Harley had been thrown out of the tractor but his left arm had somehow become caught in the tangled metal and was trapped beneath the six-ton machine. His problems were not helped by the awkward spot in which he and his tractor had ultimately landed. Most worryingly of all, the tractor looked as if it could fall further on top of Harley, causing him even greater injury. And the weather conditions naturally made matters worse. Two other Chalmpton farmworkers were already trying to free the injured young man. One of them, Harley’s father, Norton, whose obvious distress and blind panic were not helping the situation, was attempting to tow off the wreckage and free Harley, while herdsman Bill Macintyre frantically pulled and pushed at bits of twisted machinery with his bare hands.
Constance jumped quickly out of the Land Rover and summed up the scene at once. Harley’s arm looked as if it had been nearly severed just above the elbow and the buckled tractor crushing it was, in fact, also probably holding the artery together. Every time the tractor moved, a fraction the blood from the terrible injury gushed out and young Harley’s screams of agony grew more frantic. If Norton Phillips actually succeeded in towing off the crashed machine it looked likely his son would bleed to death.
‘Stop!’ commanded Constance.
The engine of the second tractor was howling, its wheels cutting great muddy gouges in the soft earth, Harley’s screams of pain were ear-piercing, his father and Bill Macintyre were shouting misguided instructions at each other, the engine of the Land Rover was still running. The combined noise was deafening. Yet, although Constance barely raised her voice, the response was immediate.
Norton Phillips at once ceased his rescue attempt, and pushed the tractor gear shift into neutral. Bill Macintyre, who had been crouched alongside Harley, stood up and faced Constance, quiet now, waiting for further instructions. Freddie switched off the Land Rover engine. Even Harley’s frenzied screams subsided into muffled sobs.
The attention of all four men was now focused on Constance. There was no longer any question about who was in charge. Even poor injured Harley was calmer. Part of this effect, which Constance knew very well she so often seemed to have on people although she could not explain how or why, might have been due to her early training as a nurse. But it was more than that. There was something within Constance which set her aside from others on occasions like this. In a crisis, almost any crisis, there could be few people in the world better to have on your side than Constance Lange.
She moved forward carefully towards the edge of the deep ditch, taking into account every aspect of the situation. Harley remained in danger of further injury if the tractor remained where it was. But if it was pulled away the result could be just as disastrous for him.
‘Lock on the brakes, Norton, make sure that tractor is not going to move one centimetre and then cut the engine,’ Constance instructed.
She slithered down the slope towards Harley. Naturally agile, she made it look easy, and she crouched beside him, ignoring the six tons of finely balanced machinery looming above.
‘You know, young Harley, sometimes I don’t think you should be let out at all,’ she said. And the gentle smile and the warmth in her voice belied the possible harshness of her words.
Almost casually she lay her hands on Harley’s forehead, soothing him and at the same time ascertaining to her relief that the blood on his face, at least, came only from superficial scratches.
She began to open her medical bag. She had the makings of a tourniquet, a bandage and a metal ruler, which she had always carried since having to improvise desperately when called to the scene of a similar injury some years earlier. The very idea of deliberately cutting off someone’s blood supply thoroughly frightened her actually — although she would never show it. But during the brief journey in the Land Rover her husband’s frantic description of the accident had left her in little doubt of what would be required.
Her steady gaze never left Harley’s face. The boy’s bulging blue eyes, racked with pain and fear, cleared, just slightly. He even stopped sobbing.
‘I’m sorry, Mrs Lange,’ he said. An automatic response.
‘So you jolly well should be — that’s a tractor, not a scrambling bike you’ve got there.’
‘It’s a lot bleddy ’eavier too,’ muttered Harley through clenched teeth. Seconds ago, although conscious throughout his dreadful ordeal, he had been incapable of coherent speech. Now he was almost making a joke.
‘You’ve always been a brave lad, Harley,’ said Constance. ‘Daft as a brush, but brave.’
She glanced at the sky. Thankfully the rain seemed to be easing but Harley was already wet through and lying in an unpleasant bed of wet mud. The tractor creaked and shifted slightly of its own accord. Harley winced, but made no sound.
Constance turned to her husband, at her side in close attendance as usual.
‘When I say twist, twist,’ she ordered.
The tourniquet was already in place around the top of Harley’s arm. All the time Constance had been indulging in apparent light banter with the boy, her hands had been busily at work.
When the job was completed she rocked back on her heels. ‘I think we can get that tractor off you safely now Harley. It’s going to hurt. Are you ready?’
Harley looked at her with wide trusting eyes. ‘If you say so, Mrs Lange,’ he replied.
‘Right then,’ said Constance. With one arm she cradled the young man’s head, his mud-streaked ginger curls spread over her jacket sleeve, and with her free hand she took his uninjured one.
‘Hang on to me,’ she commanded, and glancing at her patient’s father, ‘Forward as smooth as you can, Norton.’
The wheels screeched again, sending great showers of wet mud flying across the field, spraying the rescuers. Eventually the tractor lurched forward, dragging the mangled wreckage off the injured boy’s arm.
Constance knew that the pain must be terrible for Harley as his mangled hand and lower arm were freed and, even allowing for the tourniquet, the life flowed back into the partially numbed area. But this time, lying within the calming influence of her cradling arm, Harley did not even cry out. There were no more screams, but the boy gripped Constance’s hand so tightly that his fingernails dug into her flesh. She did not flinch. She could see that his teeth were clenched and he had bitten the side of his lip. A trickle of fresh blood ran down his chin. His eyes spoke volumes.
‘I’ve got you, Harley, the worst is over now,’ she said softly.
Norton had parked the tractor again and was by her side, looking anxiously at his son.
‘What do us do now, Missus? Shall us get ’ee up the bank?’
Constance shook her head. But she was aware that Harley was starting to shiver violently. The rain had slowed to just a light drizzle now, but the damp chill in the air remained. It was hard to believe it was still August. Harley, half-buried in the thick wet mud, was beginning to be severely affected both by shock and cold.
He was also now clutching his side with his uninjured hand and Constance suspected that he had broken ribs at the very least and, judging from the awkward angle in which he was lying, he could have a damaged back as well.
‘We’d be best not to move him till the ambulance arrives,’ she said. ‘We don’t want to risk any change of position that might cause him to lose more blood, and I’d like him properly checked out for any other injuries. We need to keep him as warm and dry as possible, though, so fetch me the rug from the back of the Land Rover.’