Nurse Abroad(37)

“But—but it’s a terribly dangerous hill ... it’s loose shingle, and even the rock crumbles. Surely she’ll not attempt to—”

“She’ll have to, Grant. You see, Sarah knows what it is to be stuck on a cliff ... and she’d have to because Father did it for her. Father risked his life ... and a boiling sea beneath.”

“Yes,” said Grant perkily, “Sarah would have to go.” He took a quick look at the equipment Rory had collected, dashed into the shed, came back with more. In less than no time they were heading through the ford.

They talked in quick jerky sentences. Grant said, “if she gets to the boy, will she know how to fix the ropes?”

“Yes ... she’d never forget that. Father bound Sarah and the lamb to him, and they got them up.”

“The lamb?”

“The one Sarah had gone down to rescue. Didn’t she ever tell you?”

“Only that she was stuck on a cliff. I thought she’d fallen over.”

“No, the lamb had fallen over, so of course Sarah climbed down to it. She was just Pauline’s type. And she saw the seagulls coming in to peck the lamb’s eyes out. When Father reached her, Sarah had tied a handkerchief over the lamb’s eyes in case they weren’t rescued.”

Grant’s jaw tightened to hide his emotion.

Rory continued: “She could have climbed back herself ... without the lamb.”

Grant still said nothing.

“Then Father saw her.”

By this time the turn-off to the quarry was in sight. They slackened speed. There must be nothing to startle either Sarah or the child.



Darky was contentedly cropping the grass. Across the hill-side was gashed the scar of the old quarry workings. There was the little boy on the ledge, more still than a child should be, there was Sarah’s slim green figure against the bronzy rocks, climbing steadily up the face.

She turned her head a little, saw two figures far below ... good, Rory had found someone. She waved to them.

Sweat broke out on Grant’s face.

Rory said, “She’s a darned good climber. She has a wonderful head for heights.”

“I hope to God you’re right,” said Grant. “Rory, you stay here ... I’ll move in closer. I must, though God alone knows what I could do to help if—I daren’t start after her in case I can help more from the top. I would if someone else was here. I don’t want to take too much of her attention by going to the top now. But as soon as she reaches the ledge we’ll go up and get a rope to her. That will make her feel safer, and then as soon as the others arrive, we’ll haul them up.”

Grant moved in under the hillside, as close as he could without losing sight of Sarah. It seemed an eternity. Her progress was steady, but slow. She took no unnecessary risks. Once her foot slipped, but she caught at a clump of manuka and was safe, moving instantly to another foothold before the manuka pulled away from the loose shingle.

Shingle slipped down the hillside, a fair-sized boulder bounded down. Grant stood motionless, his arms extended from his sides in a despairing, helpless gesture, his muscles tensed, waiting praying.

Sarah climbed on steadily. Her voice came back to them, talking calmly to the little boy.

“I’ll be with you in a few moments, Garry. Isn’t it fun? I love climbing. I used to live right beside great high cliffs. I was always on them. You ought to have seen my collection of birds’ eggs. Have you seen any nests up there? Pigeons, or wild ducks?”

She would pause for breath, then continue.

Grant felt sick when he saw her stop. Then worse as she reached up, tested the gnarled branch of a ngaio that leaned out from the cliff and swung up on it.

Then she was close by the ledge. She leaned across from her foothold, tested the grassy edge, wriggled along till she could rest both elbows on it.

“Wriggle back against the rock as far as you can, Garry. I don’t want to bump you.”

As she drew herself up and over, Grant could feel his own stomach muscles taking the strain. It was a bad moment till she was actually on it. Grant felt the wind turn the sweat on him icy-cold.

Then Sarah’s voice floating down. “We made it, Rory ... now it’s up to you.”

Grant knew that at that distance she could only see a boy and a man, but he didn’t want to startle her when she thought he was still in Christchurch, so he kept well under the cliff, out of her sight, till they began to climb the shoulder of the hill, which effectively hid them. It was not a steep climb there, even burdened with the gear.

They heard voices and saw two car-loads arriving. Grant was glad they hadn’t witnessed that climb. It would be terrible for parents to see, and their own boy alone on a ledge like that.

When they reached the top, Grant made Rory stand back, for the edge was dangerously crumbly. Fortunately there were rocks further back, behind which they could drive their stakes.

Grant lay down, peered over, wondering where the ledge was from here, and where the best place would be to put the ropes over so it wouldn’t saw against the sharp edges.

There was Sarah, the little boy on her lap, saying, “Won’t your big brother think you’re a brave one, having an adventure like this!”

Garry’s voice, wobbly, uncertain, not at all brave, “How—how will they get us up?”

Sarah’s, matter-of-fact: “They’ll lower a rope down, and pull us up. I’m going up with you, Garry. I’ve done it before. My father went up with me. With a little lamb too. The lamb baa-ed madly all the way up. I’ve got this clothesline here wrapped around my middle. I’m going to bind it round you and me so we can go up together.” She began unknotting it.

Grant shuffled back and stood up.

“Rory, Sarah’s not expecting to see me, and I don’t want her to get a shock ... lie down and tell her that several men are coming up the slope, and as soon as we get the stakes driven in we’ll lower ropes. Ask her if she knows exactly what to do—how to go about tying them around her and Garry. Lie down, and I’ll hold your feet.”

When Rory was on his feet again, Grant began driving in the first stake with short powerful blows full of energy and grim determination.

The others arrived, speaking in quick, low voices. The boy’s mother was with them, her face chalk-white, well controlled, all her faith centred on Sarah.

They took no chances. The ropes were almost new. They drove in several stakes. Granger, an expert mountaineer, called instructions to Sarah.

By this time she had the boy bound firmly to her, his face against her silk blouse so that he couldn’t see too much as they swung out over the crags between them and the top.

“My god,” said Granger, “She’s a cool-plucked ’un,” and he wiped a hand across his own wet brow. “Now be easy as you bring them up. She says she’ll use feet and hands to keep them off the face, and when she calls ‘stop’ cease hauling immediately.”

Grant was on the rope nearest to the cliff. It wouldn’t matter if Sarah saw him now. The men called “Right” to Sarah, and Grant saw Sarah’s sandshoes leave the ledge and swing out over space.

They were all patient, silent except where instructions were needed. Each second seemed an hour. Once Grant saw the ropes spin sharply, and the two figures strike against the rock face, but Sarah managed to twist so that she took the brunt of it, her one hand covering the back of the child’s head. Grant saw the blood dripping from the fingers of her other hand.

Twice more she came into contact with the cliff, then there was the final hazard of the last overhanging crag. Her knees touched it, she gripped it, eased them over it, then, slowly, they came over the top.

The edge was beginning to crumble. Quick hands bent to drag them to firmer ground, and Sarah, lashed to the boy, was safe.

She was lying on her side. Her bleeding hands came up to the clothes-line, but it was beyond her. Grant knelt at the back of her, swiftly unknotted it, the boy was swept into his mother’s arms. Sarah turned, lifted her face and looked straight into Grant’s.

He didn’t give her time to say anything. He took her into his arms and said:

“Oh, Sarah, my love, my love!” and kissed her. Sarah closed her eyes, opened them, said “Oh ... what did you call me?” and fainted.

When she came round, she thought it all a figment of her imagination ... she’d been lightheaded, that was all. Grant was here, very much here, but she’d imagined the rest. She was suddenly cross with herself.

“How perfectly ridiculous ... I never faint,” she said.

Everyone, freed from intolerable strain, laughed. Gordon Granger said, chuckling, “Well, everyone’s got to start some time, Sarah.”

Grant said, “And now we’ll carry you down.”

Sarah was herself immediately. She scrambled to her feet, glared.

“I’m perfectly able to go under my own steam,” she said. “I’m quite all right.”

Gordon laughed. “You look fine, too.”

Sarah realized her shirt blouse was soaking wet with the strenuous, anxious climb. It was clinging to her. Grant’s shirt was wet too. She realized with a sort of wondering thrill that his was the sweat of fear ... for her ...

Her hair was damp about her forehead, lying darkly gold against it, one cheek was deeply scratched and dirty, her shoulders were bruised and scraped, every muscle ached abominably, and she supposed would ache even more next day. She laughed with the men.