Read Online Air Ambulance by Jean S. Macleod - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Jean S. Macleod
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dismal clanging of a bell-buoy, and she found herself listening for its reiterated warning as she climbed.
Seagulls rose and swept over her head, crying bitterly. It was the most doleful sound she had ever heard. Like lost spirits wheeling out above the world.
Ginger was in the plane now.
“O.K.!” he yelled. “I’ve got him.”
In that moment Alison slipped and fell. Clinging desperately to the edge of the wing, she plunged waist-deep into the lifting tide, with no foothold anywhere, and it seemed as if her legs were floating away from her among the heaving, treacherous yellow weed. In no time, she realized, her hands would become too numb to hold on, but she could not call out.
Gradually she became unaware of any feeling other than a growing numbness which deepened into a sense of security. It would be easy and kind, she thought, to drift away on this slow-moving tide...
“All right! I’ve got hold of you!”
The voice had been slow, measured, calm, and she recognized it immediately. Fergus Blair was up there somewhere, above her on the rocks, and before she could speak, before she could make any sign, he had lifted her bodily into his arms.
Tension snapped in her as she lay against him, feeling the numbness and the cold ebbing away, aware of nothing very much in these first moments but a strange, vague unreality and the hard pressure of his encircling arms.
He carried her in silence towards the beach, sure-footed even on the treacherous stretches of seaweed, and put her down at last on the firm sand.
She brushed the hair out of her eyes to look at him, and his sense of shock was immediately evident.
“I had no idea,” he said harshly. “I heard the plane, and guessed that you were in trouble.”
“I—we didn’t mean to land on Heimra. We wouldn’t have done, but there was no other way.”
Her voice had sounded high-pitched and aggressive even in her own ears, and she hadn’t really been thinking of Heimra Beag as the prohibited island. It was just that some subconscious urge had put the accusation into her voice.
Without answering her he peeled off the thick sheepskin jacket he wore and put it securely about her shoulders.
“Stay where you are,” he commanded. “It looks as if I may be needed on the plane. Is the pilot still aboard?”
She nodded dumbly.
“Yes. It’s Ronald Gowrie.” She seemed to be speaking in an odd sort of trance. “He didn’t want to land on Heimra...”
He gave her a quick, searching look, striding off almost immediately to plunge waist-deep into the water beside the Heron, and in seconds, it seemed, the door had been forced open and Ginger’s small, puckish face appeared in the aperture. It was red with exertion.
“He’s pretty badly hurt ...”
The remainder of the sentence was whipped away by the wind, but she saw Fergus Blair forcing his way into the cabin and thought that all might now be well.
Trying not to crumple up ignominiously on the sand, she stood waiting with the warmth of the sheepskin-lined jacket penetrating her whole body and enabling her to think clearly again.
The faint tang of a good tobacco hung around it, and when she thrust her hands into the vast pockets for extra warmth, her fingers fastened over the bowl of a pipe.
An eternity seemed to pass before there was any further movements from the plane, but at last Ginger backed through the doorway, and she drew a swift breath of relief.
He stood hunched for a split second, blocking the exit, and then he let himself down slowly into the water. Above him Fergus Blair appeared, carrying a heavy burden, and final relief poured over her like an engulfing tide. They were bringing Ronald Gowrie out.
“Is he all right?”
Her words were no more than a whisper, and Fergus Blair answered them in the only way he could.
“He’s alive,” he said.
Alive! Alive, anyway, she thought. Not trapped out there where he could have drowned in unconsciousness.
She could not really help them. Blair
Seagulls rose and swept over her head, crying bitterly. It was the most doleful sound she had ever heard. Like lost spirits wheeling out above the world.
Ginger was in the plane now.
“O.K.!” he yelled. “I’ve got him.”
In that moment Alison slipped and fell. Clinging desperately to the edge of the wing, she plunged waist-deep into the lifting tide, with no foothold anywhere, and it seemed as if her legs were floating away from her among the heaving, treacherous yellow weed. In no time, she realized, her hands would become too numb to hold on, but she could not call out.
Gradually she became unaware of any feeling other than a growing numbness which deepened into a sense of security. It would be easy and kind, she thought, to drift away on this slow-moving tide...
“All right! I’ve got hold of you!”
The voice had been slow, measured, calm, and she recognized it immediately. Fergus Blair was up there somewhere, above her on the rocks, and before she could speak, before she could make any sign, he had lifted her bodily into his arms.
Tension snapped in her as she lay against him, feeling the numbness and the cold ebbing away, aware of nothing very much in these first moments but a strange, vague unreality and the hard pressure of his encircling arms.
He carried her in silence towards the beach, sure-footed even on the treacherous stretches of seaweed, and put her down at last on the firm sand.
She brushed the hair out of her eyes to look at him, and his sense of shock was immediately evident.
“I had no idea,” he said harshly. “I heard the plane, and guessed that you were in trouble.”
“I—we didn’t mean to land on Heimra. We wouldn’t have done, but there was no other way.”
Her voice had sounded high-pitched and aggressive even in her own ears, and she hadn’t really been thinking of Heimra Beag as the prohibited island. It was just that some subconscious urge had put the accusation into her voice.
Without answering her he peeled off the thick sheepskin jacket he wore and put it securely about her shoulders.
“Stay where you are,” he commanded. “It looks as if I may be needed on the plane. Is the pilot still aboard?”
She nodded dumbly.
“Yes. It’s Ronald Gowrie.” She seemed to be speaking in an odd sort of trance. “He didn’t want to land on Heimra...”
He gave her a quick, searching look, striding off almost immediately to plunge waist-deep into the water beside the Heron, and in seconds, it seemed, the door had been forced open and Ginger’s small, puckish face appeared in the aperture. It was red with exertion.
“He’s pretty badly hurt ...”
The remainder of the sentence was whipped away by the wind, but she saw Fergus Blair forcing his way into the cabin and thought that all might now be well.
Trying not to crumple up ignominiously on the sand, she stood waiting with the warmth of the sheepskin-lined jacket penetrating her whole body and enabling her to think clearly again.
The faint tang of a good tobacco hung around it, and when she thrust her hands into the vast pockets for extra warmth, her fingers fastened over the bowl of a pipe.
An eternity seemed to pass before there was any further movements from the plane, but at last Ginger backed through the doorway, and she drew a swift breath of relief.
He stood hunched for a split second, blocking the exit, and then he let himself down slowly into the water. Above him Fergus Blair appeared, carrying a heavy burden, and final relief poured over her like an engulfing tide. They were bringing Ronald Gowrie out.
“Is he all right?”
Her words were no more than a whisper, and Fergus Blair answered them in the only way he could.
“He’s alive,” he said.
Alive! Alive, anyway, she thought. Not trapped out there where he could have drowned in unconsciousness.
She could not really help them. Blair
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