Shannon's Way

by A. J. Cronin

  “Yes.”

  “You had no right to do such a thing, no right whatsoever. You should have asked me first.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you should. It’s my department.”

  “Isn’t the whole hospital your department?” I was beginning to lose my calm. “You want to run the entire show. You’re not content unless you have everyone bowing and scraping to you. In fact, you treat this place as though it were your own private property. Well, it isn’t. I have my rights, as well as you. I happen to be doing some important scientific work at present. That’s why I took the test-room.”

  “Then you’ll kindly give it back.”

  “Are you suggesting that I stop my work?”

  “It’s a matter of indifference to me what you do, so long as you carry out your job. But I want my test-room back, clean and tidy again.”

  “Why? The room’s never used.”

  She gave a short laugh.

  “That’s where you’re wrong. It’s used at this time every year. For my nurses’ lectures. Didn’t you notice the desks? The session begins on Saturday.”

  “You can use some other room,” I protested, feeling as though my feet had been swept from under me.

  She shook her head deliberately.

  “There are no other rooms with proper accommodation. Only the isolation ward. And that’s much too damp and miserable. Apart from the nurses, I wouldn’t wish you to be uncomfortable, Doctor. You see,” with acrid humour she launched her final shaft, “you are the one who gives the lectures.”

  Outmanoeuvred—in fact, completely cornered—I could only glare at her in helpless silence. The flicker of derisive amusement in her eyes, as she moved to the door, showed her satisfaction at having evened the score between us and put me in my place.

  I went to bed threshing out this new difficulty in my mind. Seasoned by a life of brawls and bluster, toughened by interminable rows with servants, tradesmen, nurses and sisters, waddling forward, victoriously, with a gory trail of doctors in her wake, she was a hard nut to crack. Much as it galled me, there was nothing for it, at present, but a strategic retreat.

  At lunch next day, after a period of silence, I told her formally that I would clear out of the test-room.

  In reward for my capitulation she gave me a grim smile.

  “I thought you’d see reason, Doctor. May I have the chutney, please? Now, I recollect when I was in Bogra …”

  I felt like breaking the bottle on her head. Instead, I passed it to her with a smile of equal grimness.

  An hour later, at half-past two, I walked down casually to the old smallpox isolation pavilion, then quickly dodged into the protection of the shrubbery which concealed it. Miss Trudgeon was busy in the linen-room; nevertheless, I wanted to be careful.

  The isolation pavilion was a ruin—no other word is possible—I effected an entry only by breaking in a decayed corrugated iron panel. Darkly shuttered, chilly as a sepulchre, and empty of everything but dust and cobwebs, it obviously hadn’t been opened for years. Striking matches, which burned my fingers, I surveyed the abandoned ruin. There was a hole in the boards where the stove had been ripped out. A chipped enamel basin, yellow and corroded, lay on the floor. Even the water was cut off, and the tap had almost rusted away.

  Disconsolately, I came out, found Pim at the garage, and explained my situation to him.

  “I’m going to move into the old smallpox pavilion.”

  He laughed incredulously.

  “That place! It’s no use for anything.”

  “We could recondition it.”

  “Never.”

  He continued to insist that it was impossible; but, when I pressed ten shillings into his palm, he finally consented, although with a bad grace, to my plan.

  That same evening, when it was dusk, we moved all my gear from the test-room to the derelict pavilion. Then Pim, grumbling all the time, began to restore the place to a primitive sort of order, fitting a new faucet for me, connecting up the cut-off electric wires, restoring the worst of the rotted woodwork. Dirty and tired, we stopped at ten o’clock when he had to fetch some of the sisters from the station.

  It took two more nights to complete the job, and the result was poor enough. Still, it was my own place, draughty and unheated, but with a stout bench, water, electricity, four walls, and a roof. Sister Cameron, who was in charge of the scarlatina ward, had made for me, from old bed-jackets, three curtains of red flannel which, rigged up behind the shutters, permitted not a blink of light to escape. A new lock, fitted to the door, gave to me the sole right of entry and of egress. And by running an invisible wire from the bell-push on the door of my living quarters, Pim had arranged an indicator which would give me warning when I was wanted. I had, in short, a secret laboratory, a fort, an arsenal of research, from which no one could dislodge me. Every evening, after my final round of the wards, I made a detour to the shrubbery and, in the falling darkness, I slipped into the thick laurel bushes and gained the sanctuary of the pavilion. I was hard at work by nine o’clock.

  Keeping myself going with black coffee, which I brewed myself, I worked usually until one in the morning; and sometimes, in the absorption of my quest, I kept on until dawn and did not go to bed at all, relying on a cold shower and hard rub-down to freshen me for breakfast, and the duties of the coming day.

  I progressed rapidly, but this constant application was taking toll of my nerves, and in the afternoons I began to make use of Luke’s motor-cycle. Nothing was more soothing than a swift rush along the empty country roads, this whizzing anaesthesia of speed. And the bike, as though imbued with a homing instinct, brought me always to the vicinity of Blairhill, bearing me, with a roar and a crackle, past the gate of the villa Siloam.

  One afternoon, instead of flashing past, I slowed down, ran the machine up the little back lane, and stopped behind the garden wall. It was not a high stone wall, and I scaled it easily. And there, in the latticed summer-house, almost at my feet, was the daughter of the baker of Blairhill.

  Still unconscious of my presence, she was seated at a rustic table, bareheaded and wearing a short jacket, with her chin in her cupped hand, a medical textbook and a paper bag of plums before her. She was studying, of course. Yet so pensive was her air, so absent her manner, so remote her gaze, and so frequently did her fingers dip into the paper bag, I began to fear that her application to Osler’s Practice of Medicine was not all that it might be. She had indeed, since my arrival, without once turning a page, consumed, in a melancholy fashion, three ripe plums; and now, sadly selecting her fourth, had, with a faint sigh, plunged her white teeth into its succulent flesh, so that little drops of ruddy juice ran down her chin when, glancing up suddenly, she caught sight of me upon the wall. She started, and almost swallowed the plum-stone.

  “It’s all right,” I said. “ I haven’t come to steal anything.”

  She still choked on the stone.

  “Oh, Mr. Shannon … I’m so glad to see you … I was just thinking … about our awful misunderstanding … and wondering how on earth I could put it right.”

  “I thought you were working.”

  “Yes, I was,” she admitted, but with a faint blush. “ In a sort of a way. My exam’s in four weeks’ time.” She sighed. “I don’t seem to be getting on.”

  “Perhaps you need some fresh air,” I suggested. “ I have Luke’s bike here. Will you come for a spin?”

  Her eyes sparkled.

  “I should love it.”

  She got to her feet and, reaching down, I helped her, quite unnecessarily, for she was light and agile, to the top of the wall. We dropped down on the other side. The next minute she was seated on the pillion, I had kicked at the starter, and we were off.

  It was a brilliant August day and, as we escaped from the winding streets of Blairhill, encouraged by the sunshine and the delightful rapidity of our motion, guided, also, by some strange, nostalgic compulsion, I set our course for the village of Markinch upon the souther
n shore of Loch Lomond. The countryside was superb, the Darroch foothills agleam with wheatfields in full ear and starred with patches of scarlet poppies. On the fertile slopes of Gowrie the orchards of pear, apple, and plum lay heavy with ripe fruit, and the pickers, filling, with seeming indolence, the pannier baskets strapped about their waists, waved to us as we sped past. Defying the rush of air, I shouted over my shoulder to my companion.

  “Fine, isn’t it?” We survived a series of exhilarating bounces and dodged, by inches, a stationary farm-cart. “You hang on well. I suppose you often go out with Luke?”

  With her lips close to my ear she shouted back:

  “Oh, yes, quite often.” But in her tone there was that which disparaged all previous excursions, which put Luke severely in his place as a mere brother, which exalted this present moment to an incomparable plane. More and more I became conscious of the circlet of her arms about my waist, the light contact of her form behind me, the pressure of her cheek against my ribs, as she burrowed for protection against the wind.

  About five o’clock we swept over the crest of Markinch Brae; and there, before us, was the Loch, cool and unruffled, bearing the deep blue of the unclouded sky, with richly wooded slopes rising from its edges to the sharp, ridged mountains of a paler blue, beyond. Breaking the surface of the still expanse, a chain of small green islands lay mirrored, like a jade necklace, and, upon the nearer shore, there was clustered a little clachan of white-washed cottages, embowered in honeysuckle and wild dog-roses.

  This was Markinch, the most favoured of all my boyhood haunts, whither I had so often come, alone, or with my friend Gavin Blair, to find solace for my wounded soul. And now, as we descended the steep, winding hill, I experienced again, and more intensely, that inner glow always awakened in my breast by this sleepy, forgotten little spot, steeped in summer quiet, drenched in the scent of honeysuckle, with no sounds but the drone of bees, the splash of a fish in the shallows, and no sign of life but a single collie dog, a drowsy sentinel, stretched in the white dust by the little pier at which the toy red-funnelled steamer of the Loch called once a week.

  At the end of the short village street I drew up and we detached ourselves stiffly and somewhat self-consciously from the machine, which, although fuming and smelling of hot oil, had nobly withstood the heat and burden of the day.

  “Well …” I said, finding it strangely difficult to meet her eye after the close communion of our journey. “ That was a glorious run. I expect it’s given you an appetite for tea.”

  She glanced around appreciatively, but, having failed to discover even a single village store, she turned to me smiling, and with an air of intimate comradeship.

  “It’s beautiful. But we’ll never get anything to eat.”

  “I can’t let you starve.” I led the way to the last little white cottage of the row, where, above the porch, almost concealed by climbing scarlet fuchsias, there was a weathered sign bearing the cryptic word: Minerals—which in that Northern district is to be interpreted as meaning “ soft drinks.”

  I knocked at the door, and presently there appeared a small bent woman in a dark tartan dress.

  “Good afternoon. Can you give us some tea?”

  She gazed up at us with a discouraging shake of her head. “Na, na. I dinna sell aught but the aerated watters … Reid’s Lemonade and Barr’s Iron Brew.”

  My companion shot me a justified glance, but I continued:

  “You surprise me, Janet. Many a time you’ve given me a lovely tea. Don’t you remember when we used to come fishing … Gavin and I … and the salmon we caught for you …? I’m Robert Shannon.”

  At my use of her Christian name she had started and now, peering closely at me like a little old witch, she uttered an exclamation of affectionate recognition, that cry which springs instinctively from the Highland heart, so slow always to recognize strangers but warm, ever warm to a friend.

  “Guid sakes alive. If I’d had my specs I would have kenned you. It’s you, yourself, Robert.”

  “Indeed it is, Janet. And this is Miss Law. And if you turn us from your door we’ll just fade away and never come back.”

  “I’ll no do that, though,” cried Janet vigorously. “Na, na. Heaven forbid. Ye’ll have the finest tea in Markinch inside ten minutes.”

  “Can we have it in the garden, Janet?”

  “Ye can that! Well, well! It beats a’. Robert Shannon, grown up now, and a doctor … Ay, ay, ye canna deny it. I read a’ about ye in the Lennox Herald…”

  With these, and many other ejaculations, Janet ushered us through to her back garden, then scurried off to the dark little kitchen where through the fixed window we caught glimpses of her bent figure bustling about with a big iron griddle.

  As a result of her willing labours we were soon seated, under the wooden trellis, before that plain but delicious fare I had savoured, here, in the past—new baked scones and home-churned butter, boiled fresh eggs, heather honey in the comb, and strong black tea. Jean said grace gravely, with closed eyes, then, naturally, and with good appetite, she began the wholesome country meal.

  At first, old Janet hung about, eager for all my news, and glancing at us with native shrewdness, embarrassing us considerably by her questions. After a while, however, when she had replenished the tea-pot, she left us. And, with a sigh of contentment, Miss Jean turned towards me.

  “This is so lovely,” she exclaimed, happily, guilelessly. “And to think that we nearly missed it all. If I hadn’t asked you to be friends, that day in Grant’s … You’ve no idea what a lot of nerve it took … I was shaking all over.”

  “Do you regret it?”

  “No.” She blushed faintly. “ Do you?”

  I shook my head silently, still looking at her, causing her gaze to fall, a gesture of timidity, which, as on that occasion when I had passed her, sad and solitary, outside Hillier’s on Fenner Hill, sent over me a throbbing wave of tenderness. How pretty she was, in this country setting, wind-swept and glowing, virginal and sweet. A gipsy, perhaps. Her clustered hair was brown, held by a brown ribbon, brown also were her eyes, and her face, which had tiny freckles of a deeper brown dusted upon it.

  Playing nervously with her teaspoon, she remarked, as though attempting to return the conversation to an ordinary level:

  “Can you smell the honeysuckle? I’m sure it’s somewhere in the garden.”

  I did not answer, though the scent of the flower, or of something sweeter, was mounting in my blood. Beset by an emotion that was strange and new, I tried to direct my thoughts into the plane of reason, to my research experiments, towards the innumerable dissections which I had coldly performed in the Department mortuary. How, in the light of these, could I ever find beauty in the human form? But, alas! I could. I thought then, in desperation, of those amœbæ, lowest form of all cellular life, which, when placed together beneath the microscope upon a slide, are instinctively attracted. Had I not a mind, an understanding, and a will to save me from that blind reaction? I heard myself saying, independent of my own volition:

  “Shall we take a stroll? It’s not late yet. We’ll not go far.”

  She hesitated. Yet she also was reluctant to break the spell that lay upon us.

  “Do come,” I urged. “ It’s still early.”

  “For a little way then,” she consented, in a low voice.

  I left a generous present upon the table, and we took our leave of Janet. Then we set out slowly over the narrow pathway to the winding shore of the Loch. Twilight was beginning to fall, a crescent moon swung high in the eastern sky and was bosomed in the mysterious depths of the dark water beneath. The air was soft, gentle as a caress. Away in the distance a grey heron cried and was answered remotely by its mate. Then the low lapping of the lake became part of the stillness of the night.

  In silence we followed the muted water’s edge until, reaching a little sandy cove, sheltered by banks of meadowsweet and mint, we stopped, suddenly, and turned towards each other. An instant of expect
ation. Her lips were warm and dry, parted as though in sacrifice, offering themselves in the pure and perfect knowledge that never before had they been kissed by any man.

  Not a word was spoken. I held my breath, my heart was beating in my breast, as though fearful of a kind of death. But no, the enchantment was prolonged, there was nothing but that sweet, that single kiss. Her innocence had conquered.

  As we walked back slowly, a pure white mist crept over the water like breath upon a mirror. Veils of vapour loomed over the land, filling the valleys with a rimed and ghostly air. And although for me the moon shone with a brighter radiance, strangely, my dear companion shivered.

  Chapter Six

  On the afternoon of September 29, in my laboratory daybook, which I used as a diary and a record of my work, I made this elated entry:

  “This morning at 2 a.m. I finally identified Bacillus C.

  “It is none other than Brucella melitensis, an obscure cocco-bacillus which David Bruce isolated in 1886 during an outbreak of fever in Malta caused by the milk of infected goats.

  “This bacillus, confined, apparently, to the Mediterranean littoral, and, according to the text-books, transmitted only by goats, had always been regarded as of mere historical interest or at least of minor importance in the field of general medicine. This belief is wholly incorrect.

  “On the contrary, Brucella melitensis is the causal organism of the recent severe epidemic here, and almost certainly, of other clinically similar epidemics currently reported in Europe and the United States. From careful checking of the data at my command, I am convinced that, in the present instance, transmission by goats’milk may be ruled out as an impossibility. I suspect, in fact, as the infective agent, the milk of cows. Should this be so, the importance of this discovery cannot be over-estimated.”

  I threw down the pen and, with a glance at the clock, snatched up my cap and hurried from the hospital to Dalnair Station to catch my train. I was meeting Jean in Winton at three o’clock and, glowing with excitement, I could scarcely wait to give her my wonderful news.