by Ian Todd
“Why?”
“Ah jist want tae see if everything looks hunky-dory.”
“Hunky what?”
“Please?” Senga replied, sounding business-like, kneeling doon in front ae the patient, while slipping oan her rubber gloves.
“Do you think I’m some sort of…?”
“Miss MacKenzie, we kin dae this the easy way and then Ah’ll be oan ma way, or ye kin hiv the pleasure ae ma company fur the rest ae the efternoon. Which is it tae be?” Senga warned her, trying tae sound stern.
Silence.
“Now then…”
“I’ll have you know that I was the…”
“Local district nurse in Assynt fur over forty years? Aye, Ah’ve heard aw aboot ye…how lovely and kind ye wur tae everywan, including yer ex-colleagues,” Senga chimed in, as Mrs Grump twisted roond in her chair, pulling doon the back ae her skirt, exposing the fleshy part ae her hip and thigh.
“Oh dear.”
“What?”
“It’s infected,” Senga said, frowning, leaning forward tae inspect the wound, before looking up intae the patient’s eyes.
“Kin Ah hiv a look oan the other side?”
“Of what?”
“Your other thigh.”
The other wan wis worse looking than the first wan.
“Where dae ye keep yer injection pack, Miss MacKenzie?”
“In the drawer…the one on the left,” she replied, pointing tae the sideboard.
Senga slid open the drawer. There wis a dirty needle, still in the syringe, which wis lying beside the open wallet that aw the type wan diabetic patients were issued wae tae store their equipment. There wis still traces ae congealed blood oan the needle. The patient still hid a few days insulin supply in the bottle. She lifted up the box containing the wee packets ae needles and coonted them. Other than the wan still in the syringe, there wis practically still a month’s supply in it, unused. She turned and looked across at the patient, who wis sitting there looking as if butter widnae melt in her mooth. She spotted whit she wis looking fur, sitting oan the brass log box jist tae the right ae the range. She went across and lifted up the used needle dispenser, twisting the cap aff. It wis empty. She turned and walked back across tae the sideboard and retrieved a chair, planting hersel in front ae the patient.
“What?”
“The reason baith thighs ur infected is because ye’re no replacing the needles each time efter ye use them.”
“Yes I do,” Miss MacKenzie harrumphed, sounding defensive.
“That second thigh his an abscess oan it. Surely it must be really painful?”
“Och, lass,” the auld yin tutted, waving her haun dismissively.
“Kin ye staun up?” Senga asked her.
Silence.
“I’ll help ye, will Ah?” Senga persisted, as the patient scowled at her, snatching up her walking stick and gripping oan tae the erm ae her chair, brushing Senga aff as she leaned across tae assist her. “Noo then, that wisnae so bad, wis it?”
Senga slowly eased the patient’s skirt doon o’er her hips, looking up, as Miss MacKenzie winced.
“Kin we go through tae the bedroom? Ye’ll be a lot mair comfortable lying doon, so ye will,” Senga suggested.
Silence.
“Right, then, will you be okay tae staun oan yer feet fur a wee second?” she asked, bending o’er and looking intae her bag.
Efter no receiving any acknowledgement tae her question, she took oot a packet ae alcohol wipes and antiseptic cream. “Look, this will probably sting. Ye’d be better lying doon.”
Silence.
Senga gently dabbed the infected needle tracks oan the worst affected thigh wae the swab, as the patient winced and baith legs started trembling.
“Sorry,” she apologised, starting oan the second wan.
By the time she applied the cream, there wur definite gasps ae pain. She’d stretched across and lifted a crocheted seat cover fae the other ermchair and covered the patients exposed thighs, efter applying dressings tae the wounds and lifting the skirt up aff the flair efter the patient wis free tae sit back doon oan her chair.
“Right then, Miss MacKenzie, you and me ur gonnae hiv a wee chat aboot how ye’re gonnae be taking a course ae penicillin and using clean needles when ye’re self-medicating, bit first, Ah think a wee cup ae tea is in order efter that wee painful episode, eh?” Senga declared, staunin up, grabbing the black kettle aff the hearth and placing it oan the middle ae the range.
Heidin across tae the sink fur the wee china cups gied her a chance tae look aboot the room. There wur some nice, though faded, prints ae the local countryside and mountain ranges that she recognised, hinging up oan the walls. The furniture wis as auld as the hills, bit wae the beautiful embroidered antimacassars covering the ermrests and the back ae the chairs and wee couch, Miss MacKenzie hid the place looking quite homely. The place wis also immaculate. Although the flair wis slate, she hid wee crocheted colourful rag rugs scattered aboot the room oan the parts where she’d hiv tae walk. It wid be a shame if she wis gonnae be the wan that wid be responsible fur Miss MacKenzie hivving tae be moved somewhere that hid supported accommodation.
“Right then, maybe ye’d like tae tell me whit’s gaun oan?” Senga asked her, placing the cup and saucer oan the log box beside the patient, efter insisting she swallow a couple ae aspirins and a sip ae water tae help ease her discomfort.
“What?”
“The fact that ye urnae using fresh needles efter injecting yersel.”
Silence.
“Okay, how aboot this wan, then? Ye’re ninety wan years auld, living independently oan yer lonesome, which is brilliant, so it is. Back in the toon, maist people your age wid be in an eventide home.”
“Toon?”
“Glesga.”
“Eventide home?”
“Ah think ye know whit Ah mean, Miss MacKenzie. Ah mean, surely you, ae aw people, should know the risks ae using dirty needles?”
“Of course, I do, I’m not stupid, you know.”
“So, why is there a box ae needles sitting there in that sideboard drawer, unused, then?”
“I’ve been tired…”
“Aye?”
Silence.
“When wis the last time Doctor Innes examined ye?”
“I can’t remember.”
“Try.”
“I know what you’re up to lass,” the patient scowled.
“Whit?”
“You’re trying to decide whether I’ve still got my marbles about me.”
Silence.
“December…the twenty second of December last year. It was a Monday, if my memory is right. Just over five months ago,” she continued, looking at Senga as if she’d jist won the Napoleonic War single-handed. “Dolina Moffat, your colleague, has been up with my supplies every month since.”
“See, that wisnae too bad, wis it?” Senga said, smiling. “Here’s an easy wan fur ye. Whit’s the date ae yer next birthday and in whit year wur ye born?” she asked the patient, who looked at her wae a blank expression before a crooked wee smile cracked open that frosty expression ae hers.
“Look, I’ve just told you. My marbles are still intact, young lady.”
“Ur they?” Senga drawled, returning her smile, taking a wee sip ae her tea. “Ah’m listening.”
“Let me see now. If I’m ninety one, that means I was born in…in eighteen eighty five,” the patient murmured, closing her eyes, then opening them, a look ae triumph in they auld watery eyes ae hers.
“Date?”
“Sunday, the twenty second of May. It was the same day that Victor Hugo died.”
“Victor Hugo?”
“He wrote Les Miserables.”
“Never heard ae it.”
“The Hunchback of Notre-Dame?”
“Oh aye, Ah’ve heard ae that wan. That’s wan ae that man ae mine’s favourite black and white films, so it is. He’s even goat the book. Whit wis the name ae that wee ugly actor that starred in
it called again?”
“Charles Lawton.”
“That’s him…ugly as sin, so he is.”
“Talking of which. Your, er, so-called man? Is that the author everyone is talking about…the one that you’re apparently living in sin with?”
“Ah, so ye’ve heard, hiv ye?”
“Everyone in Assynt has heard. Your reputation has gone before you,” the patient reminded her disapprovingly, clearly enjoying getting wan o’er oan the cheeky young upstart.
“Ach well, if they’re gossiping aboot me, then they’re probably gieing some other poor soul a wee, well-earned break, so they ur,” Senga replied, laughing, taking the wind oot ae the auld yin’s sails.
“So, it doesn’t appear to bother you then?”
“Whit?”
“What I’ve just said?”
“No really. Let’s jist hope that’s aw they know aboot me, eh?” Senga smirked, winking and looking heavenward, as she placed her two hauns oan her chest like the Virgin Mary, and the baith ae them laughed thegither this time.
“So, have I passed?”
“Passed? Passed whit?”
“You’re little game…assessment?”
“Ach, ye’ll dae fur the time being, bit ye’re gonnae hiv tae dae whit ye’re telt, which Ah suspect will be hard fur the likes ae you.”
“Me?”
“Given that reputation that goes before ye.”
“Reputation?”
“Everyone in Assynt his heard.”
“What?”
“That you kin be a right terrifying, righteous auld pain in the…ach well, Ah’m sure ye catch ma drift.”
“Oh well, if they’re talking about me…”
“Then they’re probably gieing some other poor wee soul a well-earned break?” Senga interrupted, finishing the line fur her, as they baith chortled.
“Touché,” the patient acknowledged, smiling.
“Aye, whit they furgoat tae mention wis that ye’ve goat a right good sense ae humour as well, so ye hiv,” Senga confessed, taking another sip ae her tea.
“Oh, it’s flattery now, is it? My, you’re quite a little expert, Nurse Jackson. I’ve perhaps underestimated you. I think life in Assynt is about to become quite interesting…for a change.”
“Dae ye think so?” Senga asked innocently, as the baith ae them looked intae each other’s eyes and laughed.
“You mentioned a large crow?” Miss MacKenzie suddenly asked, changing the subject.
“Did Ah?”
“When you first arrived.”
“Oh, aye, a right evil-looking thing. Jist kept trying tae stare me oot, so it did,” she replied, shuddering, waving her haun across tae the living room door. “Talk aboot being freaked oot? Ah’m convinced it’s the same wan that suddenly popped up oot ae the blue and started tae roost aw day oan that shed ae mine recently, so Ah dae.”
“And you reckon that it’s…er, following you?”
“Well, other than doon there oan Ledmore Junction, where it wis jist staunin there quite the thing, eyeballing me, balancing oan a big rock, as if it owned the place, the other time wis up at Clachtoll, jist o’er a week ago. Wan second it wis there and the next? Adios Amigo. It jist suddenly disappeared intae thin air, so it did.”
“That would be up at Hamish and Clodagh MacKenzie’s croft…whose baby was stillborn?”
Silence.
“Tell me about him…”
“Him?”
“An Dubh Majestik,” she replied, the sudden dread evident in that shaky auld voice ae hers.
Chapter Ten
“Ah Heckie. Come in, come in. Take a seat,” Robert Hamilton, self-appointed Laird ae Lochinver said in welcome, nodding tae the solitary chair in front ae his desk, efter Mary, his secretary, opened the door and let the factor in. “So?” he asked.
“So, as I said on the telephone, sir. It might be nothing, but…”
“The source?”
“There’s a new district nurse…a young lass,” Heckie replied, savouring the question. “She started working in the doctor’s surgery recently.”
“Yes, I heard they’d found a replacement…and Glaswegian too, by all accounts. I wonder if she knows where our elusive Angelina can be contacted? Anyway, I’ll give this one three months,” he stated smugly. “I can’t imagine a city gel fitting in to a place like this. I haven’t met her myself, but she visited here last week. As you know, one of the gels, poor Heather, cut her knee after taking a tumble from her horse. Landed on barbed wire and had to get eight stitches put in. It became infected, so she couldn’t get them removed on the due date. This new one popped in by and took them out. Heather claims that she was very nice, despite having an awful accent. Said she couldn’t understand a bloody word she said to her. As for being nice? I’ll reserve judgement on that one,” he sniffed, lighting up a fat cigar. “Despite being married to a beautifully bred Glaswegian, I still get nervous around them…particularly the lower-class ones who insist on speaking slang. This one sounds typical. For some strange reason known only to themselves, the tenement ones don’t know the meaning of boundaries. I hope this one will prove me wrong,” he tutted distastefully.
“Well, I don’t know about boundaries, sir, but I picked up a little interesting story that I think you may find interesting and which will allow us to take advantage of the situation,” The Factor grinned, getting back tae the situation in haun, tapping the side ae his nose wae that finger ae his.
“Oh?”
“Aye, well, it concerns Flintlock McBean, sir.”
“Really? Well, spit it out man,” The Laird commanded, settling back in his leather chair, looking at his man through the thick cloud ae cigar smoke.
“According to this new nurse, there was a confrontation a few weeks ago…between McBean and her…er, her man.”
“Man?”
“She’s living in sin, sir.”
“Really? Bloody brilliant, ha ha. That’ll go down well in the kirk on Sundays.”
“She doesn’t attend church, sir.”
“Even better,” he said, smiling. “Carry on.”
“Anyway. That man of hers seemingly had a run in with McBean. I believe McBean confronted him with a loaded shotgun…for trespassing,” The Factor added, as The Laird shot forward and slapped the tap ae the table, laughing loudly.
“Brilliant, Heckie. Bloody brilliant. Tell me that he shot the bugger?”
“No, but I believe he set that horrible dog of his onto him though… chased him clean off the property apparently.”
“You’re sure? Where did the story originate from? You know what the idle gossip is like about here?”
“Oh, it’s an impeccable source, sir. Straight from the horse’s…er, mare’s mouth, so to speak. The new nursing maid told Ishbel MacKenzie, who mans the desk at the doctor’s surgery. Apparently, she was concerned…the new nurse, that is, as to whether what her man told her could be true and if there was cause for concern.”
“And how did Mrs MacKenzie…er…Ishbel respond?”
“Oh, she told her the truth.”
“Which was?”
“That McBean is deranged and dangerous and should have been sectioned in an asylum years ago.”
“Excellent, excellent. I knew it would only be a matter of time before that angry dolt made a mistake. What does the nurse’s man do for a living?”
“I believe he’s a writer sir…”
“What, a journalist? Here in Lochinver?” The Laird exclaimed, sounding slightly alarmed.
“No, no, sir. He writes books…novels apparently.”
“What’s his name?”
“I’m trying to find out. He’s not on the doctor’s surgery patient roll. Also, the lease on Little Vestey’s Croft is in the maid’s name.”
“Right…what kind of novels?”
“I’m not sure, sir.”
“Well, find out.”
“Yes, sir. So, what do you intend to do…with the information, that is, sir?”
“What do I intend to do, Heckie? I intend to have Flintlock McBean arrested and hopefully sectioned. That’s what I intend to do.”
“Oh,” The Factor replied, a mischievous grin spreading across they whiskery jowls ae his.
“But, first things first. Get young Constable MacKenzie
up here…today…this afternoon. Meanwhile, I’ll phone the good Reverend MacKenzie, as the father of two teenage daughters, and express my concern about the domicile situation up at Little Vestey’s Croft.
Chapter Eleven
“Ooh, something smells nice,” Senga said, taking aff her coat and laying her shoulder bag oan the chair. “Dae ye want me tae dae anything?”
“Ye kin set the table, if ye want. It’s nearly ready tae take oot ae the oven. Ah’m jist coming tae the end ae a chapter,” he replied, tapping away oan the keys wae two fingers. “Ah’ve jist slung some garlic breid in there as well.”
“Mmm. Who wid’ve thought Ah wid’ve ended up wae such a brilliant cook, eh?”
“Seemingly, it’s supposed tae taste even better wae fresh garlic insteid ae the garlic salt. Ah’m gonnae try and grow some masel. Whit?”
“You, growing garlic? Dis the stuff no come fae a warm climate or something?”
“Ah’m no sure. Ah’ve been through aw they gardening books that the auld dear who died in here left behind. It disnae even mention garlic in any ae them, so it disnae. If Ah could find a book aboot it, it wid help.”
“Talking ae which? How ur ye getting oan wae the next best seller?”
“Ach, ye know whit like.”
“Naw, Ah don’t. Why won’t ye let me read whit ye’ve written so far?”
“Because, Ah’m still working oan it. Ah’m also still annoyed that ye palmed that bloody typewriter aff oan me. Ma fingers ur sore and Ah’m getting shooting pains in the back ae ma hauns.”
“That’s because ye’re too heavy oan the keys. Tap them lightly.”
“Hauf the time the letters ur bursting through the paper, so they ur.”
“See? Anyway, why dae ye always manage tae steer the conversation away fae whit ye don’t want tae talk aboot? The plot? Tell me whit it’s aboot…and don’t say a love story.”