“Oh, that was funny, really. By rights we should have gone to Ayr with Mrs. Crow and the rest of them, but there was another woman wanting to go to Ayr.”
“So you changed places?”
“She gave me a pound for my seat,” said Lizzie nodding. “Her brother lived at Ayr … and then somebody said there was a bus going to Drumburly so Duggie and me just got in. I thought maybe I’d go and see his mother like he said I was to.”
“But you didn’t go and see his mother?”
Lizzie shook her head.
“Why didn’t you?”
“How could I?” Lizzie said. “You see we all came to Drumburly in the bus and they told us to go into the school and wait. I just went in with the other ones.”
“You could have told somebody.”
“I thought of it,” admitted Lizzie. “But — Och, well, I was awful dirty and untidy and miserable and Mrs. Johnstone looked kind. When the other lady said I was to go with her and she would take care of Duggie and me, I just went That was the way of it.”
“So that’s how you came to Mureth?”
Lizzie nodded.
How simple things were when you held the key, thought Adam. He sighed. It was hard work screwing information out of Lizzie (not so much because she was unwilling to answer questions but more because she found it difficult), but there were several other matters to be cleared up before he could let her go.
Lizzie was continuing her work; she was dusting the mantelpiece with her usual careful attention so Adam was obliged to talk to her back.
“Why didn’t you write to him?” Adam enquired.
“I thought of it,” admitted Lizzie. “But I was ill and I put off writing and then Greta was born and … Och, what was the use? I knew fine he’d be better off without me and I was better off without him. The whole thing was a silly mistake, that’s the truth of it.”
She was right, of course, the marriage had been a mistake, but still! “He might have married somebody else,” Adam pointed out. He brought up this point because it was a point that had caused him some concern; the thing had so very nearly happened. Henry had so very nearly married somebody else.
“I wouldn’t have minded,” declared Lizzie.
“But that would have been wrong,” explained Adam, trying to put it simply and to make her understand.
“He would never have done nothing wrong,” said Lizzie warmly. “He was good — real good, he was. I never knew him do wrong all the time I was married to him.”
“You’re still married to him, Lizzie.”
“In a way, I suppose,” admitted Lizzie. “But he could have married somebody else if he’d wanted.”
“A man can’t marry somebody else when he has a wife already,” said Adam patiently.
“But he thought we were dead — and we nearly were.”
“He was very unhappy about you,” Adam told her.
“Och, I daresay he was a bit upset,” admitted Lizzie. “He was fond of us in a way, but it was better in the long run.”
“Of course he was upset!” exclaimed Adam. “It was cruel of you not to write to him.”
“It was better in the long run,” repeated Lizzie.
“You ought to write to him, Lizzie. Duggie and Greta are his children.”
“They’re his children right enough,” agreed Lizzie. “But he doesn’t know nothing about Greta. I never told him there was another on the way.”
“You ought to write to him,” repeated Adam.
“Now!” she cried. “That’s the last thing! It’s years and years! He’s forgotten all about us, I wouldn’t wonder. He’s better without me and I’m better without him. I’ll not leave Mureth and Mrs. Johnstone for nobody — let well alone, that’s what I say.”
Adam was too tired to continue the argument; Henry would have to see her himself. Adam understood Lizzie’s attitude perfectly and to a certain extent he sympathised with it. There was a sort of sense in what she said — a sort of crazy common-sense. She had so nearly been killed that to all intents and purposes she was dead. That was what she had been trying to tell him.
She had finished her work and come over to the bed. “You’ll not tell, will you, Doctor Forrester?” she said earnestly. “It wouldn’t be a bit of good, for I’ll not go back. I’m fine here and I like it. I’m in my right place. I’ll not leave Mrs. Johnstone for nobody.”
He smiled at her. “Mrs. Johnstone couldn’t do without you, Lizzie.”
“That’s true enough,” she agreed. She gathered up her dusters and the tin of polish and went away without another word.
Adam was glad to see her go. He was surprised that she had not tried to wring a promise from him (perhaps she thought a promise unnecessary) and he was even more surprised that she had not asked how he had acquired his information about her private affairs. Surely it would have been a natural question! But as he had no intention of telling Lizzie how he had discovered her secret it was just as well she was not of an inquisitive nature.
He knew everything now and he saw how naturally the whole thing had happened. Adam, working at the big London hospital had come across much stranger stories. There was the Polish couple, for instance, who had lost touch with one another during the war; they had spent years looking for one another and then, suddenly and unexpectedly, had met face to face in the hospital waiting-room and fallen into one another’s arms. That was strange, if you like! Lizzie’s story was not strange when you knew Lizzie and understood the working of her mind. It had all happened quite simply, one event leading to another with the inevitability of a Greek drama.
The discovery of Duggie was in a different category. Lying back upon his pillows and thinking about it Adam saw the events of the last few weeks like beads upon a thread. It had begun with Shylock. He remembered Nan sitting by the fire struggling with that wig; sewing it together; holding it up and laughing at it; taking it to pieces and starting all over again. Nan little knew she held the key to happiness in her hand. Yes, the thread began with Shylock’s wig which had given Duggie his brilliant idea, and the beads upon the thread were Miss Heddle’s illness; his own visit to Tassieknowe; his rage and fury with the egregious Nestor; his wanderings in the snow; his arrival at Mureth; his illness and his recognition of Duggie’s hands. At any moment and at many places the thread might have snapped and the beads been scattered to the four winds but the thread had held and led him to Duggie. You could call it Fate, he supposed. He preferred to see the guidance of Providence in the thread … and he was unutterably glad to feel that he was the instrument Providence had used.
There was no selfishness in Adam, no thought of his own future, all his thoughts were of Nan and of his best friend. They could be happy now, everything could be arranged, the old foolish mistake undone. It could be undone, Adam knew. Lizzie had deserted her husband deliberately and had no intention whatever of returning to him (“I’ll not go back,” she had said). It would take time, of course — anything to do with lawyers took time — but that did not matter if happiness lay at the end of the road. Happiness instead of hopelessness!
Adam thought of Duggie. He had been deprived of his birthright by his mother’s foolishness. That was the worst wrong of all, but fortunately it was not too late to right the wrong. Adam had told the boy to thank his lucky stars that Mureth was snowed up and that instead of going to school he had brought up the breakfast tray. He had spoken without thinking seriously, but now he saw the truth of his impulsive statement.
Adam was happy. He lay and looked at the snow-covered hills. There was only one thing he wanted now, he wanted to see his friend.
34
HENRY LEFT home just as it was beginning to get light and long before his parents were awake. He put on boots with nailed soles for the first part of the trip and strapped his skis on his back; with his haversack and his ski-sticks he was fairly heavily laden but there was no need to hurry. He had decided to go to Mureth by way of Boscath (the idea had come to him just as he was going to b
ed and it seemed to him a brilliant one). He would go by the old drove road, which he knew well, and once at Boscath he would have no difficulty in crossing the river. Having settled this, he felt a good deal happier and more confident about the success of his expedition.
It was dry and cold and windless; the sky was red with the glow of sunrise and the reflection of the glow shone upon the billowing coverlet of snow. The forest trees looked dark, their branches a delicate tracery of brown; the patches of conifers looked almost black; here and there an outcrop of rock broke through the coverlet and a steep scree made a purple patch upon the hill.
It was very quiet, not a sound broke the stillness of the morning, and not a creature was to be seen … but the snow at the sides of the road was marked by the tiny tracks of rabbits; and branches of trees, which had been broken off by the storm, had been stripped bare of bark. Henry trudged on, looking about him as he went, and presently he reached deep snow and stopped to put on his skis.
Quite suddenly the sun came up from behind the eastern hills; it rose in a little cloud, a dove-grey cloud with a lining of purest gold. First a golden line appeared above the hills, it was like the edge of a golden guinea … it rose and grew larger and the light from it poured down the snow-covered slopes in a golden flood. The whole land was transformed from glowing half-tones to a brilliance of light and shadow, dazzling to the eyes. Every little mound had its brilliance and its shadow; every rock and tree had a long blue finger stretching out towards Henry upon the gleaming snow. Henry gazed at it spellbound, he had never seen anything so beautiful, so dramatic, in all his life.
But he could not stand and gaze at the sunrise for long — it was too cold. He picked up his boots and tied them round his neck and continued on his way.
Henry had learnt to ski from a friend, Jack Briggs, who was an accomplished skier. Together they had been to Switzerland on three occasions. They had gone in February, which is an unfashionable time of year, and they had avoided fashionable resorts. Jack’s idea of skiing was not to stay in a crowded hotel; to be taken to the top of a five-mile slope in a train and to come gliding down in company with a horde of Winter Sports fiends. Such artificial conditions had no allure for him. What he liked was to live at a small inn and to start off early in the morning with a sandwich in his pocket; to ski through woods and over deserted hills finding his own trail. Henry had enjoyed this too. They had been good companions, not saying very much but happy to be silent together. Now that Henry had put on his skis he thought of Jack and wished that he were here. Good old Jack, this was the sort of expedition which would appeal to him! “I like to go to a place under my own steam,” Jack was fond of saying. “Skis were invented for use.” Well, Henry was using skis for a purpose today, using them to go to a place under his own steam.
The snow was dry and powdery and his skis ran well. Once he had got the feel of them he began to swing along at a good pace but he had to be very careful for it was impossible to tell what lay beneath the snow. In some places the snow was shallow, a mere covering over stones and heather; in other places it had drifted into heaps. The well-known path looked completely different, mounds and hollows had been levelled out, dykes and ditches had disappeared, but fortunately there were landmarks to guide Henry on his way. He remembered that the path ran through a group of wind-blown trees; he steered a course for the trees and found them without difficulty. From thence the path took a bend and skirted a pile of curiously shaped boulders … and there was a wooded cleft in the hills where a burn ran down.
Several times Henry strayed from the path and once he found himself in thick heather; the woody stems caught his skis and upset him head over heels. The experience, though very unpleasant, did him no physical harm, but it frightened him considerably. A sprained ankle or indeed any small injury, which would be of no consequence if he had a companion, might prove an extremely serious matter for a lonely man.
Presently the path swung westwards and steepened as it rose to the saddle between the hills. There was less snow here and Henry was obliged to change back to his boots. The path was slippery with ice; he toiled up laboriously, his breath made a cloud in the sharp cold air. The sun was warm now; he could feel the warmth of it on his back and his shadow went before him, a curious ape-like shadow upon the snow.
It seemed hours before he reached the top but at last he reached it and paused and looked back. The sun dazzled his eyes; it had risen well above the hills and was blazing in a cloudless blue sky. He found a flat rock, spread his mackintosh cape upon it and sat down to eat his sandwiches and drink his coffee. The climb had given him an appetite and he could have eaten twice as much.
While Henry was sitting there a sheep came round the corner of the rock, stepping delicately, scraping the snow away and eating the grass beneath. It was not frightened of Henry (perhaps it was too hungry or too dazed to be frightened). It was the first living creature he had seen and it awakened a curious feeling of fellowship in Henry; he and the sheep were the only two warm-blooded creatures in this waste of snow! What frightful privations this creature had suffered and was suffering! It seemed miraculous that it had survived. He watched it for a few moments and noticed it was lame.
Henry knew nothing whatever about sheep but he decided to have a look and see what was the matter, so he rose and went towards it. The sheep moved away and Henry went after it. The sheep moved faster, it leapt from rock to rock. Although it was lame it was extraordinarily agile and it took Henry a good ten minutes before he managed to grab hold of it by its wool; even then his difficulties were not over for it struggled and kicked and he had no idea how to hold it. Finally however he managed to turn it over on its back and wedge it between two rocks so that it was helpless. By this time Henry was extremely hot, he was also extremely annoyed with his patient; he had had trouble with patients before but the sheep was the most recalcitrant patient he had ever had.
“You are a fool,” said Henry. “You really are an unmitigated fool. I’m only trying to help you.” The sheep kicked its legs feebly in the air but made no sound whatever. Henry examined its feet carefully and discovered a hard ball of mud and ice packed tightly between its toes; he decided that this was the cause of the trouble and removed it carefully, swabbing the place with disinfectant. He then turned the sheep right side up and released it. The sheep bounded away; it was still lame, he noticed, but that was not to be wondered at.
All this had taken time but the worst part of the trip lay behind him and a few hundred yards took him up to the saddle between the two hills. Here Henry stopped again and put on his skis and went forward quickly and easily; he passed the ruined cottage (which today was unrecognizable as the onetime home of a man but was merely an irregular mound of snow) and then suddenly the hills fell back on either hand and he was looking down to Boscath and Mureth.
This sudden view of the valley always surprised him and today it surprised him more than ever: at one moment he was surrounded upon every side by the hills and the next he was through them and the valley lay before him. There, before his eyes, lay the two farms of Mureth and Boscath like two outposts of civilisation in the wide wastes of snow. They looked very small from the vantage point of the hill, small and somehow deserted, but their chimneys were smoking bravely in the still morning air. The rays of the sun caught one of the windows of Mureth House and glittered and winked like a heliograph. The river was low (Henry noticed that at once). The river was a mere trickle, half blocked with ice.
Henry had been so intent upon the farms and the river that he had not noticed what lay nearer at hand, but now he heard the sound of voices — which was a very curious sound to hear — and looking down the gentle slope which lay between him and Boscath he saw a group of little figures upon the shoulder of the hill. Who were they and what on earth were they doing, he wondered.
Suddenly a toboggan shot away down the slope and Henry realised that Boscath was amusing itself upon a miniature Cresta! It was a huge toboggan laden with human freight and it s
eemed to be going at a terrific speed and gaining impetus every moment. Henry was not surprised when he saw it overturn at the bottom and its occupants scattered in a flurry of snow — their screams of excitement came to his ears a few moments later and made him smile. And now, as they picked themselves up and gesticulated wildly, he was able to recognise the figures: James and Rhoda and — yes, it was Mamie, and the small figure was Duggie of course.
Henry coo-eed to them and, launching himself forward, sped down the slope as gay and graceful as a flying bird. He swooped round in a wide circle and with a telemark turn stopped within a few yards of the little group.
It was worth all the toil and trouble of the trip just to see their faces, for they had been far too concerned with their own avocations to hear his call. To their astonished eyes the tall, slender figure in the well-fitting, grey skiing suit seemed to have fallen from the heavens or materialised from the air.
Duggie was the first to recover from the shock. “Oh Doctor Ogylvie Smith!” he exclaimed in tones of admiration and delight. “You’re just like the picture on the poster in Drumburly Station!”
The picture was known to Henry and he was by no means displeased at the comparison (besides he liked Duggie and spontaneous admiration is heartening) so he smiled at Duggie in a very friendly manner indeed.
“It’s true,” declared Rhoda laughing. “But what a surprise you gave us! Where have you come from?”
“You don’t mean to say you’ve come over the hills!” Mamie exclaimed.
James said nothing. He was busy righting the toboggan and clearing off the snow.
“Over the hills,” said Henry nodding.
“Goodness! How marvellous!” cried Rhoda. “It was nice of you, Henry. We’re delighted to see you.”
“I really came to have a look at Adam.”
James turned and smiled with relief. “The doctor drops in!” he suggested.
“Yes, this is a medical mission rather than a social call.” He looked at Mamie as he spoke and Mamie took the hint.
Shoulder the Sky (Drumberley Book 3) Page 23