Shoulder the Sky (Drumberley Book 3)

by D. E. Stevenson

  “You weren’t worried about him, were you?” she said. “He’s getting on splendidly. Jock and I strapped up his ribs and he says they’re fairly comfortable except when he laughs, or coughs. But the cough is better too. Of course he’ll be delighted to see you.”

  Henry realised that his medical mission had been unnecessary and for a moment he felt rather a fool, but his welcome was too cordial for the feeling to last long. Even James, who for some reason had always been a little cold in his manner, thawed into cordiality and wanted to hear all his adventures; which way he had come and how he had accomplished the arduous journey.

  “Over the saddle!” exclaimed James incredulously. “I shouldn’t have thought it possible. And to attempt it alone!” For James knew the terrain, it was mostly Boscath ground, and he knew more about skiing than the other members of the party.

  “I met one of your sheep on the way,” said Henry smiling. “At least I suppose it was one of yours …” and he told them the story of the operation he had performed upon the reluctant animal.

  “Very decent of you,” declared James. “That’s what starts foot-rot. We’ll have to look out for foot-rot when the snow melts.”

  Henry was unwilling to break up the tobogganing party and assured his friends that he was capable of continuing upon his way alone, but Mamie insisted upon accompanying him.

  “Of course I’m coming with you,” said Mamie earnestly. “It would be awful if you were drowned in the river after coming all that way across the hills,”

  This was such a Mamie-ish remark that the others laughed.

  “You know what I mean quite well,” declared Mamie. “It’s the sort of thing that does happen to people; they come through the most frightful dangers without a scratch and then get killed by a tile falling off a roof.”

  Rhoda smiled. She was aware that this fate had befallen some well-known hero of Ancient Rome — or was it Greece? — and she had a shrewd suspicion that Mamie knew all about it, but that her innate modesty prevented her from mentioning the fact.

  While they had been talking Henry had removed his skis, and now that he was ready he and Mamie set off together down the hill. They crossed the river without mishap and walked up the path to Mureth.

  “It was very good of you to come,” declared Mamie. “I was anxious about Adam at first and of course there was no possible way of getting a doctor. He’s getting better now but all the same it will be a great relief to my mind for you to see him and perhaps you’ll be able to suggest something we can do for him. I’ll ring up your mother and tell her you’ve arrived safely while you go up to Adam. It will be a lovely surprise for him when you walk in.”

  So Henry went up the stairs and, guided by the directions of his hostess, he opened the door of Adam’s room and walked in.

  “Well!” exclaimed Henry. “What have you been doing to yourself, you young ruffian?”

  “Henry!” cried Adam joyously. “How marvellous! I’ve been simply panting to see you, wondering how on earth I was going to bear it until I could get hold of you. Shut the door and come here. I’m simply bursting with news.”

  Adam’s eyes were so bright and his face so flushed with excitement that his visitor believed him to be in a high fever and after shutting the door obediently he went over to the bed and took Adam’s hand in his.

  “It’s all right,” declared Adam. “There’s a little fever but nothing to bother about. You can sound me afterwards if you like. First I want to tell you what I’ve discovered. Listen, Henry …”

  35

  THE STORY which Adam had to tell was so unexpected that at first Henry did not believe it (it was all the more difficult to believe because Adam was too excited to tell it in proper order), but after a few minutes Henry began to get the gist of it and to realise that it was true. Elizabeth was found. He got up and walked about the room struggling with a dozen different emotions, trying to adjust himself and to be calm … He must be calm for Adam’s sake, it was obvious that Adam was not in a fit state to be further excited and disturbed.

  “I feel — quite dazed,” declared Henry.

  “Of course,” nodded Adam. “Anybody would feel dazed.”

  “I can’t think. I don’t know what to do.”

  “Do nothing at all until you’ve thought it over quietly. There’s no hurry about it.”

  “It’s difficult to believe!”

  “Yes, but it’s true. You know, Henry, the boy is so like you that it seems strange nobody noticed it before.”

  “That boy — yes, I’ve always had an odd sort of feeling about him. As a matter of fact I told Rhoda I’d be responsible for his future. That’s funny, isn’t it? Why on earth does everybody call him Duggie?”

  “Do you mean that isn’t his name?”

  “His name is Henry. I mean he was christened Henry,” said Henry, still in that vague, bewildered voice.

  “So he’s Henry Ogylvie Smith?”

  “Yes.” Henry walked over to the fire and then walked back. He said, “And he feels it too. I mean he likes me … my son! I wish I could see what to do about it all.”

  “It will work out.”

  “Elizabeth is the problem,” said Henry. “I’ve been looking for her for years, but now — now I almost wish she hadn’t been found. I don’t feel as if I could cope with it, somehow. I feel helpless.”

  “But don’t you see it’s the best thing that could possibly have happened! You’ve been worrying yourself silly about her, haven’t you? Well, here she is, perfectly safe and sound.”

  That was true, thought Henry. At least he was free from anxiety as to Elizabeth’s fate. She was safe and well. All this time when he had been searching for her she had been here within a few miles of his home. He walked over to the window and looked out unseeingly. Anger rose in his heart.

  “Why on earth didn’t she write to me!” he exclaimed.

  “She just drifted —” began Adam.

  “Drifted!” cried Henry, seizing on the word. “Yes, she just drifted along comfortably, never thinking about me at all. It was cruel!”

  Adam had used the same word. “Yes,” he agreed. “But she didn’t mean to be cruel, you know.”

  “It was cruel,” repeated Henry. “It was cruel and wicked. You don’t know — nobody knows what I’ve suffered.” He thought of all the nights he had lain awake agonising over Elizabeth and the baby, of how he had blamed himself for allowing them to remain in Glasgow, of how he had imagined them frightened, trapped in the blazing house, of how he had imagined them starving in the gutter … and all the time they had been here at Mureth safe and happy.

  “Silly people are often cruel,” said Adam. “You know that yourself. People with no imagination are cruel because they don’t realise what other people are suffering.” He stopped suddenly, surprised to find himself making excuses for her.

  Henry did not reply in words; he threw out his hands in a foreign gesture, a gesture with shades of meaning which it would be difficult to convey in words.

  After that there was silence in the room for several long minutes. Henry was still gazing out of the window so only his back was visible. What was he thinking, Adam wondered, was he brooding over the past or trying to make plans for the future? He was angry, that at least was obvious, and Adam was glad he was angry. Adam had interpreted the gesture as a cussing off of all responsibility — that was all to the good. There was less chance of any quixotic ideas arising in Henry’s mind to spoil the prospect of future happiness.

  “One thing is certain,” said Henry at last. “She has made it very obvious that she doesn’t want to have anything more to do with me, hasn’t she?”

  Adam found this difficult to answer.

  “Hasn’t she?” repeated Henry, swinging round and looking at his friend.

  “Well — yes,” agreed Adam. “She said nothing would induce her to leave Mrs. Johnstone. She’s happy here.”

  “I suppose I had better see her and find out —”

  “N
o, don’t do that!” exclaimed Adam, raising himself from his pillows in his earnestness. “You must see your lawyer first. Don’t see her whatever you do, especially just now when you’re angry with her.”

  “I’m not angry!”

  “You’re furious,” Adam told him. “And you’ve every right to be furious, but you mustn’t speak to her when you’re feeling like that. Don’t mention it to anybody until you’ve seen your lawyer and asked his advice — not anybody …” implored Adam, beginning to cough. “Promise, Henry! You’ll go and wreck everything — if you begin dashing about — like a bull — in a china shop …” He was coughing uncontrollably now, shaken to pieces with the paroxysm, gasping for breath.

  Henry came over to him and held him tightly until he was better and then laid him back upon his pillows. He was crimson in the face and his forehead was wet with beads of sweat.

  “It’s all right, H.O.,” he whispered. “Bad for the ribs, that’s all. Damned painful. You promise not to do anything silly, don’t you?”

  “Yes, yes,” said Henry soothingly. “I’ll promise anything you like. I’ll promise to do nothing and tell nobody until I’ve consulted Mr. Murray. Does that satisfy you? Now lie still and keep quiet; we’ll have a look at that chest.”

  Adam managed not to smile while his chest was being sounded but when he turned over for his back to be sounded he hid a smile in the pillow. The fit of coughing, though exceedingly unpleasant and painful, had come at an opportune moment. H.O. was first and foremost a doctor.

  “H’m,” said Henry, as he folded up his stethoscope. “I think we’ll —”

  “No,” said Adam firmly. “I’m having no sulphonomide, Henry. I’m better. I don’t care what you found in my chest. I’m better, I tell you. I’ve been lying here for four days comfortable and warm, fed on eggs and cream. Mother Nature is curing me in her own sweet way. As a matter of fact I’ve been thinking a lot about a number of things (including drugs) and I’ve decided to go a bit easy on drugs in the future.”

  “Isn’t that nice?” said Henry smiling. “As a matter of fact I wasn’t going to mention sulphonomide. Your chest is clearing nicely. I think I could improve upon the strapping and give you more support.”

  Adam had the grace to feel ashamed. “That would be grand,” he said. “Don’t think I’m ungrateful, will you? It was most awfully good of you to come and see me, but — by the way how on earth did you come?”

  Henry burst out laughing.

  *

  While Henry was upstairs an exciting event had occurred at Mureth: the small red post-office van had arrived to deliver four days’ mail. Mamie saw it from the window and could scarcely believe her eyes. (Noah could not have been more pleased and surprised when the dove returned to the ark with the olive branch in its beak.) Mamie ran out to welcome the van and, as most of the cottagers had felt the same impulse, the van was surrounded by an admiring throng. Everybody wanted to know how the postman had managed to get through, and everybody was eager to offer him refreshment. In normal times the little red van was a daily visitant and the postman, Tom Tod, was an old friend. That he was also a second cousin once removed of Mrs. Couper’s made him kin to Mureth and a sort of free-man of the place.

  “Tom Tod!” exclaimed Mamie breathlessly. “Is the road open, then?”

  “Aye, it’s opened this morning,” replied Mr. Tod. “They’ve been going at it hammer and tongs for the best part of three days. I’m not saying it’s a joy-ride, ye ken, but I won through.” He gave the impression that it would take more than a perilous road to hinder the distribution of His Majesty’s Mail.

  “It’s marvellous!” Mamie declared. “I feel as if we’d been snowed-up for weeks.”

  There was a murmur of agreement from the cottagers. Everybody had felt the same.

  Tom Tod distributed letters and parcels, most of which were for Mamie (he had also brought a parcel of groceries for his cousin) and having finished his business at Mureth he enquired whether it would be possible to continue up the valley. “There’s a wheen of letters and parcels for Tassieknowe,” explained Tom Tod. “The van’s full of them. I never saw such an amount of stuff as comes for Tassieknowe in all my life. It’s like Christmas Day every day of the year for them.”

  “I can well believe it,” said Willy Bell with a grim smile. “They get the most of their stores by post from London. Drumburly shops are beneath the notice of grand folks like them.”

  “All but their mutton,” said Tom Tod with dry humour.

  The others laughed.

  “Well, they’ll need to wait,” declared Willy Bell. “There’s some things no amount of money can buy. I went up the road a bit this morning and I can tell you for certain you’ll not win through to Tassieknowe till the thaw comes. The doctor’s wee car is still buried, there’s nothing to be seen of it but the roof and not much of that. Dear knows what it’ll be like when we can get it out.”

  Tom Tod nodded. He had heard of the doctor’s adventures of course, everybody in Drumburly had heard about them. “I’ll just need to go back then,” he said. “That’s all about it.”

  It was while Tom was turning the van that Mamie remembered her visitor and decided that here was an excellent opportunity for Henry to go home in comfort. She broached the subject to Tom and found him willing to oblige. So Tom went in to have some refreshment at the Coupers’ while Mamie ran back to the house to find out whether the idea of a lift in the post-office van appealed to Henry or whether he would rather stay to lunch.

  By this time Henry had finished with his patient and was coming downstairs; coming down very reluctantly if the truth be told. He was wondering whether it would be possible to escape from Mureth before lunch. Could he possibly escape without being rude? He was feeling so upset that he wanted no lunch, nor did he feel in a fit condition to sit through lunch and discourse politely with his host and hostess. All Henry wanted at the moment was to creep into a deep, dark hole and remain there until he recovered from the shock. The mail-van was not exactly a deep, dark hole but it was the next best thing and Henry accepted Mamie’s suggestion with alacrity.

  “Now that the road is open I could send the ambulance for Adam,” Henry suggested.

  “Would it be better for Adam to be in hospital?” asked Mamie.

  “No,” replied Henry smiling at her. “He’s doing well and obviously he’s being well looked after. I’m all against moving a patient who’s doing well.”

  “Then he must stay,” declared Mamie. “He must stay until he’s better. Is there anything we can do for him?”

  “I’ve given him a cough mixture and I should like him to inhale — that’s all, really.”

  Mamie nodded. “That’s easy,” she said.

  Henry took up his skis which were standing outside the front door and they walked down the drive together.

  “Of course we should love to have you to lunch,” said Mamie. “It’s dreadful to let you go without any lunch, but Tom Tod can’t wait and it does seem a good chance.”

  Henry assured her that he was not hungry.

  “Not hungry!” exclaimed Mamie, looking at him in sudden anxiety. “You haven’t got a chill, have you, Henry? You ought to be hungry after coming all that way across the hills.” “No, I’m perfectly all right.”

  “It was splendid of you to come,” she continued. “You mustn’t think we don’t appreciate it. Even if it wasn’t absolutely necessary it was just as kind. It might have been necessary, if you see what I mean.”

  Henry saw what she meant. His hazardous trip across the hills had been unnecessary because Adam did not require his services and also because the road was now open and he could have come quite easily in his car, but Mamie in the goodness of her heart was trying to assure him that his act of friendship was just as valuable as if it had been urgently needed. Henry did not agree with this comforting view. He felt that he had dramatised himself in a ridiculous manner. He had felt rather pleased with himself for braving the perils of the frozen
hills but it had been quite unnecessary and therefore useless. That was Henry’s view of the matter. And it was not only this small act of service which had proved unnecessary — and therefore useless — but also the anxiety which he had suffered for years. Henry’s mind was in a turmoil and it seemed to him that the two follies were alike and he, himself, the world’s biggest fool.

  “It was just as kind as if it had been necessary,” Mamie told him.

  “Kind!” he exclaimed. “It wasn’t kindness at all, it was sheer stupidity.”

  They had reached the gate and the little red van was waiting, so it was time to say good-bye.

  “You’ll go and see Nan, won’t you?” Mamie said.

  Oddly enough this had been in Henry’s mind. He had been wondering whether or not he should see Nan. But how on earth did Mamie know anything about it? He gazed at Mamie in astonishment.

  “You must,” declared Mamie urgently. “She’ll be so happy when she hears your news.”

  “My news!”

  “About Adam being so much better.”

  “Oh, of course!” agreed Henry. He hesitated and then laughed. “Yes, I’ll see Nan!” he exclaimed.

  He waved good-bye, climbed into the van beside Tom Tod and they drove off. Mamie was left standing at the gate slightly bewildered. How queer Henry had been! So vague and distrait! Mamie did hope he had not caught a chill.

  36

  THE DRIVE to Drumburly was somewhat adventurous and not particularly comfortable for there was still a good deal of snow upon the road. The little van bumped and slithered and lurched over the obstacles and once or twice it very nearly ended its career in a ditch.

  “You’re not frightened, are ye?” enquired Tom Tod.

  “No,” replied Henry … and it was true. There was a numb sort of feeling in him which precluded fear.

  “I’ll get ye there,” said Tom Tod through clenched teeth.

  Apart from this exchange the drive was accomplished in silence for Tom Tod had his hands full and Henry was busy with his thoughts.