The Island Nurse

by Mary J. Macleod

  Fiona came to the door in answer to the clanging of the old-fashioned bell.

  ‘Come in, come in, Mary-J. A Happy New Year to you!’ Although often in pain, she was always cheerful and now gave me a lovely smile as I returned her greeting.

  ‘Himself is in the study. You know the way,’ she said.

  After the usual greetings, Dr Mac told me about Charlie’s latest escapade. Charlie Two (why the ‘Two’ I have no idea) was a roadman. All over the Highlands and Western Islands, there is an indispensable body of men called ‘the Roadmen’. Weatherbeaten and hardy, these men work alone on their allotted stretch of road, sometimes as long as 20 miles. They are employed to dig and clear out the fast-flowing ditches at the sides of the single-track roads and generally keep these vital links between remote villages open. On my rounds, I would see these stalwarts trudging along, shovel and spade over their shoulders, in all winds and weathers.

  Charlie Two was a wiry 60 year old, always ready with a cheery wave. But it seemed that this Hogmanay had been just one more example of his tendency to go on periodic and colossal binges. For months, he would be the model crofter and roadman, and then, for some reason that no one could fathom, he would be off again. He would neglect his work, his croft and himself. But never his dog! No matter how Charlie forgot everything else, Joc was never without a meal or a fuss and appeared to be quite content to spend long hours lying quietly under a barstool.

  There was a twinkle in Dr Mac’s eye as he began to tell me about the old man’s latest adventure.

  ‘Charlie had apparently been wishing everyone a “Guid New Year” all night. When he finally set out for home, the snow was very deep and he was most unsteady on his feet . . .’

  ‘And he fell into a ditch,’ I finished for him. What was the matter with everyone this Hogmanay? First Hughie, now Charlie.

  Dr Mac laughed, ‘Aye, he did indeed. A good deep one of his own digging.’ He became serious. ‘If it had not been for that dear old dog, Charlie would probably be dead.’

  Evidently Joc had barked and howled and scrabbled at the snow but been unable to rouse him, so the intelligent animal finally ran to a nearby house and scratched at the door.

  ‘My door,’ said Dr Mac, shaking his head in wonder. ‘Did that dog know that he had chosen one of the very few houses where the occupants were sober?’

  ‘And he led you back to Charlie?’

  ‘He did, and I got the old fellow out. What a state . . .’ He shook his head again.

  It has to be said that this so-called ‘old fellow’ was probably a good ten years Dr Mac’s junior! In spite of his advancing years, however, the doctor had managed to drag the inert form back to his house, where he and Fiona had warmed and revived him. Later, with much help from a startled guest, he had taken Charlie up to his croft house and put him to bed. Accompanied, of course, by Joc.

  ‘And now,’ concluded Dr Mac, ‘I’d just like you to look at his cuts and grazes.’

  I climbed up to the ramshackle croft house wondering how the two elderly men had managed to virtually carry Charlie up the steep slope in the darkness. I pushed open the door and called his name. Obtaining no reply, I ventured into the bedroom, where Charlie was sitting up in a grubby and rumpled bed, looking bemused. Unshaven, with hair on end, he was absent-mindedly stroking Joc, who was sitting serenely on the pillow beside him.

  ‘Hallo, Charlie.’ I felt that this was not a good time to wish him a ‘Happy New Year’. ‘Are you feeling better?’

  With an obvious effort, he seemed to focus. He frowned. ‘Nurse? What’s happened? What are you doing here?’

  Before I could answer, Joc barked in Charlie’s ear. This seemed to chase away the remnants of the old man’s near-coma.

  ‘Ach, he’s needin his breakfast.’

  ‘Tell me where everything lives, and I’ll see to it.’

  ‘There’s tins in the back. He’ll need two.’

  I departed to ‘the back’ – a kind of lean-to – and there stood dozens of tins of top-quality dog food. Finding a battered bowl, I looked around for a tin opener. There wasn’t one, but beside the bowl and liberally spattered with dog meat was a murderous-looking knife of immense size. It was obvious that I was going to have to stab the tins and tear the lids off with this implement.

  Joc stood beside me, patiently waving his tail gently to and fro. Finally, leaving a contented Joc munching an enormous pile of meat with the water bucket handy, I returned to Charlie.

  ‘Nurse, I remember now. I was in the ditch, but who brought me home?’

  He was very embarrassed when I told him that it had been the doctor. Charlie had great respect for Dr Mac, who had treated him for many a bout of DTs over the years. But as I explained that Joc was the real hero of the night, tears came into his eyes, and when the dog reappeared, licking his lips, he hugged him with obvious love.

  ‘Ach, I don’t know what I’d be doin wi’out him, Nurse.’

  ‘You’d be pushing up the daisies. That’s what you’d be doing, Charlie! You’ll have to ease up on the whisky, you know.’

  ‘Aye, I will, Nurse, I will.’

  Hmm! Until next time, I thought.

  At that moment, Mary-Ann bustled in, kicking the snow from her boots. Joc greeted her with ecstasy.

  ‘Now, what’s the silly old bodach been up to this time?’ was her cheery greeting. ‘And how’s the wee boy, Nurse?’ she continued. Andy was always referred to in this way, and I wondered how tall he would have to grow before he was no longer this ‘wee boy’.

  She remarked, ‘The snow’s coming down again! I’ll see to Minnie the day, Nurse. You’d best be getting home or you’ll not get over Loch Annan.’

  I left them to it, knowing that Charlie was in good hands. Sure enough, the snow had been falling heavily while I had been with him and now lay thickly on the ground. I decided to follow Mary-Ann’s advice: leave the non-essentials and make for home.

  As I urged the little car up the steep, slippery road, with the wheels spinning and huge snowflakes almost obliterating my view, I soon realised that I was in trouble. I had already gone too far and too high to turn round: there was a deep ravine on one side of the narrow road and a sizeable ditch on the other. Gradually, the wheels grew tired of the struggle and spun round unavailingly, and I slithered to an unsteady halt.

  The snow continued to fall heavily as I sat in my little haven and wondered what to do. It was New Year’s Day. Most of the locals would be still in bed or hungover, the patient house cows awaiting a tardy milking and the old folk wondering if there was any chance of breakfast. No one would be working and certainly none would venture up here on the snowy heights of Ben Criel. I was aware of a feeling of unreality, bordering on panic, as I realised that I could be here for a very long time. It might be hours before the family missed me, thinking that I was on my rounds.

  Suddenly, to my utter amazement, I heard an engine! Turning on the wipers, I couldn’t believe my eyes when I saw a tractor coming towards me from the direction of Dhubaig. I was even more convinced that the cold had given me hallucinations when I recognised the driver in the jaunty cap as a young tearaway who was drunk more often than sober, never up for work in the morning and the bane of his long-suffering mother’s life. Pulling to a jerky halt, this apparition leapt off the seat and trudged towards me.

  ‘And a Guid New Year to you, Nurse!’

  ‘Donny! What on earth are you doing here?’

  ‘Ach. I have a new girl. She’s of the Brethren in Dalhavaig. I’m off to see her the now.’

  ‘But . . . You’re sober!’ I spluttered rudely.

  ‘Aye,’ replied Donny lugubriously. ‘She doesna approve o’ the drink.’

  I couldn’t believe my ears. ‘Really, Donny? I mean, do you think you are suited to each other?’

  ‘Aye. She’s a bonnie wee lass and she sings like a bird,’ he sighed. ‘She’s going to reform me,’ he added, without too much conviction. He had returned to the tractor and was heaving a
rope off. I came out of shock as he called me.

  ‘Nurse, can you tie this round the front axle? I’ll turn her [meaning the tractor].’

  While I knelt in the snow and located the axle, which was already icing up, he revved and rattled the wheezy old tractor into place. Whistling and brushing the snow from his eyes, he hitched us up and jumped back onto his seat, shouting, ‘We’re away!’

  We climbed the rest of the steep hill to the summit in decorous tandem, but then the steep descent past Loch Annan commenced. The little car yawed and slithered and several times caught up with the towing tractor, as I had virtually no traction on the wheels. And all the time, the yawning shape of Loch Annan gaped hungrily at the bottom of the ravine. It was entirely terrifying!

  Then, all at once, we were climbing the next hill, belching black smoke and scattering white snow in contrasting plumes as we rumbled along. By the time we reached the lower ground near our village, I was shaking with fright.

  Without warning, Donny suddenly stopped. Taken unaware, I put my foot on the brake, slid swiftly forward and crashed into the back of the tractor!

  ‘Oops!’ said Donny, somewhat inadequately. He disentangled us and untied the rope. He handed me my number plate, one of my headlights and several bits of bumper.

  ‘I’ll sort that for you on the morrow, Nurse. I’ll be off to see wee Fiona. You’ll be fine the now!’

  I thanked him through chattering teeth. He turned the tractor and was gone while I drove the half mile or so home. Two dogs and two cats greeted me, while the chickens clamoured for their corn, but of the humans there was no sign and I realised with astonishment that it was only just eleven-thirty! I made myself some coffee, but I was shaking so much that I dropped the mug on the tiled floor. At least that woke them all up!

  NINE

  A ceilidh and a cold corner

  ‘That was wonderful, Janet. I’m not surprised that you did so well in the Mod.’

  About ten of us were crammed into Mary’s living room one cold February night. Janet had just entertained us with one of the pieces she had performed so successfully back in the autumn. Rather like the Welsh Eisteddfod, the Scottish Mod gave young people a chance of recognition in their chosen field of music or poetry. Janet played the bagpipes, a difficult instrument not always appreciated in confined spaces! But she always practised outside, standing at the end of her parents’ croft house on the hill. I had heard her playing on the very first day that we had set eyes on the house that was now our home. The ancient lament had come drifting across the glen, adding its sad, haunting beauty to the peaceful scene. Tonight, it was different. Janet had just played in Archie and Mary’s porch and had come back in to join the ceilidh, receiving the congratulations with her shy smile. She was 12 and already held the promise of the slender loveliness to come.

  I looked around at our friends and neighbours squeezed into the small room. Marion and Murdoch were huddled into a corner. Katy, in remission from the leukaemia once more and looking fitter than she had for months, had been given a fireside chair. Big Craig, Dhubaig’s roadman, sat on a milking stool by the door ‘to get a wee drop air’. George, Nick, Andy and I had been afforded the comparative luxury of a two-seater settee, where we tried to look comfortable. Catriona, from the Cill Donnan shop, perched on Rhuari’s knee, and the frail dining chair beneath them creaked in pain. Archie was in his favourite chair that he never gave up for anyone, while Mary bustled about with dumpling and cake. Lounging against the kitchen door was Fergie, whom we had not met before. Mary introduced him as her cousin, a salesman in ‘frozen foods and other combustibles’. We were fairly certain that she meant ‘comestibles’. But that was Mary!

  These small ceilidhs occurred almost by accident and everyone was welcome. If this one ran true to form, another eight or nine people would pack into the little room before the evening was over. It would become unbearably hot, the windows would stream with condensation and someone would eventually be forced to open the door to allow a blast of cold, damp but blessedly fresh air into the stuffy atmosphere. But, in spite of all this, Archie would continue to throw another peat onto the blazing fire at the rate of about one every ten minutes.

  We had all donated something to drink, and the unsophisticated entertainment was in full swing. There would be poems, a song or two, stories and jokes (always in good taste when ladies were present) and, the most interesting thing of all to me, reminiscences about times gone by and people long dead.

  Archie threw the inevitable peat on the fire and leaned back in his chair. Lucky man! Our cramped conditions allowed for only synchronised movement and the shallowest of breathing.

  ‘Well, Mary-J,’ he said, glancing around. Archie was about the only crofter who called me anything but ‘Nurse’. ‘I never told you about old Morag when you bought the house, did I?’

  Surprised, I said, ‘No, Archie, you didn’t.’

  ‘Well, I’ll tell you now if you like.’

  We did like! We had always heard that there was some sinister reason for the cold spot that persisted under the stairs in spite of all the heat we put into the rebuilt and refurbished house. Until this minute, everyone had been evasive whenever we mentioned this phenomenon.

  ‘Aye, well. It was like this, y’see,’ began Archie. ‘Morag was an old besom. I mind as a wee boy I was afeart of her, but as we grew, we lads used to play tricks on her. One evening, we climbed the roof and stuffed some sacks in the chimney. Then we hid and watched. Out she came, bawlin and hollerin and screamin blue murder and black as a sweep she was. By! That woman’s language!’ He shook his head in mock horror, as island women rarely swore. Then he became serious.

  ‘Even as a wee girl, she was evil. She’d steal folk’s cats and string them up in her byre and then invite them in to see the poor dead things. Once, when the laird, Duncan’s grandfather y’understand, was ridin his lovely white horse near the castle, she jumped out, screechin and screamin, and scared the poor brute that much he threw the laird off. He broke his shoulder and the horse bolted and fell in the sea. When she grew up, she’d tramp the hills, gatherin all manner of weird plants and insects, and then she’d boil them up in a big old pot. By! Did it stink! Then when the tinkers came, she’d get them to buy it, tellin them it was medicine.’

  Mary eagerly joined in, ‘You mind what she did to Roddy’s mother?’

  ‘Aye, she took all the blankets off the bushes where they were dryin and threw them in the sea. Then she goes into the byre, gets the cow and drives the poor beast over the cliff. She got worse and worse, and nobody felt safe from her. She let on she had “powers”. Witch’s powers, y’ know.’

  Archie sighed, and we sensed a change of atmosphere in the room.

  ‘Douggy’s mother, Mairie, gave birth to a wee girl.’

  ‘Ah, the soul,’ put in Marion, shaking her head. Douggy, who had just come in, nodded sadly.

  We were riveted. ‘What happened?’ asked Nick.

  ‘That besom turned up and made all sorts of weird noises beside the two o’ them and threw some of that filthy muck of hers over the child. Then she pretended to make a curse on her. Mairie screamed, but Morag just laughed and said, “That child will be dead within a week.” And she was!’

  Marion and Mary were openly sobbing now, although they must have heard the tale a hundred times. We were horrified.

  ‘How?’ I whispered.

  Archie shook his head. ‘Twas 30-odd year ago, Mary-J. Nobody knew why the wee girl went, but from the day she was born, she was dyin. She just faded away. And that wicked woman was in the kirk yard when they buried the wee soul, and she laughed and yelled that it proved that she had “the powers”.’

  Another peat went on the fire. Archie cheered up a little and grinned at Douggy. ‘A couple of nights later, someone set fire to her byre where she kept all her potions and rubbish.’

  ‘Aye, twas my father. Everybody knew, but no one ever spoke of it.’ Douggy gave his gentle smile.

  Archie resumed
, ‘After that, she started to get letters threatenin to burn her house down as well . . .’

  ‘That wasn’t my father.’

  ‘I know, Douggy, but it frightened her and she disappeared for years. Nobody knows to this day where she went, but one day, back she came, even battier than ever! She’d have been about in her 50s by then, I’m thinkin. That’s when we boys used to play tricks on her, and our parents never stopped us; they couldn’t forgive her for all her evil deeds, y’see. Well, next thing was, some years later, her aunt turns up to look after her. Morag was too batty to be able to see to herself, y’see, and folks didna know what she might get up to. Old Shona had a job, to be sure, but she managed pretty well. She’d lock Morag up when she got too violent, and we’d hear that besom’s screamin and swearin across the glen, just. Shona was a big, strong woman, very dour, and wouldn’t let anyone help her. That went on for years.’

  Archie took a large swig of whisky.

  ‘Why didn’t she get sent away to Craiglan?’ I asked, mentioning the area’s psychiatric institution.

  ‘Ach. Too proud was Shona. She was from Uist, y’see.’

  This was obviously meant to explain everything.

  Having fortified himself, Archie settled back once more, Mary’s face took on its rapt expression and we realised that the story was far from over.

  ‘One night, there was even more yellin and screamin than usual, and in the morning there was nae smoke comin from the chimney. Several of us men went over to see what was the matter. My dear Lord! What a sight! The pair of them slept on that old box-bed, and that’s where they were – dead as door nails! There was an old kitchen knife on the floor by the bed and blood everywhere!’