Read Online The Low Road by A. D. Scott - Free Book Online

livelier than in years.
    â€œNext time I visit it’ll be to bring you up to the Highlands,” he told her as they stood in the doorway unsure whether to touch.
    â€œWe’ll see.”
    This was a major concession. He put one arm around her, gave her a quick squeeze, and left before she could see his eyes filling.
    At the station, he called his house. Annie answered. “Rob’s here. He told us you’ll be back in the morning. Mum’s fine with that. I’ll tell her you called.” She put the phone down.
    Instead of being angry at the girl’s decision not to call her mother, he was relieved. He found conversations with the not-quite-finding-the-words Joanne hard but reminded himself, she’ll be fine soon, and there’s no need to leave her again. Jimmy McPhee can look after himself. He walked across the station concourse. From the loudspeaker came the announcement of his train, and under his breath, as though repeating a prayer, he muttered. “She’ll be fine.”
    â€¢â€ƒâ€¢â€ƒâ€¢
    The morning air was Highland air, crisp and clear with an undercurrent of what felt like static electricity. McAllister hadn’t slept well; the sleeper beds were not built for a man over six feet tall.
    He took a taxi. He would normally walk home, but the thought of the steep brae up to his home was daunting, as his back felt as though he was carrying a hundredweight sack of potatoes, not a small overnight bag. Plus the thought of bumping into people who recognized him—though he often had no idea who they were—and asking him questions about Joanne, the Gazette, and the price of coal, made a taxi the best, but more cowardly, option.
    Arriving at his front gate, he saw the house and garden as a stranger might. Or a man returning from a long journey abroad, or a war. He saw the low wall where once there had been iron railings, handsome no doubt, now long gone, collected and melted to supply metal for armaments in that first war in 1914, the war to end all wars. He saw the nondescript shrubs, the funereal cypress, the front porch with the black-and-white checkerboard tiles and the solid dark green front door, painted to match the cypress, the stained glass windows shining, gleaming brass knocker and handle. The door was standing ajar.
    He groaned. Visitors, just what I don’t need.
    â€œHello, I’m back,” he called out. “Home,” he added.
    â€œHello,” an unknown woman’s voice called out. “We’re in here.”
    He turned in to the sitting room, leaving his bag in the hallway. A short woman in a nurse’s uniform was standing by the sofa. Joanne was sitting there, feet up, still in a dressing gown but, judging from the damp ends, her hair freshly washed.
    â€œNurse Davis helped me wash my hair.” She was beaming at the nurse, not at him.
    â€œOch, well, I have to check on the wound, make sure there’s no swelling, so I might as well wash your hair while we’re at it.” The nurse was busy packing her Gladstone bag as she spoke. “Your fiancée is doing right well, sir.”
    He didn’t reply, being too distracted, taking in the sight of his Joanne, who was smiling, pleased at the compliment, and looking like a wee girl who, after a long illness, was accustomed to others telling her what to do.
    â€œNurse Davis and the doctor say I’ll be right as rain in no time.” She smiled again. He thought she was waiting for his approval also.
    â€œI’m sure Nurse is right.” He was forcing himself to sound cheerful, as he was not at all certain. She’s not herself.
    â€œI’ll let maself out. Cheery-bye for now.” And the nurse was gone.
    He sat on the sofa, pushing her legs gently to give himself more room. He took her hand. “I’ve missed you,” he told her. He meant it in so many more ways than he could express.
    â€œI missed you.” She was truly herself