by Anne Vinton
She tried calling his name again, but only the startled sheep replied.
“He would have heard and answered, even from the road,” she thought desperately. “Where is he? What’s happened?”
Then, as though miraculously answering her question, her toe kicked something which rolled. She picked it up. It was a tobacco tin of the brand Jim favoured. It was almost full, too. As it wasn’t very likely Jim would discard his tobacco, it was clear that the tobacco had left his person without his knowing. Maybe it had rolled out of his pocket while he was slithering down the scree ... if he had completed his short cut. If not then he was still up there—somewhere...
Flo looked upwards again, but though she could clearly see the three jutting bands of shale, she could not see what lay on the platforms between. There was no peace of mind in not knowing, so the only thing for it was to go up and see. But only desperation makes possible the feat of climbing up a scree, and Flo did it desperately, not only once, but twice, for on the first platform she found the battered rucksack, ripped at the seams, and knew that Jim must be even higher.
Breathless and bleeding, Flo finally arrived on the platform below the scree where Jim had disappeared from view. He couldn’t have known there was a sheer drop of a fifteen-foot crag at the end of the slope. With his numbed limbs he should never have attempted it, and yet there had been no talking him out of it, and now hers was not the right to insist. He was lying near a boulder, close to the second slope, and though he was breathing she didn’t like the look of the pool of congealed blood which had flowed from a wound in the side of his head.
Concussion?
Fractured skull?
It could be anything, and now that she had found him she must use all haste to get help to him. Her own windcheater she willingly surrendered to cover him up. Then she took one look at the scree sprawling below her, decided that what had come up could certainly go down, and slid away amid a rattle of searing, bullet-like flints on the beginning of her journey to the road.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Miss MacDonald’s private house adjoined the hospital, and it was here that Flo Lamont eventually reacted to the sequence of events in the most normal of ways and wept as though her heart would break.
“That’s better,” Matron decided, nodding her head over this display of abandon. “The place for grieving, my dear, is oot, not in. I didna like your tight, white face one little bit when you first came in here.”
Flo’s head was in her arms, and she scarcely heard these words of wisdom. She was stitched and bandaged in various places herself, though only now was she beginning to be conscious of her own injuries. It was a relief to be able to give way without causing embarrassment and anxiety, as would have been the case had she wept in front of her family.
She was still sobbing when Matron’s door opened to admit another visitor, the Strathallan of Glen Lochallan, whose evening’s entertainment had been cut short by this same emergency.
He indicated the weeping figure through the open sitting room door, hiding the fact that one he had come to regard as practically imperturbable was now in such straits.
“I don’t think the picture’s too bad, Matron,” he said quietly. “I’d like to tell Sister, if I may.”
“We’ll all talk over a drink,” Matron decided. “You keep out of sight just a minute, my boy. She wouldna like to be caught looking her worst.”
Flo sniffed finally as Matron touched her shoulder and offered her a large handkerchief.
“You must feel better for that, my girl. Now here’s Mr. Strathallan come to report, and it’s not as bad as you might have been fearing.”
“What must you think of me?” Flo asked, blowing her nose and smoothing back wisps of hair from her face. “I suppose I was—was just worn out, or something.”
“Shock, too,” Matron nodded kindly. “You’ve had a bad afternoon. Now I want you to sip a brandy. We’ll all have one,” she insisted as Flo would have protested. “At the right times and in the correct quantities there’s no pick-me-up to match good alcohol. Will you come in now, Mr. Strathallan?”
Robert entered. His eyes met Flo’s in that first second, as though by a subtle magnetism. Hers, red with weeping, promptly fell and she brooded over her brandy glass, wondering how she must look in his eyes.
“I’ll come to the point, Sister,” he said, having accepted his drink and saluted both ladies before sipping. “I certainly don’t think your young man has sustained a fracture of the skull. He has broken his left leg, and there is some concussion, but the pulse and respirations are too good for there to be much likelihood of deeper or greater injury. Knowing you would wish it, however, I have asked Grenville to come along and look at him tomorrow.”
Flo looked attentive now.
“Sir Felix Grenville, the neurological surgeon from the University?” she. asked. “I know him well. But was there any need, sir? I have—er—every confidence in you, you know.”
The laird’s smile was rather grim and humorless.
“Thank you, Sister. When trouble strikes home, however, one is inclined to wish for only the best. I’m the same myself. I dragged an orthopaedic friend of mine home from a well-deserved holiday in the Tyrol when Hamish broke two of the metatarsals in his right foot kicking a football. I’d probably do the same again.”
Matron smiled politely.
“I’m very glad things don’t look too bad in your eyes, anyway, Mr. Strathallan. I’m sure Sister will sleep easier for the news.”
Thank you. I'm very grateful, sir,” Flo almost choked.
“Quite all right,” Robert shrugged. “Can I take you home now?”
“Thank you, sir, no.” Flo had a very determined chin once her mind was made up. She neither desired to be alone with Robert Strathallan in his car at present nor subject to her family’s third degree questioning. “I’ll be no trouble to anyone and I won’t interfere.”
Matron and man exchanged a long, significant glance.
“Your young man will probably be unconscious all night,” Matron said succinctly, “and he won’t be neglected. He has a nurse specialling him to report any changes, good or bad.”
“I know that,” said Flo, “and please don’t keep referring to Jim as ‘my young man’, Matron. I’m a nurse and I’d rather everyone concerned was purely professional about him.”
Another of those significant glances was exchanged, and this time Flo intercepted it, her cheeks suffusing immediately.
“You could let my family know the plain facts if you would, sir,” she said, battening down her confusion. “The morning will do. They won’t be unduly concerned so far at my non-appearance.”
“I’ll do that,” he assured her.
In somewhat offended tones Matron said, “I do understand what you are going through, Sister, but you must allow me to have some say about what goes on in my hospital. If you insist on being at hand, you shall stay here in my house. Any emergency will be phoned through to me, and I would be sure to let you know. I can lend you a guid, plain nightdress.”
“You’re very kind, Matron,” Flo said, “very kind indeed. I’m grateful. Please—both of you—forgive me if I haven’t appeared to be cooperative.”
“I want you to have a good night’s sleep, Sister,” Robert Strathallan said in the polite tones of a kindly stranger. He placed two capsules in a transparent envelope and handed them over. “Take these, and try not to worry. We all understand, remember that.”
They didn’t, she knew, as she looked quickly from him to Matron. They were being kindness and consideration personified, but they didn’t understand one little bit.
Jim Darvie didn’t regain consciousness until the third day following the accident, and then he was immediately almost too cheerful to be true.
“What happened?” he asked the surprised nurse who was watching him. “Why am I here? Ouch! my leg!”
“You’ve broken it, sir,” the nurse said quickly, “and I’ll bring Sister, if you don’t
mind. How are you feeling?”
“Okay, apart from this leg. Now where was I when this happened?”
The nurse fled, and though Flo was not yet officially back on duty she accompanied Sister Jamieson, who came to investigate as fast as her legs could carry her.
“Jim!” Flo greeted gladly, tears on her lashes. “You’re awake again! How are you feeling?”
“Not bad, darling. Am I glad to see you! They say I broke my leg. How, Flo? Why?”
“You slipped down the scree on the Ben. Don’t you remember?”
His head furrowed and he looked blank, however.
“Not a thing. I couldn’t be as stupid as that, could I? Flo dearest, how long is this lot going to hold me up? Hadn’t you better let the firm know?”
“You mean Mr. Boscombe at Chopal? I’ll let him know immediately, Jim.”
Sister Jamieson, having taken the patient’s pulse and temperature, now stated she would report to Mr. Strathallan, and excused herself. Flo sat thankfully beside the bed. She had begun to be worried about Jim, and now he was going to be all right again.
“I’d better fly out,” he now announced. “It’ll save time.”
“Yes, of course,” she agreed, “as soon as you’re fit.”
“Why can’t I remember being up the Ben with you, Flo? I can remember everything but that. Preparing for the journey, Mother fussing...”
“You’ve had quite a bump, Jim. I wouldn’t rack your brains just yet if I were you. It’ll all come back.”
“When did it happen?”
“Last Sunday.”
“Last Sunday? And somebody said it’s Wednesday today. I’ve been unconscious for three days? It must have been some bump!” He looked at her suddenly and his eyes grew gentle. “Kiss me, Flo. If I move this leg it gives me hell.”
She obligingly leaned over and put her lips on his cheek. Somewhat roughly he pulled her to him and kissed her on the mouth, hungrily, fiercely.
Someone coughed from the doorway and Flo released herself in some embarrassment. Jim’s mother was standing looking equally confused.
“They told me my boy was—was conscious,” Mrs. Darvie said somewhat stiltedly. “I thought you might have told me, Florence.”
“I was going to, of course,” Flo announced.
“You here, Mother?” Jim asked. “Couldn’t you trust Flo to look after me, then?”
“We sent for your mother,” Flo reproved him, gently. “I’ll leave you together to have a chat.”
Outside in the corridor her cheeks burned. It was disconcerting to be kissed like that again, and hardly fair of Jim to kiss like a lover when his heart was admittedly elsewhere. Perhaps it was some side effect of the drugs he had taken, but he seemed to be a different Jim from the one who had accompanied her up the Ben on Sunday. His glances were unusually warm and intimate, he had called her by endearments she thought unsuitable in front of other members of the staff. The Scot was not notoriously glib with “darlings” and “dearests” as the southern Englishman was known to be. Another thing that troubled her was not knowing exactly where she stood with Mrs. Darvie, Jim’s mother. She had been sent for, naturally, and her manner toward Flo had been cool to say the least, though she had not mentioned whether or not she was in her son’s confidence regarding his change of heart. Flo felt she could not speak of the distant Jill Boscombe, or the broken engagement, until she had Jim’s permission to do so. She hoped that at this very moment Jim was telling his mother that Flo had raised no objections to releasing him, but rather wished for release herself. Perhaps a possessive parent could only view with wonder another human being who could bear to be parted from her beloved child without a struggle, and therefore Flo offended one in agreeing with the other. Well, one couldn’t please everybody.
Robert Strathallan and Keith Bexley came down the corridor together, and both gave her an absent-minded nod as they turned into the private ward.
Flo waited in Sister’s office and was soon joined by Mrs. Darvie.
“They sent me out,” the woman said fretfully.
“They would while they examine Jim,” Flo explained. “You can see him later, no doubt.”
“Won’t you want to see him later?”
“Of course. I—yes. I merely thought you might decide to go home now that he’s going to be all right.”
“I’m not all that sure he is all right. I shan’t move from this place until I’m satisfied. Is it possible my boy could have—damaged his brain with all this?”
“Possible, but not very probable,” Flo assured the other. “I thought he was very lively and fit just now. But what made you think he wasn’t so good?”
“Things he said,” Mrs. Darvie said darkly. “Talking about his job and you and so forth.”
“What about his job and me?” Flo demanded.
“Well he wanted me to promise to keep an eye on you for him, for one thing, and then he worried about not being able to sail on Friday. I told him he wasn’t sailing on Friday or any other day, that as far as I knew he had a return air-ticket to Malaya. He looked at me as though I was daft, and that was when the doctors came in and Sister asked me to wait in here. I don’t like this business at all.”
Neither did Flo, but she kept silent.
“Of course Jim got a bad bump,” she said consolingly, “and the mind plays tricks. I wouldn’t go around thinking Jim’s mentally deranged or anything like that, Mrs. Darvie.”
“Wouldn’t you?” The woman looked almost aggressively upon the other. “I don’t mind telling you, Florence, that my boy’s been—well—different, just lately. I think you’ve been fretting him. He said you’d asked him to come home, and he made my arthritis the excuse. Well, I’m not one to interfere between sweethearts, but when my son sat for two solid days just staring out of the window, before he came here, you can’t wonder if, as a mother, I put two and two together, can you? There’s been something up between you, and I only hope all this kissing and canoodling means it’s all back to normal again with you both.”
Flo was relieved when Sister Jamieson returned and forbade further visits to her patient that day, which meant Mrs. Darvie returned to her hotel and made no further embarrassing pronouncements for the time being.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Flo decided she had better see how things were faring at Rowans now that Jim’s recovery appeared to be established. He was being given a sedative for the night, and Sir Felix Grenville was making a second journey to see him on the morrow. Robert Strathallan had invited her to be on hand during the interview, though neither he nor Matron would hear of her returning to work. She had suffered a severe shock, they both insisted, and though she might protest that she was now normal, the side-effects from shock could be precipitated by any undue strain on either body or nerves.
So Flo went home, and immediately was aware of “atmosphere” in her own house.
Meg’s greeting was particularly brusque.
“So you’re back,” she stated flatly.
Pixie broke in with, “How’s Jim? We asked every day, you know! They kept putting us off with ‘as well as can be expected’, or ‘no change’.”
“There wasn’t any change until today,” Flo smiled, regarding Meg’s back questioningly. “He recovered consciousness and I’m sure he’s going to be all right.”
Fay was home and wearing a new cherry-red cocktail dress. She turned like a mannequin, looking very lovely, her hair draped over one shoulder.
“Like it?” she asked, confidently.
“Very much,” Flo said.
“Fay has a protégée,” Pixie announced.
“Idiot!” said the other. “I have a patron, you mean, or rather a patroness.” She smoothed her dress with sensuous fingers.
“What is this, Meg?” Flo inquired, determined to bring the older girl into the conversation. “Did you know about it?”
Meg flashed suddenly, “If you weren’t too preoccupied with your own selfish concerns you might hear a bit more of you
r family’s doings. Fay isn’t associating with a white slave trafficker, if that’s any comfort to you.”
The door closing behind her made a resounding explosion throughout the house.
Flo turned to the others, pale now, and very tense.
“I’m afraid I haven’t been very attentive here,” she apologized and sat down as her knees gave way suddenly. “I stayed at the hospital simply until Jim regained consciousness. Naturally I was worried about him.”
“I understand, old thing,” Fay said magnanimously, and thoughtfully poured a glass of sherry, which she waved under Flo’s nose encouragingly. “Frankly I haven’t missed you at all. I should think old Meg’s a bit cheesed off because her big news has gone stale waiting for you. You’ll never believe this, but our Maggie has a follower.”
“She’s practically engaged again!” Pixie seconded.
“To that awful old drip of a parson,” Fay concluded. “Can you see anything in Lammering, apart from the fact that he’s exactly like any other average-looking male?”
“I think he’s very nice," Flo said loyally, “and I’m glad for Meg, if it’s true. Aren’t you? Is she going to accept him?”
“She was at first,” Pixie said, “and now she’s wobbling. She’s been in this foul mood all evening, calling me a millstone and you a Jezebel.”
“Good gracious!” Flo exclaimed. “I’ve been called some things in my time—!”
“I must admit Meg’s been a bit cracked ever since I arrived home,” Fay! pondered. “She’d had a visitor. A car passed me on the drive, but I didn’t recognize it. D’you know, young ’un?”
“No. I was eating in the kitchen wi’ Janet. There was a bit of a row, though.”
Flo rose.
“I’ll go and see Meg, I think.”
“Just a moment,” Fay stayed her. “She’ll keep, and her tantrums too. I feel like telling you about my good luck, if you’ve a mind to listen.”
Flo leaned back again attentively.
“Madame Dunfonteau has been staying at the hotel. She’s a famous cellist, you know, and came over for the Festival. Unfortunately she’s an asthmatic and has to seek the highland air between events. She heard me play—all the usual drive!—then Alec allowed me my first solo, and I played the theme from the Concerto, unaccompanied. I got a wonderful reception...” Fay’s eyes were ablaze as she remembered ... “And so Madame made herself known to me. She’s fat, getting old, but still a marvellous musician, and she took to me like her own daughter. I think she understands me, Flo, more than you or Meg or IT ever will,” she grimaced at Pixie, “and she wants me to go and live with her—she has a chateau in the foothills of the French Alps—and study, and study, and then appear at concerts when I’m good and ready. You won’t stand in my way, will you, Flo?” There was now desperation in the young voice.