Page 54 of Doing No Harm
“Go get him some food,” he said, loud enough for Joe Tavish to hear.
Joe’s shaggy head went up. Even in the gloom of the shed, Douglas saw that same expression of pride that he had seen only minutes before on his son Tommy’s face.
“No charity,” he spit out.
“Ya bowfing, dighted dug!” Olive burst out. She scrambled out from behind Douglas before he could stop her and grabbed the front of the startled man’s shirt. She gave him a good shake as Douglas stared, open-mouthed. “Aye, it’s charity! Did no one ever tell you hardheaded Highlanders that charity is the pure love of Christ?” She gave him another shake for good measure, then shook her finger at him. “You’re going to eat what I serve you if I have to push your face in it! I’ll thrash you myself if you give me grief!” She leaped up and ran from the shed.
I should do something, Douglas thought, shocked, until it dawned on his fuddled, sleep-deprived mind, that Olive Grant’s brand of Christianity had trouble suffering fools gladly.I will keep my mouth shut, Douglas decided, not certain if he was more appalled or more entertained by the surprising sight of the kind lady pushed past her limit. He knew he never wanted to cross her.
Joe stared at the open door. He put down the mess and just sat there. Douglas looked closer and swallowed when he realized what the dark mess was. Tommy had probably heard his own father bleeding Mrs. Aintree’s cow, the last resort of a desperate man.
He took a deep breath, which wasn’t so wise, considering that the man reeked. He reminded himself that he had spent a quarter of a century working in dark, stinking ships. Was he that big a milky boy?
He considered what he could say to a man reduced to the lowest common denominator, someone on the brink of starvation, someone who had not had a good day in several years. Shame washed over him and he knew what to say.
“I owe you an apology, Joe, for striking you,” he said. “Forgive me, please.”
Tavish raised dark eyes to his, held his gaze briefly, and lowered his head. “I’m the one what gave you the black eye and maybe a bad rib,” he muttered.
“I started it,” Douglas insisted.
“Oh, listen to the two of you barmy moonflies!” Olive declared, obviously still not over her rage. She held two bowls and had stuck a loaf of bread under her arm. One bowl went to Tavish, and the other to Douglas. “Eat something, both of you, and remind me why I shouldn’t slap the two of you silly!”
Joe stared at the bowl in his hands. When it started to shake and fish stew washed over the edge, Olive took it from him gently now and spooned it into his mouth, which he opened obediently as tears streamed down his face.
“There now,” she said, sounding perfectly reasonable. “Hold it with both hands and drink it. I have bread for dunking too.”
She tore the loaf into hunks and handed one to Douglas. He dipped it in the bowl he held and ate because he was hungry too.
“After Trafalgar, I operated for two days straight. My feet swelled and I stood in blood to my ankles. That smell! He was eating raw oats mixed with cow’s blood.”
Olive nodded. She took the bowl from Douglas and dipped chunks of bread in it. She handed it to Joe Tavish when he stared down at his now-empty bowl. “I would call you resourceful, Mr. Tavish,” she said. “I doubt this surgeon would have thought to eat oats and cow’s blood.”
Douglas knew what she was doing and it warmed his heart. “You have me there, Miss Grant,” he admitted.
Joe Tavish understood too. He looked from one to the other. “Aye, right,” he said, his scorn unmistakable. “Don’t ye dare make me a figure of fun.”
“I’d rather you tell me what has happened to get you and your friends to this state,” Douglas said.
“So you can laugh at us too? Laugh at the ignorant Highlanders?” Tavish challenged.
“So I can figure out what to do,” Douglas told him.
“Do? Do?” the man burst out. “Go away!”
“Not yet!” Douglas shouted back, painfully aware that he had not raised his voice since he had taken a stick to this same wretched man weeks ago. Joe Tavish seemed determined to bring out the worst in him. “I have a two-month lease on a house in this miserable village and look there, your arm is a mess.” He tried Olive’s admonition and shook a finger at the startled man. “I have some salve and by h … he … Hadrian’s Wall, you’re going to let me tend you and try to figure something out.”
“T’pure love of Christ?” Joe shouted back.
“Nothing that kind,” Douglas replied. “One angry, put-upon surgeon, more like. Now shut up and don’t you move until I get back with my satchel.”
Chapter 23
Olive followed him from theshed. “By Hadrian’s Wall?” she asked, just on the edge of mirth. “Are we both certifiable?”
“You’re generous to include yourself,” he said as he went into his surgery and grabbed his satchel.
“I’ve never been so irritated with a man as with Joe Tavish,” she started, and then she turned all Flora MacLeod on him and burst into tears. “What have we come to in Scotland?”
