The Tender Glory by Jean S. Macleod Page A

obvious confusion.
    “My mother went into hospital this afternoon.” She felt dazed by his uncertain welcome. “I tried to phone you yesterday, but the line was dead. The only thing I could do was to come and hope everything would be all right.”
    Jim smoothed his unruly fair hair into a semblance of order.
    “It would have been, normally.” Suddenly he was looking beyond her at her companion. “But we’ll soon fix you up. Not to worry! Cathie went off to Invemaver for the week-end and she hasn’t come back yet. She’ll be home tomorrow, I expect.”
    “Which means you’ve nowhere to spend the night,” Huntley interrupted, looking at Alison. “Let me fix something for you, or would you rather go home?”
    “There’s no need for that,” Jim assured him aggressively. “I’ll look after her. I’ve plenty of friends in Wick. Thanks for bringing her,” he added abruptly. “If I’d known I’d have come down with the taxi.”
    Huntley accepted his dismissal with an indifferent shrug of his broad shoulders, obviously glad to be rid of his responsibility.
    “Have you any message for Kirsty?” he asked.
    “Just say—everything went very well.” Alison stood looking up at him, her eyes enormous in her pale face.
    “Thank you for bringing us,” she added. “You made everything so easy for my mother.”
    “That was the idea.” He stepped back. “You’ll let me know if there’s anything else I can do?”
    “I’ll be taking over from here,” Jim said before Alison could reply. “Thanks for being so helpful, Daviot, I’m sorry you had to come all this way, but it needn’t happen again.”
    “I wish you hadn’t been quite so curt,” Alison told him as Huntley drove off. “He stepped into the breach and saved the situation for me. He’s been terribly kind.”
    “I can’t say I like him much,” Jim scowled, picking up her canvas grip. “Never did, as a matter of fact. He’s the superior sort I’ve little use for, but never mind! We’ve got more to talk about than Huntley Daviot. This business of Cathie being away is a bit awkward. If we had known, of course, she wouldn’t have gone.”
    “Please don’t worry about me,” she begged. “I can easily put up at an hotel.”
    “Bobby Henderson and his wife would take you like a shot,” he began, “but maybe you wouldn’t want to be with strangers?” “That’s about it,” she confessed. “I don’t think I feel up to polite conversation tonight, Jim. The operation is scheduled for tomorrow morning. Please believe I’m not ungrateful,” she added, “but I think I’d rather go to an hotel.”
    He drove her through the town without demur to the Three Heads Hotel, where she had no difficulty in finding accommodation, but he wouldn’t allow her to shut herself up in her room alone.
    “I’m going to take you out to John o’ Groats,” he said. “We’ll have a meal there, at the hotel. It’s still open. Then we can wander back slowly when it’s time for bed. You’ll sleep better for a breath of fresh air.”
    Alison felt too numb to protest. She was entirely in his hands. Nothing had gone according to plan, but soon this dreaded day would be over. Her mother was in safe keeping and she was here with Jim, who didn’t try to hide his affection for her.
    The road to Duncansby took them along the coast until Freswick Bay pushed them inland and the great stacks of rock which marked the edge of Scotland reared between them and the sea. Long before they reached John o’ Groat’s they could hear the pounding of the surf round the mighty Head and the thunder of the tides pouring through the Firth like some wild and terrible concerto beaten out by a gigantic orchestra of wind and wave. Alison felt shaken by it and curiously afraid, yet it had a fascination for her which drew her irresistibly. She stood looking out from the hotel window to Stroma and Mell and the distant Skerries looming dangerously in the moonlight, hardly aware of the