Stormy Petrel by Mary Stewart

sharply than I intended: ‘Please. Tell me. What’s happened? Is Crispin all right?’
    â€˜Yes, he’s all right. At least, he’s hurt, but not badly. It’s his leg – the ankle. They thought it was broken, then they said it was just a bad sprain, but apparently they want to do another X-ray, so I simply don’t know what’s happening. He tried to phone you last night, the number you gave him, but there was something wrong with the line—’
    â€˜We had a rough night. Ruth, please, how was he hurt? What has happened?’
    â€˜He was in that train, the one that crashed last night, the derailment south of Kendal. He was on it, the sleeper for Glasgow. I thought you’d have heard about the accident. Didn’t you get it on the radio?’
    â€˜No radio. Go on. About Crispin.’
    â€˜He’s all right, really. He phoned me himself. It wasn’t a bad accident. There was a coach dragged off the line, but it didn’t overturn, apparently, till everyone had been got out. Nobody killed, but a few people hurt. Cris tried to help, of course, but as soon as the ambulances came they sent him off to the local hospital, and that’s where he is now. I did wonder why you hadn’t called sooner—’
    â€˜Yes, well . . . Have you got the Kendal number handy?’
    â€˜Yes, but he’s leaving there today. I told you they want to do another X-ray, and they’re sending him to Carlisle for that, the Cumberland Infirmary.’
    â€˜To Carlisle? But you said he wasn’t much hurt.’
    â€˜No, he’s not, don’t worry. He sounded quite normal when he phoned, just annoyed about the holiday. He said he’d call again as soon as he heard the result of the new X-ray, but not to worry about it, it’s just the extra fuss they make when there’s a doctor involved. You know how it is. So we’ll just have to wait and see. He won’t be able to do much walking, of course, but he still wants to come.’
    She finished on such a note of surprise that in spite of myself I laughed. ‘He sounds all right, anyway. Try not to worry, Ruth. I’ll ring off now in case he’s trying to get through to you. But I’ll come up here to the post office this evening, and call you again.’
    â€˜Fine. I’ll get his number for you and you can call him yourself. What about you, though, Rose? Are you all right there, on your own? I don’t see how he can make it before Monday, and that’ll be a whole week.’
    I was surprised, and touched. ‘I’ll be fine, thank you. The cottage is rather cosy, and I’m busy on a new story, so I’ll have plenty to do even if the weather’s bad. And when it’s fine, well, it’s a lovely little island, and I can have some bird-walks of my own. Give Crispin my love, Ruth, and I’ll ring tonight and see how things are.’
    â€˜I’ll tell him. Goodbye, Rose.’
    â€˜Goodbye.’
    Mrs McDougall was still busy when I went back into the shop. I collected what I needed, and when I got to the counter I found that she and her neighbours were discussing the train accident. Mrs McDougall, with a quick, concerned look at me, took my basket from me and dumped it on the counter.
    â€˜I hope it was not bad news, Miss Fenemore? Did you not think that your brother might be coming north soon? And from London, so it would be on the line where they had the accident, would it not?’
    â€˜Yes. And he was on that train, I’m afraid. No, no, thank you very much, it’s all right, he isn’t badly hurt, a sprained ankle, and they say it isn’t serious, but it does mean he can’t come north yet . . .’
    They exclaimed and condoled, with – once I had assured them that nothing serious had happened to my brother – a rather charming mixture of sympathy for me and pleasure in the excitement of the news. I gave