by Betty Neels
The kitten didn’t make a sound as he was examined with gentle hands.
‘Nothing broken as far as I can tell. Let’s try him with some milk.’
It was scoffed with speed, and the doctor began to clean the little beast’s fur. It was matted and muddy, and he worked slowly, pausing while the kitten had a second saucer of milk. Presently, the worst of the mud and dirt gently wiped away, it went to sleep.
‘A box,’ said Louisa. ‘I have the very thing.’ She provided a hat box, an elaborate thing of coloured stripes but roomy and deep enough to keep the kitten safe. She lined it with newspaper and an old woolly scarf and took it into the kitchen.
Only then did she ask, ‘Where did you find him? And I thought you were going to the hospital.’ She glanced at Thomas’s calm face. ‘If you’re on your way to join Helena, I’ll look after the kitten.’
‘I was on my way to see you.’
‘Me? Why?’
‘I can hardly take over from Witherspoon in the middle of dinner, can I?’ He lifted an eyebrow at her. ‘I told Rosie that I wouldn’t be back until late, but I was quickly finished at the hospital. I thought we might go out to dinner?’
‘You and me? Whatever for? Besides, I’m not going to leave him.’
She put a gentle hand on the little creature’s head.
‘You don’t mince your words, do you, Louisa? If I may borrow your hat box, we will be on our way.’
‘I didn’t mean that. My wretched tongue. Only you surprised me—I mean, asking me to have dinner with you. I’m sorry; don’t go. If you’d like to stay, I’ll cook supper.’ She added, ‘If you stay, you could make sure that the kitten will be all right.’
‘Thank you. I’m not spoiling your evening?’
‘No, no, of course not. There’s a bottle of white wine in the cupboard by the fireplace; will you open it? Will you eat lamb chops?’
‘With a good appetite. Where do you keep the corkscrew?’
Louisa, busy in the kitchen, called through the open door. ‘Will you shell the peas for me? And is the kitten all right?’
She came into the sitting room with a colander in her hand. ‘Here you are. Give yourself a glass of wine, won’t you? And pour me a glass; I’ll be back presently.’
Thomas shucked the peas and enjoyed himself. It occurred to him that she had shown no surprise when he had knocked on her door but had admitted him as though he were an old friend, which, considering their wariness with each other, was strange... He finished the peas and took them into the kitchen, then asked meekly what he should do next.
Louisa had put the potatoes on to cook and heated the grill ready for the chops. There was some pastry over from the vol-au-vents she had made for the picnic, and she rolled it out, lined a flan case, sliced apples into it and popped it into the oven. There was cream in the fridge, and she would make coffee later. She took the peas from him.
‘You could lay the table, please. Knives and forks and a tablecloth in the top drawer of the dresser. Is the kitten all right?’
‘Sleeping. Shall I bring your wine here?’
‘Please. Bring yours, too.’
It occurred to her then that it seemed the most natural thing in the world for her to be cooking their supper while the doctor, very much at home, sat on the kitchen table, one comforting hand on the kitten, while they debated the many methods of cooking the potato. And presently they ate their meal, talking about this and that. She was careful not to mention Helena, anxious not to spoil the evening. As for Thomas, he had nothing to say about himself but discussed mundane events in a casual manner which disarmed her entirely.
‘What shall we do with this little chap?’ he asked her as they watched the kitten polishing off another saucer of milk.
‘I’ll have him,’ said Louisa, and added, ‘But not for a week or two. I’m going on holiday.’
‘Somewhere where you can’t take him?’ asked Thomas carelessly.
‘Scotland. The Highlands. All that distance—and he might get lost.’
‘Then supposing I have him until you return? Bellow will be delighted, and so will Rosie. When do you go?’
‘Next Saturday. I meant to drive up but that would waste two days so I’ll go by train.’
‘It should be delightful at this time of year—a few weeks in the Highlands.’
‘Only two. I’ve an aunt and uncle living near Torridon. It’s a small village—Shieldaig—by the loch. It’s very quiet and the country around is beautiful.’
Thomas, careful not to show interest, drew her attention to the kitten, who, sensing that life was worth living after all, was making feeble efforts to wash himself.
They washed the supper dishes together and presently the doctor went away, the hat box carefully held under one arm. At the door he thanked Louisa for his supper. ‘A very pleasant evening,’ he observed.
‘Yes, it was,’ Louisa agreed. ‘And I suppose next time I see you you’ll look at me as though I wasn’t there!’
‘Oh, dear—do I do that?’ He bent and kissed her cheek, and had gone down the stairs and out of the house before she could draw breath.
‘Well, I never did!’ said Louisa, and put up a hand to touch her cheek. ‘He must have forgotten who I was for a moment.’
All the same, it had been a nice ending to her day.
* * *
In the morning, after matins in the cathedral, she walked back with Felicity.
‘That was quite a pleasant picnic yesterday, Louisa; everyone enjoyed themselves.’ She gave a little laugh. ‘Percy was delighted to see more of Helena Thornfold. I must say, they get on frightfully well. I suppose Thomas doesn’t mind—well, he must expect it, mustn’t he? She’s so lovely. What are you doing for the rest of the day? I’m out to lunch.’
‘I’ll start getting ready for my holiday. There won’t be much time during the week, and I want to get away on Saturday early; it’s a long journey.’
‘You’ll be bored stiff,’ said Felicity. ‘I went there once with your father. All that stillness, and the mountains...’ She gave a delicate shudder. ‘So frightening.’
They parted then.
‘Enjoy your day, darling,’ Felicity smiled. ‘Perhaps you’ll meet a nice man in that God-forsaken place.’
* * *
Dr Gifford came on Tuesday afternoon, just in time for the first of the patients. Sir James had gone to the hospital and wouldn’t be back until the following morning, leaving a message asking Dr Gifford to phone him after four o’clock. The message had been left with Louisa, who was slightly uneasy at the idea of meeting the doctor again. Which was silly, she told herself, so that when he arrived she wished him a composed good afternoon and was disconcerted when he stopped by her desk.
‘Good afternoon, Louisa.’ He stared at her so hard that she went pink and frowned. He smiled then, and said loudly enough for Mrs Grant and Jilly to hear, ‘You see, I am endeavouring to mend my manners. And the kitten is doing well.’
‘Oh, good—that’s nice,’ said Louisa, for once at a loss for words, before becoming the perfect receptionist again. ‘Sir James asked me to ask you to phone him after four o’clock at the hospital.’
He nodded and went into his consulting room, and Jilly hardly waited for the door to close before asking what all that had been about.
‘What’s wrong with his manners? They’re lovely—he held the door open for me the other day... And what was that about a kitten?’
Mrs Grant said sharply, ‘Jilly, don’t be nosy. Here’s the first patient. Make sure the examination room is ready.’
The afternoon was busy, but the last patient went before five o’clock and very shortly after Dr Gifford went away, wishing them good day as he went. This time he didn’t look at Louisa but walked straight past her desk.
Back to square one, reflected Louisa, her feelings hurt.
* * *
They would have had a tremendous uplift if she could have joined the two doctors sitting in the austere room set aside for the use of the medical staff at the hospital. Sir James was talking.
‘The seminar is next week—Wednesday—at Glasgow Infirmary, then if you would go and see Professor Lutvik in Edinburgh? I’ll give you his address. And while you’re there you could go to Inverness. I’ve already written to explain that I must stay here until my wife is better. I had a very civil phone message—he is perfectly willing to see you in my stead.
‘His convalescence has gone smoothly and he will be going back to his own country very shortly. I was against him coming here when I was treating him, but it has been a good idea. As far as his own countrymen know, he’s still recovering at his home there; he’ll go back fit and well and very few people will be any the wiser. How long can you spare?’
‘I’ve a locum to help out. Ten days or a fortnight.’
‘You’ll be in Scotland at the same time as Miss Howarth.’
‘So I shall,’ said Thomas blandly.
Sir James had warned him that he might have to go to Scotland in his place some days ago, and he had expected to spend no more than four days there, but now he intended to stay. Inverness wasn’t too long a drive from Shieldaig and he wanted to see Louisa, spend days with her.
Perhaps if he did that he would be able to convince himself that his growing interest in her was no more than a passing fantasy, encouraged by Helena’s increasing demands that he should give up a large part of his practice and concentrate on private patients, so that he could play a larger part in her social life. It was only in the last few months that she had allowed him to see the kind of life that she intended they should lead, and when he had flatly refused she had sulked for days...
Driving himself home presently, he was forced to admit that he no longer loved Helena. Perhaps he never had; they had known each other for some time and she had made no secret of wanting to marry him. She was charming and beautiful and they shared friends and a similar lifestyle; it had seemed the logical thing to do, to become engaged and settle down, have a wife and children.
Only Helena had made it clear that, although she was prepared to have one child, she had no intention of having more. Thomas hadn’t said much at the time, confident that she would alter her ideas when they were married, but he’d soon realised that she meant what she’d said, just as she had refused to discuss their wedding. She was enjoying her carefree, idle life and she would marry him when she was ready. After all, she was very sure of him. Even if he had become a little disenchanted, he was an honourable man; he had promised to marry her.
Letting himself into his quiet house, he was greeted by Bellow, and then set about the business of making the kitten comfortable.
Thomas thrust a problematical future to the back of his mind, took Bellow for a brisk walk and took himself off to bed. Never mind his own problems; tomorrow morning there would be his patients’ problems to solve, and he must discuss several cases with his partner and talk to the locum. All the same, his last thoughts before he went to sleep were of Louisa.
* * *
Sir James told Louisa the following day that his wife was suffering from a severe attack of shingles, although he said nothing about Thomas going to Scotland. ‘Do what you can to book patients for the mornings, Miss Howarth; I’d like to be as free as possible in the afternoons. Mrs Twist will be filling in for you as usual when you’re away, so make sure she understands that, won’t you?’
Louisa said that she would and pointed out that she had asked Mrs Twist to come on Friday afternoon for a quick résumé of what she might expect during the next two weeks.
‘Good, good,’ said Sir James. ‘I hope you have an enjoyable holiday, Miss Howarth.’
‘And I—all of us—hope that your wife is quickly well again, sir.’
Thomas came too, that day. There were more patients than usual, and beyond a quick greeting as he went through the waiting room he had nothing to say. Certainly he didn’t look at Louisa, and he was still there when she, Mrs Grant and Jilly went home.
Only the next morning there was a note on her desk.
The kitten is thriving; Bellow is proving an excellent parent.
He could have told her that, it would have taken only a couple of seconds. The memory of the pleasant warmth of their evening together iced over; she had been a convenient port of call with the kitten and he had made use of it.
‘Well, I don’t care,’ said Louisa. There wasn’t anyone else there yet, so she said it again, loudly.
* * *
Two more days to go before her holiday. She filled her spare time in packing, booking her ticket, phoning her uncle and going to see Felicity and Biddy.
Felicity thought she was being very silly, going all that way to stay in a dull little village. ‘You’ll be bored,’ she warned Louisa. ‘And supposing it rains?’
‘I shall go walking, and Torridon is less than eight miles away.’
‘And what could you do there? Mark my words, you’re going to be so pleased to be back here. Have you seen anything of Percy?’
‘No. Should I have?’
‘You only have yourself to blame; you’ve lost your chance there.’ Her stepmother added, ‘I met Helena this morning—we were both buying shoes. She’s going to the races on Sunday. She hasn’t told Thomas; she intends to surprise him, just ask him to take her for a drive and then drive to the race course. She’s meeting friends there. He doesn’t care for racing, but she’s fed up with never going anywhere.’
‘But she does go everywhere.’
‘Yes, I know, what she meant was that she wants him to dangle beside her wherever she goes. She’s so used to men falling for her and treating her like a film star that she resents him treating her like a human being.’
Louisa could think of several answers to that, none of them suitable, so she held her tongue.
Biddy was pleased to see her. ‘Just this minute made a pot of tea,’ she declared. ‘Sit down, Miss Louisa, and tell me all the news.’
So Louisa sat for half an hour, describing the picnic in great detail.
‘I’d as soon eat me dinner off a table,’ said Biddy, ‘with half a pint of bitter to wash it down. The missus said you’re going to Scotland. Now, mind you enjoy yourself—happen there’ll be some young folk there?’
‘I’ll send you a postcard,’ Louisa promised.
There was no sign of Thomas during those two days, and, beyond telling her that his wife was getting a little better, Sir James had nothing to say to her.
She got the early-morning train on Saturday, very nicely dressed in an entirely suitable outfit—a fine jersey skirt and top and a little jacket in oatmeal—which would stand up to the long day ahead without creasing, and adapt itself to any change in the weather. And with a manageable suitcase and a shoulder bag which held everything she would possibly need for the journey.
And it was a long journey, although she had a comfortable window seat on the Intercity Express. By the time she changed trains at Glasgow and was on her way again she was getting tired. But the magnificent scenery made her forget that. The train skirted the last stretch of Loch Lomond and after that the country became increasingly enthralling—mountains in the distance, waterfalls, deep glens and scarcely a village to be seen. There were mountains all around now, and vast stretches of moorland until the train ran alongside Loch Treig and stopped briefly at Tullach Station.
Now Spean Bridge was only thirty miles away and her long journey was almost over. Her uncle would be waiting for her there and they would drive the last eighty-odd miles to Shieldaig. Louisa tidied her hair and powdered her nose, glad that the journey was almost over, looking forward to two weeks of peace and pleasur
e with two people for whom she had a deep affection.
She allowed herself a moment in which to wonder what Thomas was doing, and then dismissed him from her mind. Despite her efforts he would marry Helena, because Helena had made up her mind to that, even if she did find Percy attractive. Well, Louisa had done her best and she hadn’t succeeded. She should never have meddled in the first place. Thomas Gifford was old enough and wise enough to sort out his own life.
There was no time for more troubled thoughts; the train had pulled into the station, and there was Uncle Bob, looking like Father Christmas in tweeds, his voice booming a welcome, holding her in a vast embrace and then urging her out to the Land Rover.
‘We’ll have something to eat here in the town,’ he told her. ‘But no hanging about, mind, for your aunt will be waiting with a meal.’
He plied her with questions while they had tea and toast and thick slices of buttered bannock, and then they were on the road again, a main road which ran for some miles beside Loch Lochy before Bob turned onto the A87, going west. There were no villages now, an occasional inn, the glimpse of a loch, great sweeps of moorland, and everywhere mountains, and then, after thirty miles or so, Loch Duich and then Loch Carron.
‘Almost home,’ said Uncle Bob. ‘Nothing much has changed since you were last here—three years? Time goes so quickly nowadays.’
‘Two years, and it’s all as beautiful as ever.’ Louisa stared around her. Not a house in sight. There were forests, and any minute now they would see Loch Shieldaig and the village. They had exchanged news, talking for the entire drive, and later she would repeat everything to her aunt and listen to the village gossip...
Lights twinkled ahead, and Uncle Bob slowed as they passed the first of the row of houses and cottages facing the loch, the rest of the village sprawling behind them. They drove past the hotel and on to the end of the houses to her uncle’s house, standing a little apart—a solid square house with a cluster of chimney pots at each end of its low roof, windows on each side of its solid door, a row of windows above them and two dormer windows higher still.
All the houses opened directly onto the narrow road, but on its other side there was grass bordering the rough beach of the loch. There were sheep wandering around but there was no sign of a human being. Most people kept early nights and got up early, and the few holidaymakers did the same, for there was nowhere to go—no cinema or amusement arcade, no parades of shops. The television was a blessing during the winter, but those who lived there—fishermen, a handful of commuters and retired folk—were perfectly content.