‘Should you, if it’s hurting so much?’
‘Perhaps not,’ he replied gloomily.
Mrs. Rigby entered at that moment.
‘Shall I set a supper tray for you, miss, seein’ as you missed dinner?’
‘Yes, yes, of course,’ Anthony snapped, before Katharine could speak.
But Mrs. Rigby was undaunted. She folded her hands and stood before him.
‘I hear Grannie Banroyd be reet bad, sir. ’ Tis a shame you can’t get to see her.’
Anthony looked up at her swiftly.
‘If she had called Dr. Harvey earlier, she could have received as good attention as I could give her.’
Mrs. Rigby sniffed and glanced at Katharine disparagingly.
‘Besides, Dr. Harvey has now taken her some medicine which I normally give her anyway,’ Anthony added reluctantly.
‘Mrs. Ford, down the road from Grannie Banroyd, says it’s a far worse attack this time.’
‘Then why,’ Katharine broke in, ‘didn’t she send for me earlier and let me help her?’
Mrs. Rigby glanced at Katharine again, sniffed, and left the room.
Katharine sighed.
‘She doesn’t have to say a word and yet I know exactly what she’s thinking,’ she murmured sorrowfully. ‘And if Grannie Banroyd does not recover …’
‘She’s an old woman, Kate, and suffered for years with bronchitis. Mrs. Rigby will come round in time. All the villagers will.’
‘Well, I doubt I shall be here that long.’
‘Won’t you Kate?’ There was a silence between them.
‘I like having you here,’ he added impulsively. ‘Kate …’
‘Yes?’
‘Kate … would you … I mean, I know you’ve got the chance of this job in London, but how would it be … what I mean is, would you stay here?’
‘How … how do you mean?’ Katharine’s heart beat a little faster. She was almost afraid of what Anthony was going to say.
He looked away from her.
‘Well, the villagers will get used to you in time, and we could have a good partnership here, Kate. There’s more than enough for one doctor.’
‘But not enough for two practices, Anthony, you know that.’
‘What I mean is … I’m not very good at this sort of thing. What I’m trying to say is … will you marry me, Kate?’
‘Anthony!’
‘Don’t you see? I’m not trying to stop you being a doctor. I could help you. You’re so marvellous with children and …’
‘Anthony, please. Is this a business proposition or a proposal of marriage?’
‘Oh, hang it all, Kate, you must know how I feel about you, I …’
‘No, Anthony, don’t, please don’t. I’m sorry, but the answer is no.’
She was unprepared for the hurt in his eyes. She had not understood that his lack of declaration of affection for her was only through shyness. She could see from his face that he cared more than he had found it possible to put into words. For an educated man he was strangely inarticulate.
The subject was not spoken of between Katharine and Anthony again, but often she found him watching her and the look in his eyes told her that he was indeed very fond of her.
But two days later, all thoughts of Anthony’s proposal were pushed from her mind. Grannie Banroyd died.
Katharine was at the cottage when death finally came. At the first sign of cardiac failure, Katharine had given Mrs. Banroyd a stimulant, but to no avail.
The child, Louise, became hysterical and, as soon as she was able, Katharine left the hovel taking the girl with her. Louise clung to her with one hand and with the other rubbed away the tears, which coursed down her sallow cheeks. Katharine led her away from her home and all the sadness it held. In the street, they turned in the direction of Dr. Stafford’s house for Katharine could not allow the child to remain at the cottage and she knew of nowhere else to take her.
The front door of the cottage next to the Banroyds’ opened and a woman stepped out, barring Katharine’s way. She was a plump woman, her grey hair drawn back from her plain, round face into a tight bun. She stood with her arms folded. Her dress, far too tight for her rotund form, was dirty and crumpled. On her face was a similar expression to that Katharine had seen on Jim Kendrick’s face – one of hostility and distrust.
‘Tha’d best be leavin’ t’lass with me, miss.’
Katharine stopped and hesitated, uncertain what to do for the best. Though the child would be cared for at Anthony’s house for the present, it was an arrangement which could not last indefinitely. Perhaps, she thought quickly, it would be better for Louise to stay with these people, whom she knew to be called Ford. There were two Ford children, who were Louise’s playmates and the child would find more comfort in less strange surroundings.
‘Thank you, Mrs. Ford. I will.’
She released the child’s hand and gave her a gentle push towards Mrs. Ford. ‘Stay with Mrs. Ford, Louise dear. You’ll be more at home.’
The child broke into fresh sobs and ran to Mrs. Ford, clutching the woman’s skirts.
‘There, there, my love,’ Mrs. Ford said, patting the straggling, unruly curls. Above the child’s head her eyes met Katharine’s.
‘Tha’d best leave her with me – tha’ll not wish to be bothered.’
‘It’s not that,’ Katharine retorted sharply, ‘but I thought she’d be happier here with you – with people she knows.’
The woman smiled, but without humour.
‘That’s reet. We looks after our own, miss. We don’t need no int’ference from outsiders. Besides, a fat lot o’ good you done yonder.’
And she jerked her head sideways towards the Banroyd cottage.
What was the use in arguing, Katharine thought, as she walked on. Grannie Banroyd was dead and could not be brought back to life. The villagers blamed her. And yet the old woman had been over eighty, Katharine knew, but still they would blame her – the doctor who, just because she was a woman, could not be expected to be of use in such a crisis.
There was no more she could do. The undertakers arrived and Katharine’s work, little as it had been, was done, and ill-done, according to the villagers.
The day of the funeral was chill and dull. Katharine watched the procession from the drawing-room window of ‘The Sycamores’. The long line of people, all the village folk, it seemed to Katharine, wound down the narrow street and up the hill to the small church. Louise marched along behind the coffin. A pathetic figure, instructed, no doubt, to walk thus as chief mourner. But watching her, Katharine could not help but feel that it was a deliberate move on the part of Mrs. Ford to emphasise the small child’s loss and to point a finger at the cause of her loss – Dr. Katharine Harvey.
‘It’s hopeless, Anthony,’ she said in utter dejection. ‘I’ll never be accepted as a doctor – anywhere.’
Anthony packed his pipe with slow, methodical movements.
‘It’ll pass, Kate,’ he said slowly. ‘You’re not one to give up a fight. You’ve nothing to reproach yourself about in Grannie Banroyd’s case, you know that. It’s only prejudice.’
‘But what I can’t understand,’ she said turning away from the window and the sad spectacle, ‘ is Jim Kendrick’s attitude. One would imagine him to be above such prejudice. I mean he … well … he seems so strong and reliable in most ways, that his injustice to me seems so out of character.’
Anthony puffed at his pipe and blue smoke drifted upwards.
‘It’s not only you. He’s blaming me for bringing you here, and himself for not insisting that the doctor from the next dale visited Grannie Banroyd.’
‘Doubtless that doctor is a man?’ Katharine said bitterly.
‘Naturally,’ Anthony murmured. ‘Jim’s an odd one for sure and takes a lot of understanding. As I told you before – it’s because of his mother. I suppose because boys tend to idolise their mothers – far more than girls do – such a betrayal of his love and trust come
s hard to take. And Jim’s a man of deep emotions, too, which makes it far worse.’
‘I don’t think he feels anything now. He seems hard and totally unfeeling to me.’
Anthony laughed.
‘Don’t you believe it. He’s like an iceberg, one-ninth on the surface and eight-ninths hidden from everyone. It only needs something to happen to change his outlook on life and in particular with regard to women and – wham – he’ll be married with a dozen children in no time.’
Katharine, despite her depression, smiled at Anthony’s psychological analysis of Jim. But she could not wholly shake off her disquiet and that night when she lay in bed, devoid of sleep, the moorland wind moaned in the trees outside her window, reminding her vividly of Grannie Banroyd’s frail figure moaning softly in the neglected cottage. And the wind blew into a storm which lashed the valley in fury, for Katharine symbolising the anger of the villagers against her.
The days passed after Grannie Banroyd’s death. Louise, Katharine learned, was being cared for by the Ford family – at Jim Kendrick’s request and with a little weekly monetary assistance from him.
Katharine had tried, during the time Grannie Banroyd had been so ill, to visit Tommy Gifford again, only to be met by Mary, anxious as ever.
‘I’m sorry, miss, but Tom says you’re not to come again. And little Tommy’s much better, really he is.’
There was no more she could do. Katharine had turned away without a word, sick at heart.
And now, after Grannie Banroyd’s death, she found the villagers shunned her completely. Not only did the surgery remain empty, but they would not even acknowledge her presence as she walked down the street. Only Jim Kendrick, although he was the prime cause of her being avoided but less ill-mannered than the rest, spoke to her. And then he merely passed the time of day, his brown eyes holding hers in an intent gaze for a moment, before he moved on.
‘I might as well return to London, Anthony, for all the good I’m doing here,’ Katharine said frequently.
‘Nonsense, Kate. Besides, I like having you here. Please stay.’
‘All right.’
But she acquiesced against her better judgement, and two weeks later she regretted heartily that she had stayed in Brackenbeck at Anthony’s request. Indeed, she bemoaned the fact that she had ever come to this dale.
And again Jim Kendrick was the cause of her chagrin.
Chapter Three
It was now July and the days were long and hot, even here on the moors which usually, because of their height and bleakness, remained comparatively cool.
There had been no rain for weeks – since the storm on the night of Grannie Banroyd’s funeral. The ground became hard-baked and cracked through lack of water. The shrubs and plants withered and died. In the dale it was still and unbearably hot.
Anthony became ill-tempered with his enforced inactivity and was further irritated by the heat. His ankle was taking far longer to recover than he had anticipated.
‘If only I could take a good, long walk over the moors, I’d be all right,’ he said testily.
‘I know, I know,’ Katharine tried to sooth him, and walked over to the long windows to look out over the valley to the moors beyond.
‘Anthony,’ she said suddenly. ‘What’s that smoke?’
‘Smoke! What smoke? Where, in heaven’s name?’
Impatiently, he twisted round in his chair, so he could see out of the window.
‘Look,’ Katharine pointed. ‘Up there, on the moor.’
‘Oh my God, it’s a moor fire. Quick, Kate, you must run and tell Joseph, the blacksmith. He’s in charge when it comes to fires. Quick now.’
And Katharine ran. Out of the house, down the path, over the bridge and along the village street, her heart pounding, her breathing laboured. She neither knew nor cared whether the village women folk eyed her flying undignified figure with derision. This time, perhaps, when they learned her errand, they would thank her.
But perhaps not, she added to herself.
She neared the blacksmith’s and heard the clanging of his huge hammer.
‘Joseph, Joseph,’ she panted, for Anthony had not told her the man’s surname. ‘Quickly there’s a fire. A fire on the moors.’
Immediately the hammering ceased and Katharine was nearly knocked over by the robust blacksmith, who sprang from his work and out into the street yelling to his two workmates as he did so.
‘Edmund, get t’farmers. Lad,’ this to a young boy, ‘ get thee to t’quarry and tell master Jim. Look sharp.’
And the three of them disappeared in different directions leaving Katharine to lean against the door post to regain her breath.
Within seconds the once-deserted street was alive with scurrying figures: men hurrying to help extinguish the flames; children running to join in what they considered to be excitement, whilst the women chased the children to prevent them endangering themselves.
Katharine hurried back to the doctor’s house to collect her medical bag, for she feared there would be burns, if nothing worse, requiring her attention.
She was delayed a few moments by Anthony’s agitated questioning and advice, neither of which she wanted at that minute.
She was anxious to be gone.
Katharine left the village and began to climb the rough track in the direction of the fire. Now she could see a long arc of flames on the skyline. Thick smoke drifted skywards in heavy folds, and black ash floated everywhere. The acrid smell of burnt heather and bracken reached her making her eyes smart and causing her to cough. But she hurried on towards the fire.
She saw that the men had organised themselves into a line and were advancing steadily, beating the flames, their arms rising and falling rhythmically. Katharine pressed on, though the heat was becoming more intense, even though she was still a good distance from the fire. How could the men stand such heat? Whatever misunderstandings she had with the villagers, she could not help but admire the strength of character of these people.
Katharine could recognise some of the beaters now. There were the local farmers, Joseph, the blacksmith, and several men she knew were quarrymen, amongst them, she noticed, Jim Kendrick and his brother-in-law, Tom.
To her left, another figure appeared, climbing the hill towards the moor fire like herself. A tall, middle-aged man with a small, neat grey beard and carrying a black medical bag. Another doctor here, she questioned?
The man had seen her and came towards her now. He waved his hand in greeting and as he neared her, Katharine saw he was smiling. But the smile did not reach his eyes, which were pale blue and cold.
‘Ah, you must be Dr. Harvey?’
‘You have the advantage of me, sir,’ Katharine said, for some inexplicable reason immediately on her guard against this man.
‘Dr. Summers is the name,’ and he gave a mock bow. ‘I’m from the next dale. Mr. Kendrick sent for me. He saw the fire from the quarry before the alarm was given in the village and sent one of his men immediately to fetch me. Ah, there’s Mr. Kendrick now, he’s seen me. Pray excuse me, Dr. Harvey.’
Katharine remained motionless as Dr. Summers moved away to meet Jim Kendrick, who had detached himself from the line of beaters and was coming towards them. She was stunned by Dr. Summers’ words.
‘Mr. Kendrick sent for me.’
They hammered at her brain, ‘… sent one of his men immediately to fetch me.’
And the full impact of the insult to herself hit her. She did not know which she felt the most, anger or injured pride.
Jim and Dr. Summers exchanged a few words, then, whilst the doctor moved off towards the fire itself, Jim came to speak to her.
‘It was good of you to come,’ he was saying. ‘And I understand you raised the alarm in the village, but Dr. Summers will take care of anyone who requires medical attention.’
Katharine stood before him, feeling hot and tired after her climb. And now she felt foolish beneath the gaze of this paragon of a man.
Her anger
died and only the hurt remained, threatening to overwhelm her. She could not bring herself to speak. Her eyes met his momentarily and she knew she could not hide the mute appeal in her own. An appeal for understanding and acceptance. But rather than face further shame, she turned away quickly and stumbled down the hill.
She thought she heard him call her name faintly.
‘Dr. Harvey,’ but she did not look back and on later reflection decided she must have imagined it for he never acknowledged her as ‘doctor’.
Almost in a bemused state, Katharine found her way back to ‘The Sycamores’. Mrs. Rigby was hovering in the hall as Katharine entered the front door.
‘Dr. Summers taken charge, I expect,’ the housekeeper remarked.
Even in her present state, Katharine glanced at the woman in surprise.
‘How did you know?’ she blurted out before she could stop herself.
‘Word gets round, miss,’ Mrs. Rigby said, with a triumphant gleam in her eyes.
‘It most certainly does,’ remarked Katharine bitterly and entered the drawing-room, slamming the door behind her.
‘Kate – back already? Why, Kate,’ Anthony added, his tone changing as he saw her face. ‘My dear girl, whatever is wrong?’
‘Wrong? You may well ask! In two words I’ll tell you – Jim Kendrick.’
‘But …’
‘He sent for Dr. Summers – instead of me.’
‘How do you mean? How could he, we saw the fire first from here?’
‘No, we didn’t. It seems they saw it from the quarry too, and, to quote Dr. Summers, “Mr. Kendrick sent one of his men immediately to fetch me”.’
‘Oh dear.’
‘That does it, Anthony. I’m leaving.’
‘Now, Kate, you can’t leave now. What shall I do?’
‘Send for Dr. Summers,’ Katharine replied with sarcasm, finding now that her natural resilient spirit was reasserting itself.
‘But, Kate …’
‘But, nothing. I’m going.’
‘No, please don’t go. You haven’t had word about St. Bernadette’s yet. Please stay, even if you don’t look after my practice any more, stay and cheer me up. Please, Kate.’
Brackenbeck Page 4
