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a job at home, and I have to be back by the end of next week…’

      Their coffee came, and she poured out and handed him a cup.

      ‘As far as the ankle is concerned there is no reason why Mrs Macdonald should not be taken back to her home. Unfortunately there is a complication. She has a heart condition, and the shock of the fall has made it worse. Rest in bed is absolutely necessary for several more days—even a week. Her blood-pressure is far too high, and she is not by nature a calm person, is she? A placid life is essential to her well-being. Ideally she should stay where she is. Perhaps the housekeeper or your aunt could come here and take your place?’

      ‘Then she would want to know why…’

      ‘Indeed, yes. Is your job very important to you? Do you stand a risk of losing it if you were to stay on here?’

      She nodded and said, ‘yes,’ slowly, thinking that her mother would miss her share of the household expenses until she could find another job. Messrs Crabbe, Crabbe and Twitchett, a young, rather pushy firm, would show no compunction in finding someone to replace her. Shorthand typists were quite thick on the ground.

      She said out loud, ‘But of course I’ll stay.’ She gave him a direct look. ‘She is my granny.’

      ‘Good, but I think that we must establish some sort of routine. You must have some leisure during the day. Do you get enough sleep?’

      ‘Well, Granny takes quite a time to settle, and she wakes early and likes a cup of tea and then goes to sleep again.’

      ‘So it is essential that you should have a few hours each day to yourself. I suggest that you settle her for a rest after lunch, arrange for her to have her tea, and return to her around five or six o’clock. I dare say there is a sensible chambermaid who would undertake to cast an eye over your grandmother from time to time and give her tea.’

      ‘I did come to Scotland especially to be her companion on the train trip…’

      ‘Indeed, but not to nurse her for twenty-four hours of the day and night for a week or more.’

      Dr Cameron smiled suddenly at her, and just for a moment she liked him very much.

      ‘Get through today, and tomorrow I will have a talk with her. Now I must go—I have someone to see at the youth hostel at Loch Ossian.’

      He lifted a finger for the bill, wished her goodbye, and left the hotel.

      Rosie went back to the invalid presently, and read the Daily Telegraph from end to end before lunch, and after that meal, since her grandmother declared that she needed her company, sat quietly while the old lady talked. Mostly about her youth and the early years of her marriage and, when that topic was exhausted, politics and the shortcomings of the younger generation.

      Mercifully tea gave her pause, and Rosie produced a pack of cards and suggested Patience before being allowed to go down to the dining-room for her dinner. There was still an hour or so before bedtime, and Mrs Macdonald, far from being tired, became chatty.

      ‘Quite a pleasant man, Dr Cameron,’ she allowed. ‘I am inclined to take his advice. He is not so young, and must have had some experience. Is he Dr Finlay’s partner, I wonder? There surely can’t be enough work for the pair of them.’

      ‘It’s a scattered practice,’ said Rosie, and stifled a yawn, not caring in the least where the man came from.

      Her grandmother gave her a sharp glance. ‘Married, do you suppose?’

      ‘I’ve no idea, Granny. I should think that very likely he is; he’s not young.’

      Her grandmother spoke with a snap. ‘Not a day over thirty-five, I should imagine. You’re not so young yourself, Rosie.’

      The kind of remark which made it hard for Rosie to love her Granny as she ought.

      She had to admire Dr Cameron’s tactics the next morning. He was later than usual, and he looked tired. But he was as immaculate as usual, and just as impersonally pleasant, reassuring Mrs Macdonald that she was making a steady progress, explaining that the longer she stayed in bed off her foot, the sooner she would be able to walk without pain.

      ‘Another few days,’ he warned her, ‘and then I will see about getting you home. You are making the most remarkable recovery.’

      Mrs Macdonald gave a smug smile. ‘I pride myself upon my fortitude and common sense,’ she told him.

      It was an easy step from there to point out that Rosie, if she were to give her grandmother her full attention, should take necessary exercise.

      ‘If I might suggest,’ said Dr Cameron at his most urbane, ‘two or three hours in the fresh air each afternoon? I am sure that there is a chambermaid able to bring you your tea and answer your bell, but I hope that for your own good you will rest quietly after your lunch. Shall you be willing to try this for a day or so? Now that you are feeling so much better I dare say you have been thinking along these lines yourself.’

      To Rosie’s astonishment her grandmother replied quite sharply that of course she had.

      ‘Then that is settled, if—er—Rosie feels able, there are some splendid walks around the hotel.’

      Of which she was well aware, although she had no intention of saying so. She still didn’t like him, she told herself, but she had to admit that he was doing his best for her.

      He went away presently giving her a casual nod. ‘I’ll be in tomorrow—I have to pass the hotel.’

      She accompanied him down to the foyer, and as he went he said, ‘Be sure and get out for a walk each day.’ He stopped unexpectedly so that she almost tripped up.

      ‘You’re not very happy, are you?’ he asked, but didn’t wait for an answer.

      ‘A good thing, too,’ muttered Rosie crossly, ‘for it’s none of his business.’

      The new regime worked well; her grandmother offered no opposition when, having settled her for her afternoon nap, she got into her gilet and sensible shoes, reassured her that she had warned the chambermaid, rearranged the pillows, adjusted the window curtains to her grandmother’s taste, and at last took herself off.

      She took the road towards Loch Tulla, walking briskly. It was a fine afternoon, but it wouldn’t last—the sky above Ben Dorian behind her was ominously grey, but she didn’t care; to be out walking in well-remembered country was enough to make her happy. That evening, she reflected, she would phone her mother and tell her that nothing had changed in the wild and lonely countryside around her. Just for a little while she was blissfully happy, and some of the happiness was still with her when she returned to soothe a disgruntled grandparent who declared that she had been bored, in pain, and neglected.

      ‘Kirsty came to see you,’ said Rosie. ‘I met her as I came in, and she said that you had had a long nap and a splendid tea.’

      She wished she hadn’t repeated that, for her grandmother declared loudly that no servant was to be trusted. ‘Of course if you wish to disbelieve your own kith and kin…’

      It took her the rest of the evening to coax Mrs Macdonald into a good frame of mind again.

      When Dr Cameron came in the morning she half expected her grandmother to object to being left on her own in the afternoon, and she couldn’t help but admire his handling of her recalcitrant grandparent so that grudging permission was given once more with the rider that it was to be hoped that the state of affairs wouldn’t last.

      ‘Just as soon as you are fit to be moved, Mrs Macdonald,’ said the doctor, at his most soothing, ‘I will arrange your return home. You are doing splendidly, due largely to your co-operation and fortitude.’

      Rosie, watching the old lady’s pleased smile at that, thought Dr Cameron was a cunning rascal, obviously used to getting his own way once he had made up his mind.

      Beyond a civil good day as he went he had nothing to say to

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