Heaven is Gentle

It was raining when she left, quite early, the next morning. By the time she had got to Carlisle, it was a steady downpour and from the look of the sky, was likely to continue so for hours, but it was a bare two hundred miles to Fort William, though there were another hundred and sixty miles after that, probably more, it was so difficult to tell from the map, but she felt relaxed now, eager to keep on for as long as possible, perhaps even complete the journey. She had thought at first that she would take the road to Inverness, but the map showed another, winding road round the lochs, she had almost decided to try it when she reached Fort William for a quick, late lunch, studying the map meanwhile. But it would have to be Inverness, she decided, the coast road looked decidedly complicated, and there was a ferry which might not be running at this time of year. She would push on; it was only three o’clock and roughly speaking, only another hundred and thirty miles to go. Even allowing for the early dark, she had two hours of driving and she was used to driving at night. She took another look at the map and saw that she didn’t need to go to Inverness at all; there was a side road which would bring her out on the road to Bonar Bridge.

It was dark when she got there and she wanted her tea, but she was too near the end of her journey to spare the time now; only another thirty miles or so to go. But she hadn’t gone half that distance before she regretted her wild enthusiasm; it was a lonely road she was travelling along now and after a little while there were no villages at all and almost no traffic. To try to find the remote lodge where Professor Wyllie was working would be madness; fortunately she remembered that there was a village with an impossible name just outside the National Park of Inverpolly, she could spend the night there. She reflected rather crossly now because she was tired and thirsty and just the smallest bit nervous that it was an impossible place to reach, and if she hadn’t had a car what would they have done about getting her there? Being learned men, wrapped up in their work, they had probably not given it a thought. The road appeared to be going nowhere in particular. Perhaps she was lost, and that was her own fault, of course; she should have realised that parts of the Scottish Highlands really were remote from the rest of the world. Eliza glanced at the speedometer; she had come quite a distance and passed nothing at all; she must be on the wrong road and told herself not to be a fool, for there had been no other road to take. It was then she saw the signpost. Inchnadamph, one mile.

The hotel was pleasant; warm and friendly too, although by now she was so tired that a barn would have been heaven. They gave her a large, old-fashioned room and fed her like a queen because there was only a handful of guests and they had already dined. She met them briefly when she went to have her coffee in the lounge, and then, hardly able to keep her eyes open, retired to her comfortable bed. A good sleep, she promised herself, and after breakfast she would drive the last few miles of her journey.

It was raining when she started off again, but she wasn’t tired any more and she had had an enormous breakfast; even the friendly warning that the road, once she was through Lochinver, was narrow and not very good couldn’t damp her good spirits; it was daylight now and she had hours of time in which to find the lodge.

They were right about the road, she discovered that quickly enough, although she found the village of Inverkirkaig easily enough. The lodge was a couple of miles further on, said her instructions; there was a track on the left of the road which would lead her to the house. But the instructions hadn’t mentioned the winding, muddy road though, going steadily and steeply uphill until she began to wonder if the Fiat would make it. But she reached the track at last and turned carefully into it. It was, in fact, nothing more than a way beaten by car wheels through rough ground; the little car bounced and squelched from one pothole to the next, while the trees on either side dripped mournfully on to it. The rain had increased its intensity too. Eliza could barely see before her, but when at last she turned a corner, she saw the lodge in front of her, a depressing enough sight in the rain, and as far as she could see as she drew up before its shabby door, badly in need of a paint. She got out and banged the iron knocker; the place was a disgrace. Possibly the two professors, blind to everything but their work, had noticed nothing. That was the worst of elderly gentlemen with single-track minds. There was a movement behind the door. She edged a little nearer out of the rain and waited for it to be opened.

CHAPTER TWO

SHE had expected someone—a woman from the village she had just passed through, perhaps—as faded and neglected as the house to open the door, not this enormous, elegant man with his dark crusader’s face, dressed, her quick eye noted, with all the care of a man about to stroll down St James’ to his club, instead of roughing it in this back-of-beyond spot. The owner of the place? A visitor?

She became aware that the rain was trickling down the back of her neck and she frowned. ‘I’m the nurse,’ she stated baldly, since it seemed there were no niceties of introduction. ‘Perhaps you’ll be kind enough to let Professor Wyllie know that I’m here.’

The tall man made no move, indeed he blocked the whole of the doorway with his bulk; for one awful moment Eliza wondered if she had come to the wrong place and added anxiously: ‘Professor Wyllie is here, isn’t he?’

He nodded, and now she could see that his dark eyes were gleaming with laughter. ‘Miss Eliza Proudfoot,’ he said slowly, not addressing her really; merely confirming his own thoughts. ‘Five foot ten and buxom…’

She stared at him in amazement. ‘I beg your pardon?’ Her voice was acid—forgivable enough; she wanted to get in out of the rain and a cup of coffee would be welcome. She added crossly: ‘I’m getting wet.’

She was plucked inside as though she had been a wet kitten. ‘Forgive me.’ His voice was politely concerned, but she could sense his amusement too. ‘Is that your car?’

‘Yes.’

He stared down at her. ‘Such a pretty girl, and such a pretty voice too, though decidedly acidulated at the moment.’

He paid her the compliment and took it away again with a lazy charm which infuriated her. ‘Are you the owner of this place?’ she wanted to know.

He looked faintly surprised. ‘As a matter of fact, I am.’

‘Then perhaps you will tell me where I can find Professor Wyllie, since you seem unwilling to take me to him.’ She added nastily: ‘My case is in the car.’

He chuckled at that and opened the door again, so that she immediately felt forced to exclaim: ‘You can’t go out like that—you’ll ruin that good suit!’

He looked down at his large person. ‘The only one I have,’ he murmured apologetically.

‘Well, then…Professor Wyllie?’

He turned without a word and led her down the hall, past a rather nice staircase which needed a good dust, and opened a door. The room was a study, overflowing with books and papers, and sitting in the middle of it all was an elderly gentleman, who looked up as they went in, peering at them over his half glasses with guileless blue eyes.

‘Miss Eliza Proudfoot,’ announced the large man blandly, and now there was no hiding the amusement in his voice.

‘God bless my soul!’ exclaimed Mr Wyllie, and took off his glasses and polished them.

Eliza took a few steps towards the desk at which he sat. She was fast coming to the conclusion that either she was dealing with eccentrics, or the whole affair was some colossal mistake. But she had been dealing with men of every age and sort, and ill at that, for a number of years now; she said in a matter-of-fact voice: ‘You weren’t expecting me.’

She had addressed the older man, but it was the man who had admitted her who answered. ‘Oh, indeed we were, although I must admit at the same time that we weren’t expecting—er—quite you.’

She gave him a cool look, she wasn’t sure that she liked him. ‘That’s no answer,’ she pointed out, and then suddenly seeing his point, cried out: ‘Oh, I’m the wrong nurse, is that it? Five foot ten and buxom…but I really am Eliza Proudfoot.’

‘What was old Harry about?’ demanded Professor Wyllie of no one in particular. ‘Why, you’re far too small to be of any use, and no one will make me believe that you’re almost twenty-nine.’

She winced; no girl likes to have her age bandied about once she is over twenty-one. ‘I’m very strong, and I’ve been in charge of Men’s Medical at St Anne’s for more than five years, and if you are acquainted with Sir Harry Bliss you’ll know that if he said I could do the job, then there’s no more to be said.’

‘We don’t know about being motherly yet, but she’s tough,’ remarked the large man. He was sitting on the edge of the desk, one well-shod, enormous foot swinging gently.

She shot him an annoyed glance and walked deliberately across the room to stand before him. It was a little disconcerting when he rose politely to his feet, so that she was forced to crane her neck in order to see his face. ‘You have done nothing but make remarks about me since you opened the door,’ her voice was crisp and, she hoped, reasonable, ‘and I can’t think why you are trying to frighten me away—because you are, aren’t you? But since you only own the house—and you should be ashamed to have let it lapse into such a neglected state,’ she admonished him in passing, ‘I really can’t see why you should interfere with my appointment. I’ve come to work for Professor Wyllie, not you.’

The dark face broke into a slow smile. ‘My dear young lady, I must correct you; you have come to work for me too.’ He held out a hand that looked as though it had never seen hard work in its life. ‘I quite neglected to introduce myself—Professor Christian van Duyl.’

Eliza allowed her hand to be wrung while she recovered from her surprise. She was still framing a suitable answer to this bombshell when he gave her back her hand and started for the door.

‘I’ll see about your luggage and put the car away,’ he told her, ‘while you and Professor Wyllie have a chat.’ He turned to the door. ‘You would like some coffee, Miss Proudfoot?’

She nodded and then looked at the elderly gentleman behind the desk. He was smiling, a friendly smile, she was glad to see. ‘Excuse me getting up, girl…I shall call you Eliza if I may—which means that I grow abominably lazy. You came up by car?’

She sat down in the chair he had indicated. ‘Yes,’ and she couldn’t refrain from asking innocently, ‘How else does one get here?’

He grinned. ‘Helicopter?’

‘If I had known that this place was so remote, I might have thought of that.’

He was studying her quietly. ‘It’s beautiful here in the autumn and late spring.’

‘Surely the climate is all wrong for asthma cases?’

He chuckled. ‘That’s part of the exercise. Professor van Duyl and I have established that the stress and strain of modern life are just as much deciding factors in bringing on attacks as the wrong climate—now we need to prove that. We have ten volunteer patients with us—five Dutch, five English, and we intend to test our theory. If it holds water, then it gives us a lead, however slender, in the treatment of the wretched complaint.’

‘Why did you want a nurse, sir?’

‘We want the patients to feel secure—it is remarkable what a nurse’s uniform will do on that score, and you will have work to do—general duties,’ he looked vague—’ and of course you will need to deal with any attacks which may crop up—one or two of the men are cardiac cases, but we will go into all that later. They warned you, I hope, that I’m an asthmatic myself with a touch of cardiac failure—I daresay you will be a lot busier than you think.’

He looked up as the door opened and Professor van Duyl came in, followed by a stocky, middle-aged man bearing a tray set neatly with a large coffee pot, milk, sugar and a selection of mugs. He set it down on a table which Professor van Duyl swept free of papers and books, smiled paternally at her, and disappeared discreetly. She wondered who he was, but as no one volunteered this information, she supposed him to be one of the staff, then forgot him as she poured the coffee.

She learned a good deal during the next hour; she liked Professor Wyllie, even though he did get carried away with his subject from time to time, leaving her a little out of her depth, and as for Professor van Duyl, he treated her with a tolerant amusement which annoyed her very much, while at the same time telling her all she would need to know. It was he who outlined her duties, gave her working hours and explained that the ten patients were housed very comfortably in a Nissen hut, left over from the war, and now suitably heated and furnished to supply a degree of comfort for its inmates.

‘Professor Wyllie and I sleep in this house, and so do those who work with us. We are connected by telephone to both the Nissen hut and your cottage, and although we hope that this will not be necessary, we should expect you to come immediately should you be asked for, day or night.’

She nodded; it seemed fair enough. ‘Is there someone on duty with the patients during the night?’ she wanted to know.

‘No—we believe there to be no need. They have but to telephone for help, neither will it be necessary for you to remain on duty all day; they are all of them up patients—indeed, if they were home, they would be working.’ He looked at Professor Wyllie. ‘Is there anything else you want to talk to Miss Proudfoot about?’ he asked. ‘Would it be a good idea if she were to go over to the cottage and settle in before lunch? You will need her all the afternoon, I take it—she will have to be taken through the case notes.’

Professor Wyllie nodded agreement. ‘A good idea—take her over, Christian, will you? Hub knows she’s here, he’ll be on the lookout presumably. Sheets and things,’ he added vaguely. For a moment he looked quite worried so that Eliza felt constrained to say in a rallying voice: ‘I shall be quite all right, sir. I’ll see you later.’

She walked beside the Dutchman down the hall and out of the door into a light drizzle of rain, casting round in her mind for a topic of conversation to bridge the silence between them, but she could think of nothing, and her companion strode along, deep in his own thoughts, so that she saw that any idea she might have about entertaining him with small talk was quite superfluous. They went round the side of the house and took a narrow muddy path which was overgrown with coarse grass and shrubs. There was a sharp bend in it after only a few yards, and the cottage stood before them. It was very small; a gardener’s house, or perhaps a game-keeper, she thought, looking at its low front door and the small square windows on either side of it.

Her companion produced a key, opened the door and stood aside for her to enter. It gave directly on to the sitting room, a surprisingly cheerful little apartment, with a window at the back and three doors leading from it. Professor van Duyl gave her no time to do more than glance around her, however, but went past her to open one of the doors.