Hospital in the Highlands (12 page)

At that hour any railway station is a cold, uncharitable place, even in August, but Glen Lochallan stood at over a thousand feet above sea-level, and the morning air was thin with a suggestion of frost. The gray clouds hung low around the mountain peaks, and if they did not lift by mid-morning they would descend as mist and blot out the visibility in the glen for days. Flo knew the weather by now and never went anywhere without her mackintosh over her arm.

When the train steamed in she stood back and waited, her heart thumping. Two passengers alighted. Flo examined the woman closely first. She was elderly and fussy and dropped paper bags and parcels in a helpless abandon until there was a screech of children swarming on to the platform and the old dear was inundated with youthful cries of “Grandma!” and carried off laughing and breathless and welcome into the bosom of her family.

Flo gazed up at the tall man who looked. familiar, with his sandy hair, bleached eyebrows and hazel eyes, and yet was a stranger hiding behind an unfamiliar pipe.

“Jim?” she queried quickly. “Hello!”

He removed the pipe, bent down and kissed her on the cheek. “Flo,” he said, more nervous than she, “I want a hot drink. I’m frozen.”

“Yes, yes, of course,” she told this stranger hastily. “You’ve come from a hot country. I was forgetting. You must feel the cold here. It’s been a bad summer,” she volunteered. “I believe the corn’s ruined. The hay was.”

Jim came from farming stock so he should appreciate these items of news. “Now, where can we get a cup of tea this early? There’s no buffet on the station. I believe there’s a cafe the boatmen use. Or shall we go straight home?”

She was dreading taking him to Rowans and parading her lost world before her sisters’ eyes.

“We’ll find somewhere,” Jim said confidently and took her arm.

They walked through deserted streets, occasionally studying each other surreptitiously and looking away when they were discovered.

“I must have been away longer than I thought,” Jim brooded once. “I don’t seem to remember this
place...”

“The town hasn’t changed,” Flo said. “There’s a cafe. It isn’t much. But at
least the coffee’s hot.”

“That’s all I ask of it,” Jim said.

She noticed that he smelled of tweed, good tobacco and leather. He looked nice, pleasantly masculine, yet she still didn’t know him. It was awful.

“You smoke a pipe now?” she asked as they sipped their coffee.

“Yes. One does—out there. It helps keep the flies away.”

“You’ve seen your mother, of course?”

“Of course,” he looked almost offended. “I’ve been home for ten days now.”

“Ten days?”

“That’s right. Well, she was so glad to see me she wouldn’t let me go. I didn’t want to upset her more than necessary. I—I came as soon as I could.”

“Ten days—and you came to me as soon as you could?” Flo echoed.

“Look, Flo, don’t make a scene in here. It’s not like you.”

“Nothing’s like me, Jim, and nothing’s like you. Why did you bother to come at all? Couldn’t you have written me another letter?”

“Now you’re being cynical, Flo. I don’t understand you. You ask me to come home and when I come and spend some time with my ailing mother—which is the true reason my boss gave me leave—you object. I really don’t see what you’re objecting to. I don’t fly back until next Wednesday.”

“Wonderful!” Flo said. “I start work on Monday, so you’ll have a bit more time to spend with your mother.”

“You see? It’s all working out very conveniently, isn’t it?”

“Is it?” asked Flo heavily. “I don’t know what is working out exactly, Jim. We seem to be walking round like two dogs about to fly at one another’s throats. Have you something you want to ask me or tell me?”

“Well—I’d like us to go away together. Somewhere quiet. Not to your place.”

Her eyes grew round.

“Are you making immoral suggestions now, Jim Darvie?”

He smiled faintly.

“And me a Presbyterian? What’s that wee hotel halfway up the Ben?”

“The Eagle. Nobody’s seen it for days. It’s been lost in the mist.”

“Sounds like a place to find fires.”

“For certain. The food isn’t bad either.”

“That’s where we’ll go, with your permission. I love your family but I must see you alone, Flo. I must.”

Looking at him she knew she must see him alone, too, to draw the curtains on the deadest romance in the whole of Scotland.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Meg had progressed in her relationship with old Janet in that she was now allowed access to the kitchen (excepting those occasions when there was a baking and a second party made the old woman so nervous she forgot whether she had
added salt or spice to her mixing) and was even allowed sometimes to h
e
lp with the washing up.

“Now you sit down, Janet,” Meg said coaxingly on this morning, “and
I’ll
make
you
a nice cup of tea. Won’t that be nice?”

“Land’s sakes!” declared Janet weakly. “What would Ah be daein’ sittin’ doon in the middle of the morn, Mistress Margaret? Ah’ll be gettin’ spoilt.” To emphasise her gratitude for the gesture, however, the old woman indulged in a few tears and brought forth a handkerchief as big and white as a tablecloth.

“The door!” she suddenly exclaimed. “Noo that’s something ye
can
dae for me, Mistress Margaret. Answer the door, will ye?”

Meg smiled and sailed to the front door, still absentmindedly wearing her apron. She noticed this embarrassing fact when the visitor proved to be the Reverend Michael Lammering.

“Good morning! I was helping Janet,” she said in the same breath as she whipped the apron off and rolled it into a ball. “Flo has gone away for a few days,” she volunteered, for somehow the young man’s gaze was particularly disturbing to her this morning.

“It was you I came to see, Miss Meg,” he said without preamble. “Is there somewhere we can talk privately, without interruption?”

Meg stared at him blankly.

“If you haven’t the time now I would prefer to make an appointment,” the Minister proceeded. “You see, what I have to say cannot be said in five minutes or with the soup boiling over or anything like that. Perhaps midmorning is an unfortunate time to call on a busy housekeeper?”

Meg began to feel extremely nervous.

“I haven’t very much housekeeping to do,” she said with an attempt at nonchalance. “Janet’s a wonder. She’s only happy when she’s busy. I even tried to make her a cup of tea just now and she wouldn’t hear of it. I have half an hour or so,” she added, leading the way into the sitting room, which now had walls and paintwork of cream and turquoise, though the dingy furnishings had not yet been replaced. “Was it about confirmation classes for Pixie?”

Now it was Michael Lammering’s turn to feel weak and nervous. All the way to Rowans he had rehearsed what was to be said and how he would say it. Now he seized upon his congregational lamb as on a sheet anchor.

“Confirmation classes will start on the first Thursday after the holidays,” he pronounced, and added severely, though his severity was still a form his nervousness took, “and I think you, should now start calling the child by her proper name. Rebecca
.”

“Oh, but we’ve always called her Pixie,” Meg vouchsafed. “She was quite bald as a baby and her ears were pointed. She wouldn’t recognize herself by any other name.”

“It is up to her family to persist, Miss Meg. Rebecca is a good, biblical name.”

“Frankly it wasn’t intended to be,” the other smiled. “Our mother was rather fond of Daphne du Maurier’s book.” She laughed at his express. “Michael, come off it!” she urged, feeling more relaxed. “If you came here to scold us as a family you must remember that we’ve years and years of paganism behind us. My paternal grandfather left Grandma and ran back to India. I believe he was very happy. Mother used to drive us off to Sunday School because there was no room in the flat for us and our toys
and
Father’s friends.” She lowered her eyes a moment. “That’s not exactly a Christian upbringing, is it, Michael?”

He shrugged.

“It doesn’t matter, Meg. It honestly doesn’t matter. There’s sweetness and charity in you, and the talks we’ve had ... I’ve enjoyed them.” His eyes suddenly glowed. “I’ve enjoyed them immensely. You’re very honest as a family. So many people pretend, you know.”

“Yes, we’re honest, I suppose,” Meg mused. “Often brutally so. Sometimes I don’t think honesty is kind. For instance, Pixie told me once that a girl at her old school thought I was her mother. I didn’t appreciate her frankness at the time. It made me feel awful.”

“To the teenager twenty-five is middle-aged,” Michael smiled. “But simply adding years to one’s age can be extremely frustrating. Life must be full of experiences, grave and cheery, if one is to mature as our Maker intended.
I
have been feeling frustrated lately, Meg. I’m going away, you know.”

“Oh, Michael! I—I didn’t know,” she exclaimed. “I’m sorry. No—I don’t mean I’m sorry, exactly. I think I’m absolutely staggered. I—I can’t believe it. Why are you going? Where?”

“I’ve been studying for work in foreign missions. I was preparing before you came to Glen Lochallan.”

“Foreign missions?” she whispered.

“Yes.” His voice was tight now: unreal in his ears. “I’m going out to Sikkim: bordering India and Tibet. Mainly Buddhist territory.”

“Oh, Michael!” she wailed, and put her hands up to her face.

“Meg! Meg, darling!” he was on his knees now, tearing down her hands and watching her blue eyes weep for him. “Do you care?”

She sniffled, felt for her handkerchief and then smiled through her tears.

“I—I don’t know what we’ll do without you,” she replied.

“You—yourself?” he insisted.

“I’ll have to—get used to the idea of your going, won’t I?”

“Not necessarily. You
could
come with me, as my wife.” Now there hung a silence heavy with the fateful words that had been spoken: a thickness of emotional ectoplasm through which a decision must be cut, one way or another.

“I suppose I could, if you asked me,” Meg said dazedly, “and before I begin to look for the many and obvious snags that will prevent it happening, my inclination would be to say I’d love to come with you, Michael, as your wife. I can’t conceive living on here in Glen Lochallan without you, frankly.”

The following embrace was lone, fervent and finally relaxing. Sinking down together on the old sofa the new lovers had so much to tell, such a lot to confide.

“You don’t know about Keith, do you?” Meg asked at length.

“I think I do, dearest. Pixie—or rather—Rebecca, called him your ‘old flame,’ and you’ve been seeing a lot of him again lately.”

“
How did you know that? Pixie again?”

“No. I’m afraid I’ve been guilty of hanging around your house lately, sometimes just spying, hoping to catch a glimpse of you. When I caught glimpses of you and him I was sick with misery and jealousy. I still can’t believe all this isn’t a dream.”

“Well, Keith asked me to marry him yesterday for the second time. He jilted me the first, you know. I thought when I heard him saying those words again that I’d be as happy as I was before, but just nothing happened to me. It was as though Keith was simply saying ‘Good afternoon’ or something equally unimportant. I told him no and he wouldn’t believe me. I could hardly believe myself. Keith made such a hold in my life I thought only he could fill it again.”

“And did he accept his dismissal finally?”

“No.” Meg looked down. “He told me to think about it and let him know this evening when he comes. After he’d gone I was glad things weren’t irrevocable, because I began to feel happier and almost triumphant. It was as though Keith’s proposal had restored my lost youth, I couldn’t consider marriage with him. It was suddenly as though in accepting Keith I would be losing a wonderful world, not gaining it. I couldn’t put a name to any of it, darling, until you came in here and broke the news that you were going away.” Meg closed her eyes in remembrance. “
You
were the world I would have lost if I’d married Keith Bexley. I’m glad now that my mind was settled on his score before you made your outrageous suggestion to me.”

“What outrages you in the idea of Christian marriage?”

“Nothing. It’s outrageous that you should expect me to accompany you to Sikkim, or wherever it is, though. How about the heathen right here in Glen Lochallan? Weren’t you doing all right with us? What about Pixie—that is—Rebecca? I suppose we take her along to Sikkim, too?”

“You’re
not
Rebecca’s mother, my darling, no matter how mistakenly you give that impression to her school friends. Her future will be assured somehow. She has other sisters. I refuse to allow you to sacrifice yourself to your family now that your heart has spoken on my behalf.”

“Oh!” Meg snuggled down like a cat on a silk cushion that has just been offered cream. “You’re going to be awfully good for me, Michael, I can see. Already I feel I haven’t a care in the world, or a problem that cannot be solved. Will it always be like this?”

“I’m prepared to tackle problems, Meg, with you beside me. I’m not afraid of anything.”

“Oh, Michael.”

There is a time for everything, and this was a time simply to love, and overcome bewilderment in the realization of great joy.

It was Meg Lamont’s first truly happy day in years, and it had surely been worth the waiting.

Pixie was of an age when she demanded less of life and still found it blissful. This was the fourth week of school holidays, and it was summer. Beneath her sandalled feet soft green turf stretched out into infinity to make up the nine-hole golf course, which was the private property of the laird and adjacent to “the big hoose” as the tradesmen called the house of Glen Lochallan.

Pixie was cheerfully acting as caddie to Hamish Strathallan on the understanding that later he would show her “a thing or two,” Already she had been a willing pupil and now knew a No. 2 iron from a putter, and had even shamed her mentor on two occasions by following the flight of the ball accurately beyond his own ken. “Get some glasses, Hamish!” she cheerfully adjured.

“I don’t need glasses, ye saucy wee Sassenach,” he retorted sharply. “I lost it in the tree there.”

From the direction of the house came the yodel of a woman’s voice.

“That’s Jenny,” Hamish said, pocketing his ball and ramming the niblick unceremoniously back into the bag that Pixie was hauling around.
“
Lemonade time. Must
you
come?”

“Of course I must come,” Pixie retorted indignantly. “Jenny likes me if you don’t. Besides, I haven’t had ma lesson yet.”

“You’re never away from here nowadays,” the youth complained. “Once we were a happy bachelor establishment. Now we’re cluttered up with other folks’ kids, etcetera.”

“I’ll tell Jenny what you said,” Pixie threatened.

“What did I say? Nothing against Jenny
or
Miss Purdie. They’re
invited
guests.”