'Suddenly I feel hungry. Would you care to celebrate our armistice by joining me for a meal?'
Her spirits rocketed, enabling her to tease with sparkling eyes. 'Only if I'm to be allowed a free choice of menu. I remember reading somewhere that Americans can eat garbage provided it's liberally sprinkled with ketchup, mustard, chilli sauce, tabasco sauce, cayenne pepper, or any other condiment that destroys the original flavour of the dish!'
The dining-room was filled with chatter and happy smiling faces, all of which swivelled in their direction immediately they walked through the doorway. Then to Catriona's utter confusion a roar of cheering and shouts of congratulation accompanied their progress towards a table that had obviously been graced in readiness for their arrival with a spotless white cloth, sparkling cutlery and a hastily constructed cardboard banner scrawled with the word 'Congratulations' hanging from a lamp positioned directly overhead.
Blushing with embarrassment, reluctant to meet Leon's eyes, she murmured a few words of appreciation to the hovering catering manager, managed a wave of acknowledgment to the grinning men, then dived for cover behind a typewritten menu.
'Such a shame we can't run to a bottle of champagne,' the manager sighed, 'but unfortunately alcohol is forbidden aboard the platform. However,' he brightened, 'for starters I can offer a choice of prawn cocktail, cream of tomato soup or fresh salmon Hollandaise. For the main course you can choose from baked York ham with pineapple, fillet of beef Wellington or a cold buffet. Then if you should care for dessert, I can personally recommend the sherry trifle, although Leon, I know, prefers to round off his meal with cheese and biscuits.'
'Just a little soup and a small helping of salad will do fine, thank you,' Catriona decided, chancing an upward glance before daring to remind Leon, 'You told Aunt Hanna to expect us back for dinner. She's sure to have prepared a substantial meal.'
'I hadn't forgotten.' His easy smile sent butterflies stampeding through her stomach. 'However, as it's just midday, I intend appeasing my Yankee appetite with the fillet of beef. Can't I persuade you to abandon your choice of rabbit food in favour of something more substantial?'
'No, thank you,' she could not resist the tease, 'my choice seems most applicable, considering the fact that the rabbit is often classed as a domestic pet one of those unfortunates provided by Nature to be kicked whenever things go wrong within its immediate circle.'
'In that case I'm pleased I offered to feed you,' he retaliated with a wicked glint, 'for pets are purported always to remember the crumbs they are tossed, but to forget every stone that's ever been thrown at their heads.'
CHAPTER EIGHT
GOOD humour spiced each course of a meal that became pleasantly extended as they conversed freely and easily for the very first time. The scraping of chairs across a tiled floor, the jocular greetings and farewells being exchanged by the occupants of surrounding tables as they to-ed and fro-ed between changing shifts, barely impinged upon their absorption as they probed and delved, discovering many areas of previously unexplored agreement.
Occasionally Catriona glanced up, distracted by a freshening draught slamming doors into their frames, rattling windows, swirling menus and paper napkins cleanly from tables to begin a mischievous paper-chase across the width of the floor. But as Leon appeared unconcerned about what might have been the build-up to a storm, she did not dwell upon the implications but relaxed, contenting herself with the mild observation,
'A storm seems to be brewing.'
'No need to feel nervous,' he smiled, stirring a liberal helping of sugar into his coffee. 'The platform may look like a bit of Meccano sticking out of the sea, but it's been designed and built to withstand winds gusting at a hundred and sixty miles per hour and waves the height of a ten-storey building.'
'Are you overlooking the fact that I've lived most of my life on an island swept with wind and gales, kept isolated during most of the winter months by terrible waters?' she reminded, amused by the notion that he should think her fearful. 'Some say we Shelties are born wearing a bobble cap and wellies!'
'And yet you're all very partisan on the subject of your island and very loath to leave it,' he puzzled curiously. 'I must confess I can't understand why, when there are so many less isolated and far more hospitable places to live than Shetland. It's always been my theory that isolated places breed solitary people.'
'I've often felt lonelier in a crowd of faceless people than I've felt tramping the hills of home,' she confessed simply. 'Whenever I talk to the ponies and sheep they at least respond with genuine feeling, not with social chit-chat meaningless as tinkling cymbals.'
Unaware of his surprised attention, of amber-bright eyes staring keenly, she continued dreamily, 'Real conversation is the constant flow of charming speech exchanged by old women wearing shawls and leather knitting belts whose wit matches the flashing steel of needles converting wool into exquisite garments that have intricate patterns unique to the knitter's mind. Or the leisurely, almost grudging sparsity of words bartered by old fishermen whose calloused hands have steered boats through terrible gales and pitiless rain, striving against unimaginable odds, in order to net the fish essential to their families' survival. I'm quite certain,' she lifted a flushed, earnest face to plead, 'that if you should really set out to get to know our island well, you would begin to appreciate it almost as much as I do. You've judged it from afar, Leon, hardly setting foot outside of your huge man-made complex that's as alien to Shetland as a strange new planet. But if you could leave your car behind and walk with me on foot I could show you charming old crofts with roofs lowering over tiny windows crammed with mint, thyme and sweet-smelling sage, built so close to the shore their doorsteps are stained white, cured by the constant washing of salted sea-foam. I could show you hills massed with tiny flowers blazoning every colour of the rainbow; voes thrusting arrow-straight through jagged cliffs; take you to see otters at play and to where ponies graze and peer indignantly through a fringe of shaggy hair at whoever dares to interrupt their meal.'
She broke off, suddenly becoming conscious of his stare, X-ray-deep, probing for hidden motives. Shocked by the realisation that her runaway tongue had caused enthusiasm to sound like eager invitation, she blushed and hastened to make light of her embarrassing gaffe.
'I'm sorry, I must have sounded just then like the islands' public relations officer!'
'By definition,' his transatlantic drawl was clearly evident, 'a public relations exercise is a deliberate, planned, and sustained effort to establish and maintain mutual understanding between an organisation and its public. Speaking on behalf of the organisation,' he pinned her with a narrow-eyed look, 'I shall be glad to take you up on your offer of a tour of the island at the first available opportunity. You're quite right in your condemnation; I've rarely strayed far from the camp and consequently know little about the island or its inhabitants.'
Because she felt stalked, alarmed by the dangerous soft-padded approach of a well-fed lion in search in female diversion, Catriona panicked and began a babbling attempt to channel his thoughts towards a safer subject of conversation.
'Sandra mentioned that her boy-friend Gordon works here on the rig,' she dodged with breathless haste. 'I'd very much like to meet him.'
'I'm sorry,' he drawled, obviously amused by his quarry's swift change of direction, 'that simply isn't possible.'
'Why not?' she persisted, doggedly determined to stay one step ahead. 'I know he's here at present, Sandra told me so.'
'Quite rightly,' he nodded. 'The fact that he's doing a spell of duty is the reason why you can't meet him.'
'I don't understand…'
With a resigned shrug, Leon abandoned further baiting and took pity on her bewilderment. 'Deep sea diving is a complex and extremely dangerous job—one very experienced diver was killed when simply testing equipment in a few feet of water. Gordon is what's known as a saturation diver, one who spends his time working from a tiny diving bell positioned
on the sea-bed, and between shifts he, and the rest of his team, live like monks in metal cells, deprived of all luxuries, denied even cigarettes, inside a small decompression chamber on a support vessel anchored nearby.'
Wide-eyed with wonder, she stammered, 'But that's appalling! Surely men who are forced to live in such conditions must suffer marked ill effects?'
Frowning, he shook his head. 'Periodically, each diver receives a medical check-up to ensure that his physical condition hasn't deteriorated.'
'But they must be subjected to terrific mental strain,' she protested. 'Medical examinations can ascertain any change in glandular function, blood pressure, pulse and respiration rates, but can give no indication of the state of a person's emotions!'
She had not intended to sound condemnatory, but her sharp tone must have pricked some tender area of conscience, causing his frown to deepen.
'Diving is a self-selecting business,' he defended sharply. 'It's extraordinary how quickly the weak are weeded out until only stable, courageous, wholly dedicated characters remain.'
'And yet,' she countered, treading warily as a tenderfoot over thorns, 'divers have the reputation of taking suicidal risks on shore when driving cars or motorcycles—surely an indication of mental instability?'
'Nonsense,' he denied crisply, aggravation rippling his smooth pelt of certitude. 'Would you judge a man insane simply because, after weeks of courting danger, he lets off steam by living life to the full? I know my men, understand what makes them tick, because I've shared with them the new and terrifying hazards facing divers working at deeper and deeper levels where any sudden, drastic change in pressure might explode the fillings in a man's teeth or reduce his body to a mass of quivering jelly! I've known the rigours of working from a small steel ball lowered on to the sea-bed, have suffered the freezing cold and the narcotic effect of breathing nitrogen under pressure which produces a sensation divers call "rapture of the deep" during which time divers have been known to tear off their face masks in a mood of gay abandon. Consequently,' he concluded grimly, 'I can't condemn them for seizing every opportunity to let off steam with riotous living.'
'But why do they choose to do such a job?' she persisted shaken by his lurid description. 'What motivates men to endure the extremes of dicing with death and then languishing for long boring hours inside a decompression chamber with less comfort than a prison cell? It can't just be the thought of money piling up in their bank accounts!'
His musing half-smile, the secretive, faraway look in his eyes, erected a barrier beyond which she sensed no one other than a member of the exclusive, tightly-knit diving fraternity could ever hope to penetrate.
'Divers are undoubtedly a mercenary crowd of individuals,' he admitted finally. 'Because of the risks they take and the fact that they live like nomads, their attitude has to be to get as much money as possible while they can, for once their diving career is over, or they become unfit for diving, they know they'll have great difficulty settling down to an ordinary job that pays very ordinary money. Yet having said that,' he confided with a complacency that set her teeth on edge, 'I must admit that men who choose to become divers, though not indifferent to wealth, place it low on their list of priorities. They're mostly what one might term "buccaneering types", men who, had they been born earlier, might have served on ships flying the skull and crossbones simply because they'd discovered that there's more money to be made at sea than on land; adventurers, dedicated to the search for treasure, yet prepared to abide by the rule of "no prey, no pay" if ever there's no loot to be shared.'
Catriona blinked, dazed by the image his words had conjured, an image of a rig topped by a pirate flag, commanded by a red-haired, fiery-tempered captain who restrained his motley crew with the threat of forty lashes!
Making a determined effort to dismiss the fanciful notion, she glanced at her wristwatch and was amazed to discover how quickly the hours had flown while they had been absorbed in conversation.
'Good heavens, it can't be three o'clock already!' She risked an upward glance, almost prepared to see him sporting a piratical eye patch or a large golden earring, and discovered to her relief that he looked his normal mocking self. 'If your business has been concluded, shouldn't we be setting off for the mainland?'
'Didn't I tell you?' His casual tone was belied by a glint of enjoyment in amused amber eyes. 'While the meeting was still in progress the radio operator received a message warning that, as the airfield in Shetland is fogbound, all aircraft have been grounded.'
'You mean we're stranded out here?' In spite of her effort to appear calm Catriona could not conceal a rising note of anxiety.
Predictably, Leon took advantage of her show of weakness. 'Does it matter?' he pounced. 'When I warned you about just such an eventuality, didn't you refuse to acknowledge it as an insuperable problem and argue that if the situation should ever arise you would prefer me to disregard the fact that you're a member of the opposite sex and to treat you as I would treat another man?'
She swallowed hard then, biting back the admission that her request had been voiced before she had plumbed the depths of his character, before she had a chance to realise that there was no place for a woman aboard an ocean rig which, just as in pirate ships of long ago, was crewed by men who regarded females merely as objects to amuse, or to satiate lust. It took all her courage to outstare the man whom bitter lessons from the past had made dangerously unpredictable, a man wary, however much tempted, of being weaned away from the belief that all women were as fickle and uncaring as the aunt whose indifference had turned a trusting boy into an embittered man.
'Personally, I couldn't care less,' she lied, managing what she hoped would appear to be an indifferent shrug, 'but Aunt Hanna is bound to start worrying when I don't turn up for dinner.'
'I've already taken care of that problem,' he smiled, relaxing in his chair with a complacent ease that gave rise to the suspicion that the whole situation had been foreseen—possibly contrived! '… a radio message has been sent to base, explaining our position and instructing that a messenger should relay the information to your aunt immediately.'
Struggling to subdue newly-born suspicions, she watched him indolently flexing his muscles before rising to his feet. 'Being stranded is no excuse for wasting time,' he grinned cheerfully. 'While I begin an in-depth tour of operations, perhaps you would like to start typing out the minutes of the meeting— I've told Geoff to supply you with a desk and typewriter. See you later,' he concluded with infuriating aplomb, then, pretending not to notice her scandalised expression, began leisurely strolling away.
Immediately Geoff arrived to escort her to a small office just big enough to accommodate a desk, a chair and one slim-line filing cabinet she sensed an indefinable change in his attitude.
'If there's anything else you need don't hesitate to ask, my office is just along the passageway,' he told her in a tone that sounded friendly, yet reserved. Telling herself that she had no right to feel hurt merely because his heartwarming grin was missing, because the fatherly concern he had displayed towards her from the moment they had been introduced had disappeared, to be replaced by the look of a man who felt let down, somehow disappointed, she smiled back warmly, consoling herself with the reassurance that a man with such a responsible job could be forgiven an occasional air of distraction.
'Thank you, Geoff—but as usual, you seem to have provided everything I'm likely to need. Although why I should be expected to work on my day off, especially when this typing could quite easily have waited until Monday, I can't imagine,' she concluded on a note of asperity.
'The pattern of Leon's life has long been established as being one of work, sleep, and eat, in that order—with the exception, of course, of minor diversions,' he responded dryly.
For some curious reason she felt scolded as a schoolgirl caught scrumping apples and in spite of the fact that she had filched nothing, had broken no known rules, a blush of guilt fired her cheeks as she t
urned aside, pretending an interest in the contents of the office. Then, still smarting from the suspicion that she had lapsed from favour, she blurted impulsively when Geoff turned to leave,
'Although I'm quite used to the vagaries of local weather, I find it puzzling that, with such strong winds blowing around the platform, the reason given for our delayed flight is that the airport is fogbound. Surely wind and fog are two contradictory elements?'
When Geoff spun on his heel with a quizzical look she felt a twinge of shame for suspecting Leon's motives, and was even more ashamed when he confirmed the truth of the statement.
'You must remember that there are almost two hundred miles of sea separating us and the islands. It's quite usual, even in summer, for the platform to be clear while the whole of Shetland is fogbound. Often flights are delayed for a day or more, other times we're lucky and the fog clears up quicker than expected.'
'Oh, I'm glad to hear it,' she mumbled, then, seeking to excuse her unworthy suspicions she stammered, 'It's… it's just that I don't want my aunt to think that… er…'
'I understand,' he cut in abruptly, this time making no secret of his cold disapproval. 'I think what you're trying to say is that sometimes a bad excuse is worse than no excuse at all.'
For the following four hours Catriona pounded away at her typewriter, hampered by the fact that all her fingers seemed to have turned into thumbs; that the strange machine had odd keys in positions unfamiliar to her, and by anger that had erupted the moment she spotted the note Leon had placed upon her desk, informing her that he required one copy of the minutes to be handed to each of the departmental heads before they left the platform the following morning. Furiously, she worked, hitting wrong keys and correcting many mistakes, cursing the inconsideration of a boss who seemed to find pleasure in overloading her with work, who must have been aware that with the aid of equipment back at base she would have needed to type out only one set of minutes before obtaining the rest of the number required with the help of a photostat copying machine. But her main drawback to concentration was worry about Geoff's change of attitude, a worry that did not ease until backbreaking hours later, when after slinging the cover over her typewriter and clipping foolscap pages neatly in order, she set out in search of him, determined to clear the air with a confrontation.
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