Cherry Ames 21 Island Nurse (7 page)

Wind and fog made it impossible to land on the island. Since fogs often hung over Balfour and came at unexpected times, the Balfourians referred to the helicopter as the “May Bee,” which some wit had named it, explaining, “Maybe you go and maybe you don’t. It all depends on the weather.”

When Cherry, Sir Ian, and Meg got off the plane at St. John’s the fog was rolling in, dimming the morning sun. The air was chilly. Cherry was glad she had on her warm coat and had brought along woolen sweaters, cardigans, and other warm clothing that Meg had ad vised packing.

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Sir Ian was bundled up. Cherry had insisted upon it in spite of his protests. But she could see that both he and Meg were much happier with the colder climate.

They had begun to fi nd the spring weather in Hilton warm enough for their taste.

‘The summer would be much too hot for us New-foundlanders,” Meg had told Cherry. “We’d melt.” Lloyd Barclay was waiting for them at the St. John’s airport.

“Hello, everybody!” he greeted them. He shook hands with Cherry and gave Meg a cousinly peck on the cheek.

“It’s good to see you, sir,” he said to his uncle, as they shook hands. “I have a taxi waiting to take us to the wharf.

We’ll have to ride the ferry. I came over in the May Bee, but the pilot didn’t want to try to make it back.” Lloyd managed the meeting with such ease that one would have thought he was simply greeting them upon their return from a pleasant weekend. All three of the Barclays behaved as though nothing unusual had happened during the past weeks. As for Cherry, she was consumed with curiosity about what Lloyd had found out upon his return to Balfour.

After luggage had been checked through customs and they were settled in the taxi, a converted limou-sine, Cherry thought surely Sir Ian or Lloyd, or Meg, at least, would ask Lloyd what had happened on the island. But Cherry was disappointed. They chatted casually of the trip and the weather.

Upon arrival at the wharf, Sir Ian permitted Lloyd to help him out of the car, then brushed away his 60
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nephew’s helping hand, and started toward the boat.

He walked beside Lloyd with slow, deliberate steps, his shoulders back, his head high.

Cherry and Meg followed and, behind them, trailed the porters with bags and luggage.

‘The king returns,” ran through Cherry’s mind. Sir Ian might be sick, but “his people” were not to see him leaning upon anyone’s arm. That he had a nurse with him was of no importance. Sir Ian Barclay was able to have a dozen nurses if it so pleased him.

They made quite a swath down the middle of the wharf, through the crowd of people, past boxes and crates, for the wharf was busy. All along the way, their appearance was greeted with nods and “Good morning to you” from various individuals. Cherry, in her distinguishing nurse’s attire, drew considerable attention, too. Undoubtedly folks were curious about her being with the Barclays.

The
Sandy Fergus
was tied up at some distance down the wharf. They passed small vessels moored alongside and could see through the mist the shapes of tankers, fi shing boats, and ships anchored in the harbor.

At last they reached the ferryboat and were met, as they stepped aboard, by the captain, John Rab, a grizzle-headed old sea dog with a pipe in his mouth.

“I’ve been expecting ye,” he said, gripping Sir Ian’s hand in his big paw. “Told Lloyd I’d hold the boat if need be. Welcome home, Ian.”

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This was the fi rst time Cherry had heard the mine owner called anything but
Sir
Ian.

The captain was obviously delighted to see Sir Ian and Meg, and they to see him. When Cherry was introduced, he gave her a sharp look from under shaggy eye-brows.

“A fi ne lass of a nurse, eh?” he said in a deep, sing-ing Scottish voice. “I’m glad ye’ve come.” He jerked his head toward Sir Ian. “This old chap here can do with a bit of looking after. Ulcers are pawky things.”

“The captain means they’re stubborn,” Sir Ian growled amiably. “He still talks the way he did when we were in school together in Scotland.”

While they were talking to the captain, the boat had been gradually taking on passengers. There were forty or so men, women, and children scattered about the deck and leaning against the rail of the old fi shing vessel. That is what the
Sandy Fergus
had been originally.

And, indeed, Captain Rab still used it for occasional fi shing, as was quite evident from the odor.

A deckhand came to report to Captain Rab that a place in the cabin had been arranged where Sir Ian and his party would be comfortable.

As they moved toward the cabin, Cherry felt herself jostled. Turning her head, she saw a man hurrying past in a group of latecomers, for it was within a few minutes of departure time. As she watched him, he stopped suddenly a little ahead of them. He was a short, powerful little man, with a dark hat pulled down at an angle.

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Dressed in a gray suit, it was a bit too obviously expensive to be in the best of taste.

He saw Cherry glance at him through the cabin window as she sat down inside, and moved quickly out of her sight.

Sir Ian, settled comfortably on the window seat and was immediately surrounded by well-wishers who had been on business, shopping trips, or visits to relatives on the mainland.

Cherry would have retired to the background, but Sir Ian kept bringing her forward to introduce her to one more of the returning islanders.

Far from being annoyed by the fuss made over him, Sir Ian was enjoying himself hugely. He was like a king holding court. And he was genuinely interested in what everyone had to say. He knew all about their families and plied them with questions.

Hearing them talk, Cherry felt that she had been dropped into a corner of Scotland. In fact, as Lloyd had once said to her, “Balfour and its people are a bit of Scotland, only separated, of course, by the Atlantic Ocean.”

It was all very warm and friendly between Sir Ian and his visitors. But Cherry observed that things were somewhat different between him and a little, wiry, white-haired lady, accompanied by a skinny, tow-headed boy about ten or eleven years old.

When Cherry had entered the cabin, she had heard the boy ask, “Grandma, aren’t we going in to see Sir Ian and Miss Meg?”

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“Oh, dear, no! We’ll not be troubling them,” the elderly woman had answered, and hustled the boy away.

Now and then, Cherry caught sight of the two walking up and down the deck or leaning against the rail outside.

During a period when Sir Ian and Meg were in lively conversation with their visitors, Lloyd suggested to Cherry that she might like to take a turn around the deck.

“I’d love to,” she told him.

“Meg will look after Uncle Ian,” he said. “Besides, nobody will miss us when they have their lord and lady of the manor.”

“Why, Lloyd, you sound bitter,” Cherry said, as he guided her outside.

“Not really,” he replied. “It’s just that I’ve been away so long, at school and working in the States, that people here treat me rather like a stranger.” They walked to the bow of the boat and stood gazing at the rough water. Waves rolled in white plumes off the sides and cast salt spray in their faces. The mist, like tattered veils, trailed over the boat and the water. It was as though they were floating in space.

“I think I love the sea,” Cherry said musingly.

“You’ll make a good Balfourian,” Lloyd complimented her, “if you can enjoy the sea and the fog. That’s the fi rst test. But wait until we have a clear, sunny day.

You’ll really love it then. This narrow passage between 64
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Balmaghie Bay on the west and the Atlantic Ocean on the east—we’re crossing it now—is always rough.

Never much quieter than this. And in bad weather, of course, the water rushes through like a torrent. In fi ne weather, though, Balmaghie Bay is calm and blue and the Atlantic grows quieter. The island lies between the bay and the sea, rising out of the waters like a jewel.” Lloyd broke off suddenly. “Sorry, Cherry,” he apologized. “I get carried away. I didn’t mean to give you a lecture on natural history.”

Lloyd watched the water alongside the boat a hit, then said abruptly, “Cherry, remember the story in the newspaper?”

“Oh, my!” she exclaimed, laughing. “I wondered when you were going to say something about that. How could I forget it? I’ve practically bitten my tongue off to keep from asking questions. The story of the explosion brought you fl ying back here.”

“You are right,” Lloyd said. He grinned ruefully at her and went on, “Well, it was a tempest in a teapot. The explosion, that is. For some reason, probably someone’s carelessness, there was a small, delayed blast in Number Two mine just after the miners had knocked off work. It did some damage in one of the tunnels.”

“But it might have injured some of the men,” said Cherry.

“It might,” agreed Lloyd. “Though there are safety measures that probably would have prevented it. I’ve been investigating our safety methods. Some of the miners aren’t nearly as careful as they should be.”
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“Isn’t it strange that all the trouble has been in Number Two mine?” asked Cherry. “What does Mr. Cameron say?”

“Well, Jock can’t explain it,” replied Lloyd. “In fact, he was quite evasive about the whole thing. I couldn’t seem to get a direct answer out of him. I don’t know what in the world has happened to him. He actually avoids me. And every day he has off he goes fi shing. That may not sound unusual to you because you expect people on an island to go fi shing. But not Old Jock. He used to sail his boat on Sundays in summer in Balmaghie Bay. When I was a boy, he would take me and some of the other boys sailing. But he never cared much about fi shing. Now, every chance he gets, out in that rowboat he goes. And he doesn’t go in the bay; he goes out in the ocean, deep-sea fi shing not far from our big sea cave we call Rogues’ Cave. As they say in Scotland, I don’t know what’s come over the man.”

“What about McGuire?” asked Cherry. “I thought you rushed up here to give McGuire a piece of your mind.”

“That was the idea,” Lloyd admitted. “But that young fellow appears to know his business. He’s from the new iron mines in northern Quebec and he brought a good crew with him. Broderick recommended him, incidentally. I did start to tear into him about giving out the statement to the press on the explosion and telling Uncle Ian about the weakened walls in the tunnel of Number Two mine. Then he explained that Mr. Cameron was off on those days and he was technically in charge.

And, of course, the man was right. I respect McGuire’s 66
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skill as a miner and his ability to handle a mining crew, but I can’t say I like him particularly,” Lloyd confessed.

“He’s too aggressive and extremely ambitious.”

“Perhaps that’s why Mr. Cameron is behaving so strangely,” suggested Cherry. “Wouldn’t you be angry and terribly hurt if you were in his place? A younger man is brought in, an ambitious fellow, and Mr. Cameron feels he is being pushed out of his job.”

“Oh, Old Jock—everyone calls him that—knows that Uncle Ian would never let that happen,” declared Lloyd.

“But Old Jock’s nose undoubtedly is out of joint over McGuire and he’s being stubborn and uncooperative—

that’s about what it amounts to and I’ll have to bear with him for the time being.”

“Well, please don’t tell your uncle about all this just now,” Cherry cautioned. “He’s in no condition to be excited or worried about anything.” Lloyd patted her hand and smiled engagingly at her.

“There now, I’ll always be as soft as a kitten with the old tyrant. So don’t get the wind up, nurse lass. Haven’t I behaved well so far?” He tweaked one of her curls.

“No complaints so far,” she said, grinning. Just then, she saw the little old lady and the boy and plucked Lloyd’s sleeve. “Who are they?” she asked quickly.

“Who? Where?” Lloyd swiveled his head about.

“Oh, dear! You can’t see them now. They’re behind all those other people,” Cherry told him. “It’s an old lady and a boy. The boy wanted to see your uncle, but his grandmother wouldn’t let him. She doesn’t seem to like him much.”

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“Maybe she
doesn’t
like Uncle Ian,” said Lloyd, laughing. “Some people have been known not to like him, you know. He can be a grizzly bear at times. Scares people, makes them mad.”

“Well, I’m sure he doesn’t go around frightening old ladies and little boys,” scoffed Cherry. “I think I’d better go back. It’s my responsibility to see that your uncle doesn’t tire himself out. And just let him try being a grizzly bear to scare me,” she boasted with mock sever-ity, “and I’ll clobber him.”

“That’s the way to talk,” said Lloyd. “Well, where you go, I go, pretty maid.” He took her arm with a gallant air and escorted her back to the cabin.

It was not long before they reached Balfour. The distance from St. John’s was about four miles or so, but the time varied with the state of the weather. The
Sandy Fergus
on good days in fair seas could cross in under an hour. On bad days it was hard to tell how long the crossing would take. Today, the boat had made good time. Captain Rab considered the fog too slight to be worthy of the name.

Standing on deck, Cherry saw Balfour Island when it was at neither its best nor its worst. The noonday sun, shining through the mist, gave a milky sort of light.

The breeze off the island smelled of balsam and pine.

There was a view of the sandy beach of the harbor, the wharves, boats, and little frame houses. Back of them were trees and the network of conveyors and bridges and power lines of the mines. They formed a lacy pattern on ridges and hills and above the little valleys.