Heaven Is Gentle

by Betty Neels

  So that Mary might get her weekend off before she herself went away, Eliza took her own days off a couple of days later. She left the hospital after a long day’s work, driving her Fiat 500, a vehicle she had acquired some five years previously and saw little hope of replacing for the next few years at least. But even though it was by now a little shabby, and the engine made strange noises from time to time, it still served her well. She turned its small nose towards the west now, and after what seemed an age of slow driving through London, reached its outskirts and at length the M3. Here at least she could travel as fast as the Fiat would allow, and even when the motorway gave way to the Winchester bypass, she maintained a steady fifty miles an hour, only once past Winchester and on the Romsey road, she slowed down a little. It was very dark, and she had wasted a long time getting out of London; she wouldn’t reach Charmouth until midnight. The thought of the pleasant house where her parents lived spurred her on; they would wait up for her, they always did, and there would be hot soup and sausage rolls, warm and featherlight from the oven. Eliza, who hadn’t stopped for supper, put her small foot down on the accelerator.

  The road was dark and lonely once she had passed Cadnam Corner. She left the New Forest behind, skirted Ringwood and threaded her way through Wimborne, silent under the blanket of winter clouds. Dorchester was silent too—she was getting near home now, there were only the hills between her and Bridport and then down and up through Chideock and then home. Here eager thoughts ran ahead of her, so that it seemed nearer than it actually was.

  The lights of the house were still on as she brought the little car to a halt at the top of the hill at the further end of the little town, it lay back from the road, flanked by neighbours, all three of them little Regency houses, bowfronted, with verandahs and roomy front gardens. She was out of the car, her case in her hand, and running up the garden path almost as soon as she had switched off the engine; the cold bit into her as she turned the old-fashioned brass knob of the door and went inside. Her mother and father were still up, as she knew they would be, sitting one each side of the open fire, dozing a little, to wake as she went into the room. She embraced them with affection; her mother, as small a woman as she was, her father, tall and thin and scholarly. ‘Darlings,’ she declared, ‘how lovely to see you! It seems ages since I was home and I’ve heaps to tell you. I’ll just run the car across the road.’

  She flew outside again; the car park belonged to the hotel opposite but the manager never minded her using it. She tucked the Fiat away in a corner and went back indoors, to find the soup and the sausage rolls, just as she had anticipated, waiting for her. She gobbled delicately and between mouthfuls began to tell her parents about the unexpected job she had been asked to take. ‘There was a list,’ she explained. ‘Heaven knows how they made it in the first place or why they picked on me—with a pin, most likely. I almost decided not to accept it, but Sir Harry Bliss thought it would be a good idea—and it’s only for a few weeks.’

  Her mother offered her another sausage roll. ‘Yes, darling, I see. But isn’t this place miles away from everywhere?’

  ‘Yes. But I’m to have my own cottage to live in and I daresay I’ll be too busy to want to do much when I’m not on duty.’

  ‘There will be another nurse there?’ asked her father.

  She shook her head. ‘No—I’m the only one and it sounds as though I shan’t have much to do. A handful of volunteer patients—all men, a few technicians and the two professors; William Wyllie—he’s an asthma case himself and I may have to look after him; he’s quite old—well, not very old, touching seventy.’

  ‘And the other doctor?’ It was her mother this time.

  ‘Oh, a friend of his. I daresay he’ll have asthma too, he’ll certainly be elderly.’ She brushed the crumbs from her pretty mouth and sat back with a sigh of content. ‘Now tell me all the news, my dears. Have you heard from Henry? and has Pat got over the measles?’

  Henry was a younger brother, working in Brussels for the Common Market, and Pat was her small niece, her younger sister Polly’s daughter, who had married several years earlier. Her mother embarked on family news, wondering as she did so why it was that this pretty little creature sitting beside her hadn’t married herself, years ago. Of course she didn’t look anything like her age, but thirty wasn’t far off; Mrs Proudfoot belonged to the generation which considered thirty to be getting a little long in the tooth, and she worried about Eliza. The dear girl had had her chances—was still having them; she knew for a fact that at least two eligible young men had proposed to her during the last six months. And now she was off to this godforsaken spot in the Highlands where, as far as she could make out, there wasn’t going to be a man under sixty.

  The two days passed quickly; there was so much to do, so many friends to visit, as well as helping her mother in the nice old house and going for walks with her father, who, now that he had retired from the Civil Service, found time to indulge in his hobby of fossil gathering. Eliza, who knew nothing about fossils, obligingly accompanied him to the beach and collected what she hoped were fine specimens, and which were almost always just pebbles. All the same, they enjoyed each other’s company and the fresh air gave her a glow which made her prettier than ever, so that one of the eligible young men, meeting her by chance in the main street, took the instant opportunity of proposing for a second time, an offer which she gently refused, aware that she was throwing away a good chance.

  She worried about it as she drove herself back to London. Charlie King was an old friend, she had known him for years; he would make a splendid husband and he had a good job. She would, she decided, think about him seriously while she was away in Scotland; no doubt there would be time to think while she was there, and being a long way from a problem often caused it to appear in a quite different light. She put the thought away firmly for the time being and concentrated on her driving, for there had been a frost overnight, and the road was treacherous.

  The next few days went rapidly, for she was busy. Mary Price had gone on her promised weekend the day after she got back and although she had two part-time staff nurses to help her, there was a good deal of extra paper work because she was going away. It was nice to see Mary back again and talk over the managing of the ward while she was away. Eliza spent her last day smoothing out all the last-minute problems, bade her patients and staff a temporary goodbye and went off duty to while away an hour with her friends in the Sisters’ sitting room before going to her room to pack ready for an early start in the morning—warm clothes and not too many of them—thick sweaters and slacks, an old anorak she had brought from home and as a special concession to the faint hope of a social life, a long mohair skirt and cashmere top in a pleasing shade of old rose.

  She left really early the following morning, her friends’ good wishes ringing in her ears, instructions as to how to reach her destination written neatly on the pad beside the map on the seat beside her. She planned to take two, perhaps three days to get to Inverpolly, for although the Fiat always did its best, it wasn’t capable of sustained speed; besides, the weather, cold and blustery now, might worsen and hold her up. She had three clear days in hand and she didn’t suppose anyone would mind if she arrived a little sooner than that.

  She made good progress. She had intended to spend the night at York, but she found that she had several hours in hand when she reached that city. She had an early tea and pressed on to Darlington and then turned on to the Penrith road where she decided to spend the night at the George. She was well ahead of her schedule and she felt rather pleased with herself, everything had been much easier than she had expected. She ate a good supper and went early to bed.

  It was raining when she left, quite early, the next morning. By the time she had got to Carlisle, it was a steady downpour and from the look of the sky, was likely to continue so for hours, but it was a bare two hundred miles to Fort William, though there were another hundred and sixty miles after that, probably more, it was so diff
icult to tell from the map, but she felt relaxed now, eager to keep on for as long as possible, perhaps even complete the journey. She had thought at first that she would take the road to Inverness, but the map showed another, winding road round the lochs, she had almost decided to try it when she reached Fort William for a quick, late lunch, studying the map meanwhile. But it would have to be Inverness, she decided, the coast road looked decidedly complicated, and there was a ferry which might not be running at this time of year. She would push on; it was only three o’clock and roughly speaking, only another hundred and thirty miles to go. Even allowing for the early dark, she had two hours of driving and she was used to driving at night. She took another look at the map and saw that she didn’t need to go to Inverness at all; there was a side road which would bring her out on the road to Bonar Bridge.

  It was dark when she got there and she wanted her tea, but she was too near the end of her journey to spare the time now; only another thirty miles or so to go. But she hadn’t gone half that distance before she regretted her wild enthusiasm; it was a lonely road she was travelling along now and after a little while there were no villages at all and almost no traffic. To try to find the remote lodge where Professor Wyllie was working would be madness; fortunately she remembered that there was a village with an impossible name just outside the National Park of Inverpolly, she could spend the night there. She reflected rather crossly now because she was tired and thirsty and just the smallest bit nervous that it was an impossible place to reach, and if she hadn’t had a car what would they have done about getting her there? Being learned men, wrapped up in their work, they had probably not given it a thought. The road appeared to be going nowhere in particular. Perhaps she was lost, and that was her own fault, of course; she should have realised that parts of the Scottish Highlands really were remote from the rest of the world. Eliza glanced at the speedometer; she had come quite a distance and passed nothing at all; she must be on the wrong road and told herself not to be a fool, for there had been no other road to take. It was then she saw the signpost. Inchnadamph, one mile.

  The hotel was pleasant; warm and friendly too, although by now she was so tired that a barn would have been heaven. They gave her a large, old-fashioned room and fed her like a queen because there was only a handful of guests and they had already dined. She met them briefly when she went to have her coffee in the lounge, and then, hardly able to keep her eyes open, retired to her comfortable bed. A good sleep, she promised herself, and after breakfast she would drive the last few miles of her journey.

  It was raining when she started off again, but she wasn’t tired any more and she had had an enormous breakfast; even the friendly warning that the road, once she was through Lochinver, was narrow and not very good couldn’t damp her good spirits; it was daylight now and she had hours of time in which to find the lodge.

  They were right about the road, she discovered that quickly enough, although she found the village of Inverkirkaig easily enough. The lodge was a couple of miles further on, said her instructions; there was a track on the left of the road which would lead her to the house. But the instructions hadn’t mentioned the winding, muddy road though, going steadily and steeply uphill until she began to wonder if the Fiat would make it. But she reached the track at last and turned carefully into it. It was, in fact, nothing more than a way beaten by car wheels through rough ground; the little car bounced and squelched from one pothole to the next, while the trees on either side dripped mournfully on to it. The rain had increased its intensity too. Eliza could barely see before her, but when at last she turned a corner, she saw the lodge in front of her, a depressing enough sight in the rain, and as far as she could see as she drew up before its shabby door, badly in need of a paint. She got out and banged the iron knocker; the place was a disgrace. Possibly the two professors, blind to everything but their work, had noticed nothing. That was the worst of elderly gentlemen with single-track minds. There was a movement behind the door. She edged a little nearer out of the rain and waited for it to be opened.

  CHAPTER TWO

  SHE had expected someone—a woman from the village she had just passed through, perhaps—as faded and neglected as the house to open the door, not this enormous, elegant man with his dark crusader’s face, dressed, her quick eye noted, with all the care of a man about to stroll down St James’ to his club, instead of roughing it in this back-of-beyond spot. The owner of the place? A visitor?

  She became aware that the rain was trickling down the back of her neck and she frowned. ‘I’m the nurse,’ she stated baldly, since it seemed there were no niceties of introduction. ‘Perhaps you’ll be kind enough to let Professor Wyllie know that I’m here.’

  The tall man made no move, indeed he blocked the whole of the doorway with his bulk; for one awful moment Eliza wondered if she had come to the wrong place and added anxiously: ‘Professor Wyllie is here, isn’t he?’

  He nodded, and now she could see that his dark eyes were gleaming with laughter. ‘Miss Eliza Proudfoot,’ he said slowly, not addressing her really; merely confirming his own thoughts. ‘Five foot ten and buxom…’

  She stared at him in amazement. ‘I beg your pardon?’ Her voice was acid—forgivable enough; she wanted to get in out of the rain and a cup of coffee would be welcome. She added crossly: ‘I’m getting wet.’

  She was plucked inside as though she had been a wet kitten. ‘Forgive me.’ His voice was politely concerned, but she could sense his amusement too. ‘Is that your car?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He stared down at her. ‘Such a pretty girl, and such a pretty voice too, though decidedly acidulated at the moment.’

  He paid her the compliment and took it away again with a lazy charm which infuriated her. ‘Are you the owner of this place?’ she wanted to know.

  He looked faintly surprised. ‘As a matter of fact, I am.’

  ‘Then perhaps you will tell me where I can find Professor Wyllie, since you seem unwilling to take me to him.’ She added nastily: ‘My case is in the car.’

  He chuckled at that and opened the door again, so that she immediately felt forced to exclaim: ‘You can’t go out like that—you’ll ruin that good suit!’

  He looked down at his large person. ‘The only one I have,’ he murmured apologetically.

  ‘Well, then…Professor Wyllie?’

  He turned without a word and led her down the hall, past a rather nice staircase which needed a good dust, and opened a door. The room was a study, overflowing with books and papers, and sitting in the middle of it all was an elderly gentleman, who looked up as they went in, peering at them over his half glasses with guileless blue eyes.

  ‘Miss Eliza Proudfoot,’ announced the large man blandly, and now there was no hiding the amusement in his voice.

  ‘God bless my soul!’ exclaimed Mr Wyllie, and took off his glasses and polished them.

  Eliza took a few steps towards the desk at which he sat. She was fast coming to the conclusion that either she was dealing with eccentrics, or the whole affair was some colossal mistake. But she had been dealing with men of every age and sort, and ill at that, for a number of years now; she said in a matter-of-fact voice: ‘You weren’t expecting me.’

  She had addressed the older man, but it was the man who had admitted her who answered. ‘Oh, indeed we were, although I must admit at the same time that we weren’t expecting—er—quite you.’

  She gave him a cool look, she wasn’t sure that she liked him. ‘That’s no answer,’ she pointed out, and then suddenly seeing his point, cried out: ‘Oh, I’m the wrong nurse, is that it? Five foot ten and buxom…but I really am Eliza Proudfoot.’

  ‘What was old Harry about?’ demanded Professor Wyllie of no one in particular. ‘Why, you’re far too small to be of any use, and no one will make me believe that you’re almost twenty-nine.’

  She winced; no girl likes to have her age bandied about once she is over twenty-one. ‘I’m very strong, and I’ve been in charge of Men’s
Medical at St Anne’s for more than five years, and if you are acquainted with Sir Harry Bliss you’ll know that if he said I could do the job, then there’s no more to be said.’

  ‘We don’t know about being motherly yet, but she’s tough,’ remarked the large man. He was sitting on the edge of the desk, one well-shod, enormous foot swinging gently.

  She shot him an annoyed glance and walked deliberately across the room to stand before him. It was a little disconcerting when he rose politely to his feet, so that she was forced to crane her neck in order to see his face. ‘You have done nothing but make remarks about me since you opened the door,’ her voice was crisp and, she hoped, reasonable, ‘and I can’t think why you are trying to frighten me away—because you are, aren’t you? But since you only own the house—and you should be ashamed to have let it lapse into such a neglected state,’ she admonished him in passing, ‘I really can’t see why you should interfere with my appointment. I’ve come to work for Professor Wyllie, not you.’

  The dark face broke into a slow smile. ‘My dear young lady, I must correct you; you have come to work for me too.’ He held out a hand that looked as though it had never seen hard work in its life. ‘I quite neglected to introduce myself—Professor Christian van Duyl.’

  Eliza allowed her hand to be wrung while she recovered from her surprise. She was still framing a suitable answer to this bombshell when he gave her back her hand and started for the door.

  ‘I’ll see about your luggage and put the car away,’ he told her, ‘while you and Professor Wyllie have a chat.’ He turned to the door. ‘You would like some coffee, Miss Proudfoot?’

  She nodded and then looked at the elderly gentleman behind the desk. He was smiling, a friendly smile, she was glad to see. ‘Excuse me getting up, girl…I shall call you Eliza if I may—which means that I grow abominably lazy. You came up by car?’