BRIDGING TROUBLED WATERS
IT WAS A NORMAL FOREST HAZARD, A BROW
concealing a right-hand bend into a concrete bridge with parapets. The chassis leg on the driver’s side hit the parapet and the Escort stopped dead from about 60mph. Terry Harryman got out quickly and ran back to stop the next cars. Malcolm climbed out through the windscreen and saw that his pride and joy was on fire. He grabbed a fire e>dinguisher and dealt with the flames. Only then did he notice that the bone of his ankle was sticking out at right angles. There was only one spectator around but, by chance, he was a paramedic. He laid Malcolm out and gave him a handkerchief to bite on until the ambulance arrived. The doctor in the hospital gave hisserdid. ‘You’ll never walk properly again.” To Malcolm’s horror, this was also the verdict of the second consultant. With
the desperation and determination of a young man for whom rallying was everything, he insisted that, before they did their best, a third opinion should be sought from the main hospital in Inverness. After an interminable wait, during which Malcolm had nothing to stare at but his own X-rays, the new man arrived. Malcolm noticed ominously that he was limping on what was evidently a false leg.
After a cursory glance at the patient, the surgeon started looking at the X-rays and was giving a lot of attention to the left ankle. “It’s my right ankle that’s really bad,” pleaded Malcolm.
Wth a very tetchy expression, the surgeon turned to him and said: “Young man, I can fix your right one with no trouble, I’m just trying to decide how to save the left one.”
And he did just that.