The Island Nurse

by Mary J. Macleod

  As we returned in procession to the houses, Danny was swooping on various bits of twisted metal until his pockets bulged. I thought how envious Nick and Andy would be, and I surreptitiously picked up something that looked vaguely like the pieces of shrapnel that as children we used to collect in the Second World War after an enemy plane had been shot down.

  Diarmuid Johansson, his wife and two daughters had been involved in the afternoon’s excitement with the rest of us but had said not one word. It was really most odd. One day we were to hear their story.

  The men restored Caroline to her couch. Her ankle was looking much less swollen and I thought another day’s rest should be all that was necessary.

  With good wishes all round, I started the long trek back to my car. At first the path was strewn with bits of rock and rubble from the explosion. Then something caught my eye. There, looking dusty but otherwise undamaged, was Caroline’s lost shoe! I took it back to Tin Cottage. Caroline was ecstatic.

  When I set off again, the sun was low in the sky and, as I walked, a golden eagle wheeled overhead, swooping to the ground on a high, rounded hilltop nearby.

  NINETEEN

  Nicholas

  Nicholas was growing up quickly. Too quickly, I felt. He still hated Mondays: leaving home at 6 a.m. Monday mornings were ‘the pits’, according to him.

  In all, about 20 scholars from all over Papavray travelled on the steamer to the island of Eileen Mor, where a bus would be waiting to take them across the island to the roll-on-roll-off ferry to the mainland. A school bus met the ferry and trundled off for another 40 or 50 miles to the school itself in the town of Achanach. It was a big, modern affair, serving the senior scholars of many islands and a huge area of mainland. At first, Nick had to stay in the hostel but soon found digs with his friend Basher’s grandmother in Achanach.

  The old lady was typical of many of the older folk at that time in that she was terrified of nearly all modern gadgets, particularly the ‘teleeffission’. One evening, Basher was twiddling knobs, trying to get an acceptable picture, when his grandmother came into the room. She screamed in horror.

  ‘Will ye stop behooterin with the teleeffission! You’ll blow us all to Halifax!’

  No one could work out why it should be Halifax, but it illustrated her point, I suppose, as Halifax, Nova Scotia, is certainly a long way to be blown!

  At 14 or so, Nick was now a tall lad with a cheery smile and an easy manner. He was also an accomplished mimic and amused everyone with his clowning. He had no trouble at all in attracting girlfriends.

  Young people at the school seemed to be very shrewd in their choice of boy- and girlfriend, choosing people from their own island, as they would have had great difficulty meeting in holidays if the love of their life lived elsewhere. The distances, the weather, the steamer or ferry schedules and the cost of travel were all considered. No wonder there was so much inter-marriage on the islands! I remember, however, one notable exception to these self-imposed restrictions.

  One of my patients living in Rachadal had a brother who, by the age of 60, had never married. It was generally thought that he was very much under his mother’s thumb and certainly he had run her large croft from a very early age.

  From her croft, which ran down to the sea, it was easy to see the houses on the shore of Eileen Mor, some four or five miles away over the water. Over there was a similar croft run by a 60-year-old woman for her mother, who was also something of an old harridan, according to local gossip.

  How these two met in the first place was never known, but every Saturday, in all but the very worst of weather, old Angus Ben would chug over the water to see Ailsa for the afternoon. He was always back for the milking; he would not have wished to face his mother’s wrath had he been late. Ailsa never came to Papavray, but for 30 odd years Angus Ben had made his weekly pilgrimage to court her. Everyone knew that they were only waiting for the two old mothers to die (or ‘pass on’ or ‘pass over’ or ‘be lifted’) and then the ‘young ones’ would marry.

  One summer there was great excitement as Angus’s mother did the decent thing at last, so we only had to wait for Ailsa’s ailing mother to do the same. And she did, only a couple of months later. The crofters rubbed their hands together: now there would be a good wedding! So everyone waited, and waited, and waited. But nothing happened. Angus was seen crossing the water as usual every Saturday afternoon.

  At last, one of the men (I think it was Archie) was instructed to go and see Angus on some pretext to find out how long it was likely to be until the wedding.

  After the usual preamble, the question came: ‘And when are you thinking of tying the knot then, Angus?’

  ‘Ach, not at all, not at all,’ said Angus, to Archie’s amazement. ‘Y’see, Ailsa has a good croft there and she’s of no mind to give it up to her niece. She’s no fond of her niece, y’mind.’

  ‘Well, why don’t you go and live over there, Angus?’

  ‘What? I couldna do that! Indeed no! I have a good, good croft to me here. What for would I be giving that up to go over there to live?’

  So the status quo remained, and Angus continued his chaste Saturday visits to see Ailsa. This went on for many more years until Angus was too old and infirm to make the crossing. They died in their separate beds, in their separate lives, within a week of each other.

  In many ways their story goes to show how very wise the young people are to choose partners nearer home. Nick became friendly with Sandy, Basher’s sister. Not quite on the same island, but Schula was a bare half-mile off shore. Both families had boats, so it was fairly easy to exchange visits as long as the weather permitted.

  Occasionally Nick would go off with George to assist him in some of his work, either on the fishing boats or in small workshops and homes. They often took Pip with them. Pip was a lovable collie but, like Winnie the Pooh, had ‘very little brain’. He was very docile, very lovable, very devoted, but very stupid.

  One day George was persuaded to wire a house in Cill Donnan. Nick was merely ‘the gofer’ and fetched and carried all manner of wires and switches during the morning. After a picnic-type lunch, Nick looked round. ‘Where is Pip?’

  George was busy. ‘You go and find him.’

  Off went Nick. Since almost every dog on Papavray was a collie, and all collies look much the same, there was no point in asking people if they had seen our runaway. After hunting all through the village, even down to the harbour, Nick was about to give up when he saw the minister get into his car and set off towards the church. Sitting on the back seat, unnoticed by the minister, was a collie dog. Nick knew that Rev. McDuff had no dog and there was something in the benign expression on this one’s face as it viewed the passing countryside which convinced Nick that it was Pip. He must have jumped in the car while it was parked outside the manse. The church was several miles away, and Nick felt that the minister was probably going there.

  Just at that moment, Chris, a friend from school, cycled into view. Nick hailed him and demanded a lift. Off they went, with Nick’s long legs sticking out at either side and his bottom perched on the uncomfortable parcel rack.

  ‘You mind yon daft Callum’s gettin wed the day?’ shouted Chris to the passing air.

  ‘Oh boy! I hope we’ll be there before they start,’ bellowed Nick in reply. ‘Go faster!’

  Every time they went down a hill, the imperfect brakes ensured that they did go faster! Every time they climbed a hill, Nick was instructed to ‘get off, ye lazy wee mannie’. In this highly dangerous way they arrived at the church, but not before the bride and her ‘maids’ entered the door.

  They crept round the bushes and peered into the minister’s car. No Pip!

  Chris said, ‘Perhaps he’s in the graveyard.’

  Nick’s search took him past a low window near the front of the building. Peering in, while trying to keep out of sight, he could look at the congregation. They seemed to be a very merry bunch, he thought. The folk in the front pews appeared to be m
aking much use of hankies, not to dry the usual sentimental tears but to cover their red convulsed faces. They were all trying desperately not to laugh!

  Nick froze as an awful conviction assailed him. This had something to do with Pip. He was sure of it! He edged round a bit and the minister came into view. There seemed to be nothing amiss there, except that his Reverence was looking rather puzzled as he led his merry congregation in the solemn marriage service. Nick’s gaze roamed around until he happened to glance at the window on the opposite side of the church and a little behind the minister. There, in the slanting sunshine on the wide windowsill, was Pip, basking in the warmth!

  The people could see him, but the minister could not – as yet. The dog only had to yawn loudly and Heaven itself would be hard pushed to save him from a booting by the holy man, for he was not a dog lover. Dogs were not God’s creatures, according to him. Apparently, the devil had put them on the earth.

  Chris had joined Nick and together they held a whispered conversation.

  ‘Can we get in the back way?’ asked Nick.

  Chris knew the kirk well. ‘Yes. There’s the vestry door.’

  Together, they crept into the vestry. The door into the body of the church was ajar and they could hear the monotonous voice announce a hymn. Hymns were only a concession at weddings, as the Reverend did not approve of them.

  The boys heard the old organ take an asthmatic breath and launch into ‘Love Divine’. As soon as the voices of the congregation reached a crescendo, Nick gave a short whistle. Pip lifted his head and looked towards the vestry door. The singing became a little wobbly as the singers watched the drama. Nick held his breath as Pip rose from his perch, stretched and jumped down to the floor. The minister, intent on leading his people in their devotions, noticed nothing. Not so the congregation. Nor the bride and groom!

  ‘Come on, Pip! For heaven’s sake, COME!’ rasped Nick, somewhere between a shout and a whisper.

  Ever obliging, the dog strolled across behind the black-robed figure (no white robes here, even for a wedding) and started towards Nick. Then he thought of something that he needed to do and with a beatific expression walked back to the ground-hugging robes and cocked his leg. The stream of urine soaked the austere garment and, having made himself comfortable, Pip ambled to Nick, wagging his tail in greeting. This was just too much for the wedding guests, and the hymn singing broke down entirely as uninhibited laughter took its place. The good Reverend finally became aware of something unusual and even the organ groaned wheezily to a stop.

  Before the wrath of God, or at least His representative, could catch him, Nick grabbed Pip and all three raced out of the vestry door, through the churchyard to the gate, where they had left the bike. The two boys leapt on and Nick shouted to the dog, ‘Come on, you stupid mutt! Ride, Chris, as fast as you can, until we’re round the bend!’

  Once out of sight of whatever retribution might be following them, they collapsed onto the grass and hooted with laughter.

  ‘Oh, man!’ gasped Chris. ‘Yon preacher’s wet through!’

  ‘Did he see us?’ wondered Nick.

  ‘I don’t know, but Callum and Mairie did. And all the rest.’ Chris could scarcely get his breath for laughter. ‘Yon will be a good tale at the weddin feast.’

  ‘But the minister will be there!’

  ‘Ach, no. He’ll no be there at all,’ Chris reassured Nick. ‘He’ll be on Eileen Mor. Callum got his aunt to ask him to go over to give her the Communion after, because he didna want the old misery at the weddin breakfast.’

  ‘Not so daft after all, then,’ said Nick.

  TWENTY

  God’s country

  Every spring, we began to dig peat, plant potatoes and generally gear up for the busy months of summer. So by May, everyone was getting ready for the ‘season’ in one way or another and hoping for good weather for the ‘visitors’. But some folk came back to our ‘sceptred isle’ every year no matter what the weather threw at them. These folk loved the peace and the open spaces, the uncluttered roads and the unsophisticated lifestyle. They toured or walked, fished or climbed, or perhaps just leaned on a bar and chatted with the locals, or maybe sat on the harbour wall and watched boats coming in and out. They enjoyed all the simple things and welcomed a holiday that recharged them for another year.

  On the other hand, there were some who couldn’t stand the quietness and roamed around in a disgruntled fashion looking for ‘nightlife’, grumbled about the steep hills and lack of buses, and proclaimed to the world that they were bored. These people never returned.

  During the summer season, Dr Mac and I became used to treating all manner of minor ailments. We even had cases of sunburn, because the heat of the summer sun in the islands (when it deigns to appear at all) is always underestimated by the visitors. There is usually a cooling breeze to fool the unwary, and the air is so clear that every ray reaches the skin of a sun worshipper. So clear, in fact, that aircraft, flying so high that they appear as mere dots on the roof of the world, will throw their shadows to the ground, where they seem to creep along among the heather on the shaggy hills like some weird moorland creature.

  One glorious day in spring I was ‘in the peats’ at our peat hag high on the hill near Loch Annan. We had cut the brown wet rectangles in April, throwing them onto the tussocky grass to dry. The weather had been kinder than usual, so they were now hard and light, dry and crumbly. When the peats reach that stage, they have to be stacked in pyramids of about 50 or so.

  I was taking a rest, sitting on a bank, gazing at the quiet loveliness of the view, listening to the merry song of skylarks and watching a distant eagle scooping up the sky with its huge wings. It soared high in the blue dome while it scanned the ground for an unwary mouse or cheeky fox cub. The peace was complete, encompassing my world and seeping into my very soul.

  A slight rustle made me turn to see someone skirting the far peat bogs. As the figure drew nearer, I became intrigued. Here, out on this lonely hillside, walking at quite a spanking pace, was a priest in full garb! The black soutane flapped in the cooling breeze and the figure clutched a beretta in his hand. It occurred to me that he was probably as surprised to see a woman sitting in a peat bog as I was to see a priest in clerical clothes walking the hills.

  He drew near. ‘What a wonderful day! It is good to be alive on such a day.’ A man after my own heart! We exchanged pleasantries and introduced ourselves. Father Peter MacAnally was from Southern Ireland, with a delightful accent to match. He was young, handsome and very tall, the soutane streamlining him even further. Looking at him, I could see how young women might fall for this forbidden fruit, and I wondered if he found this difficult.

  Gesturing a request, he seated himself beside me and gazed out over the hills and the sea to the far mountains. A sigh escaped him.

  ‘This is wonderful! This is what I came for. I’m walking on several islands for charity. This is truly God’s country!’ He grinned rather sheepishly. ‘The charity bit is wearing this ridiculous outfit in order to be sponsored.’

  ‘What charity is that?’ I asked.

  ‘A local one for a small girl who was badly burned in a bomb attack on the border. She is going to need complete care for the rest of her life, and her parents have very little to offer being rather . . . um . . . mentally challenged, is the term, I believe.’ He sighed again. ‘I work in a very poor area of Dublin. All this is just fantastic.’ He made a wide sweep with his arm.

  The distant black and purple mountains were so clear that the dark corries and jagged peaks seemed only a mile or two away. The crystal sea sparkled with moving golden light while the deep valleys below us drowsed in the blessed warmth of a crimson spring day.

  I said, ‘It is all so clean and pure that it looks as though God finished making it all today and He has only just gone.’

  Father Peter smiled and said, ‘Oh, no. He hasn’t gone. He is still here, all around us.’

  I looked at my watch. The school car would soon
be bringing Andy and another young scholar back from school to their homes in Dhubaig. Andrew would be ‘starving’ as usual. I invited Father Peter home for some refreshment, and we made our way towards my car on the distant brown ribbon of road. The peat hags were mercifully fairly dry or the ankle-hugging soutane would have become sodden with dark peaty mud. What a ridiculous requirement for sponsorship!

  Father Peter and I climbed into my little car and set off across the high open moors that lean on the side of Ben Criel. This narrow lane beside the peat bogs was inclined to sink under the weight of moving vehicles and rise again after they had passed: it virtually floated on the boggy ground. We were used to it, but strangers to the island found it difficult to believe that the road would not sink altogether.

  We had come to the point on the narrow road where it plunged downwards. Below us glittered the dark waters of Loch Annan, which contrived to look menacing even in brilliant sunshine. As we began the descent, I saw Father Peter clasp his hands tightly together, whether from dread or in prayer I could only guess.

  ‘Papavray!’ he said suddenly. ‘A strange name, is it not?’

  ‘Well, not really,’ I replied. ‘I think it means “priest isle”, so you should feel quite at home. “Papa” is an old Norse word for “priest”, I’m told. I don’t know how it strayed to the Hebrides; it is more suited to the Shetlands or even the Faeroes. But there is a legend about a hermit who came here in early Christian times and converted everyone.’

  We reached Dhubaig and descended the track that led to our croft house. Father Peter paused in the ‘garden’ to admire the view of mountain and sea. ‘Garden’ was a polite term for our ‘small acre’ of grass, a few bushes and some bedraggled potato plants. But the garden was still beautiful, with its burn bubbling through the wilderness and meandering its watery way to a tiny stony cascade before leaving our land to wander off towards the waiting sea.