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‘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, and 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.
She had to admire Dr Cameron’s tactics the next morning. He was later than usual, and he looked tired. But he was as immaculate as usual, and just as impersonally pleasant, reassuring Mrs Macdonald that she was making a steady progress, explaining that the longer she stayed in bed off her foot, the sooner she would be able to walk without pain.
‘Another few days,’ he warned her, ‘and then I will see about getting you home. You are making the most remarkable recovery.’
Mrs Macdonald gave a smug smile. ‘I pride myself upon my fortitude and common sense,’ she told him.
It was an easy step from there to point out that Rosie, if she were to give her grandmother her full attention, should take necessary exercise.
‘If I might suggest,’ said Dr Cameron at his most urbane, ‘two or three hours in the fresh air each afternoon? I am sure that there is a chambermaid able to bring you your tea and answer your bell, but I hope that for your own good you will rest quietly after your lunch. Shall you be willing to try this for a day or so? Now that you are feeling so much better I dare say you have been thinking along these lines yourself.’
To Rosie’s astonishment her grandmother replied quite sharply that of course she had.
‘Then that is settled, if—er—Rosie feels able, there are some splendid walks around the hotel.’
Of which she was well aware, although she had no intention of saying so. She still didn’t like him, she told herself, but she had to admit that he was doing his best for her.
He went away presently giving her a casual nod. ‘I’ll be in tomorrow—I have to pass the hotel.’
She accompanied him down to the foyer, and as he went he said, ‘Be sure and get out for a walk each day.’ He stopped unexpectedly so that she almost tripped up.
‘You’re not very happy, are you?’ he asked, but didn’t wait for an answer.
‘A good thing, too,’ muttered Rosie crossly, ‘for it’s none of his business.’
The new regime worked well; her grandmother offered no opposition when, having settled her for her afternoon nap, she got into her gilet and sensible shoes, reassured her that she had warned the chambermaid, rearranged the pillows, adjusted the window curtains to her grandmother’s taste, and at last took herself off.
She took the road towards Loch Tulla, walking briskly. It was a fine afternoon, but it wouldn’t last—the sky above Ben Dorian behind her was ominously grey, but she didn’t care; to be out walking in well-remembered country was enough to make her happy. That evening, she reflected, she would phone her mother and tell her that nothing had changed in the wild and lonely countryside around her. Just for a little while she was blissfully happy, and some of the happiness was still with her when she returned to soothe a disgruntled grandparent who declared that she had been bored, in pain, and neglected.
‘Kirsty came to see you,’ said Rosie. ‘I met her as I came in, and she said that you had had a long nap and a splendid tea.’
She wished she hadn’t repeated that, for her grandmother declared loudly that no servant was to be trusted. ‘Of course if you wish to disbelieve your own kith and kin…’
It took her the rest of the evening to coax Mrs Macdonald into a good frame of mind again.
When Dr Cameron came in the morning she half expected her grandmother to object to being left on her own in the afternoon, and she couldn’t help but admire his handling of her recalcitrant grandparent so that grudging permission was given once more with the rider that it was to be hoped that the state of affairs wouldn’t last.
‘Just as soon as you are fit to be moved, Mrs Macdonald,’ said the doctor, at his most soothing, ‘I will arrange your return home. You are doing splendidly, due largely to your co-operation and fortitude.’
Rosie, watching the old lady’s pleased smile at that, thought Dr Cameron was a cunning rascal, obviously used to getting his own way once he had made up his mind.
Beyond a civil good day as he went he had nothing to say to her, which rather annoyed her. Even if she didn’t like him their barbed conversation made her day more interesting.
Two more days went by, and Rosie’s lovely face took on a healthy glow from the energetic walks she took each day. It was a pity that the weather was changing; there was more persistent rain and a strengthening wind—hardly a day for a tramp—but Dr Cameron had said that morning that her grandmother was well enough to return home, and this might be her last chance to take a last look… She borrowed an old mac from one of the maids, tied her head in a scarf, assured her grandmother, with not a vestige of truth, that the weather was clearing, and left the hotel.
The steady drizzle didn’t bother her, nor did the great gusts of wind. The sky was leaden and the mountains loomed, grey and forbidding, but she had been brought up in surroundings such as these, and wasn’t deterred from her resolve to walk as far as possible towards Rannoch Moor. She had no hope of actually getting there, but at least she would be able to reach its very edge. She would walk for an hour and then turn back.
The hour was almost up and she was a good four miles from the hotel when the drizzle turned to torrential rain. There was no escaping it; she was on a lonely stretch of road bordered by coarse grass and last year’s bracken, patterned with the vivid green of the new growth. The low-lying shrubs offered no shelter, and there was nothing to do but turn round and walk back. She paused to wipe the rain from her face with an already sopping hanky, and didn’t hear the Land Rover come to a halt on the other side of the road. Its door opened and Dr Cameron roared, ‘Over here, Rosie, and look sharp about it!’
She sloshed across the road, her shoes full of water, relieved to see him, and at the same time vexed that he should bawl at her in such a fashion. He had the door open, and she climbed in and squelched into the seat beside him, and he drove off, far too fast she considered, before she had fastened her seatbelt. She mopped her face, glad that she would be back soon.
‘An emergency?’ she asked, and when he didn’t do more than grunt, ‘Thank you for picking me up, I’ll be glad to get out of these wet clothes.’
They were approaching Bridge of Orchy; she could see the hotel, standing back from the station and the road. A cup of tea and a hot bath would be more than welcome. She gave a sigh of relief which turned to a surprised gasp as he drove down a side-road which joined the road to Oban.
‘Sorry I can’t stop,’ said Dr Cameron in what she considered to be a heartless manner. The next minute she felt ashamed of herself; what were hot baths and cups of tea compared with emergencies?
She peered through the driving rain as he turned off the road on to a narrow country lane running through fir trees. She knew the lane, for it was within a few miles of her old home. They would pass close to Inverard unless he turned off again, and side-roads were few and far between.
He didn’t turn off, but presently raced through an open gateway and slowed then because the drive was steep and narrow and winding.
‘Why are you coming here?’ She strove to keep her voice quiet.
‘Dr Finlay is out on a case. The medical men at Oban are tied up—I got a call on the car phone.’
They had reached the end of the drive, and the house came into view. It hadn’t changed—white walls, gables, tall chimneys, shallow steps to the wide front door standing ajar, sitting cosily within its circle of trees and gardens, facing the mountains across a wide grass meadow.
She gave a small sigh, and he turned to look at her.
‘Know this place? Who lives here? I was only given the address…’
‘Macdonald,’ and at his sudden understanding look, ‘I was born here. Donald Macdonald is my uncle.’
He had the doors open. ‘Out you get and inside with you, and don’t waste my time. You can dry off somewhere…’
He mounted the steps and went into the square hall with doors on all sides. One of them opened now, and a small elderly woman in a flowered pinny came to meet them.
‘The doctor—thank God for that. He’s in the drawing-room, we’ve not dared to move him.’ Her eyes lighted on Rosie, and her face broke into a wide smile. ‘Miss Rosie—in with ye, lassie, while I take the doctor along.’
The doctor had cast down his Burberry and followed the woman through the door, and Rosie stopped to take off her mac and headscarf, and made haste to follow. Nothing had changed, she saw that at a glance as she crossed the charming room to the vast sofa where her uncle lay.
‘Is there anything I can do?’ She looked at the unconscious face of her uncle, and felt a pang of pity; he had treated her father with unkindness and she had never liked him, but now he lay, a lonely elderly man with no wife and no family to be with him.
‘Open my bag and get out the syringe in a plastic envelope, the small bottle with spirit written on it, and one of the woollen swabs beside it. Put them where I can reach them, and get someone to get a bed ready.’
