‘I’ll help you to settle them,’ said Chrissie. She looked at me sideways with a little smile on her face. ‘Do you not know who that is?’ she asked.
Busy with my patient, I said, ‘No. I haven’t seen him before.’
‘No one had until today. That’s Johnny!’
I looked at her uncomprehendingly.
‘Our Johnny! Biddy’s Johnny! My nephew.’
‘Chrissie! How wonderful! Tell me all about him.’
But I had to wait, for at that moment the shout went up. We were off!
The pier, such a hive of activity for so many hours, was now deserted. Dr Mac and I watched from the boats with the rest, as a silence fell on the previously vociferous crowd. It was a sad feeling of finality, for this was an island that would never be inhabited again. Everyone watched as Chreileh, their home for so many years, faded into the gentle mist and was left to mourn its lost identity.
Or perhaps not? For humankind is transitory, while the mighty cliffs and the raging sea will go on for ever. In the millions of years since Chreileh’s creation, and for the millions to come, Homo sapiens’ brief presence here is only a moment in the existence of this lonely rock that men have called ‘Chreileh’.
TWENTY-TWO
The return to roots
A dark shape slipped silently into harbour and the man brought his tiny craft alongside, among the fishing boats. The night was dark and stormy with scudding clouds and lashing rain. No one saw him.
The crews of the bigger boats were either asleep in their cottages beside the harbour or in their bunks on board, oblivious of everything – even the roaring wind and crashing seas.
The man climbed the slippery stone steps, carrying the bow and stern ropes and secured them to iron rings set into the wall of the quay. Head down against the weather, he returned to his boat. Scrabbling about in the tiny forward cabin, grumbling the while, he picked up a large and rather lumpy grip bag, made sure that the zip was adjusted to his liking and ascended to the quayside once more.
With his torch in one hand and the bulky bag in the other, he battled his way through wind and rain to the steep little town. Part way up the hill, some tiny squeaks began to come from the bag.
‘Ach. Haud your wheesht, you!’ growled the man. ‘Aye. The sooner I get rid of you, the better.’
The town was in darkness, but he could see some lights at the top of a hill.
‘Ah! That will be it,’ he muttered.
‘It’ was the little cottage hospital. There was a stout front door with an old-fashioned bell beside it, so, transferring the bag to the other hand and turning his torch off, the man pulled on the bell. The discordant jangling grated on the quiet street, and he glanced nervously around. The noises from the bag were now more insistent, and he stamped his feet impatiently. He felt in his pocket for an envelope, which he then stuffed just inside the zip. At last he heard footsteps approaching and bolts were drawn back. Light, spilling from the door as it opened, seemed to punch a hole in the darkness and rain.
A sturdy young nurse peered out and, taking in the scowling face and rough appearance of the man, was about to shut the door when she heard the whimpering coming from the bag in his hand.
Suspicious, she asked, ‘What do you want? And what’s in that bag?’
Without answering, the man stretched out his arm and pushed the bag towards her.
Turning, he strode off into the night.
The nurse had automatically taken the bag from him, fearing that he would drop it if she hesitated. By now she was worried by the increasing noise coming from the contents. An animal? Puppy? Cat? Or . . .?
She sat on a nearby chair and, pulling the bag onto her lap she began to unzip it. She gasped as she peeped inside. There, wrapped in a grubby blanket, lay a very tiny baby!
‘Sister! Sister Bailey! Come here. Quickly!’
A well-starched and fairly substantial lady came into the hallway.
‘What is all the noise about? Patients are trying to sleep, Nurse Mackenzie, and you . . .’ She broke off as she became aware of the crying baby in the old bag and looked at the white, shocked face of the young nurse.
‘May the Good Lord save us!’ she exclaimed. ‘And what wickedness do we have here?’
She bustled forward and gently took the screaming little bundle out of the bag. Cradling the child against her bosom, she began to soothe and rock it. She looked enquiringly at the nurse.
‘A man rang the bell. He handed me the bag. He ran off . . . I . . .’ The poor girl was too shocked to continue.
‘Who was he?’
‘I didn’t have time to ask. He ran away so fast and it’s dark and . . . Oh! What are we going to do? Is the baby all right?’
‘First things first,’ said Sister. ‘The child is cold and probably hungry,’ she sniffed. ‘And most definitely dirty,’ she added.
‘Nurse, make up a bottle of milk from the maternity ward and bring a napkin and a clean shawl. We will wash and attend to the child in my office, as it is warm in there. I’ll undress him or her to see if the little soul is all right or if there has been abuse,’ she added darkly.
She hurried off, carrying the now-quiet little bundle. In the office, she removed the blanket (tutting at the dirt) and then the clothes. She was surprised to see that the vest and nightdress were clean and well made. The napkin, although soiled, was of good soft fabric and carefully pinned. Gradually, a little baby boy emerged, quite well nourished but cold. There were no bruises or other marks on him, and he appeared to have been well cared for.
‘I do not understand,’ muttered Sister Bailey. ‘You are beautiful, and I think you have been loved. But how did you end up here, in a dirty grip bag, in the middle of the night?’
All the time, she was crooning comfortingly to the child as she wrapped him in a cot blanket.
Nurse Mackenzie came in with the milk. Sister Bailey offered the bottle to the child, who sucked with vigour and contentment, snuggling into the starched bosom with little snuffly noises. She washed and dressed him in the newborn-size garments that the hospital stocked, and he finally fell asleep in her arms.
‘Right,’ she said, becoming her usual efficient self. ‘What do we know about him? Anything at all? Bring that filthy bag in here and we will see if there are any clues as to his identity.’
Nurse Mackenzie placed the bag on the floor and pulled another blanket out. Then she noticed something.
‘There is a letter. Look!’
Sister Bailey motioned her to open and read it. The nurse pulled out a single sheet of lined paper, obviously torn from a notebook of some sort.
It said: ‘Bastard child Johnny 1 month Free Kirk.’ Nothing more.
This bald, unfeeling statement was all that the man (whoever he was) had bothered to tell them.
‘Oh, the monster!’ Sister Bailey looked at the sleeping baby. ‘Well,’ she said. ‘At least we know your name now. Hello, Johnny.’
She addressed Nurse Mackenzie. ‘You saw him. Do you think he might have been the father? How old do you think he was?’
‘A bit too old to be the baby’s father, I would have thought. Fiftyish, perhaps. I don’t know. He was very rough-looking and sort of brutal. He didn’t seem to care at all. Just couldn’t get away fast enough.’
At that very moment, the man was speeding away through the choppy sea as fast as his old boat would take him. He was scowling and muttering to himself.
‘The wickedness of the flesh! Keep her out of sight. The woman, too, but she’ll not last long.’
The wild, mad look was replaced by a sly and cruel grin.
‘No one will know. Tell them she’s gone away? Aye, we’ll tell them she’s gone away.’
Chuckling unpleasantly to himself, he chugged his erratic way out to sea and was soon swallowed up in the darkness.
In the light and warmth of Sister’s office, Baby Johnny slept in the encircling arms. Looking at the sleeping child, she sighed and murmured almost to herself, ‘H
ow could anyone not want this adorable child?’
Then, resuming her usual businesslike air, she said to the nurse, ‘In the morning, we will tell Matron. The police will have to be informed and we will get Dr Donald to check baby over. Then, I suppose, he will go to the children’s home while they try to trace his parents.’
‘I wish we could keep him here a while,’ said Nurse Mackenzie. ‘Just until we know what is to happen to him. Perhaps Dr Donald might want to keep him under observation,’ she added hopefully.
Sister shook her head. ‘You had better get on with your work.’
Johnny slept until 6 a.m., when he was changed, fed, cuddled and settled down again. Matron was informed in the morning. As the baby’s story spread around the building, he had many doting visitors. The doctor considered that he was remarkably well, considering his journey through wind and rain in an old bag.
‘How long was he travelling?’ he asked. No one knew.
‘I shall inform the police and we can hand him over to the Sisters at the convent. They will care for him until he is identified.’
‘Doctor,’ interrupted Matron. ‘I am told that he comes from a Free Kirk background.’ She showed him the note.
‘Ahh,’ said the doctor, rather at a loss. He stroked his chin ruminatively. ‘Trouble is, the nearest Free Kirk children’s home is away down in Glasgow. We don’t want the wee chap to have another long journey at this stage, do we? It will have to be the Sisters for now.’
‘The Sisters’, or more properly ‘The Sisters of the Convent of the Holy Sepulchre’, were only a few minutes’ walk away. Wondering if she was doing something religiously reprehensible, the Matron contacted them.
Mother Superior did not seem worried at all. ‘Indeed, Matron, would the Good Lord be mindin who looked after His children? We will baptise the blessed soul immediately. It would seem unlikely that he has received this sacrament already.’
The Mother Superior prattled on. She was very Irish and very garrulous, but everyone knew how kind she and the Sisters were. So Johnny was carefully carried down the street and placed in their care.
And so began another chapter in the short but already eventful life of Baby Johnny.
Sister Theresa, a young novice, was given the care of the baby. Coming from a large Irish family and being the oldest girl, she was very experienced and capable. Mother Superior, with wisdom and compassion, had realised that Sister Theresa was not suited to the life of a nun. She was just waiting for the right moment to suggest that she left the convent.
‘Am I thankful to the Good Lord that I hadn’t told her,’ thought Mother Superior and departed to the chapel to convey these thanks to the Higher Authority.
Meanwhile, far-reaching enquiries were being made by the police and children’s authorities. The sparse information about the man, the clothes and the letter was followed up and led nowhere; adverts were put in various publications and all the Scottish newspapers. Nothing.
Johnny grew into a sturdy toddler, deeply attached to Sister Theresa but at ease with all the nuns, who were enchanted by him. Mother Superior worried that it was an unnatural environment for a child, so when he approached school age it was decided to have him fostered with a family well known to the convent and situated nearby. This way he would have the company of other children and a more natural home life.
Mr and Mrs Mackay, unable to have a family of their own, had fostered countless children over the years. When Johnny joined them, they had one other child, a little girl called Geraldine, who had, like Johnny, been abandoned. Her mother had been traced to a prison in England.
So the children grew together, played together and went to the local school together. They were about the same age, but as no one knew the date of Johnny’s birth, he was given the same birthday as Geraldine, so that there could be a big joint celebration each year.
Both children knew that they were fostered but not the details in either case. They were so happy with the Mackays, whom they called ‘Gran and Gramps’, that the occasional remark that they overheard seemed not to worry them at all. Through the years, the police occasionally came up with some ‘lead’, as they called it, but Johnny’s parents were as elusive as ever.
When the children reached the age of 16 and were both at the grammar school, Mother Superior, now very old but as wise as ever, felt that they should be told the true circumstances of their birth, in so far as they were known, and subsequent abandonment.
Both children listened to the gentle voices telling them such strange and diverse stories. Geraldine was asked if she wished to see her mother, but she was adamant that Gran and Gramps were her family and she wanted nothing to do with the woman who had abandoned her. Johnny found it difficult to believe that absolutely nothing was known of his family or place of origin. He too was happy with Gran and Gramps, but with a boy’s natural curiosity he wanted to know more. Mother Superior promised to ask the police to renew their efforts to find something, anything, that might shed light on the darkness of his beginnings.
Gran and Gramps would talk about the way that Johnny was developing.
‘He’s a good boy,’ Gran would assert. ‘But he should be doing more school work.’
‘Ach, leave the boy be,’ Gramps would answer. ‘He must have been from farming stock, I’m thinking. He is a natural with animals. Maybe he’ll go into the farming when he leaves us.’
‘Ach, wheesht, you!’ Gran hated to think of the day when both her charges would be leaving to make their way in ‘the big wide world’.
‘We have him for a whiley yet. He might go to college. Perhaps he’ll be a vet.’
But far away, on a small, wind-bruised island, a discovery was being made that would change the course of Johnny’s life.
Biddy had been found!
Suddenly, everyone knew that a baby had been born to Biddy about 16 years ago. Sadly, she could tell the authorities nothing, as her inhumane treatment had injured her mind beyond hope, but right from the beginning the local police had been involved in the terrible drama as it unfolded on Chreileh, so the connection was soon made.
Gran, Gramps, Mother Superior and various officials gathered to break the news to an unsuspecting Johnny. A multitude of emotions roared through his mind and body as he learnt of the death of his father and heard the tale of his mother’s long years of imprisonment by her half-brothers in the farmhouse. He heard of her eventual release and her present whereabouts in the nursing home.
But his mother had loved him! It was obvious from the diary of her mother that Biddy had loved him deeply for the short time that he had been with her. This was of paramount importance to him.
Johnny remained in shock for several days. He gradually adjusted to all that he had been told and even found himself assuring Gran and Gramps that they were still, and always would be, his family.
So Johnny was taken to visit his mother. She did not know who he was at all: she only smiled and nodded. But he could see that she was sweet-natured and he readily believed that she had loved him. He realised that he could not even imagine the pain she must have felt when her baby was so brutally taken from her. Through his tears, he promised to visit her again soon. Then he set off for Chreileh – the isle of his birth and where, he had been told, he had an aunt who was waiting for him.
He was only just in time. On the very day of Johnny’s arrival, this lonely isle, which had seen his birth and all the pain and wickedness that had surrounded it, was abandoned for ever.
TWENTY-THREE
Andrew
BEING A YOUNG CHILD WHEN we went to Papavray, Andy was luckier than the other three, spending the best years of his childhood in the freedom of the island. Elizabeth and John enjoyed visiting, but the island could never really be home, as they had their own lives elsewhere. Nick had some good memories of his time there, but at 12 onwards boys are beginning to leave childhood behind, so he had missed the best years in which to be a part of such a wild, free environment.
I suppose
it was inevitable that Andy’s best friend was Thomas the factor’s son, the only other stranger to the Gaelic tongue, and the two spent much time together and often stayed overnight in each other’s homes. Thomas was three years older than Andy and was therefore the leader in most of their exploits. The factor’s house was near a rocky bay not far from Dalhavaig, and Thomas and Andy spent many happy hours there with fairly primitive fishing rods. I don’t remember ever being asked to cook any fish, but they had fun!
One day in early spring, Big Craig was trudging along the road from Dalhavaig to Cill Donnan when he heard shouts and yells from the direction of the shore. At first he could see no one, but he turned off the road and down through the bushes towards the sea. Emerging from the cover, he looked down on the waters of the little bay with its multitude of tiny rocky islets. There, on the largest and farthest away, were two bedraggled figures surrounded by the swirling waters of the incoming tide! They were yelling their heads off in an attempt to call attention to their plight. Being so intent on their fishing, they had failed to notice that they had become marooned on their rock and that the smaller ones towards the shore had disappeared beneath the sucking water, leaving none of the footholds over which they had jumped so joyfully a few hours previously. Now they were terrified!
Big Craig shouted to the pair, ‘Stay where you are! You’re no to try to get back. The current’s too strong. I’ll be with you on yon rock in no time!’
Sturdy though he was, the waves and the suction of the swirling sea around the rocks buffeted him from side to side. Soon the water was above his wellies, so off they came. They floated away and then sank in the open sea. Soon he was up to his thighs and still he was not at the rock.
‘Take off your boots!’ he ordered. The water was now lapping at their ankles. Big Craig battled on, flinching as the sharp stones and shells on the seabed bit into his bare feet. He noticed the boys trying to hold on to their boots and fishing gear.
‘Leave all that,’ he shouted. ‘I canna take all yon!’
The Island Nurse Page 14