500 Miles from You (Scottish Bookshop #3)(11)

“Could you send Juan in? Thanks.”

A slight man Lissa had seen around came in, looking neutral and nodding to her. She was terrified suddenly. “What’s happening? Am I getting fired?”

“No, you’re not getting fired,” said Valerie. “If we had the resources, we’d sign you off. But we don’t.”

“I don’t need to be signed off! I’m fine!”

“We think,” said Juan softly, “that you might need to recalibrate.”

“That I might need to what?”

“We want you to see someone,” said Juan. “We’ve assigned you a counselor from Occupational Health. And . . .”

“We think maybe a quieter beat,” said Valerie. “Just for three months. Just to give you a chance to breathe, to have another look at your approach.”

“We really feel this program works well,” said Juan. “We’re desperately trying not to lose you. You must see that.”

He handed her a leaflet with pictures of lovely rolling green fields on it, sun going down behind some cows.

“What’s this?” said Lissa sullenly.

“Just . . . about your options. We do swaps with rural practitioners who want to broaden their skills. Like a student exchange.”

“I’m not a student!”

“We’ve found the program mutually beneficial,” said Juan.

“Lissa,” said Valerie quite firmly, “I’d highly recommend you give it some very serious thought.”





Chapter 14


Islay’s recovery was going well, and Cormac called the London hospital to update them. Transplants happened in total secrecy and Cormac knew better than to ask. But what accident involving a fifteen-year-old could be anything other than a dreadful tragedy?

Instead he conveyed as soberly as possible that patient B had come through the operation and was currently in intensive care; that the prognosis was good, maybe even extremely good; and that everything was proceeding as usefully as possible.

The voice at the other end of the phone paused. “And you’re the NPL?” he said, looking something up on his computer.

“Uh-huh,” said Cormac.

“Cormac MacPherson?”

“Aye.”

“Because I’m looking at your HR form here.”

“Are you now,” said Cormac, instantly wary.

“You haven’t always been an NPL, have you?”

Cormac hesitated. He hadn’t been expecting this at all. “No. I was an army medic. Why?”

“Have you heard of the exchange program?”

“The what?”

“The three-month exchange program. You could move up a grade. We have a place opening up here.”

“I’m not moving to London!”

“The idea is to bolster the skills of people in different areas. So if you’ve always worked in a rural district, you might benefit from some more acute specialization, that kind of thing. And vice versa.”

“You mean you’re looking for somewhere to dump your burnouts,” said Cormac tartly. He might live in a village, but he wasn’t its idiot.

There was a wry chuckle at the other end of the line. “I think you’d be good down here,” came the voice. “Let me send you the brochure.”

“Aye, whatever,” said Cormac, who then hung up and thought no more about it.

He headed home and had a long shower. He found himself missing having someone to talk to, the black-humored camaraderie of the army. He wondered if the London front lines were like that. Probably.

He went out into the village to pick up some of the good local butter they did up at Lennox’s farm. Lennox wasn’t much of a talker, but the farm produce was spot-on. He picked up some local bacon too. It would make quite the sandwich.

KIRRINFIEF WAS A village arranged around a central cobbled square, with a war memorial in the middle, Eck’s pub on the corner, Mrs. Murray’s general store, a hunting and fishing shop, three antique/bits-and-bobs stores, a bakery, and, most days, a little bus that stopped to sell books. It was nestled in the hills, hidden away near Loch Ness but not on the main tourist routes. Any tourists who did stumble upon it, though, were generally taken by its atmosphere—an air of a timeless place, a Brigadoon—which wouldn’t last long as soon as they heard old Eck and Wullie shouting from outside the pub, although they meant well really. The sleeper train from London to Fort William ran close by; otherwise, Kirrinfief was a haven of peace and tranquility, and that was just how people liked it. Well. Mostly.

Cormac stalked across the square. It was a cold but sunny day; too early for lambing, but a few ambitious crocuses were pushing their way up in between the cobbles. He got three steps before an old lady stopped him. “Ooh, Cormac, what was all that kerfuffle with young Islay?”

He smiled politely. “Och, you know I canny talk about that, Mrs. Norrie.”

“Yes, well, everybody already knows,” she said rather sniffily.

“Well then.”

Mrs. Murray in the shop was even more direct. “Why did I see that young Emer in here earlier sniffing and buying three bars of Dairy Milk?” she said. “That’s not like her, young slim thing that she is. Three! Were they for you?”