Mrs. Forbes’s head had parted from her body. Sleeping pills were prescribed. Rob did not take them.
Although those close to him knew his spirits were perilously close to shutdown, to most he was a hero. The prevailing wisdom was, Rob McLean rescued Joanne Ross and the American woman—a real hero.
So, he killed someone? So did many men in this town, this country, this world. Only recently.
Gino Corelli was Mae Bell’s constant visitor. He and Chiara had attempted to visit Joanne and were told, not yet. Gino was left with a dozen out-of-season red roses he’d ordered from the south. He knew Mae Bell was in the hospital. As a refugee himself, released before WWII had ended from an internment camp for Italians, he knew what it was like to be a stranger in an unknown land, lost to friends and country.
He eventually found her ward in the maze of separate buildings that made up the hospital. He walked down the ward to her bed, his polished Sunday shoes squeaking on the polished linoleum floor, his hat in one hand, flowers in the other.
He made Mae smile. “Red roses are for lovers,” she murmured. “Thank you, Mr. Corelli.”
He blushed.
She asked after the boy. Gino had no idea who the boy was, and Mae was too tired to explain other than, “He’s my son, my husband’s son.”
This made no sense to Gino Corelli.
Mae told him, “The nurses say I have to eat, but have you seen the food here? It’s . . .” There were no words she could conjure up for the boiled potatoes, boiled cabbage, mashed turnips, and the grey pellets of what she was assured was meat. “Mince is what it is,” a fellow patient told her as she examined it as though it might move. It’s the innards of a haggis, she decided, and couldn’t eat it.
Gino visited most evenings; he brought simple dishes like soup in a thermos flask, tiramisù, and fruit already cut up. Even the grapes were deseeded and cut in half. He enjoyed her company; she was almost European and knew what he was talking about when he described a place, a time, sun on the skin and grapes on the vine; she understood what it was to live away from the land of your birth.
She asked him for a pen and paper. She wrote a few words and an address. He went to the post office, sent the telegram.
She asked again about the boy. He had no news, but said he would find out. He asked McAllister, who told him to consult Angus McLean, the solicitor and Rob’s father. He told Mr. McLean that Mae Bell said the boy was her late husband’s son.
“Ah, that explains it,” the solicitor had said.
Gino did not know, or ask, what was meant by that but came back the same day and told Mae Bell, “Mr. McLean the solicitor will find news of your boy.”
Five days after her rescue, Mae Bell insisted on discharging herself. She was told she would have to sign a form absolving the hospital of responsibility.
“Where do I sign?” she asked.
The doctor said, “You need monitoring. You need to put on weight.”
“With this hospital food?” she asked.
He had the grace to smile.
Mae Bell was to stay at McAllister’s house, where Granny Ross had installed herself as daytime housekeeper.
“I’ll look after Mrs. Bell,” she said when McAllister told her that Mae was coming out of hospital. “Where else should the poor soul be stopping except wi’ friends?”
Frankie volunteered to collect Mae Bell from hospital. He asked for time off work. His superior said no and threatened to sack him. Frankie said, “Go ahead.”
When he arrived, she was in a wheelchair. Mrs. Ross Senior had packed a small bag with some of Mae Bell’s own clothes.
“I’ll dress later,” she told Frankie, “but first, take me to see Joanne.”
Joanne was still in Intensive Care. It was not visiting hours. Visiting was restricted to family only.
Frankie spotted a white jacket hanging inside the open door of a sluice room. He put it on. He wheeled Mae to the Intensive Care ward. There was no need to make Mae look like she belonged there; in the hideous hospital nightie and dressing gown, her face showing every hour of her captivity, she did not look out of place. When a nurse looked up, Frankie smiled. The young nurse smiled back. Frankie carried on as though he worked there.
He found Joanne’s bed. When Mae saw the drips and trappings of serious illness, she felt she would faint.
“Hi there.” She leaned out of the chair and stroked Joanne’s hand.
Joanne opened her eyes. “Mae Bell.”
“Honey.”
Joanne looked at her. “You look terrible.”
“Thanks.” Mae’s eyes filled up. “So do you.” They smiled.
“Why are you here?” Joanne asked.
Mae Bell couldn’t answer.
Joanne closed her eyes. They were silent for so long, Frankie looked around the curtain to make sure they were both still breathing.
“See you soon, my dear dear friend,” Mae whispered.
Joanne managed an upturn of the lips. “Your nightie is really horrible.”
“It sure ain’t Paris fashion.” Mae put on a deliberate drawl, gave a deliberate slow shake of the head, which hurt. She smiled. “Night-night. Sleep tight.”
Frankie pulled the wheelchair away, waving at the nurse as he passed. He took Mae to the car. As he was lifting her into the back-seat, he saw the wet face, the teardrops on the gown. He felt how little she weighed. He felt every rib, every bone. The anger over Mae’s imprisonment, Joanne’s nearly dying, and the pain of losing his mother combined burnt a crevasse into his soul.
He walked round to the driver’s side, took a moment to breath deeply. He knew then that he was not and never would be the same Frankie Urquhart—shinty player, music promoter, generally decent sunny young man whom everyone liked.
And all through that week, a week of policemen, of interviews, of death and its aftermath, a Fatal Accident Enquiry, confrontation, reflection, and recovery, those closest involved never mentioned the events to each other.
Except Don McLeod. He had a newspaper to publish.
Frankie had told Rob he had lost his job in the gentlemen’s department of Arnotts and he didn’t care.
Rob told Don.
Don asked, “Can he sell?”
Rob assured him Frankie could sell kilts to a fully dressed regimental pipe band and then some.
Don said, “When can he start?”