Mr. Thornton invited me for an interview by return of post. Later I learned I was the only applicant for the position. With Daphne's help, I put together a respectable outfit, borrowing a hat from one nurse and a handbag from another, and retraced the journey Barbara had made nearly thirty years before. One of the masters met me at Perth Station and drove me the ten miles to the school. As we came over the final rise into the valley, I felt I was seeing a landscape I had always known. The rough fields and woods stretched down to the river, and on the far side the bare hills rolled away in either direction as far as the eye could see. This is where Barbara grew up, I thought, and beneath the overcast sky everything that lay within my gaze glittered.
Sitting in Mr. Thornton's oak-panelled study, I seemed possessed of an unusual fluency, and on our tour of the school sanatorium I
found it easy to ask appropriate questions. Still, when Daphne asked how the interview had gone, I shrugged and said so-so. The next day I volunteered for all the overtime available; I worked early and late and at night fell into bed too tired to think.
A fortnight later a second letter arrived from Glenaird and I carried it around, rustling in my pocket, for an entire day before opening it. “The school matron,” Mr. Thornton wrote, “is an essential part of our community and a force for good in the lives of boys and masters alike. We hope very much that you will accept the position.”
I had not heard from Samuel since he left Glasgow, nor had I been able to bring myself to write to him. That night after supper I sat down at my desk. Several of Samuel's patients were still in the unit, and I started with the simple part, an account of Raymond's wrists, Duncan's eyelids. Then “I fear we're not suited. You want to go to Canada, and I could never leave my father and Aunt Lily. They're the only family I have.”
For a long while I sat holding my pen, looking at those three abrupt sentences; nothing more occurred to me. But as I folded the letter into the envelope, everything I liked about Samuel rushed back. I remembered the pleasure he had taken in keeping me out until the last minute of curfew. I remembered the evening we had played charades at the unit, how the patients had cheered his young Lochinvar. Suddenly I was convinced I was making a terrible mistake. I could ask the companions to stay away. They would understand. And if I promised to go to Canada eventually, surely Samuel would agree to live in Scotland for now. I was about to tear up my letter, and write a refusal instead to Mr. Thornton, when Daphne knocked on my door with cocoa.
“Here,” she said, handing me a cup. “Am I interrupting?”
“No, I was just trying to write to Samuel.”
Daphne took up her customary perch on the edge of the bed. “So”âshe blew on her cocoaâ“forgive me for being nosy, but what happened? You've been awfully glum since his visit.”
For a fleeting moment, as she eyed me over her cup, I thought of telling the truth. Then I remembered my last attempt and fell back on Canada, an excuse which made Daphne bob in sympathy; she had often said she could never leave her Glasgow family.
In bed that night my dreams were as turbulent as if I were contemplating murder. I smelled again the boy's beery breath; I heard the explosion that had trapped me in the doorway of the haberdasher's. Meanwhile the furniture flew round the room. Between dreams I glimpsed my clothes dancing.
First light showed my desk empty except for the letter to Samuel; a stamp had been affixed, not by me. In my dressing gown, I carried the envelope downstairs and dropped it into the box.
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Lily and David both greeted the news of the school with delight. Although I would be farther away, I would have three months' holiday a year, and going to Barbara's birthplace gave the plan an inevitable legitimacy. In July I quit the infirmary and returned to Troon. I had not been home for more than a week since I left, and Lily was determined to treat me as a guest. “Rest. Take it easy,” she kept saying. “You deserve a holiday.”
She did not understand that I would happily have scrubbed the floor from dawn to dusk to keep at bay the thoughts that breached too easily my idle hours. As the days passed, I found myself growing more, not less, preoccupied with Samuel. When I thought that I had
given him up for the companions, I cursed my own stupidity. Then I cursed them. They had followed me back to Troon but, as if sensing my anger, kept their distance.
The Saturday after my return, David and I went to visit Barbara. The results of the general election had been announced the previous week, and the impromptu party at the hostel had also been my farewell. Now, as we ambled down the lane, David remarked how glad he was he had lived to see a Labour government in power.
I told him Samuel had said it would be the best thing to happen since the repeal of the Poor Laws.
David smiled. “I don't know if I'd go that far, but the situation after the last war was a scandal. At least this government cares about working people.”
At the grave, dandelions had sprung up and the grass was littered with leaves and beech mast. As I bent to retrieve a branch, he apologised. “I'm not as spry as I used to be.”
“Never mind. I'll come back on Monday and tidy up.”
He was staring at the stone. “Barbara and I talked about Glenaird so often, I can still picture the valley. We meant to go there after you were born. I suppose in a way we are.”
I gazed at the map of lichen that spread across my mother's name and tried to hold back tears.
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The end of July brought David's seventy-third birthday. Lily had hoarded eggs and sugar to bake a cake, and she and I joined together to give him a new fishing rod. It was too long to wrap. Instead, I wound nasturtiums and morning glories from the handle to the tip.
“My goodness,” David said. “You'll make me into an angler yet.”
He mimed a cast, and the orange and blue flowers swayed as if the rod had magically bloomed in his hands; for a moment he was young again. Then he began to wind the reel, and I saw with dismay how stiffly his fingers moved.
Lily carried in the cake with seven big candles and three little ones. “Don't forget to wish,” I said.
He paused, lips parted. “I wishâ”
“You mustn't tell,” I interrupted. “Else it won't come true.”
He closed his eyes and blew out the ten candles in a single swoop. Lily and I clapped.
The next day was unusually warm. A haze hung over the meadows, and even the blackbirds were silent. After lunch, David announced that he was going fishing. Lily made him a thermos of tea, and I lined the bottom of his basket with long grass. “I'll be providing the supper tonight,” he joked.
I helped Lily with the dishes, and together we made a batch of scones; then she shooed me away. I carried my book,
The Mill on the Floss,
out to the bench in the garden. The bees were buzzing in the roses. On the page the print too seemed to buzz as Maggie Tulliver floated down the river.
“Eva,” said a low, insistent voice. “Eva.”
I sat up, startled. The garden was empty, save for a couple of sparrows in the apple tree. A dream, I thought, some remnant of the book, but I did not go back to sleep. I struggled to my feet and went inside to get a drink of water.
I was at the sink, drying my hands, when Lily appeared. “There you are,” she said. “I was wondering if you'd fetch David. Tea will be ready soon, and he doesn't like to rush.”
I took the path through the woods. Beneath the trees it was dark
and cool, a pleasant relief after the heat of the garden, but instead of slowing my pace I walked faster and faster. By the time I emerged onto the riverbank, I was trotting.
At first glance, David appeared to be standing knee-deep in the water, leaning against the steep bank. As I came closer I saw that he had collapsed. His left hand still held the rod. It floated before him, bobbing in the current.
“I felt a bit funny,” he whispered.
“Father,” I said urgently. Beneath my fingers his pulse fluttered.
I half rose, searching the riverbank for other fishermen, in vain. All the men were helping with the harvest. I did not know what to do. I must fetch a doctor, but at any moment David might slide down into the water.
“We have to get you out of the river,” I said.
I stepped behind him and slid my hands under his shoulders. I was used to moving patients, balancing their weight with my own. Now I tugged, I heaved, but all my straining did not budge my father. If anything, he sank a little lower.
“Eva,” he murmured, “you'll do yourself an injury.”
I let go and stood up. My thoughts jostled frantically: to go, to stay, to go. Then into my mind came an image of the girl and the woman. “Please help me,” I begged. “Please.”
Once more I bent to grasp David's shoulders. There was nothing in the world save the need to move him to safety. I shut my eyes, dug in my heels, and leaned back with all my might.
For a few seconds he remained obdurate. Then I felt him shift, a hair's breadth, one inch, two. Opening my eyes, I saw two men in old-fashioned army uniforms, kneeling on either side of my father, and in the river stood a third, lifting his legs. David was free of the
water. Led by the woman, we carried him over the grass and propped him against a beech tree. As noiselessly as they had appeared, the men retreated into the woods; beside me the girl helped to loosen David's collar, remove his waterlogged boots.
“He needs a doctor,” said the woman, and she and the girl too were gone.
David stared at me. Before he could try to speak, I said, “You stay here. I'll fetch Dr. Pyper.”
“That's not necessary.” He spoke with long pauses, as if he must search for each word in crowded rooms.
“I just meant I'll find someone who has a car.” I bent to kiss his cheek and felt the bristles; he had shaved carelessly that morning.
I walked until I was out of sight. Then, heedless of the uneven ground, I sprinted. As I neared the road, I heard the sound of a vehicle approaching and, with a final burst of speed, I leapt up the bank and hurled myself into its path.
The car stopped a few yards away. Nora Blythe, as upright and efficient as she had been seven years before when she tried to make me into a secretary, opened the door. I spluttered out a couple of sentences. “I'll fetch the doctor,” she said.
I ran back the way I had come. Let him be alive, I prayed. Let him be alive. As soon as I saw him, beneath the tree, I knew that my wish had been granted. I stopped to catch my breath and straighten my clothes. When I thought I could appear calm, I hurried towards him.
“I met Miss Blythe on the road. She's bringing help.”
“Good.” Even the single syllable seemed to exhaust him.
I brought my face close to his, so that his eyes might dwell upon my countenance, and began to talk. Often at the infirmary I chatted to patients as they came out of the anaesthetic or when I was changing
a dressing, but that was different. Now I spoke with desperate fluency, as if David's life depended upon my words, as if all that anchored him to the world was the thin cord of my conversation.
“Do you remember coming here when I was little? Before I started at Miss MacGregor's, we would walk down in the evening. You would lean on the bridge and ask if I wanted a peppermint. I had to guess which pocket they were in. Then I put in my hand to see if I was right. There were little shreds of tobacco in the seams, and afterwards my hands smelled of tobacco and peppermint.”
Above our heads the canopy of beech leaves trembled; the sunlight touched David's face.
“We used to go fishing on Saturdays,” I continued. “I brought my net and jam jar and you made me go downstream. I watched you wade out into the water, like a giant in your seven-league boots. There was that lovely hissing sound as you cast. The part I didn't like was when you caught a fish. I don't think you enjoyed that either. You always hit them on the head immediately.”
David sighed.
“Once we came in the autumn when the salmon were running: so many fish the water was shaking with silver. All along the banks, men were practically shoveling them out. You watched for a minute and turned away. Later you told Lily it was a massacre, like Passchendaele. She said you were too softhearted. I expect she was cross we weren't getting a salmon.”
I put my hand on his forehead. His eyes, which only the day before had been blue as the morning glories, were dim, and I wondered if anything reached him. Just then I heard voices. Miss Blythe emerged from beneath the trees, followed by Dr. Pyper, breathing
hard but casting a spell of reassurance, and the Tyler brothers carrying a stretcher.
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In his hospital bed, hour by hour David grew weaker. He was slipping out of life as inexorably as he might, but for the companions, have slipped into the water. Lily and I sat with him. It was during the second night, when I had persuaded her to go and lie down, that David said, “I want to tell you my wish.”