by Betty Neels
‘Yes.’ She paused. ‘Well, I was born near here but we live in England now.’
He stood studying her, looking down his long nose in a manner which she found annoying. ‘Married?’
‘No.’
He smiled. ‘A woman of refreshingly few words.’ Then he added to surprise her, ‘Are you all right for money?’
‘Why, yes, thank you. It is kind of you to ask.’
‘Nothing kind about it—common sense in the circumstances. It would have gone on the bill.’
She ignored this. ‘Will you come to see my grandmother again? She is old, it must have been a shock…’
‘I’ll be over tomorrow, in the morning.’ He stared at her, and added, ‘Unless you would rather Dr Finlay took over the case?’
‘Why do you say that? Granny is perfectly satisfied…’
‘Good.’ He spoke carelessly. ‘Perhaps by tomorrow you and I will like each other a little better. Good day to you, Miss Macdonald.’
He had gone leaving her bewildered and decidedly ill-tempered.
CHAPTER TWO
ROSIE was kept busy for the rest of the morning; she telephoned Elspeth and promised to ring again that evening, then she phoned her mother.
‘Are you going to let Uncle Donald know?’ she asked, ‘Inverard is barely a dozen miles from the hotel; you could go there…’
‘Granny won’t hear of it. Oh, Mother, I’d love to see it again, only not with Uncle Donald there, and I think Granny feels the same. She never did like him…’
‘Will you be all right? Is there anything we can do, Rosie?’
‘Nothing, Mother, for the moment. I’ll phone you tomorrow when the doctor’s been again.’
She spent the rest of the day with her grandmother, leaving her only for long enough to have a meal and answer the anxious enquiries of the train manager. Their luggage had been sent back to Bridge of Orchy in the late afternoon, and was there anything that he could do to help them? He added that the crew and passengers on the train sent their best wishes for Mrs Macdonald’s speedy recovery.
‘We shall be doing this same trip next week,’ he reminded her, ‘and if you are still at the hotel we shall call on you both. Perhaps you will leave a message if you depart before then?’
She thanked him; he had been kind and more than concerned for their welfare, although it had been no fault of his or his staff. She felt even more grateful when their luggage arrived, and with it a splendid basket of fruit for her grandmother with the train staff’s best wishes.
Dr Cameron had left sleeping pills for her grandmother so that the old lady slept for a good part of the night. All the same, she woke in the early morning wanting her pillows rearranged, a cup of tea, and Rosie’s company.
The hotel bedrooms had tea and coffee, sugar and milk arranged by an electric kettle. Rosie made tea for them both, and sat with her grandmother until that lady dozed off once more, enabling her to return to her own room, shower and dress, and do the best she could with a tired face.
Dr Cameron came soon after breakfast. Mrs Macdonald, refreshed after a wash, a changed nightie and a light breakfast, greeted him with a tart, ‘Well, young man, and what do you intend to do this morning?’
His expression remained professionally calm. ‘Merely a quick look at that ankle. How did you sleep?’
He glanced at Rosie standing on the other side of the bed. ‘Rather wakeful?’
‘I have had considerable pain,’ said Mrs Macdonald waspishly. ‘Rosie gave me tea—oh, about four o’clock this morning, I suppose, and another of your pills; I dozed off eventually.’
The old lady then asked her granddaughter, ‘At what time did you leave me, Rosie?’
‘Ten to six, Granny.’
Dr Cameron gave her a hard stare; that would account for her pallor and her cross face. ‘If I might see this ankle?’ he prompted gently.
The limb was inspected, pronounced as satisfactory as circumstances allowed, and made comfortable.
‘Quite satisfactory,’ pronounced Dr Cameron, ‘but I believe that you will benefit from a change of sleeping tablets. A good night’s sleep is essential.’ He forbore from looking at her heavy-eyed granddaughter as he spoke. ‘I have a busy day ahead of me; perhaps it might be as well if your granddaughter were to return to the surgery with me now, collect them, and return with me—I have to go further along the road to a shepherd’s croft on Rannoch Moor.’
He didn’t wait for Mrs Macdonald to object to this. ‘If you could come right away?’ he asked Rosie. ‘I have Finlay’s patients to visit…’
It would be simply lovely to have a breath of air. ‘You’ll be all right, Granny?’
‘It seems that I shall have to be. Tell someone that I shall be alone until you return; I can only hope that I shall not need your services.’
‘Try and have a nap,’ said Rosie, ‘I shan’t be long.’
She fetched a cardigan, and followed the doctor out of the hotel, to squeeze into the small, shabby car, hardly suitable for two splendidly built persons, and be driven away without more ado.
It was a bright clear morning, the country through which they drove was remote and grandly rugged, snow-capped mountains filled the horizon, late primroses carpeted the rough grass. The lonely moor was at their backs as they climbed to Tyndrum Upper and over the viaducts towards Crianlarich.
Rose sighed with the pleasure of it all, and the doctor asked,
‘You know this part of the world?’ He glanced at her. ‘You said you were born near here?’
‘Yes.’
‘Would you not like to return?’
‘Yes.’ She looked out of the window at the grandeur all around her; not a soul in sight, and they hadn’t passed a car, only slowed once or twice for a leisurely sheep with her lambs. She knew that if she got out of the car there wouldn’t be a sound—only the quiet breath of the wind and the birds. She wanted above all things to stay in this magnificent solitude.
‘Then why don’t you? I imagine you could get a job easily enough—the hotels are always short-staffed.’ He sounded uninterested, carrying on some kind of conversation out of politeness.
Rose said stonily, ‘I already have a job, and I live with my parents. Why did you ask me to come with you? There was no need; you could have handed in the pills on your way back, since you have to go and see a patient on the moor.’
‘You looked as though you needed a change of scene. Your disturbed night appears to have left you decidedly whey-faced and peevish.’
She said hotly, ‘I don’t like you, Dr Cameron.’
‘I dare say not. That’s only because you’re such a cross-patch. I think you must be quite a nice girl in kinder circumstances.’ He slowed the car as they reached the outskirts of Crianlarich—a scattering of cottages on either side of the road, and then the main street.
‘Do you want to come in?’ he asked as he stopped before a solid house opposite the church. ‘I’ll be a couple of minutes.’
‘Thank you, no.’ She turned an exquisite profile to him, and didn’t see his smile.
She regretted her words; he was all of ten minutes.
‘A small boy with a bead in his ear,’ he told her, squeezing in beside her again. ‘I knew you wouldn’t mind, and his mother was upset.’
‘You got it out?’
His firm mouth twitched. ‘Yes. Take these, will you? See that your grandmother has one at bedtime; that should ensure that you both have a good night’s
sleep.’
He dropped the small bottle of pills into her lap and started the car. He had very little to say after that, apart from the bare minimum of conversation good manners dictated.
She got out of the car at the hotel, and then poked her head through the window. ‘I’m sorry I was cross, and thank you for the ride.’
‘Think nothing of it, Miss Macdonald. In these sparsely populated parts it behoves one to offer a helping hand to all and sundry, does it not?’
She wasn’t sure if she liked being called ‘all and sundry’. She said starchily, quite sorry that she had apologised, ‘We shall expect you in the morning, Dr Cameron.’
He nodded coolly, and shot away, and she watched the car disappear along the lonely road.
She was in time to pour oil on the troubled waters of her grandmother’s insistence that she should interview the chef so that she might order exactly what she wanted for her lunch.
‘A light meal, Granny,’ said Rosie soothingly. ‘Dr Cameron told me that if you kept to a light diet for a few days it will make your recovery much quicker.’
She took the menu from the huffy chef’s hand. ‘There is salmon—now, poached salmon with a potato or two would be delicious, and I see there is clear soup…just right.’ She caught the man’s eye. ‘And perhaps the chef would be so kind as to make you a junket? If I were to have the same perhaps that would be less trouble?’
The chef went away appeased, and she sat down and regaled Mrs Macdonald with an account of her brief trip. Not that there was much to say, but she took care to make it sound as though she and Dr Cameron were on the best of terms.
Presently her grandmother dozed, and Rosie went down to the hotel lounge for coffee. There weren’t many people there. The guests at that time of year were for the most part walkers along the walkway between Glasgow and Fort William; they spent a night or stopped for a meal before taking to the road again. There was a party of them sitting on the hotel steps, resting their feet while they drank their coffee, and they called her to join them. They were a cheerful lot, and she envied them, going at their own pace, taking perhaps three days over the walk, stopping where they wanted to with the leisure to stand and stare as much as they wanted. The vague idea that perhaps she might manage a day to walk a few miles crossed her mind, although she had no idea how that could be arranged; it depended very much on how her grandmother progressed, and it was more than likely that as soon as she was fit enough to leave for a few hours she would want to go back to Edinburgh. She drank her coffee, wished her companions a pleasant journey, and went back to the invalid.
Mrs Macdonald was at her most pernickety. Nothing was right; she was too hot, too cold, bored, and then peevishly wishing to be left in peace and quiet. Rosie did her best to cope with this variety of moods; her grandmother, despite her age, was an active person, and to lie inactive in bed was almost worse than the pain of her sprained ankle. Rosie read until she was hoarse, listened to her grandmother reminiscing about the days of her childhood and youth, and ventured to suggest, not for the first time, that her Uncle Donald would visit her if she cared to let him know of her accident.
‘Certainly not,’ declared the old lady indignantly. ‘I’m surprised that you should suggest such a thing.’ She sounded wistful. ‘Your Uncle Donald never writes. I am, after all, his aunt, but he has cut himself off from his family.’
‘Did you quarrel?’
‘That is my business, Rosie.’
As she got ready for bed that night Rosie made up her mind to speak to Dr Cameron in the morning. Surely her grandmother was well enough to be taken back to Edinburgh? Elspeth and Aunt Carrie would be there and, if necessary, a nurse. She had phoned her mother that evening, making light of everything, assuring her that she would be home just as soon as possible. In any case, she reflected, she would have to go home at the end of two weeks; she would be needed at the office, and one week had gone already. She slept badly, and woke to a morning dark with tumultuous clouds racing across the sky, bringing a fine rain on a strengthening wind.
Dr Cameron came during the morning, examining the ankle, which was now all the colours of the rainbow, and pronouncing himself satisfied with it.
‘The swelling is going down nicely,’ he said, probing the joint with gentle fingers. ‘Another few days and you may get up—I’ll bring crutches with me when the time comes.’ He opened his bag. ‘You are sleeping, Mrs Macdonald?’
She gave a grudging assent as he took out his stethoscope. ‘I’ll just go over your chest,’ he explained and, at her look of surprise, added smoothly, ‘It is usual after a fall such as you have had, it may take a day or so before the shock of it wears off.’
He took her blood-pressure too, and although Rosie watched his face closely she could detect no change in its calm blandness.
Dr Cameron didn’t hurry away, but stood leaning against the door, his hands in the pockets of his elderly and excellently tailored tweed jacket, listening to Mrs Macdonald’s tetchy opinions of modern youth, fast food and microwave ovens. He gave her his full attention, and they parted, if not the best of friends, at least on speaking terms.
Rosie, intent on getting him alone, followed him out of the room. ‘I want a word with you,’ she told him urgently, ‘if you can spare a moment.’
His, ‘of course,’ was non-committal as he followed her down to the lounge, crowded with frustrated anglers and walkers because of the heavy rain. They found a table jammed up against a wall, and ordered coffee, and she began without preamble.
‘How soon can Grandmother go home? Could we get an ambulance or a car to take her to Edinburgh? She has a daughter living with her, and a splendid housekeeper, and I could arrange for a nurse if you think it necessary.’ At his faintly surprised look, she added, ‘I sound as if I want to get rid of her, don’t I? But, you see, I have a job at home, and I have to be back by the end of next week…’
Their coffee came, and she poured out and handed him a cup.
‘As far as the ankle is concerned there is no reason why Mrs Macdonald should not be taken back to her home. Unfortunately there is a complication. She has a heart condition, and the shock of the fall has made it worse. Rest in bed is absolutely necessary for several more days—even a week. Her blood-pressure is far too high, and she is not by nature a calm person, is she? A placid life is essential to her well-being. Ideally she should stay where she is. Perhaps the housekeeper or your aunt could come here and take your place?’
‘Then she would want to know why…’
‘Indeed, yes. Is your job very important to you? Do you stand a risk of losing it if you were to stay on here?’
She nodded and said, ‘yes,’ slowly, thinking that her mother would miss her share of the household expenses until she could find another job. Messrs Crabbe, Crabbe and Twitchett, a young, rather pushy firm, would show no compunction in finding someone to replace her. Shorthand typists were quite thick on the ground.
She said out loud, ‘But of course I’ll stay.’ She gave him a direct look. ‘She is my granny.’
‘Good, but I think that we must establish some sort of routine. You must have some leisure during the day. Do you get enough sleep?’
‘Well, Granny takes quite a time to settle, and she wakes early and likes a cup of tea and then goes to sleep again.’
‘So it is essential that you should have a few hours each day to yourself. I suggest that you settle her for a rest after lunch, arrange for her to have her tea, an
d return to her around five or six o’clock. I dare say there is a sensible chambermaid who would undertake to cast an eye over your grandmother from time to time and give her tea.’
‘I did come to Scotland especially to be her companion on the train trip…’
‘Indeed, but not to nurse her for twenty-four hours of the day and night for a week or more.’
Dr Cameron smiled suddenly at her, and just for a moment she liked him very much.
‘Get through today, and tomorrow I will have a talk with her. Now I must go—I have someone to see at the youth hostel at Loch Ossian.’
He lifted a finger for the bill, wished her goodbye, and left the hotel.
Rosie went back to the invalid presently, and read the Daily Telegraph from end to end before lunch, and after that meal, since her grandmother declared that she needed her company, sat quietly while the old lady talked. Mostly about her youth and the early years of her marriage and, when that topic was exhausted, politics and the shortcomings of the younger generation.
Mercifully tea gave her pause, and Rosie produced a pack of cards and suggested Patience before being allowed to go down to the dining-room for her dinner. There was still an hour or so before bedtime, and Mrs Macdonald, far from being tired, became chatty.
‘Quite a pleasant man, Dr Cameron,’ she allowed. ‘I am inclined to take his advice. He is not so young, and must have had some experience. Is he Dr Finlay’s partner, I wonder? There surely can’t be enough work for the pair of them.’
‘It’s a scattered practice,’ said Rosie, and stifled a yawn, not caring in the least where the man came from.
Her grandmother gave her a sharp glance. ‘Married, do you suppose?’
‘I’ve no idea, Granny. I should think that very likely he is; he’s not young.’
Her grandmother spoke with a snap. ‘Not a day over thirty-five, I should imagine. You’re not so young yourself, Rosie.’
The kind of remark which made it hard for Rosie to love her Granny as she ought.