Under Gemini (29 page)

It was undated, unsigned.

“Is it from a friend?” Isobel asked.

“Yes. From a friend.”

Cunning Rose. Isobel would never read another person's postcard, but even if she had, this one would have told her nothing. It felt, to Flora's fingers, dirty. She made a face and dropped it over the side of the bed into the wastepaper basket.

Isobel, watching her, was concerned. “You're not feeling ill again, are you?”

“No,” Flora assured her. She smothered toast with marmalade and bit off a hungry mouthful.

When the meager breakfast had been consumed, Isobel departed bearing the tray, and Flora was alone once more. Despite herself, the message from Rose had both upset and angered her. As well, she was hating herself. She longed for the reassurance of a loving spirit. She needed a little fussing-over, a little caring. There was only one person who was capable of providing this, and Flora wanted her now. Deviantly, not waiting for anybody to say that she could, Flora got out of bed and went in search of clothes. She would go and talk to Tuppy.

*   *   *

Jessie McKenzie was back from Portree. Her old mother, who had taken to her bed after what was euphemistically known as “a turn,” had decided, after all, that she wasn't going to die.

This sudden recovery had been brought about, not by the timely arrival of her dutiful daughter, but because a neighbor, calling to cheer the invalid, had left the news that Katy Mel-drum, already the mother of a cross-eyed child called Gary, was once more in the family way. Katy was a shameless girl and had always been so, impervious to both pointing fingers and the gentle remonstrances of her sorely tried priest. Now, with her belly swelling larger each day, she was walking the town scornful and amused, and speculation as to the identity of the father was rife. Most folk had their money on young Robby McCrae, the constable's brother, but there was talk of a deckhand off one of the boats from Kinlochbervie, and him a married man with a family of his own.

It was too good to miss. To die before the mystery was solved, thus missing all the fun, was unthinkable. The old lady heaved herself up on the pillows, walloped the wall with her stick and, when her startled daughter appeared at the door, demanded sustenance. In two days she was up and about again, gleaning gossip and adding her own opinion to those of others.

Jessie decided she might as well go home.

Home was one of the old fisher cottages, tucked down in the back streets of Tarbole, where she kept house for her brother, who worked as porter in one of the smokehouses. Early each morning Jessie climbed the hill to the doctor's house, where she answered the telephone, took messages, chatted to visiting tradesmen, gossiped with the neighbors, and drank tea. In between these diverting occupations, she banged cheerfully about the house, creating more dirt than she disposed of, did the doctor's laundry, and prepared his evening meal.

As often as not, since he was so busy, she was away home before he appeared to eat the fish pie, or the shepherd's pie, or the two fried chops (her culinary imagination was not extensive) which she would leave for him, hardening in the oven between two plates. Sometimes when she returned the next morning the dried-up meal would still be there, untouched. And Jessie would shake her head, scrape it all into the garbage can, and find someone to tell that if the doctor did not take more care of himself, he would be well on the way to a breakdown, or worse.

Being the doctor's housekeeper gave her a certain importance, a standing, in the town. What would he do without you? folks asked. Jessie would shake her head, modest but proud. And what would they all do without her, she asked herself, answering the telephone the way she did, day in, day out, taking messages and leaving notes. She was indispensable. It was a rare sensation.

She therefore received something of a shock when she let herself into the kitchen that Thursday morning after her return from Portree. It was a beautiful day, and she had climbed the hill in the cold sunshine, filled with grim relish at the thought of the chaos she was bound to find. After all, she had been away for four days, and all the world knew that Dr. Kyle was a handless creature when it came to doing for himself.

Instead, she found sparkling order: a clean floor, a polished sink, saucepans neatly ranged above the cooker, and scarcely a dirty dish to be seen.

The shock was like a blow to her heart. Slowly, she realized what must have happened. He had found somebody else to take her place. He had let somebody else into Jessie's kitchen. Her mind made a quick catalogue of the Tarbole women as she tried to think who it could have been. Mrs. Murdoch? The very idea was chilling. If it had been Mrs. Murdoch, then the whole town would know by now that Jessie had been deposed. They would all be talking about her, probably laughing behind her back. She wondered if she was going to faint.

But her panic was calmed by familiar sounds from upstairs. The doctor was out of bed and getting dressed. She could hear him moving to and fro in his bedroom. She stood, gazing upwards. She thought,
Well, he's there and I'm here. And here I'm staying.
Possession was nine tenths of the law. (Or something. Jessie was vague on this point.) She only knew that if she was going to leave this house, she would have to be forcibly ejected. No high-stepping Tarbole female was going to take her place.

Thus emboldened, she took off her coat, hung it on the back of the door, and went to fill the kettle. By the time Dr. Kyle came downstairs, his breakfast was waiting. She had found a clean tablecloth. The bacon was done just the way he liked it, and the egg was well-cooked with none of those nasty jelly bits on the top.

He had stopped by the front door to pick up his mail. Now, as he came down the hall, he called out, “Jessie,” and she replied, in a cheerful voice, “Good morning, Doctor!” and turned to greet him as he came through the door.

It was a little disappointing to see him looking so fit and pleased with himself, but at least he was not wearing the hangdog expression of a man about to sack his housekeeper.

“How are you, Jessie? How did everything go?”

“Oh, not so bad, Doctor.”

“How's your mother?”

“She has great spirit, Doctor. She's made a miraculous recovery.”

“Splendid. I am glad.” He sat at the table and took up a knife to slit open the first letter. It was typewritten. A long white envelope with a Glasgow postmark. Jessie took time to notice this as she laid the bacon and eggs, with a little flourish, on the table in front of him.

She poured his tea, and set that down as well. The cup steamed invitingly. The toast was crisp. It was a lovely breakfast. She stepped back to eye him. He read to the bottom of the page, and then turned the letter over to finish it. She saw a flourishing signature.

She cleared her throat. “And how did you manage, Doctor?”

“Um?” He looked up, but he had not heard her. She decided that the letter must be of some importance.

“I said, How did you manage while I was away?”

He gave her one of his rare smiles. She had not seen him in such a good humor for years.

“I missed you, Jessie, as a son misses his mother.”

“Get away.”

“No, it's true. The place was a midden.” He caught sight of the bacon and eggs. “Now, that looks good.” He laid the letter aside and started to eat, it seemed to her, like a man who hasn't seen good food for a month.

“But … it doesna look like a midden now.”

“No, I know. A good fairy came and cleaned it up for me, and since then Nurse has been keeping an eye on things.”

Jessie didn't mind Nurse. Nurse ran the surgery. She was one of the family, as it were. Not an outsider. But the good fairy? If it was that interfering Murdoch woman … Once more Jessie felt faint, but she had to know.

“And who might the good fairy have been, if I'm allowed to ask?”

“Certainly you can ask. It was Antony Armstrong's young lady. She's staying at Fernrigg. She dropped by one afternoon and stayed to do the scrubbing.”

Antony Armstrong's young lady. Relief swept through Jessie. It wasn't Mrs. Murdoch. So Jessie's reputation was safe, her standing in Tarbole unimpaired, her job secure.

Her job. What was she doing, standing here, wasting time, with all the house to be seen to? With an enthusiasm she hadn't shown in years, she collected dustpans, dusters, brushes, and brooms, and by the time Hugh departed for his morning rounds she was already halfway down the staircase, on her knees, noisily attacking dust and cobwebs. The air was rich with the smell of new polish, and Jessie was singing.

“We'll meet again, I don't know where, don't know when…”

At the front door he paused. “Jessie, if anybody calls, tell them I'll be in the surgery at ten. And if its urgent, they'll probably reach me at Fernrigg. I want to drop in and see Mrs. Armstrong.” He opened the door, and then hesitated and turned back. “And Jessie, it's a marvelous morning. Pull all the blinds up and open the windows and let the sunshine in.”

In normal circumstances, Jessie would have been hotly opposed to such outlandish ideas. But this morning she only said, “Righty ho.” She did not even turn from her task as she said it, and his last sight of her was her round pinafored rump, a pair of straining nylons, and the legs of her apple green locknit bloomers.

*   *   *

He opened the door and said, “Good morning.”

Tuppy was still eating her breakfast. She looked up at him over her spectacles because she had been reading her mail at the same time.

“Hugh.”

He came in and shut the door. “And it's a perfect morning. You can see forever.”

Tuppy did not comment on this. To be truthful, she was a little put out at being caught, even by Hugh, with her breakfast tray on her lap and her bed not yet straightened. She took off her spectacles and eyed him suspiciously, detecting a certain self-satisfaction in his manner.

“What are you doing here at this hour of the day?”

“I've got an early surgery this morning, so I thought I'd make a few calls first, and you're one of them.”

“Well, you're far too early, and I don't know where Nurse is and I'm not ready for you.”

“Nurse is on her way up. She'll be here in a moment or two.”

“And you,” she told him, “look like a cat that's been at the cream.”

He came to his usual resting place, leaning on the rail at the foot of her bed. “Jessie McKenzie has returned from Portree. The air is full of song and the house is getting a good clean-through. Like cascara.”

“That's very gratifying, but it doesn't explain your smug expression.”

“No, not entirely. I have got something to tell you.”

“Is it something I'm going to enjoy hearing?”

“I hope so.” Characteristically, he came straight to the point. “I had a letter this morning from a young man called David Stephenson. He qualified from Edinburgh three years ago, and since then he's been working at the Victoria Hospital in Glasgow. He has excellent qualifications and he's been strongly recommended to me. He's about thirty, with a young wife, who used to be a nurse, and two small children. They've had enough of city life, and they want to come to Tarbole.”

“A partner?”

“A partner.”

Tuppy found herself without words. She leaned back on her pillows, closed her eyes, counted ten, and then opened them again. He was waiting for her comment. “I wanted to tell you before anyone else,” he said. “What do you think?”

“I think,” she told him, “that you are without doubt one of the most infuriating men I've ever known.”

“I know. Infuriating. Because I didn't tell you before.”

“Here we've all been, trying to get you to take on a partner for months. And all you've done is evade the issue and procrastinate like an idiot.”

He knew her very well. “But you're pleased?”

“Of course I'm pleased,” she told him, crossly. “Nothing you could have told me could make me more pleased. But I wish I'd known you'd got this up your sleeve. Instead of going on at you all the time, I'd have saved my breath to cool my porridge.”

“Tuppy, sometimes I think you forget I am no longer Jason's age.”

“What you mean is, you are perfectly capable of engaging a partner for yourself without any interference from an old busybody like me.”

“I never said that.”

“No, but that was what you meant, just the same.” But she could not go on being indignant and pretending to be cross. Her pleasure and satisfaction were very real. Now she allowed herself to smile. “You'll be able to ease up a little,” she told him. “Have time to do some of the things you enjoy.”

“It's not fixed up yet. He's coming to see me next Wednesday, to have a look at the place, get the feel of things.”

Tuppy became practical. “Where will they live?”

“That's one of the problems. There isn't a house.”

This was right up Tuppy's street. “We must all cast about and ask questions and see if we can find one.”

“Well, don't start casting about until the deal's fixed. Until then it's still on the secret list.”

“All right, I won't breathe a word. Dr. Stephenson.” She said the name aloud and it sounded good and dependable. “Dr. Kyle's partner. Just think of that.”

Having imparted his news. Hugh became practical. “How are you feeling this morning?”

“Better than I felt yesterday, but not as well as I'll feel tomorrow. I'm beginning to get restless, Hugh. I warn, you, I'm not going to sit here like an old crock for much longer.”

“Perhaps next week you can get up for an hour or two.”

“And Rose. How is poor little Rose?”

“I haven't seen poor little Rose yet.”

“Well you must go and see her, make quite sure she's going to be all right. Really, that horrible oyster. People should be more careful. It would spoil tomorrow evening for all of us if she couldn't be there. The whole point of having the dance was for everybody to meet Rose.”