Air Ambulance

by Jean S. MacLeod

  “I didn’t think you would remember,” she told him, feeling that his admission had made it easier to talk to him. “You left for Edinburgh soon after I came.”

  “Yes, that’s true.” His thoughts seemed to go beyond her, beyond the present, deep into the past. “That was my first step in the direction of Heimra,” he admitted. “I learned a lot about spastics in Edinburgh.”

  Alison longed to ask him what he had meant about Heimra, but Andrew came to stand beside her, no longer absorbed in the case of stuffed birds at the far end of the room which appeared to have fascinated him as soon as he came in.

  “Would you like some more coffee?” Blair asked.

  She shook her head.

  “I suppose I ought to go,” she said reluctantly. “I don’t think there was anything very serious wrong with the plane, and we haven’t a lot of time to spare.”

  “I wish you could come to Heimra Beag,” Andrew said wistfully as Mrs. MacIver came into the room.

  “Some day, perhaps I shall,” Alison said, thinking that she never would.

  “That Murdock man’s there now, Mr. Blair,” Janet MacIver said. “Maybe you could have a word with him before you go?”

  Blair looked at Alison.

  “I shouldn’t be many minutes,” he said. “I’m sure Andrew will want to see you off.”

  Andrew stood hesitating, torn between his desire to follow his uncle and an equally strong desire to stay where he was.

  “Will you not go before we come back?” he asked breathlessly at last.

  “No,” Alison promised, “I’ll wait, Andrew, if you’re not going to be too long.”

  He went after Blair and Mrs. MacIver began to collect the coffee cups on to her tray.

  “He’s a fine man is Fergus Blair,” she observed. “I knew him when he was no more than Andrew’s age. He used to come over here from Garrisdale House with his father and sit and stare at the stuffed birds there just the way the boy does now. He never liked the idea of them being dead—shot and shut up in a glass box. He used to purse his wee mouth and ask who put them there, and my man used to say he felt glad he hadn’t done it! There’s a bird sanctuary over on Heimra Beag now, and maybe Mr. Blair got the idea from that very case over there in the corner.” She regarded Alison speculatively for a moment. “You’re new to the Ambulance,” she said. “You’ll not know much about the islands or about Mr. Blair. Some folks would have it that he’s a ruthless man and a stern landlord, but I’ve seen too much of his kindness to be agreeing to that. He’d have to be hard to be dealing with some of the folks round here, or they’d make a fool of him. They’re lazy, some of them, and don’t want to work. They got away with a lot when his brother was the laird. Gavin Blair was a weak man. He let people overrule his decisions because he wouldn’t hurt a fly. He was always like that.”

  She paused in the doorway, as if unwilling to let Alison go. The island was remote. It was not every day that she had the pleasure of an audience, and this lovely girl with the bright auburn hair and gentle eyes had appealed to her on sight, quite apart from the romantic aspect of her sudden descent from the clouds in the Air Ambulance, which they watched so often passing over the islands on its way to the Outer Hebrides.

  “Yes,” she repeated, as if she were determined to convince the stranger in her house of Blair of Heimra’s worth, “Mr. Blair is all right. He’s not got his sorrows to seek, though, with that one over there on Heimra Beag!” she added darkly. “She’s not going to forget she was Blair of Heimra’s wife before Gavin Blair’s death put an end to it all! She never lets Mr. Fergus be, and she won’t abide anyone over there—just her and her own little kingdom. We’re sorry for her, of course,” she added as Alison followed her out into the dimness of the narrow hall, “and sorry for the wee laddie. It’s a terrible cross he has to bear all his life, but his mother isn’t making it any easier for him the way she’s going on.”

  Alison wanted to get away. She felt that she was listening to something she had no right to hear, a most intimate part of Blair of Heimra’s life. Only it seemed now that he was only Blair of Heimra by proxy.

  “I must go, Mrs. MacIver,” she said. “Will you tell Mr. Blair that I’ve gone down to the landing strip?”

  The Heron’s engines were revving up, and she knew that Ronald Gowrie would be waiting for her with considerable impatience by now, wondering what could have delayed her at the inn. He had his schedule to maintain, and already half an hour had been lost from it.

  Automatically she glanced at the sky, but it was still fair and blue. Why, then, were her thoughts—her heart—her mind— so heavy?

  “Wait!” Andrew cried behind her. “Please wait till we catch up with you!”

  She turned to find Fergus Blair striding by his nephew’s side, and suddenly her heart caught on a little pain of longing. She would never see them again.

  It was Andrew, of course. Andrew, with his solemn little ways and half apologetic smile, who had twined himself relentlessly round her heart. She had helped to nurse him through a small emergency in his life, and she wanted to go on seeing him. That was all. Yes, she assured herself rather desperately, that was all.

  “If you did come to Heimra again, would you come to Heimra Beag?” the child persisted as they drew near to the group of village people on the landing strip who still hovered about the reverberating Heron. “If you did?”

  “I’d have to be able to send you word, Andrew, because of Coirestruan,” she pointed out. “And that might be difficult. We are called out on the ambulance at any time of the night or day.”

  “You could land on Heimra Beag,” he suggested eagerly. “The Silver Strand would be all right for a plane. Captain Gowrie said so. It’s a good airstrip going to waste.”

  Alison flushed. Ronald Gowrie had said far more than that, but possibly Andrew had failed to grasp the full significance of his bitter criticism.

  Fergus Blair had not spoken, and she had not really expected him to second Andrew’s impulsive invitation. Heimra Beag and its naturally sheltered airstrip was forbidden ground.

  Ronald Gowrie turned to face them as they pressed through the group of onlookers.

  “So you’ve come back?” he observed dryly, making a point of looking at his watch. “It’s almost twelve o’clock.”

  “I’m sorry,” Alison apologized immediately. “Can we make the time up? It’s a lovely clear day.”

  “I dare say.” His tone was still dry, and he refused to look in Fergus Blair’s direction, although he made a point of saying goodbye to Andrew. “Cheerio, nipper! See you sometime again, perhaps. Maybe you’ll fly a plane one day on your own!”

  Alison had turned towards Fergus Blair, and she saw that the careless words had struck him as if they had been a blow deliberately aimed above his heart. His face looked taut and drawn and his grey eyes were full of bitterness.

  “You’re a native of Heimra, Gowrie,” he said suddenly. “How do you feel about coming back to the islands?”

  “Not if you offered me Heimra a thousand times over!” Ronald’s face was as grey as his own. “I’ve had enough of the islands.”

  “I see,” Blair said. “I thought perhaps there might come a time when you wouldn’t be able to fly. You do need to lay off sooner or later, I believe, and I need a factor over here.”

  He paused, but Ronald shrugged indifferently.

  “This is a milk run,” he said briefly. “There’s no reason why I should crack up on it—sooner or later.”

  “No,” Blair agreed smoothly. “Perhaps not.”

  He had given the older man one brief, penetrating look, a professional sizing up, Alison realized, but after that he let the matter drop. He could, she supposed, get another factor for the asking.

  “Goodbye!” Andrew said heavily. “I wish I could see you again, Alison!”

  Swiftly she bent to kiss him.

  “I wish you could,” she whispered for his immediate comfort. “Perhaps—some day.”

 
When she straightened and turned to shake hands with Fergus Blair there were foolish tears in her eyes.

  “Please take care of him,” she said unguardedly. “He’s such a little fellow!”

  Blair held her hand for no more than a second, no longer than convention demanded, before he strode away across the machar, and the last she saw of him was a tall, broad-shouldered figure in a shabby kilt silhouetted against Coirestruan with a small, crippled child limping by his side.

  “When you’re ready!” Ronald Gowrie said at her elbow. “Once you get Blair of Heimra out of your system perhaps we can get on with the job, nurse.”

  “Yes,” she said, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hold you up.” She got into the plane, waving to the people gathered on the landing-strip as they taxied gently along the beaten sand. She did not look in the direction of Coirestruan to watch a small white launch drawing away from the shore and making an arrowhead of foam on its way to Heimra Beag.

  “Forget about it!” Ronald Gowrie urged briskly as they gained height in the limitless blue above the islands. “It’s not going to do you any good to fret about a kid.”

  He could not know whose child Andrew was, and she could not tell him. Not now, not at this moment when she had come to know so much about the Blairs of Heimra in so short a time. It was sufficient, she thought, that he had been instrumental in bringing Margot Blair’s son back to Heimra. Beyond that point she could not think.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  “EMERGENCY, LANG! It’s your turn out.” Night Superintendent shook Alison by the shoulder. “Sorry, and all that, but Hamilton has reported sick, and you’re next on the rota. It’s a filthy night,” she added by way of extra inducement as Alison struggled into a sitting position on her bed trying to grasp the electrifying words. “I’d much rather you than me, even though it is in the cause of suffering humanity!”

  “Where to?” Alison tried to shake the last remnants of sleep from her mind as she swung her bare feet over the edge of her bed and blinked at the light. “Did you find out where we are going?”

  “I’m not sure.” Moira Leslie paused at the half-open door. “The message was passed on to me. Just that I was to get you out of bed. Smart Annie phoned through from the hospital. I don’t like that girl,” she yawned. “And I don’t like nights, either. While I’m still young and healthy, I’m going to get me a man!”

  “You could fall in love with someone who did night duty just as easily as not,” Alison pointed out, reaching for her stockings.

  “I’m not talking about love,” Moira returned gloomily. “That’s out, as far as Tm concerned. I’m going to get me a man with money, and love will follow easily enough!”

  “You’re the sort of person who’ll fall in love with a poet or something, who hasn’t any money,” Alison warned, thrusting her feet into her shoes. “Br-r-r! It’s terribly cold. Did you say what time it was?”

  “I didn’t, but it’s just after four o’clock, and I should think it’s about three degrees under. I’ve been frozen all night! Rather you than me,” she repeated, edging out of the door to return to her own quarters. “Good night. Pleasant trip!” she murmured.

  Alison was already thinking about the emergency, hating the thought of it on such a cold, bleak morning. She could hear rain spattering against her window and there was a heavy greyness about the outside world that depressed her, yet she did not think for one minute that she should not go. The Air Ambulance had been requested from some far-off isle, and she was next on the rota of nurses to go out with the plane. It was her duty to go.

  She could refuse, of course. The whole thing was voluntary, but no one ever thought of refusing. On the contrary, there was always a waiting list to serve with the unit. To go out with the Air Ambulance had become an accolade of their profession, a matter of prestige, eagerly sought.

  When she finally reached the hall where her instructions awaited her, she was warmly wrapped against both wind and rain. In the past few days the temperature had fallen considerably, and March, which had come in like a lamb, was going out like the proverbial lion.

  “The weather reports are pretty foul, nurse,” the driver told her when she went out to the car waiting to drive her to the airport. “These emergency calls can be tough on a night like this.”

  “I’m with you there,” she agreed, “but the plane will get through. We can fly above all this.” She glanced up at the lowering sky, not without anxiety. “I’ve never seen it so thick,” she admitted. “We’ve got everything tonight!”

  “If we had more wind we wouldn’t get the fog,” the driver said, turning smartly out under the main archway. “It’s mostly up the river, I suppose, although Duncan says the Cloch’s been blowing all night, so there must have been some down there, too. I think a fog-horn is about the most dismal thing you could hear all night long, especially if you don’t sleep too well.”

  They drove to the airport as swiftly as possible. Visibility was poor and the fog that hung over the city seemed to have cut off both sight and sound. The thick grey world through which they travelled revealed nothing familiar until they came to the airport gates.

  Here, in the wide enclosure, it seemed less intense, lit by the yellow eyes of the perimeter lights and the marked path of the main runway. The vague shapes materialized out on the apron: a plane; a trolley; a group of men huddled together in conversation; the fire crew checking on their extinguishers and possibly grumbling about being called out on a night like this, and, finally, the bulk of the administrative block itself, grey against grey, with the control tower rising above it and brilliantly lit at this unexpected hour of the morning.

  Clutching her heavy cloak about her, Alison got down from the car, and the first person she recognized was Ronald Gowrie.

  “Cheers for you!” he greeted her. “Nice to know I’m going to have a pleasant companion on a trip like this!”

  “All nurses are pleasant companions!” she chided. “It’s part of our training! Are we ready to go?”

  “Almost, I’m waiting for the final word from ops. We’ve got Ginger MacLean with us, by the way, so it shouldn’t be dull!” He gave her a quick, calculating look. “What’s the case, anyway?”

  “A perforated bowel, with all sorts of complications.” She knew that it would be useless to go into detail. He had told her once before that all he did was fly the plane and that was all that was expected of him, apart from a smattering of first aid. “I’m ready when you are,” she added.

  “You’ve got guts, sweetheart!” he told her lightly. “And you’re good-looking. Seems a strange sort of combination to me.”

  “You’re too much of a cynic,” she informed him. “but I know you don’t mean half you say.”

  “Remind me to marry you when we come back!” he grinned. When he came back out to the apron again, five minutes later, he was no longer smiling. The tense, grim look of a man who faces considerable odds had hardened, his mouth and narrowed his blue eyes, and he walked smartly towards the Heron without saying anything.

  “Control’s all ready for us,” he told Ginger when he reached the cockpit. "We’ll be up above all this in a couple of shakes.”

  Alison was surprised how soon and apparently effortlessly his words came true. Looking down from her seat behind him, she could see the bank of fog like a dense grey barrier cutting the Firth in two. It stretched almost in a straight line between the Ayrshire coast and the low foothills of Argyll, a grey trap to shipping, but no longer dangerous to them once they were above it.

  Afterwards, Alison was never quite sure when she realized that something had gone wrong. It had been more than a bumpy trip, and at times, over Mull, they had encountered down draught. The plane had lurched and staggered on, but immediately they had climbed higher and the cold had become intense. Away to the north dense cloud had begun to form, and there was a blackness about the sky which began to look more and more ominous as they approached it. Rain slanted at them, but the sturdy little Heron drove steadily
into it.

  Inside the cabin the windows had iced over, and suddenly Alison noticed that the same sort of thing was happening in the cockpit. The rain was freezing as it struck the plane.

  They had climbed to seven thousand five hundred feet, and now that they were in the cloud they seemed to be racing ahead. It was no more than an optical illusion, but she peered out of her window as well as the ice would let her, gathering courage from the suggestion of speed. In less than half an hour they would be at their destination.

  The minutes ticked away, and suddenly she was aware of added tension. The two men in the cockpit were fighting the terrors of ice.

  Ginger turned to her at last, beckoning her towards him, and in one swift glance she saw that they were down beneath four thousand feet.

  “We can’t make it,” he said cryptically. “We’ve iced up along the wings and we’re being forced down. The de-icing has gone. There isn’t anything for it but to land somewhere and have it seen to. We’re trying to make Tiree, but there’s a devil of a wind blowing.” He gave her a quick, critical glance. “At three thousand we’re committed to a landing,” he explained, “but we hope to make Tiree before that. O.K.?”

  She heard herself say “O.K.” automatically, and went back to her seat and fastened her seat-belt. She had no idea where they were or what could be done now, but, curiously enough, she had no immediate sense of fear. There was no alteration in the steady sound of the engines and they suggested unlimited power. She found assurance, too, in the sight of the two rigid backs ahead of her in the cockpit, although now Ginger was speaking steadily into the microphone attached to his headphones. She heard him repeat “Mayday”, “Mayday”, “Mayday”, over and over again without knowing what it meant, without realizing that she was listening to the final S.O.S. of the skies.