Shoulder the Sky (Drumberley Book 3)

by D. E. Stevenson

  It was no use sitting here waiting to be buried. The only thing to do was to get out and walk. He must have come about two miles — which meant he was half-way to Mureth. Should he go back to Tassieknowe or struggle on to Mureth? He considered the alternatives carefully. On the one hand he knew that the road back to Tassieknowe was open and well marked with posts and he had no idea what lay ahead, but on the other hand he would have the wind behind him if he decided to make for Mureth. The advantages or disadvantages of the two courses of action seemed fairly equal and Adam’s feelings decided the matter. Mureth of course. He took his electric torch and got out. Somehow he hated to abandon the little car, she was a good friend. “It’s all right,” he said, laying a hand on her bonnet. “I’ll be fetching you, old lady.” He laughed at himself and turned off the lights.

  Now that Adam was actually in the midst of the storm and without any shelter, he found it even worse than he had expected, colder and darker and fiercer. He stumbled through the drift and up the hill on the other side. His trousers were soaked through and clung to his legs; his shoes were filled with snow and clogged, so that his feet slipped and were so heavy that he could hardly put one before the other. At the top of the hill the wind seized him and buffeted him, hurling him from side to side as if he were a dry leaf in an autumn gale; the chill of it struck to his very bones, the noise of it screaming in his ears deafened him. The snow was all round him, there was nothing to be seen but snow, his torch showed him the madly whirling flakes and little else. It was difficult now to find the posts, which were his only guide to the road, for his torch was far less powerful than the head-lamps. Here was one! He leant against it for a moment to get his breath and shone his torch ahead searching for the next.

  The temptation to stop — just for a few minutes — was very strong; it was strongest when the road turned the corner of a hill and he found himself in comparative shelter. Here was a boulder to break the force of the wind, why not stop just for a few minutes — to rest, to get his breath, to ease his laboured breathing? But he had heard about people being lost in the snow and was aware of the danger. If he sat down he would never get up again.

  Adam battled on. He fell. He got up and went forward. The wind was behind him, pushing him on. Suddenly he found himself struggling through deep heather, buried beneath the snow, and knew that he had lost the road. He turned and went back, pushing against the wind, fighting against it as if it were a live thing, a malignant beast. It tore at his clothes and filled his mouth with driving snow, it blinded his eyes … by some miraculous chance he stumbled against a post and clung to it. He had found the road again.

  Now he was so cold and so exhausted that he had lost all power to think. He only knew that he must go on — on to Mureth — that he must not stop, he must go on. He went from post to post, counting them as he reached each one and struggled on to the next: five, six, seven … eighteen, nineteen

  … twenty-four, twenty-five. Surely it couldn’t be much further … Mureth … he was going to Mureth … was that the next post? It looked different, somehow.

  As he groped his way towards the post he realised that it was not a post, it was a tree. He was off the road again — which meant he must go back. He turned and floundered back; his feet slipped from under him. He found himself sliding into a ditch … sliding down the bank. He grasped at a rock and tried to draw himself up but his hands were numb; his feet slipped and slithered and he fell sideways onto the rock with his face in the snow. For a few moments he lay there exhausted, almost sick with the pain in his side, then somehow or other he dragged himself up, got onto his feet and staggered on. The pain went with him; it was like a knife in his side when he breathed.

  Another tree loomed out of the darkness, and then a wall and a gate. It was Mureth.

  Adam had arrived at Mureth but he was too far gone to feel any lift of spirit. He turned in at the gate. The house loomed up before him, a darker shadow in the enveloping darkness. He struggled through a heavy drift in the drive and blundered up the steps, he found the bell and pressed it. Far off in the distance he heard the tinkle of the bell, but nobody came. He waited, but nobody came. He tried again and again. He kept his finger on the bell.

  It was still snowing heavily; the wind was whistling past the corner of the house and now that Adam had stopped moving he was freezing cold — cold to his very heart, his teeth chattering, his knees weak with exhaustion.

  Adam leaned against the door. His hand grasped the handle and turned it. The movement was instinctive; Adam’s hand turned the handle without orders from his numbed brain. He almost fell when the door opened at his touch. He remembered now, in a dazed way, that James always said Mureth door was seldom locked. He knew, in a dazed way, that this circumstance had probably saved his life.

  Adam went in and closed the door and switched on the light. It was a most extraordinary feeling to be out of the wind and the driving snow, to feel the warmth of the house, to hear the old grandfather’s clock ticking peacefully. Adam took his arms out of his sodden overcoat and let it drop onto the floor. He leant against the closed door. The hall was going up and down in a curious way … up and down … the staircase seemed to be slipping sideways. Adam gazed at the staircase, trying to steady it, and he saw Mamie coming down. Mamie was wearing a blue dressing-gown and her long, fair hair was in two plaits, hanging down on either side of her face. To Adam her face was the face of an angel.

  “Adam Forrester!” she cried. It was the last thing he heard before he slid quietly onto the floor.

  *

  When Adam regained consciousness he found himself in bed, swathed in blankets and surrounded with hot-water bottles. He came to himself slowly, as if he were groping through a fog. He could hear movements in the room and the sound of voices.

  “Here’s the tea,” somebody was saying in a deep bass voice. “If we could only get him to take some! Maybe a wee drop of whisky in it would help.”

  “I think he’s coming round,” said another voice.

  Adam opened his eyes and Mamie’s face swam into view, bending over him, full of pity and kindness and anxiety. It was the last thing he had seen before he fainted and it was the first thing he saw when he opened his eyes … Mamie’s face.

  “Jock, he is coming round!” cried Mamie.

  Adam could not speak. He felt a strong arm raise him from the pillow. “Come away now,” said Jock’s voice wheedlingly. “Just a wee drink, laddie, a nice hot drink. I’ll hold it for you.” The cup was put to Adam’s lips and he drank; it was weak tea with lots of milk and sugar in it and a dash of whisky. The warming liquid revived him; he felt a tingling all through him as his chilled body thawed, a painful tingling. His side pained him in a different way, it hurt when he drew a deep breath. He felt pretty certain it was a broken rib — possibly more than one.

  “Another wee sip,” suggested Jock encouragingly. “That’s fine … look, Mamie, he’s smiling. He’ll be all right now. Gosh, I thought he’d gone!”

  “Kind,” said Adam weakly. “Sorry — so much — trouble.”

  “Wheesht,” said Jock firmly. “You’re not to talk.”

  “Unless you can tell us anything more we can do?” said Mamie anxiously.

  There was nothing more they could do. They had done everything. Adam shut his eyes, he felt himself sinking into sleep. He let himself sink.

  30

  TWO WHOLE days had passed and Adam was still in bed at Mureth House. He was ill, but not too ill to appreciate the care and the kindness which was being lavished upon him. The road to Drumburly was blocked completely by drifts of snow so it was impossible for Nan to come and see him or for Doctor Black to visit him and set his broken ribs. Fortunately however Jock knew a little about first aid and under the direction of the patient had managed to strap them into place. Adam could not help smiling when he thought of the scene; when he remembered the anxious faces of Jock and Mamie and how they had got themselves entangled in the roll of adhesive bandage. It was agony to
laugh, so he hadn’t laughed, but someday when his ribs had mended he intended to have a good hearty laugh over it.

  They had put him to bed in the room which was known as “James’s room” and very pleasant it was, large and square with coloured rugs upon the floor and a comfortable arm-chair standing beside the fireplace. The room had a solid old-fashioned atmosphere about it; only the bed was modern (and, incidentally, luxurious). Adam was in clover and he knew it; he liked the room best when the light was put out and the flickering flames of the fire-light gleamed on the polished oak furniture. He liked it in the morning, too, because the window faced east across the river and lying in bed he could see the sky redden and the sun come up from behind the snow-covered hills.

  Adam did not worry. It was no use worrying because he could do nothing at all about anything … and he was so tired. He did not read nor listen to the wireless which his kind hostess had provided for his entertainment; he just lay and thought and dozed a little and let the long hours drift past in idleness. Oddly enough he was not unhappy about Holly. Perhaps he had not really loved her but had only been enchanted by her charms, or perhaps he had loved the person he thought Holly was, and finding that Holly was not that person had ceased to love her; or perhaps … but what did it matter? Holly was not for him and to his surprise Adam did not greatly care. He wondered a little about Miss Heddle: what were they doing with the poor creature? He hoped that when the road was opened they would make arrangements to send her away from Tassieknowe. But there again he could do nothing. He had given his advice and could do no more.

  Sometimes he felt uneasy about Nan. It was lonely for Nan all by herself in the little house. Mamie rang up every day to give news of Adam’s progress and reported that Nan was perfectly safe and happy. Safe perhaps, thought Adam, but not happy. She was going through a bad time, he knew. She had told Adam the whole story as revealed to her by Henry and together they had discussed it thoroughly.

  In one way Adam felt differently from Nan. The story had taken a weight off Adam’s mind. He had always admired H.O. tremendously and it had been a grief to discover that his idol had feet of clay (he had treated Nan abominably); but now Adam could admire him again though perhaps in a slightly different way for the story had shown a different side to his character. Like Nan, Adam felt sure that Henry was mistaken in thinking his wife was still alive, for surely if she had been alive she would have got into touch with the Ogylvie Smiths (she knew where they lived and she had Henry’s letter which he had written to them). But apparently Henry was convinced she was alive and was unwilling to take the necessary steps to free himself from his marriage — or at least he was unwilling to do so without finding out his wife’s feelings upon the subject. Some people might think this quixotic, Adam himself thought it quixotic but he knew Henry and therefore was aware that this quality was characteristic of the man. Henry felt he had behaved badly and wanted to make amends. Idiot! thought Adam, half in irritation and half in affectionate admiration. His friend’s quixotry was both irritating and admirable. It was irritating — much more than irritating — to reflect that he was messing up his own life and Nan’s; it was admirable to be possessed of high principles. Adam knew that when you got up against H.O.’s principles there was nothing on earth to be done about it.

  “If she could be found …” Nan had said. Yes, but how could she be found? Adam was convinced that the woman was dead, and, that being so, it was hopeless. Nan was wonderful, of course. She was not only brave, facing the facts squarely, she was actually cheerful. It was only sometimes when she sat silent and thoughtful with her knitting needles idle that one saw the look of sadness upon her expressive face.

  Adam did not worry about himself. He had got off lightly and well he knew it. If things had gone otherwise: if he had lost his way, if he had twisted his ankle when he fell, if he had missed Mureth gate in the darkness he would be lying out there buried beneath the blanket of snow instead of safe and warm in James’s bed. The injury to his ribs was not serious and it was merely a question of time before they would mend and be as good as new; in addition he had contracted a slight bronchitis. The cough bothered him a bit and hurt his ribs, and his temperature went up at night. He could neither sound his chest nor take his temperature, for his thermometer had been broken when he fell, but his quickened pulse denoted fever and he felt weak and shaky when he got out of bed. If the road had been open he would have insisted on being removed to hospital in the ambulance, and so relieved the Johnstones of the burden of looking after him, but as Mureth was completely cut off from the outside world there was nothing for it but to lie in bed until he was better.

  “We like taking care of you,” declared Mamie. “We’re rather proud of ourselves for being so clever and doing all the right things. It was Jock, really. Jock is used to finding half-frozen lambs in the snow.”

  “Don’t make me laugh,” pleaded Adam.

  “No, of course not,” said Mamie repentantly. “As a matter of fact I didn’t mean to make you laugh. I say things without thinking, sometimes, and I was just trying to make you understand how glad we are that you’re here. Lizzie is in her element. There’s nothing Lizzie likes better than to have somebody ill in bed to look after. Unfortunately Jock and I are never ill.”

  Adam smiled. It was difficult not to laugh but he managed it. He was beginning to understand his hostess very well and to appreciate her unique flavour.

  “I’m not worrying,” Adam told her. “I know I should be worrying about all sorts of things; about all the trouble I’m causing and about poor old Doctor Black having to do all the work himself and about the wretched Miss Heddle snowed up at Tassieknowe with that blue-pencil brother of hers, but to be perfectly honest I’m not worrying at all. I’m just lying here peacefully and chewing the cud like a cow.”

  Adam had realised already that Lizzie enjoyed looking after him. Lizzie had the instincts of a born nurse though unfortunately not the mentality. She was a curious mixture and Adam, who had little else to do, was interested in the mixture. In all practical matters Lizzie was capable; she was an excellent hand with pillows, arranging them deftly so that they supported his head and shoulders at exactly the right angle; she heated his milk to exactly the correct temperature and brought it up to him punctually; his meals were punctual too, well-cooked and daintily served. She would come up and peep in at the door and if he were sleeping — or pretending to be asleep — she would close it softly and go away … or she would tiptoe across to the fire and make it up noiselessly so that he should not be disturbed. All this was perfect and showed consideration and sound common-sense; it was when Adam tried to talk to Lizzie that he discovered her limitations.

  As has already been mentioned Adam was interested in the simpler forms of mental testing; he decided to try out Lizzie and to discover her mental age. This was not difficult for she came every morning to dust his room; he talked to her as she worked.

  “Lizzie,” said Adam. “Here’s a riddle for you: there are three boys sitting on a bench, facing you, and their names from left to right are Tom, Dick and Harry. Who is in the middle?”

  “Dick,” replied Lizzie after a moment’s thought.

  “Good,” said Adam. “And who is on Dick’s right hand?”

  Lizzie thought this over. Obviously she suspected a trap. “That would depend whether he was left-handed,” said Lizzie. “Greta’s left-handed,” she added as if this proved the matter conclusively.

  Adam tried her with several other questions of the same nature, questions which were designed to measure the intelligence. He tried her with the one about the man who set out to walk four miles and when he was half way to his destination turned round and went home.

  “How far did he walk?” enquired Adam.

  “Two miles of course,” said Lizzie. “That’s easy, that is.”

  “But he had to walk home,” Adam pointed out.

  “Och, away! You never said that,” declared Lizzie in reproachful tones. “He might have tak
en a bus.”

  “Here’s another one,” Adam said. “A man had six children and he gave them each a sweetie, but he gave the youngest two sweeties. How many sweeties did he give them altogether?”

  “Eight,” replied Lizzie after a moment’s thought.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Six and two make eight,” replied Lizzie firmly.

  These little experiments proved that according to Professor Woodhead’s admirable treatise upon the subject Lizzie’s mental age was ten; but no child of ten years old — or for that matter precious few grown-up women — could have looked after Adam so capably or so kindly as Lizzie.

  The fact was Lizzie had lost her heart to Doctor Forrester when she saw him lying upon the floor in the hall. She had thought he was dead but Mrs. Johnstone had assured her that he was not dead and Mr. Johnstone had picked him up as if he were a child and carried him upstairs. Lizzie had helped to take off his wet clothes, to rub his chilled limbs and to wrap him in blankets; Lizzie had filled every hot-water bottle in the house and helped to pack them round him. All this time he had lain like one dead … and then he had opened his eyes and lo and behold he was alive! No wonder Lizzie loved him.

  Lizzie was very fond of Mr. James. He had stayed at Mureth and had slept in this very room. Mr. James had been fun, he had teased Lizzie and had jokes with her and she had enjoyed it, but Doctor Forrester was different. The more she saw of Doctor Forrester the more she realised how different he was from Mr. James. He was not so amusing of course; he was softer and more gentle … and he was so grateful for everything, so appreciative of all that was done for him! Lizzie loved to do things for him; to bring water for him to wash in, to brush his hair, to settle his pillows comfortably; before he had been in the house twenty-four hours she would have laid down her life for him. Fortunately no such major service was demanded of her and she was able to work off her feelings quite comfortably in minor services.