Chapter 6

‘What sort of people would steal a cottage hospital?’ exclaimed Chrissie. ‘Does anybody want another scone?’ She fussed round the small group who had gathered in her house after the funeral service, blessing the impulse which had prompted her to bake that morning.

Jonathon tried to wave her away, but found another scone had somehow transferred itself to his plate. ‘In fairness, they’re not stealing,’ he said. ‘It looks as if Johnnie Meldrum died before he got round to changing his will. That’s all.’

‘But surely, if somebody explained this to the lawyers?’ Aggie said.

He nodded. ‘I’m going to see the senior partner. Talk through our position.’

He hesitated, then picked up the scone and began to spread it. Most days, he had no idea where his next meal was coming from – or when. So he’d grown used to taking food where he found it.

Eric grimaced. ‘We can’t afford to lose our hospital. It would leave Banff or Elgin as the nearest place with one.’

‘If the heirs want cash, the only way we can keep the hospital is to buy it from them,’ Mary said. ‘We might have to negotiate a price … then raise funds to buy it.’

‘Where would we ever get that kind of money?’ Chrissie demanded.

‘They’ll want a king’s ransom – a big house, in its own grounds,’ Eric grunted.

‘Maybe if we explain how important the hospital is to the community, they’ll ask for less than the full price,’ Jonathon suggested.

‘Would other landowners be able to help?’ Mary asked.

‘By giving us another property? It took years to convert the one we have.’

‘I was thinking more about donating money. Nobody’s going to come up with the full amount. But if we could raise some money from local landowners, then more from businessmen in the town, maybe even the bank, then the townsfolk … if everybody gives something, it could all add up.’

‘Forget the bank,’ Eric said grimly. ‘And most fishermen have barely enough to live on. Which means that local businesses are suffering too. This couldn’t have happened at a worse time.’

Jonathon pushed aside his empty plate. ‘We’ve got to do something,’ he said determinedly. ‘We can’t just sit and let it happen.’

‘Oh, we’ll fight,’ growled Eric. ‘If we lose that hospital, while the fishing’s bad … it could mean the end of Buckie as we know it. So we fight, as if our lives depend on it.’

‘We need to use our heads,’ Mary warned. ‘Not go off at half-cock. First, we must find out where we stand. Next, what courses of action are open to us. Then decide which looks the best.’

‘The only way to know where we stand is to ask people,’ Aggie said. ‘Why don’t we split up, each of us seeing different people? Then report back?’

‘Good idea,’ Jonathon said. ‘I’ll handle the lawyers. If Aggie and Mary rope in Gus, he might sound out the other businessmen in the town. And if Eric and Chrissie talk to as many townsfolk as they can reach. Just taking the temperature of the water, at this stage. Exploring the support we can expect, and looking for bright suggestions.’

‘There’s still the landowners,’ Mary said.

Aggie looked at Jonathon. ‘You’re the only one of us who can talk posh.’

‘Not that posh,’ Jonathon said. ‘But, if it comes to buying the place ourselves, then I’ll do it. It would be better if I took a couple of others, like Eric and Gus.’

‘Gus slurps tea from his saucer,’ Aggie cautioned.

‘I doubt they’ll be serving us tea,’ Jonathon answered grimly. He stood up, looking around the table. ‘We’ll start as this small group. But if it turns out as I expect, then we’re going to have to call the town together. Because this is going to affect each and every one of them.’

A few days later, Jonathon found them, with Eric plucking a silver threepenny bit out of the child’s ear, down in a sheltered corner of the harbour.

‘His granny can’t be washing them,’ Eric complained.

‘His granny was doing fine – until some daftie started that trick,’ Chrissie said.

Eric’s shrewd eyes studied Jonathon. ‘Well, did you see the lawyers?’

‘I did,’ said Jonathon. ‘It’s as bad as we feared. They’re sympathetic, say the promised gift was entirely in keeping with the man they knew. But they can only go on their documentation and Johnnie never formalized the gift. I don’t doubt for a second that he truly meant to – but he died before he got round to it.’

‘That’s what I expected,’ Eric sighed. ‘But I hoped for the best.’

‘On my way home, I dropped into a couple of local landowners,’ Jonathon continued. ‘They were sympathetic, but said they had neither money nor property to spare. Maybe I should have waited for you and Gus …’

‘It would have made no difference,’ Eric said. ‘In any case, Gus is in Aberdeen by now, maybe even Eyemouth. He was keen to take his teams there quickly, and let them make up the wages that they’d lost.’

He grimaced. ‘You’re not the only one to bring back bad news. I spoke to the harbour businesses. They’re willing to help – but at best they can spare only a few pounds. Then I spoke to the bank about us maybe having a committee, and getting a loan from them. The manager had me through the door before I finished the sentence.’

‘Where does that leave us?’ Chrissie asked bleakly.

‘I honestly don’t know,’ Jonathon replied, his heavy heart reflected in the words. ‘Have you spoken to the local lads?’ he asked Eric.

‘They’re with us – but have only pennies.’ Eric began to search through his pockets for tobacco. ‘We’re going bottom-up,’ he growled. ‘We can dip into our hip pockets and help each other out – but whose hip pocket is big enough to buy back the hospital?’

‘You said we’d fight!’ accused Chrissie.

‘Oh, we will,’ he reassured. ‘But we’ll have to find something other than money to throw at them.’

There was a bleak silence, broken by the distant clamour of gulls.

‘Mind you, I have still other landowners to visit,’ Jonathon said. ‘But don’t hold your breath. Landowners, for generations, have hung on like bulldogs to whatever land they had.’

Eric lit a match, staring at it absently until it burned his fingers. ‘We’ll think of something,’ he said, hurriedly waving out the flame. ‘They’re not going to walk away with our hospital. Not without a fight.’

Defiance wasn’t enough, thought Jonathon. They needed a new plan. He wished with all his heart that Mary and Aggie were here to offer ideas. Two bonny women with brains to match their looks. He stopped. Aggie was his friend: he had never thought of her before as bonny. Yet she was. From nowhere, he saw a curl of dark hair against her neck. He fought to clear his mind, be sensible.

‘If only …’ he said.

‘Aye,’ said Chrissie. ‘The girls. We’re missing their enthusiasm and their energy. Their courage. They’re young, and the world belongs to them – to make, or mend. Old folk like Eric and me, we only see its problems.’

Eric took the unlit pipe out of his mouth, as if to speak.

Then put it back, and began his search for matches.

This sheltered corner of Eyemouth harbour was Buckiein-exile. Elsie smiled at the thought. The five of them had drawn up fish crates and sat in an easy circle, chatting. After ten days working here, she liked Eyemouth best in the fishings. It was the first time she had ever seen a harbour stretching up the banks of a river running through the town. Where the narrow streets, with their haphazard collection of tall houses and shops, kept the worst of the cold wind from the gutting tables.

She smiled across the group to Andy: he winked back.

‘So they’re finding it harder than they thought, back home?’ Neil mused.

‘Jonathon’s letter says they’ve raised plenty of goodwill – but no money. So where we go from there, to buy the hospital, I don’t know.’

‘We can’t just give up,’ said Aggie.

Andy perched on his crate: he had a fit man’s sense of discomfort at the thought of hospitals. ‘Something will turn up,’ he said. ‘It always does.’

‘But what? And from where?’ Mary demanded. He shrugged.

‘Has Jonathon spoken to the landowners yet?’ Neil asked.

‘Yes, but they didn’t want to know.’

Neil frowned at his booted feet. ‘The Johnnies-comelately, maybe.’

‘Who?’ Aggie asked.

‘Maybe these were the small lordlings whose families stole crumbs of land from bigger tables. These will hang into every inch of ground they’ve got. Maybe Jonathon should try the Seafields, the biggest landowners in the north?’

‘Don’t they come from Cullen?’ Mary asked.

‘Maybe, but their lands stretch right up along the coast.’

‘I’ll mention them. And he was asking when we’ll be coming home – he wants a town meeting, before we leave for Yarmouth.’

‘You’ll be home in a couple of weeks. A month here is normal.’

Andy stood up. Restless by nature, he knew they were putting out to sea in the early dusk. Time was precious, and was being wasted. He glanced across at Elsie. ‘Fancy a cup of tea, up the town?’ he asked. She was a pretty quine, and would fill the time in nicely.

Elsie was on her feet in a flash. Aggie gently pulled her down again.

‘What’s the fishing been like?’ she asked sweetly.

Andy shrugged. ‘We’ve caught our share.’

‘Then you can treat her to a fruit scone as well?’

Andy stared, then grinned. ‘If she pays half. Or bakes it herself.’

‘Listen to him! There’s more than small lordlings that are tight with their money!’ Aggie laughed. ‘And him halfway to making his first million pounds. I’ve said it before – Andy is Buckie’s answer to Andrew Carnegie …’

She stopped. ‘That’s it!’ she whispered.

‘What is?’ Mary asked.

‘Forget the Seafields,’ Aggie said intensely. ‘They’re only rich because they sewed up their pockets centuries ago. Who is the richest man in the world? Andrew Carnegie, in America. And he’s a Scotsman. Why don’t we write, and ask him to help us buy back our hospital? He’s always building new libraries and things. If anyone has money to spare, and is in the habit of giving … it’s him.’

Once stated, the truth was obvious. But there was a flaw.

‘Isn’t Carnegie dead?’ asked Mary. ‘I think he died last year.’

‘Rats!’ said Aggie.

‘Didn’t a foundation take over all his charity work?’ Neil muttered.

‘Then write to that,’ said Aggie. She gripped Mary’s wrist. ‘Write back to Jonathon. Tell him to get in touch with Dunfermline. They’ve just built a big library there – maybe they’ll know how to reach this foundation.’

Mary absently rubbed her wrist. ‘I’ve a better idea,’ she said.

‘What’s that?’ demanded Aggie.

‘You write to Jonathon, and tell him,’ Mary said gently. ‘The idea is yours – so why don’t you tell him yourself?’

Daylight had almost gone, and the lights of the fishing fleet along the quays were growing brighter by the minute.

‘Will they really help us?’ asked Mary.

‘The Carnegie Foundation? Why not?’ Neil replied. ‘Carnegie was a Scotsman, and proud of it. This is a Scottish cry for help. If the foundation’s taken over his charity work, they’ll listen. Even if they say “no”, are we any worse off?’

He turned round to face her. ‘But will Aggie write to the doctor?’

‘Jonathon? They’ve been friends all their lives. If one of them got into a scrape, the other jumped in and fought beside them – right or wrong. There was never just one bloody nose. If there was trouble, there was always two. Of course she’ll write …’

She was suddenly very conscious of standing close to him.

He looked down: her face was an oval blur in the dusk.

He thought he had never known a brighter, or a bonnier woman. Then sensed her face tilt back, her lips rise to meet his own. His arms went around her, without thought. He felt her hands clasp, behind his neck. Their gentle kiss became intense, passionate.

Mary pushed herself away: he made no attempt to draw her back.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said breathlessly. ‘I don’t know what …’

She sensed him smile. ‘I’m not sorry in the least, Mary Cowie,’ he said. ‘I’ve been wanting to do that for as long as I can remember.’

‘You never said.’

‘You never asked.’

‘You always seemed such a sober, serious man …’

‘That’s only on the outside.’ There was laughter in his voice.

She felt as if she had glimpsed a side to him that she had never known existed. His hands were still holding her arms gently: she liked that. Felt secure, beside his tall shadow. Wanted to burrow in, lay her face against his chest.

Gently, he pushed her away. ‘I’d better go. They’ll be sailing without me – and the eight of them would starve to death. There’s not one can make a sandwich.’

With all her heart, she wanted him to lean down, and kiss her again.

Instead, he raised his finger to his lips, kissed it, and set it gently against her own lips. Where he had touched, began to tingle.

She watched his dark figure walk towards the ships’ lights, some of which were already moving down the river. ‘Come back safe,’ she called after him.

He raised an arm. Then he was just another anonymous dark figure, working with the mooring ropes, casting off from the quay. Mary watched, shivering, as one by one the ships’ lights slipped past, down the river, and began to rise to meet the waves of the open sea.

Chrissie shook her head in resignation. Men!

‘You’ll be ready for a cup of tea, you two?’ she asked.

‘Not half!’ panted Jonathon.

She pointed an accusing finger at Eric’s red face. ‘And you’re too old to be playing football …’

He grinned back at her. ‘Not me. I’ve still a trick or two to show the bairn.’

Jonathon picked up the makeshift ball. ‘Where did you learn to do this?’ he asked, examining the tightly rolled layers of newspaper, held together by knotted bands of string. It made a ball which was surprisingly light – just ideal for a four-year-old to take a swipe at, and send anywhere. Leaving the two men to chase after his miscues like sheepdogs.

‘From my dad. We could never afford a proper ball.’

Small hands reached up to take the ball from Jonathon. It was dropped to meet a mighty kick, glanced off it, and shot sideways into the rose bed.

‘Just watch that he doesn’t break any windows,’ Chrissie sighed.

Rather than wait to see the accident happen, she retreated to her kitchen, shaking her head. As bad as each other, she thought. Men never grew up from being children: scrape away the serious surface, and the unruly boy was usually still inside. She smiled.

What a nice man Jonathon had become. Dropping in, then getting off his jacket and taking over from a purple-faced Eric as chaser-in-chief. Giving wee Tommy the best day he’d known since his mother had gone back to Aberdeen.

What a pity Gus had switched his girls directly down to Eyemouth.

As the tea infused, she moved slowly round her kitchen, reaching up for the biscuit tin, and slicing some homemade cake. She knew that Jonathon would eat his way through anything she set in front of him. Like any man who hadn’t a wife to look after him properly.

She glanced through the kitchen window. Without much thought, she could find him a wife. If only – but Aggie was too close: he saw in her a lifelong friend, through thick and thin. Not a woman who was still young and vibrant.

Chrissie sighed. Men were strange. The woman he would choose would appeal to his mind, as well as his senses. Someone like that bonny Cowie quine, who had gone to the war a young girl, and come back a woman, with a mind to match her looks. She would make a perfect doctor’s wife – although he’d find her a handful, with all these radical political views. Women’s rights indeed! Chrissie sniffed. No sensible woman needed rights, because she should be more than capable of getting her own way – as often as was good for her.

‘That’s your tea ready!’ she called.

They trooped in, Eric mopping his face with a blue handkerchief, Jonathon with a healthy glow of colour on his cheeks. That man didn’t take enough time off his work, to play.

‘Help yourself to cake,’ she encouraged, pouring tea. ‘I’ll never get the Wee Man calmed down. Having Eric playing with him is bad enough … but when there’s two of you …’

Jonathon took a huge bite of cake. ‘He’s a nice bairn,’ he said, speaking with some difficulty. ‘There’s not many who would be so happy, without his mum.’

‘He has no choice,’ Chrissie said bleakly. ‘Nor has she.’

‘I know.’ Jonathon helped himself to another piece of cake. ‘I got a letter from Aggie this morning,’ he said. ‘That’s why I’m here. I told you the girls would come up with something that might save us. Well, she has.’ He glanced over to Eric. ‘She says we should write to the Carnegie Foundation, and ask for their help to buy back the hospital.’

‘Carnegie, the steel millionaire?’ Eric paused, cup halfway to his mouth.

‘What a great idea!’ Chrissie exclaimed. ‘If anybody can help us, Carnegie’s the man. He’s built libraries and colleges, all across Scotland.’

‘Carnegie’s dead,’ Jonathon said. ‘But his charity work goes on, with Scotland as a major beneficiary.’ He handed over the letter. ‘I’d never have thought of them. Not in a million years. Aggie did. What a girl! But don’t tell her – she’s big-headed enough already.’

He looked at Chrissie. ‘You can know someone all your life, think you understand every twist and turn of them. Then, one day, they surprise you – it’s like seeing them for the very first time. Aggie could have saved the cottage hospital.’

Eric grunted, reading slowly through the letter. ‘Aye,’ he said. ‘But there’s a long way to go, before Carnegie’s cheque comes through the letterbox. When do the lawyers want us out, to put the house on the market?’

Jonathon winced. ‘They’ve given us until the 3rd of January.’

They stared at each other, calculating. Not quite three months – when it took almost a fortnight for a letter to reach its destination in America. There, to lie on a busy foundation’s desk. Then another fortnight for the reply to come back.

‘Then we’d better start writing,’ Eric said gruffly.

The Endeavour steamed slowly through the harbour entrance, and immediately began to pitch in the turmoil of white waves outside. This October gale had lashed the coast for three full days, keeping all boats in the harbour. Wedged in the deckhouse, Neil tensely watched Andy fighting the steering wheel. The most dangerous time for any boat is when she’s close to shore. Here, the backwash from earlier waves sent the incoming waves into steep pyramids, torn apart by the gale, hurling solid water across the deckhouse windows.

Wasn’t this what his dad had sent him out to do? Stop Andy from taking reckless actions, which endangered the boat and the lives of his crew? They’d had a tearing argument on land. Watched unhappily by the crew, until they took it with them up into the relative privacy of the deckhouse.

But there was a time and a place for arguing – not when they were clawing their way clear of the harbour walls and the ragged rocks beyond them.

The ship shuddered with every boom of the waves hitting her wooden bows: the hatches were battened down storm-tight, and the crew huddled uneasily in their quarters. With the old engine at full ahead, they were scarcely making headway against the onslaught of the gale and its waves.

The drifter was tossed like a cork as the waves surged under her and past. Yard by yard, she fought clear of the shore, gradually leaving behind the utter madness of confused water outside the harbour. Shaking herself like a wet dog, the old boat settled to the endless battering of waves, driven before the wind.

Andy drew a shuddering breath of relief. ‘That was nasty,’ he admitted.

Neil shook his head. ‘I still think you’re crazy. You’ll lose your nets and half the crew, if you try to shoot them in seas like this.’

‘My choice,’ said Andy, peering through the streaming windows. ‘There hasn’t been a boat out of port in three whole days. We’re the only one risking it tonight. This storm can’t last forever. If the wind eases off, then the seas will calm down. And if we bring back fish to the market tomorrow, we’ll have every merchant bidding for them. We can name our price, turning a fair fishing into a good one in a single night. This old ship has ridden out worse seas than these.’

Neil was silent. Any fish landed would command top price. But was the risk that Andy was taking worth it?

‘What’s up?’ Andy taunted. ‘Lost your tongue – or just your courage?’

‘So long as that’s all we lose,’ Neil replied quietly.

The ship buried her bows into the black slope of a huge wave rushing in on them. A couple of feet of white-laced water surged along the rising decks, while the deckhouse windows turned green, then cleared.

‘It’s a risk worth taking,’ Andy muttered.

At times like this, being a skipper was the loneliest job in the world.

In the cold light of dawn, the wicker baskets holding the samples of the catch of herring gleamed like dull silver. Merchants stood over them, assessing, while the crew of the Endeavour got ready to empty the main hold of its fish.

The auctioneer drew his thick coat more tightly about him. It would be a short and a merry round of bidding, he knew. Incomprehensible to any outsider, but he knew every nod, every scratch of an ear, every rub at the side of a nose for the bid it represented. With no sound other than the call of the seabirds and the drone of his voice as the bidding rose, the whole cargo of herrings was sold in a few short minutes. Then the lucky merchants went up to make sure that their quines were happed-up against the weather and ready to start.

Andy watched as the barrows came to wheel his catch away.

Only now would he admit to himself how tired he was. Both from living on the edge for twelve long hours, and from the weight of responsibility he had carried. He came stiffly down the deckhouse steps and walked over to peer down into the now-empty hold. The crew were hosing it down. Job done.

Someone gently squeezed his shoulder. Neil.

‘Well,’ Andy said tiredly. ‘Was I right?’

‘So long as you bring back the ship, the skipper’s always right,’ said Neil.

Andy yawned. ‘What that fetched will make even our da crack his face.’

‘I doubt it,’ Neil replied.

Andy nodded. ‘There are some that are born to sing, and others who are born to complain,’ he said. ‘Which one are you, Neil?’

‘For this one time, I’ll sing.’

‘Because we made it through the storm?’

‘That’s it,’ said Neil.

But he was thinking of the taste and feel of Mary’s lips on his.

Andy clapped his back. ‘You’ve had your day,’ he said. ‘Now all I ask is that you show a bit of trust, and let me have mine. Back then, you were the best skipper on the coast. Like our da was in his day.’

He paused, then said levelly: ‘But, by the time I’m finished fishing, I’ll be the Findlay that everybody remembers.’

The whole hospital felt better with Aggie and Mary back from Eyemouth, Jonathon thought contentedly: even the handful of patients had perked up. Maybe it was the laughter and energy the girls brought with them. Or the fact that he had given Elspeth the weekend off, to take away a potential source of conflict. A problem he would have to resolve if he persuaded Mary to take the job.

He was whistling as he headed towards the kitchen.

‘Typical,’ said Aggie. ‘You’ve only got to put the kettle on, and he appears.’

‘Just making my routine tour of inspection,’ Jonathon said loftily.

‘So you won’t have time for tea?’

‘I didn’t say that,’ he amended hastily.

He watched her pouring the tea. Still as slim as ever, he noted: and the dark curl was there, exactly where he remembered it, on her neck. As if conscious of his stare, her hand went up to tidy the curl away. She looked up, caught his eyes, and smiled. Then, as quickly as it had come, the smile was gone, her face guarded.

‘Any word back from America?’ she asked.

‘Too soon. The letter has barely reached them. And they’re bound to have a system of meetings for dealing with cries for help. We’re in a queue and it could be weeks before we get their decision.’

They were both suddenly very aware of the other’s presence.

The silence stretched.

It stretched until it broke into Mary’s train of thought. She had been wondering where Neil was now, how far down the coast to Yarmouth his old drifter had steamed.

‘The Carnegie Foundation?’ she said. ‘Americans won’t hang about. For instance, they’ve just given all women the vote, like Canada and New Zealand did in 1919. While we’re still stuck with the rule that only women over thirty can vote – when every man, drunk or sober, mad or bad, has been voting for years.’

‘I read that news last week,’ said Jonathon. He sipped his tea. ‘I suppose that hospital of yours was a hot-bed of suffragette ideas.’

‘Yes, and no,’ Mary replied. ‘The surgeons were all sympathizers, part of the drive to break into the medical profession. And most of the young VADs were college girls, who have argued the feminist cause for years. But regular nurses were just nurses, pure and simple. Their main concern was their patients.’

‘What about yourself?’

Mary grimaced. ‘I’d no interest in politics when I joined up. But the more I learned about the cause, the more it appealed. If a woman can do the same job as a man, why shouldn’t she have the same rights?’

‘But can she do the same job?’ Jonathon argued.

‘We proved we could,’ Mary said. ‘Our VAD ambulance drivers collected the wounded and drove them out from the front line, under shell-fire, same as any male orderly. Our surgeons and the nurses worked far closer to the front line than any military hospital. Barely beyond the range of shells.’

‘I don’t question your courage,’ Jonathon came back. ‘It’s the training which worries me. Elsie Inglis trained her own doctors in that Bruntsfield hospital. Outside the normal medical schools, with their higher standards …’

‘Higher? Not true!’ Mary snapped. ‘She turned out women doctors who could pass any examination that the medical schools could set. Because the first thing she taught them was this: to prove they were the equal of any man, they had to demonstrate that they were twice as good. Because they would be under constant hostile observation, and mistakes would never be tolerated.’

‘Mmm,’ said Jonathon, unconvinced – yet enjoying the argument. ‘On the question of the vote, isn’t it safer to keep the age for women set at thirty? Making sure that by the time they get the vote, they’ve had enough experience of life, and its responsibilities, to leave them able to use it sensibly?’

‘A good argument,’ acknowledged Mary. ‘But why not apply exactly the same condition to men? Making sure that they have had the same experience of life, and responsibility, to help them use their vote wisely and well?’

‘Which means not believing in any politicians’ promises,’ Aggie interjected.

Jonathon laughed. ‘My argument was a two-edged sword,’ he admitted. He pushed aside his cup: he was too occupied to drink. ‘So your basic argument is that if a job pivots on intelligence and understanding, rather than sheer brute strength, there’s no reason why a woman cannot perform as well as any man?’

‘Exactly. Now that the war is over, women will challenge professions like the law, banking and business for admission and equal status. Even politics. Some of the girls want to campaign to become Members of Parliament – as the law stands, you can do that at any age, even if you can’t vote until you’re thirty. It shows the mess of half-thought-out prejudice which men turn into law.’

‘MPs like Nancy Astor,’ Jonathon mused. ‘She took over her husband’s seat in … where was it … Plymouth?’

‘She’s the first. There will be others. Trust me on that!’

Mary’s eyes were flashing: this was a side to her he hadn’t seen before, the fierce crusader for women’s rights. It both intrigued and shocked him. Like most men of his time, he was conservative by instinct, disliking radical reform. Even when he could see that it was probably needed.

‘Equality before the law, for everyone,’ he said. ‘Great philosophers have argued this, but always from the point of view of men being equal to men. Liberté, égalité, fraternité … – the most wonderful slogan of all. Freedom, equality, and … brotherhood,’ he finished mischievously. He turned to Aggie, smiling. ‘What about you, quine? Do you see yourself as the equal of any man?’

‘No I don’t,’ said Aggie. She gathered the dirty dishes. ‘I see myself as better than any man!’

Jonathon laughed outright. This was a new Aggie. ‘I should be holding my head in my hands,’ he chuckled. ‘What am I going to do with you, how am I going to run this place, with two argumentative females for my nurses?’

His smile faded. ‘Provided that we still have a hospital to run.’