Healing in the Hills

by Ruth Clemence

  ‘I don’t mind the country,’ Ismay replied, ‘in fact I rather like it, and walking’s my strong suit.’

  ‘I don’t suppose Anne will be able to do any walking immediately, but as soon as she’s on her feet again I expect a little gentle exercise will be good for her. Now if you’re really prepared to give it a try, I wonder if you could come tomorrow?’ He was not the type to waste time, Ismay noted. ‘I’ve looked up the trains and I expect you’ll want to come via London, it’s quite the best route. If you catch the five past one from Euston, I’ll meet you in Penrith. I happen to have a couple of private patients to see there tomorrow anyway, so it will fit in nicely.’

  ‘I think I can manage that,’ Ismay replied rather faintly. Even Peter at his worst had never been quite so peremptory.

  ‘Good! How shall I recognize you?’ the voice demanded.

  Ismay hesitated. She had not given a thought to this point and she shied from making the hoary old suggestion that she could be recognized by the red carnation in her buttonhole. ‘I shall be carrying a green suitcase,’ she answered hurriedly, ‘probably two.’ She certainly would not be using the brand new initialled travelling luggage Peter had brought as part of his wedding gift. No, her two old hospital suitcases would be the thing.

  ‘I’ll look out for a girl with a green suitcase, then,’ Lewis Kynoch’s voice sounded amused. ‘Dark or fair?’

  ‘Dark,’ Ismay replied, ignoring that hint of mischievousness.

  ‘Fine, then I’ll be seeing you around five-forty-five. Oh and by the way, as you’ll be living as one of the family, don’t bring any uniforms,, please. Good-bye for now,’ and the phone went dead.

  Slowly Ismay replaced the receiver, but she stood thoughtfully for a few minutes in the hall before she returned to the living room to rejoin her mother. Mrs. Carroll was counting stitches and as soon as she had finished she put down her knitting and looked up questioningly. ‘Yes, it was Lewis Kynoch. He wants me to start tomorrow.’

  ‘That’s quick. Hardly gives you time to pack,’ Mrs. Carroll said. ‘And are you going?’

  ‘I said “yes”. He informed me that there’s a good train from Euston around lunchtime, and I’m to be met at Penrith. Apparently they live miles from anywhere. I’ll have to phone and give you the address when I reach there, for I completely forgot to ask him, but you could always get me via Miss Fellows if there was anything urgent in the meantime. I’m quite sure she knows the address and telephone number. Perhaps I’d better ring up and thank her.’

  ‘I should leave it, my dear, and write to her once you’re settled in,’ Mrs. Carroll advised. ‘No need to rush it. She’s probably gone off duty now anyway and won’t want to be disturbed. I know I wouldn’t after a long working day in the hospital.’

  Dr. Carroll looked tired when he came in, but after the evening meal was over Ismay told him of the telephone call and her plans to go north the following day.

  ‘I think it’s a good idea,’ he said after she had given him a short account of her conversation with Lewis Kynoch. ‘Time you were picking up the threads again and doing something. And it fits in rather well. Mother and I didn’t want to worry you, but it’s Robin’s half term this week-end and we’d tentatively planned to pick him up from school and spend the week-end with Aunt Edith and Uncle Bill.’

  ‘Goodness! I’d quite forgotten.’ Ismay looked conscience-stricken. ‘What’s more, I’ve never even written to him this term.’

  Robin, her young brother, was in his last term at boarding school. ‘He’ll think I’m a monster, neglecting him like this.’

  ‘Well, hardly, in the circumstances,’ Dr. Carroll remarked dryly, and then looked quickly over his newspaper at Ismay’s face. ‘The person who may be upset at your leaving is Mrs. McNeil. You’d best go in and tell her, unless you’d prefer Mother to do it,’ he said, and he looked across at his wife.

  Mrs. Carroll had picked up her knitting again, and although she did not say anything, she did not appear enthusiastic at the suggestion that she should be nominated to explain Ismay’s sudden departure. ‘No, I’ll tell her myself,’ Ismay said. ‘I know Mr. McNeil likes to have a sleep after his supper, so I’ll go in about a quarter past nine. I shall have to go and say good-bye in any case, and there may not be time in the morning. I might as well get it over this evening.’

  But Ismay knew as she went down the garden path and round into the McNeils’ drive that it was going to be an ordeal. And when she told Mrs. McNeil that she had accepted a new job and was starting at once, to her consternation Peter’s mother broke down and burst into tears. Ismay could feel a lump coming into her throat, but she determinedly fought back the tears and putting her arms round Mrs. McNeil looked over her head appealingly for help towards Peter’s father.

  ‘At least while you were here it didn’t seem quite so bad,’ Mrs. McNeil sobbed. ‘You were a link with him.’

  Ismay coaxed her into her chair and sitting down on the floor took Mrs. McNeil’s hands between her own. ‘It’s only a temporary job, you know. I shall be back in a couple of months or so. I’m going to nurse a couple of girls, one of whom has had an operation.’

  ‘Just the same,’ Mrs. McNeil mopped at her eyes with a diminutive linen handkerchief, ‘you won’t be here where I can see you every day. I like to think of you next door, sharing my thoughts and feelings.’

  Ismay sighed inwardly. ‘I know how difficult it is for you,’ she began, ‘but no matter how hard we try we can’t bring Peter back. We’ve both got to grit our teeth and face it.’

  ‘That’s the first sensible remark I’ve heard in this house for some time,’ Mr. McNeil interrupted, and rattled his newspaper before shaking it into place and putting it down beside the chair. Two pairs of eyes regarded him from the other side of the fireplace, but he paused long enough to light a cigarette before he went on. ‘Peter would have hated the snivelling that’s been going on ever since he died. It was a piece of diabolical bad luck, but we’ve got to accept it. That’s all there is to it,’ he finished firmly, and getting up, he walked abruptly out of the room.

  He returned a few minutes later to say rather gruffly, ‘Sorry about that outburst, Ismay, my dear. I hope you’ll be happy in the Lake District. It’s lovely up there at this time of year. Try and see some of the beauty spots as well as looking after your small patient,’ and he walked out again.

  ‘I’ve never known Gordon talk like that before,’ Mrs. McNeil confided. Her tears had dried in sheer surprise.

  ‘Perhaps he felt Peter’s death as much if not more than us,’ Ismay suggested, ‘but men aren’t supposed to cry, are they?’ and she smiled rather mistily up into Mrs. McNeil’s face. ‘I’ll write to you when I get there, I promise you, and let you know what it’s like. I’m not going away for ever—and Mum and Dad are still next door, after all. You have them to turn to.’

  ‘Yes,’ Mrs. McNeil sighed. ‘Now I think you’d better run along before I weep a few more salt tears over you. You’ll have your packing to do anyway if you’re going off tomorrow.’

  Although she lingered a minute or two longer and kissed Mrs. McNeil a loving good-bye Ismay was not sorry to get away and hurry back to her own house. This was just the sort of scene she would have to avoid if she were ever to get back to normal.

  Later that evening when she had sorted out and packed the kind of clothes she thought would be suitable for the country in our uncertain English weather, Ismay went to bed, to have once more the recurring dream which had haunted her of late. Always it was the same. The drive back from the little cottage which she and Peter were modernizing. The rain coming down harder and ever harder as they turned for home, and of Peter getting out to look at the tyre which had gone flat suddenly and unexpectedly as they reached the main road. Neither of them had seen the car which had driven up behind, appearing out of the dark at such speed that Peter had been unable to step back to safety. And in the dream once again Ismay saw his body spread-eagled in the road, the rain pouring r
emorselessly upon it, and felt the helplessness overwhelm her as it had done on that fatal night.

  She woke, as she did every time the dream came back, to the imagined sound of ambulance sirens ringing in her ears, and found that her forehead was wet with perspiration. She got up and putting on a dressing gown went along to the bathroom. As she bathed her hands and face and had a drink of water, her eyes looked gravely back at her from the bathroom mirror out of a stark white face. She knew from past experience that it was quite useless to go back to bed and expect to fall asleep again. The only solution would be to fetch a book and read until it was time for her to get up and prepare for her journey. As she selected a novel from her bedroom bookshelf she prayed silently for dreamless nights when she got to the Lakes.

  CHAPTER TWO

  It was rather a pale listless-looking girl therefore who got into the train shortly after ten o’clock next day and waved until her mother’s face was no more than a blur. Ismay sank back into her seat, glad of the anonymity of this crowded railway compartment. It was a popular time of day to travel and the carriage was packed, two children even sitting squashed into one seat beside their parents.

  An hour and a quarter later the train ran into Liverpool Street station dead on time. Ismay got up and began to take down her cases from the rack. It had been an uneventful journey which she had spent gazing out at the landscape, half the time oblivious to the-beauty of the countryside through which they had passed before the outskirts of London were reached. She decided as her cases were heavy that the underground was out of the question, so walking to the taxi rank she joined the queue.

  It seemed only a few minutes before the people in front of her had got into their taxis and driven off and she was next in line. When she reached Euston she spent a few minutes gazing at the magazines on the stall. Perhaps it would be a good idea to supply herself with some reading matter before she started on the longer leg of the journey. She picked up a couple of women’s magazines at random, paid for them, and hurried along to the platform to find that her train was already in and waiting.

  It was early and as yet not crowded so that she had no difficulty in finding a corner seat beside the window. She decided to see if there was a food trolley on the platform and if so get something to eat. It would help to pass the time and she was beginning to feel empty.

  Hunger was a thing which had eluded her the past few weeks. Formerly a healthy eater, she had found it difficult to face meals of late and had even considered approaching her father for a prescription that might help to restore her appetite. It would be rather nice, she thought, to look on food again with at least a modicum of enthusiasm instead of the usual apathy with which she regarded mealtimes at the moment merely as necessary evils to be got through as quickly as possible.

  When she returned with a packet of sandwiches and a cold drink, a lady and gentleman were sitting in the compartment in which she had left her cases, and later three other passengers came and settled themselves. Ismay now browsing through one, of her magazines never so much as glanced at any of them. She was still hidden behind a magazine when the train gave a slight jerk and she looked up to see what was happening and found herself staring straight into the eyes of the man facing her.

  Determinedly she gazed at a cartoon, but the humour was lost on her wandering mind. It was quite obvious from that one quick look, that he had been studying her for some time. Ismay held the magazine higher. She had no wish to enter into conversation with any of the occupants of the carriage. To her relief as soon as they were clear of the station lunch was announced and three of the passengers including the man opposite got up to avail themselves of the restaurant car facilities.

  As soon as they had gone Ismay started her own frugal lunch, glad that she had had the forethought to buy it before the train departed. An hour later her travelling companions strolled down the corridor and re-entered the compartment, and as the man in the opposite seat sat down he smiled across at Ismay.

  Good manners prompted her to return the smile. It appeared he was a friendly type of man and however hard she tried, if he was intent on starting a conversation with her he would do so, she guessed, on one pretext or another.

  ‘I must say these trains are a big improvement on the ones I used to travel in when I was home last time,’ he remarked casually as he settled himself more comfortably in his seat. ‘And the speed of these diesels is a great improvement on the old steam trains. Don’t you agree?’

  Ismay nodded. She was spared having to answer, however, as he went on, ‘And whatever they say about railway food, I’ve just had a jolly good meal in the diner.’

  ‘Have you?’ Ismay tried to make her voice as cool as she could.

  ‘Didn’t you feel like a proper lunch?’ the man opposite inquired. ‘I missed breakfast this morning, so I was good and ready to tuck in. We finished off with a jolly good cheese board too, one of my favourites.’

  ‘Really! British Rail should give themselves a medal, then,’ Ismay remarked, knowing as the words left her lips that she sounded pompous.

  ‘Not on a diet, are you?’ the man asked. Ismay blushed faintly, but without giving her time to reply he went on, ‘I’m making food and catering in general my life’s work in future. I’m joining my brother in running a small hotel near Grasmere. I’ve been in the Navy till now, so it’s all going to be quite new to me. I’ll have to learn things from the bottom up, so food is first on my list for study. I landed at Portsmouth my last trip and I’ve been taking a few notes as I travelled around. Stopped off in London on purpose to stay at a couple of hotels and also sample some of the newer London restaurants. Of course we shan’t need to cater on quite such a high standard. People usually come to the Lakes for a quiet holiday or to hike, and they want good substantial English cooking after a day in the open air.’ Ismay nodded once more and the man, apparently not a bit embarrassed by her silence, continued, ‘I’m not going to take a standard catering course, it won’t be necessary. My brother’s well trained in that direction. No, actually I shall do more the managerial side of the business, but I feel I should know all the angles. We only bought the place six weeks ago, so he’s almost as much a tyro at it yet as I am. Actually owning a hotel, I should say. He’s been in the catering business all his life, but working for other people until now. You’ll have to come and be one of our first customers. Do you live in the Lakes?’

  ‘No, I’m just going to stay there for a while.’

  ‘Anywhere in the Grasmere district?’ the man asked, quite unabashed by the abrupt replies he was receiving from the uncommunicative girl sitting opposite to him.

  ‘Near Keswick, actually.’

  ‘Well, it’s not far away. You’ll have to come and sample my brother’s cooking, or anyway, the chefs.’

  ‘Thank you. That would be very nice. I might just do that one day,’ Ismay remarked faintly, hoping that he was not going to make it a firm invitation.

  ‘You won’t be getting off at Kendal, then?’

  ‘No,’ Ismay replied, ‘I’m going on to Penrith.’

  ‘Pity! I could have offered you a lift. My brother’s meeting me and driving me up the rest of the way. We would have been only too happy to drop you off wherever you’re staying.’

  ‘That’s very kind of you,’ Ismay said hurriedly, ‘but I’m being met, as it happens.’

  The man opposite glanced across, frank admiration in his eyes. ‘Perhaps I should introduce myself. My name’s Ivor Thomas,’ and he held out his hand.

  For a moment Ismay hesitated, but there was really nothing else she could.do but take his outstretched hand and murmur in return, ‘Ismay Carroll.’

  ‘Mm,’ said the man. ‘Pretty name. Unusual too. I don’t think I’ve ever heard it before.’

  A faint delicate flush crept up Ismay’s cheeks. This was most people’s reaction on first hearing her Christian name, and if she was going to be studied so blatantly she thought she would return the compliment. Ivor Thomas was not unattractiv
e, but he was certainly a rather strange-looking man. His hair was cut much shorter than the usual fashion these days, and the sideburns also were brief, ending about the middle of his ears. He had a tanned complexion and bright blue eyes, but in a decade where casual styles were the fashion his black hair, which grew thick and low on his forehead and temples, was obviously kept rigidly disciplined.

  Ismay had subconsciously observed when he strode to go to the dining car that he was not tall, probably not much taller than herself, and that he was stocky in build with wide shoulders. Had he a rolling sailor’s gait? Ismay wondered, and smiled inwardly. Ashe came back from lunch she had not been sufficiently interested even to glance up, so she had no idea if he swayed like most sailors were reputed to do.

  ‘What are you smiling about?’ he asked abruptly.

  Ismay shook her head. A half dismayed expression spread fully across her face. ‘I was just wondering if you walked with a roll as you’re a seaman,’ she answered frankly, whereupon Ivor Thomas threw back his head and burst out laughing. After that the ice was really broken and despite her initial reluctance he and Ismay talked companionably together until the train reached Kendal.

  By this time he had told her he was a bachelor, liked girls though he had not yet met one he wanted to marry and settle down with and had insisted on pressing upon her his address and telephone number. Ismay did not, however, confide in him her real reason for travelling north and managed to parry his many attempts to find out the name of the ‘friends’ she would be staying with.

  He smiled rather ruefully as he held out his hand to say good-bye. ‘I thought all girls these days prided themselves on being fully emancipated,’ he remarked, ‘but you’re the cagiest creature I’ve met in years. However, thank you, Ismay, for making this such a pleasant journey, even if you have made it obvious you don’t permit yourself to give anything away to a chance-met stranger. Pity! I rather go for your type.’