“I did not know you knew Miss Forrester,” said Mrs. Ogylvie Smith craftily.
“Of course I know her; she’s Adam’s sister.”
“Of course! How foolish of me! It never occurred to me that you knew her. I have seen her in church and admired her; she has such a very interesting face, so full of spirituosity.”
“Yes, she is — interesting,” agreed Henry.
“I must ask her to tea,” declared Mrs. Ogylvie Smith. “I should like to meet her. Interesting people are few and far between … but I have not told you her message. She is troubled about her brother. It appears that the young doctor went to Tassieknowe to see that very strange Miss Heddle and coming back he was caught in the snowstorm and lost his way. Now he is laid up at Mureth with bronchitis and a broken rib.”
“Good Heavens!” cried Henry in consternation.
“Mamie telephones daily and her reports are reassuring, but Miss Forrester is not altogether reassured; she suspects Mamie of concealing the true state of affairs and is afraid her brother may be seriously ill.”
Henry nodded. Adam’s chest had never been very strong and Nan always worried about it.
“Mureth is snow-bound,” continued Mrs. Ogylvie Smith. “Doctor Black cannot go to see him and Miss Forrester begs you to telephone to Mamie and find out the truth.”
She paused but Henry remained silent. “Mamie might give more detailed information to you,” added Mrs. Ogylvie Smith.
“What’s the good of speaking to Mamie on the phone?” Henry exclaimed.
“You will not speak to her?”
“What’s the good?” repeated Henry. “Somebody should see Adam. He ought to be having treatment.”
“Those little pills, I suppose,” said Mrs. Ogylvie Smith with a sigh. “Those dreadful little pills that you forced down my throat when I had pneumonia. They made me feel so exceedingly ill and so excessively miserable — as if my best friend had died and nobody loved me any more.”
“But they cured you,” said Henry smiling.
“So you said. I believe I would have recovered more quickly without them.”
Henry thought not but he did not argue the matter. He walked over to the window and looked out. “I’ll have a crack at it,” he said.
“But you cannot go! The road is blocked completely. I have just telephoned to the Police Station and the sergeant told me.”
“So you had the same idea!” said Henry looking round and smiling.
“Naturally,” retorted his mother. “Surely it is not a very strange idea that you should want to go to Mureth and see your friend! Unfortunately you cannot go. They are trying to clear a passage with the snow-plough but so far without success.”
“I might do it on skis,” said Henry.
Mrs. Ogylvie Smith looked at her son with pride and affection. She admired loyalty and courage above everything. If she had realised the danger of the proposed expedition she might have tried to persuade him not to attempt it, but danger never entered her mind. She had watched Henry skiing, flying gaily down the slopes which surrounded Blackthorn House, and she imagined him flying gaily over the hills to Mureth to see his sick friend and to take him a bottle of those dreadful little pills which would make him feel so miserable. Oh, to be a man — and young! thought Mrs. Ogylvie Smith.
“I’ll have a crack at it,” repeated Henry. “It’s too late to go today. I’ll start early tomorrow and give myself plenty of time to get there and back before dark. I’d like a few sandwiches and a thermos of coffee, just in case …”
“In case of what?” asked his mother with dawning anxiety.
“In case I’m hungry, of course,” replied Henry laughing.
“We will prepare your haversack,” nodded Mrs. Ogylvie Smith. “And I will give you a pound of tea to take to Mamie for fear she has run short. Her cupboard will be well-stocked, I have no doubt, but tea is strictly rationed. One cannot hoard tea.”
“How is it that you can hoard tea?” enquired Henry.
“That is a thing one does not ask,” retorted his mother.
Henry was fond of skiing, but it is one thing to fly gaily down a well-known slope and execute an elegant telemark at the bottom and quite another thing to set off across country, up hill and down dale, with no idea how deep the snow may be nor what snags may lie beneath the surface. Henry was not looking forward to the expedition (in fact the more he thought about it, the less he liked it), but all the same he was determined to go. He was very fond of Adam not only for his own sake but also because Adam belonged to Nan … and here was something he could do for Nan. It was not much, but it was something. Henry thought it most probable that Adam was seriously ill. Mamie knew very little about illness, her temperament was optimistic and she disliked worrying people. Mamie would argue that it was useless to worry Nan since nothing could be done — oh, yes, Henry knew what Mamie would be thinking.
Having decided to go early tomorrow morning, Henry began to make his preparations. He went to Drumburly and procured the necessary assortment of drugs at the chemist’s and then he returned and looked out his skis and the skiing suit which he had worn when he was in Switzerland. He would take boots as well, climbing boots would be the best. When he had collected the various articles he laid them out on the bed and looked at the little pile and thought it over carefully; he was aware that he must take everything he would need and he did not know in what condition he would find his patient. It was more than possible that he would find lobar pneumonia as a complication. The pile consisted of adhesive strapping, a sling, gauze, cotton-wool and scissors, sulphonomide tablets, ampoules of penicillin, ampoules of distilled water and ampoules of morphine. There was a hypodermic syringe and several needles of different sized bores. There was a stethoscope, a thermometer, a bottle of aspirin tablets and a bottle of Friars Balsam.
After gazing at the pile for a few moments Henry added forceps and a flask of brandy. He packed them up carefully — very carefully indeed for he did not want to risk anything getting broken if he happened to take a toss on the way.
When Henry went down to dinner that evening he found an atmosphere of tension in the room.
“Henry!” cried his mother. “You cannot go. I have been speaking to Ian Steele on the telephone and he says your idea is madness. The snow has drifted, some parts of the hill are bare and others but lightly covered. Ian says you will fall over a rock and break your ankle and then you will lie there and freeze.”
Henry was annoyed. He was all the more annoyed because this eventuality was exactly what he feared. He had far too vivid an imagination to have overlooked the possibility of falling and injuring himself.
“What has Ian Steele to do with it?” Henry enquired.
“Ian knows the danger,” replied Mrs. Ogylvie Smith excitedly. “I was talking to Lady Steele on the telephone and happened to mention what was in your mind. Ian said it was madness.”
“He said that, did he?” remarked Henry.
“And he knows!” she cried. “He has been to Switzerland every winter and is an accomplished skier. He says he would not dream of attempting such a thing.”
“Nobody has asked him to attempt it,” Henry replied. “I’m not going for fun, I assure you. I’m going because Adam is ill and may need professional attention.”
“Henry, I implore you —”
“My dear,” said Mr. Ogylvie Smith quietly. “Henry is determined to go, so it’s no use saying any more. He will take every precaution and I think it will be a good plan if he will ring us up from Mureth when he gets there.”
“You are both mad,” she declared, spreading out her hands in a gesture of resignation. “If Henry is lost upon the hills it will be useless to send Blaikie to look for him; I shall have to go myself.”
33
ALTHOUGH LIZZIE enjoyed having Doctor Forrester to look after it made a good deal more work and she was surprised and pleased to find her son quite helpful and kind. At one time, and not very long ago, Duggie had been most unwill
ing to take any part in domestic duties. Now he carried coal and washed dishes and did all sorts of little chores with a good grace — and of course he had plenty of time for he could neither go to school nor to Boscath.
Duggie seemed different and he felt different as well. He had felt frustrated and restless, going from one thing to another, “taking notions” as his mother put it, but never sticking to anything for long. Now, he had found his métier and had scope to develop. Now, he knew what he wanted — it was to paint — and because he was on his way to achieve his heart’s desire he was contented.
“Shall I take up Doctor Forrester’s tray?” asked Duggie at breakfast time.
It was the morning after the visit of Mr. and Mrs. James. The way to Boscath was open and Duggie had been invited to go over with Mrs. Johnstone and take part in winter sports. He was so extraordinarily happy at the prospect that he felt charitable to all the world and had made up his mind to help his mother as much as possible before he went. There was another reason, not quite so altruistic, for Duggie’s offer to take up Doctor Forrester’s tray. He was anxious to see Doctor Forrester and to ask him something, it was something that was weighing rather heavily on his mind.
“Well,” said Lizzie in doubtful tones. “Maybe I’d better take it myself.”
“I could take it for you.”
“Would you do it nicely?”
Duggie received this as permission to perform the service, which indeed it was, and taking the tray carried it up forthwith.
The patient was lying down when his breakfast arrived upon the scene. Duggie propped him comfortably with pillows, brought the bed-table and placed the tray before him. He then proceeded to rearrange the dishes in a convenient manner upon the tray.
Adam was amused and touched at the boy’s thoughtfulness and somewhat surprised at his dexterity; he watched the slender brown hands moving over the tray, putting the cup straight upon the saucer and a spoon near the marmalade jar. Adam had seen hands like that before, slender brown hands with long tapering fingers, larger hands than Duggie’s but exactly the same shape. Often and often Adam had watched those hands and admired them as they took a syringe to pieces or performed some other delicate operation with grace and precision.
“Your hands, Duggie!” exclaimed Adam impulsively.
“They’re quite clean, Doctor Forrester,” declared their owner in alarm.
“I meant — they’re — well-shaped hands.”
Duggie smiled with relief. He was proud of his hands, so he held them out for Doctor Forrester to see … and then with a sudden mischievous impulse he bent the top joint of his third finger backwards in a most peculiar way. He had discovered that he could perform this trick and that other people could not; he had also discovered that other people disliked seeing the trick performed; in fact they were usually horrified at the sight. They screamed (if they happened to be of the female sex) and covered their eyes.
Doctor Forrester reacted quite differently. He seized Duggie’s hand and examined it; then he looked at Duggie’s face.
“When were you born?” demanded Doctor Forrester.
It was an unexpected question but it did not disturb Duggie for long ago he had made up his mind that grown-up people were queer. “The eighteenth of November, nineteen thirty-nine,” said Duggie without hesitation.
“Yes, that’s it!” exclaimed Doctor Forrester waving his arms excitedly. “Yes, of course! Good heavens, yes! It all fits in. How amazing!”
Duggie seized the tray which was in danger of being upset and gazed at the patient in alarm.
“How amazing!” repeated the patient, gazing back at Duggie. “How absolutely staggering! Here you were — all this time — and nobody knew! Listen, Duggie — no, that won’t do. Goodness, I don’t know what to say! Never mind — I’ll have to think about it …”
“Are you feeling well enough?” enquired Duggie (in the peculiar idiom of the district, where, to be well enough, simply means not to be unwell). For now it seemed to Duggie that the trick he had played with his unusually constructed finger-joint had deranged the patient’s wits.
“I’m perfectly well,” replied the patient untruthfully. “I’m on top of the world. I’m as fit as a fiddle. You cut along now, Duggie or you’ll be late for school.”
“But I can’t go to school,” said Duggie in surprise. “You know I can’t, Doctor Forrester. We’re snowed up. That’s why I brought your breakfast. If I’d been going to school I’d have gone long ago.”
“Of course,” agreed Doctor Forrester beginning to laugh and then remembering his ribs and stopping rather hastily. “Of course! What a fool I am! I’d forgotten we were snowed up. You can thank your lucky stars we’re snowed up and you brought up my breakfast. Now cut along, I’ve got some thinking to do.”
Duggie hesitated. There was something he wanted to ask. Maybe Doctor Forrester was not in a fit state to be bothered with questions. Maybe he should wait.
“What’s the matter?” asked the doctor. “Why are you hovering like that? Don’t worry about me, I’m as right as rain.”
“I was wondering,” said Duggie. “I was just wondering if you could tell me something, Doctor Forrester.”
Adam smiled. “It’s your turn to ask.”
“Well,” said Duggie in doubtful tones. “It’s just something I’m wanting to know and I thought maybe you could tell me.”
“Fire away, I’ll answer if I can.”
Duggie stood first on one leg and then on the other. “It’s just — I was wondering — supposing a person gave a person a fright and they got very ill, would the person be put in prison?”
Adam considered the matter. “No, I don’t think so,” he said. “It would depend a good deal on circumstances; whether the person meant to frighten the — the other person, I mean.”
“The person meant to frighten the other person but not to make her ill,” explained Duggie carefully. “The person meant them to go away from Tassieknowe, that’s all.”
“Duggie!” exclaimed Adam gazing at him in consternation. “Duggie, you don’t mean — no, I don’t want to hear another word.”
“You don’t want to hear —”
“Not another syllable,” said Adam firmly. “There are some things which should be locked in the secret cupboard in the deepest recesses of the bosom and never exposed to the light of day. I’m deaf,” declared Adam. “I didn’t hear a word you said, but other people might not be so deaf. Be dumb, Duggie, and all will be well.”
Duggie nodded. His question was answered; he went away with an easy mind.
When the door had shut, and not before, Adam exclaimed aloud. He felt a trifle giddy to tell the truth for he was not in a fit condition to withstand shocks and he had received two shocks one after the other in the space of five minutes. He had solved two mysteries. The second was over, it was past and done with. Be dumb, he had said and this was the right advice … but the other mystery … quite a lot would have to be done about that.
I must think, said Adam to himself as he began to eat his porridge (for the porridge was before him upon the tray and, although the skies fall, porridge must be eaten and should be eaten hot). I must think … but he could not think clearly.
It was too amazing. Could it be true? But it was true. Adam was certain of it. Those hands! That curious-freak formation in the joint of the third digit, a freak formation which he had noticed in the second finger of his chief! And now that his eyes were opened he saw Duggie’s resemblance to Henry so clearly that it seemed incredible that he had not seen it before and that apparently nobody else had seen it.
But he must think what to do, whether to keep the secret to himself until he could get into touch with Henry or to tackle Lizzie and so make assurance doubly sure. He was still swithering when Lizzie came up to remove his breakfast tray and clean the room.
“It’s still freezing,” said Lizzie cheerfully. “You’ll not win through to the hospital yet awhile.” She said the same thing every morning
in exactly the same words. Lizzie had a one-track mind; she thought the same thing every morning and every morning she said it.
Adam tried to find a new answer every morning and today he said, “The Man Who Came to Dinner, that’s me.”
The allusion meant nothing to Lizzie but this did not worry her for she was used to her limitations. If she did not understand a thing she left it alone.
“Did Duggie bring up the breakfast nicely?” she enquired.
“Very nicely,” replied Adam.
By this time Lizzie was on her hands and knees, dusting beneath the bookcase, and quite suddenly Adam decided what he should do.
“Lizzie,” he said casually. “Do you know where your husband is?”
For a minute or two there was no reply and then she said, “Mr. Johnstone tried to find him.”
“Yes,” agreed Adam. “But you told him the wrong place to look. People can look long enough in the wrong place and never find what they’re looking for. Shall I find him for you, Lizzie?”
She sat back on her heels and gazed at Adam in consternation.
“I know,” said Adam nodding.
“You’ll not tell!” she exclaimed.
“Why don’t you want to go back to him?”
“It was a silly thing. We never ought to have got married at all, him and me.”
“Why did you let him think you had been killed?”
“We nearly were,” explained Lizzie. “If Duggie and me had been in the house we’d have been killed right enough, but Mrs. Crow came up and said we’d best go to the shelter. We didn’t always go to the shelter — only sometimes.”
“How did you come to Drumburly?”
“In the bus, of course.”
“But why Drumburly, of all places?”
Shoulder the Sky (Drumberley Book 3) Page 22