Heaven is Gentle

She worried about it as she drove herself back to London. Charlie King was an old friend, she had known him for years; he would make a splendid husband and he had a good job. She would, she decided, think about him seriously while she was away in Scotland; no doubt there would be time to think while she was there, and being a long way from a problem often caused it to appear in a quite different light. She put the thought away firmly for the time being and concentrated on her driving, for there had been a frost overnight, and the road was treacherous.

The next few days went rapidly, for she was busy. Mary Price had gone on her promised weekend the day after she got back and although she had two part-time staff nurses to help her, there was a good deal of extra paper work because she was going away. It was nice to see Mary back again and talk over the managing of the ward while she was away. Eliza spent her last day smoothing out all the last-minute problems, bade her patients and staff a temporary goodbye and went off duty to while away an hour with her friends in the Sisters’ sitting room before going to her room to pack ready for an early start in the morning—warm clothes and not too many of them—thick sweaters and slacks, an old anorak she had brought from home and as a special concession to the faint hope of a social life, a long mohair skirt and cashmere top in a pleasing shade of old rose.

She left really early the following morning, her friends’ good wishes ringing in her ears, instructions as to how to reach her destination written neatly on the pad beside the map on the seat beside her. She planned to take two, perhaps three days to get to Inverpolly, for although the Fiat always did its best, it wasn’t capable of sustained speed; besides, the weather, cold and blustery now, might worsen and hold her up. She had three clear days in hand and she didn’t suppose anyone would mind if she arrived a little sooner than that.

She made good progress. She had intended to spend the night at York, but she found that she had several hours in hand when she reached that city. She had an early tea and pressed on to Darlington and then turned on to the Penrith road where she decided to spend the night at the George. She was well ahead of her schedule and she felt rather pleased with herself, everything had been much easier than she had expected. She ate a good supper and went early to bed.

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.

‘Bedroom,’ he explained briefly, ‘bathroom next door, kitchen here.’ He swept open the third door. ‘You will eat with us, of course, although when you have your free days you may do as you wish. There’s a sitting room up at the house which you are welcome to use—there’s television there and books enough. Breakfast at eight, lunch at one—we don’t have tea, but Hub will fix that for you. Supper at eight, but that will depend on how the day has gone.’ He turned to go. ‘Hub will bring your case along in a minute and light the fire for you.’ He eyed her levelly. ‘And don’t get the idea that this a nice easy job—you’ll not only have the patients to see to but a good deal of paper work as well, and remember that you will be at our beck and call whether you’re off duty or not.’

Eliza eyed him coldly in her turn. ‘Charming! I’m not quite sure what you expected, but I’m not up to your expectations, am I? Well, I didn’t expect you and you’re not up to mine—I expected a nice old gentleman like Professor Wyllie, so at least we understand each other, don’t we, Professor?’ She walked towards the bedroom, saying over her shoulder:

‘I’ll see you at lunch. Thank you for bringing me over.’

She didn’t see the little gleam of appreciation in his dark eyes as he went. The door shut gently behind him and she dismissed him from her mind and began to explore her temporary home. It was indeed very small but extremely cosy, the furniture was simple and uncluttered and someone had put a bowl of hyacinths on the little table by one of the two easy chairs. There were nice thick curtains at the windows, she noticed with satisfaction, and a reading lamp as well as a funny old-fashioned lamp hanging from the ceiling. The bedroom was nice too, even smaller than the sitting room and furnished simply with a narrow bed, a chest of drawers and a mirror, with a shelf by the bed and a stool in one corner. There was no wardrobe or cupboard, though; presumably she would have to hang everything on the hooks behind the bedroom door. The kitchen was a mere slip of a place but adequately fitted out; she wouldn’t need to cook much, anyway, but it would be pleasant to make tea or coffee in the evenings before she went to bed. She was roused from her inspection by the rattle of the door knocker and when she called ‘come in’, the same elderly man who had brought the coffee tray came in with her case. He smiled at her, took it into the bedroom and then went to put a match to the fire laid ready in the tiny grate.

‘I can do that,’ exclaimed Eliza, and when he turned to shake his head at her: ‘You’re Hub, aren’t you? Are you Mr Hub, or is that your Christian name, and are you one of the staff?’

When he answered her she could hear that he wasn’t English, although he spoke fluently enough. ‘Yes, I’m Hub, miss—if you will just call me that—I’m one of the staff, as you say.’ He added a log to the small blaze he had started and got to his feet. ‘You will find tea and sugar and some other groceries in the kitchen cupboard, miss, and if you need anything, will you ask me and I will see that you get it.’

She thanked him and he went away; he was a kind of quartermaster, she supposed, seeing to food and drink and household supplies for all of them; she couldn’t imagine either of the professors bothering their clever heads about such things.

She remembered suddenly that she had promised that she would telephone her mother when she arrived; she would just have time before she went to lunch. She picked up the receiver, not quite believing that there would be anyone there to answer her, but someone did—a man’s voice with a strong Cockney accent, assuring her that he would get the number she wanted right away.

Her mother had a great many questions to ask; Eliza talked until five to one, and then wasn’t finished. With a promise to write that evening, she rang off, ran a comb through her hair, looked at her face in the mirror without doing anything to it because there wasn’t time and went back to the house.

Lunch, she discovered to her surprise, was a formal meal, taken in a comfortably furnished room at a table laid with care with good glass and china and well laundered table linen. There was another man there, of middle height and a little stout, pleasant-faced and in his late forties, she guessed. He was introduced as John Peters, the pharmacist and a Doctor of Science, and although he greeted her pleasantly if somewhat absentmindedly, he had little to say for himself. It was the two professors who sustained the conversation; a pleasant miscellany of this and that, gradually drawing her into the talk as they sampled the excellent saddle of lamb, followed by an apricot upside-down pudding as light as air. Eliza had a second helping and wondered who did the cooking.

They had their coffee round the table, served by Hub, and she had only just finished pouring it when Professor van Duyl remarked smoothly:

‘We should warn you that we start work tomorrow and are unlikely to take our lunch in such comfortable leisure. Indeed, I doubt if we shall meet until the evening—other than at our work, of course. You see, each attack which a patient may have must be recorded, timed and treated—and there are ten patients.’ He smiled at her across the wide table, his head a little on one side, for all the world, she thought indignantly, as though he were warning her that she was there strictly for work and nothing else. The indignation showed on her face, for his smile became mocking and the black eyebrows rose.

‘You have had very little time to unpack,’ he observed with chilling civility, ‘if you like to return to the cottage and come to the office at—let me see…’ he glanced at Professor Wyllie, who nodded his head, ‘half past two, when you will meet the rest of the people who are here before seeing the patients. This evening we can get together over the case notes and explain exactly what has to be done. You have your uniform with you?’

She was a little surprised. ‘Yes, of course.’

‘Good. May I suggest that you put it on before joining us this afternoon?’

‘Very wise,’ muttered Professor Wyllie, and when she looked at him enquiringly, added hastily: ‘Yes, well…h’m’ and added for no reason at all: ‘You have a raincoat with you too, I trust? The weather in these parts can be bad at this time of year.’ He coughed. ‘You’re a very pretty girl.’

She went back to the cottage after that, poked up the fire and unpacked her few things, then rather resentfully changed into uniform. As she fastened the silver buckle of her petersham belt around her slim waist, she tried to sort out her impressions; so her day had been arranged for her—her free time was presumably to be taken when Professor van Duyl was gracious enough to let her have any. A very arrogant type, she told herself, used to having his own way and bossing everyone around. Well, he had better not try to boss her! She caught up the thick ankle-length cape she had had the foresight to bring with her, huddled into it, and went back to the study. Professor Wyllie was sitting in his chair, his eyes closed, snoring quite loudly. She was debating whether she should go out again and knock really loudly, or sit down and wait for him to wake up, when Professor van Duyl’s voice, speaking softly from somewhere close behind her, made her jump. ‘He will wake presently, Miss Proudfoot—sit down, won’t you?’