Catherine of Deepdale

by Millie Vigor

  Heavy eyes, flushed face and the fact that Daa had taken to bed was all Catherine needed to know. ‘He’s certainly not any better then,’ she said.

  Jannie went to stand beside the bed. Her hands rolling one over the other, she stood there for several moments looking at Daa. Then she turned to Catherine. ‘I don’t know what to do,’ she said, her voice trailing off into a sob.

  ‘I’m no better,’ said Mina. ‘You should be here, Catherine, for I don’t know what to do either. I’m afraid for him. Can you not help?’

  Catherine looked at Mina and Jannie’s stricken faces. ‘I’ll stay and help if you want me to, Mrs Jameson,’ she said. Jannie was for once out of her depth; she mutely nodded her head. Catherine turned to Mina. ‘Would you look after Robbie for me?’

  ‘You don’t have to ask.’

  Catherine took off her coat and laid it over the back of a chair. Daa, eyes closed, lay back on his pillow. Catherine looked at him; saw the unhealthy flush on his face, the beads of sweat on his brow, the damp hairline and the way his shirt clung to him. She didn’t need a thermometer to know his temperature was high. She turned to look at Jannie; the woman who had gone out of her way to make her life unpleasant had now crumbled in the face of Daa’s illness.

  ‘Are you all right?’ asked Catherine.

  ‘Is he going to die?’ Jannie’s eyes sent out a mute appeal for help.

  ‘Not if I can help it,’ said Catherine, ‘but we have a job to do. Fetch me your pots and pans. We have to raise some steam to moisten the air.’

  While Jannie fetched her pots Catherine raked out the ash in the stove, opened the dampers and fuelled the fire with more peat. She lifted the kettle that was sitting on the hob; it was light, nearly empty. She took it to where two buckets of water stood just inside the door, filled it and set it back on the stove. When Jannie gave her the cooking-pans she filled them with water too.

  ‘A bowl and a flannel now,’ said Catherine. ‘I want to sponge Daa’s face, help to cool him.’ She found it strange to be giving orders to Jannie, but her nurse’s training had come to the fore and she found it exhilarating to be in charge.

  ‘What do you want me to do now?’ said Jannie.

  ‘Find me a clean shirt for Daa. And do you happen to have an oil stove?’

  ‘Ay, we do, just a little one.’

  ‘Can I stand a kettle on it?’ Jannie nodded. ‘That’ll do then.’

  The click of the latch announced the arrival of Laura. ‘I was just come to see if there was anything you wanted,’ she said.

  ‘Yes,’ said Catherine. ‘Would you look in the top drawer of the little chest by my bed and get me my thermometer? Another thing: do you have anything I can make a poultice from? Bread’s out of the question.’

  ‘Oatmeal?’

  ‘You’re a gem. Could anyone could get me a bottle of Friar’s Balsam.’

  ‘I think we have some,’ said Laura.

  ‘Now, Jannie, let’s get to work,’ said Catherine as Laura closed the door behind her. How easy it was now to use her mother-in-law’s first name.

  While Jannie looked for a clean shirt Catherine dipped up some water in a mug, added a dash of hot water and took it to Daa. ‘I thought you might need a drink,’ she said. ‘It’s just water.’ With no word of thanks he took the cup from her, drank, then pushed it away.

  The Jameson kitchen was quite full of steam now. Catherine topped up the pans as the level of water in them fell. Daa still wheezed, still dragged air in and pushed it out of his lungs. The nurse in Catherine wanted to change his shirt, fill a bowl with warm water and sponge him all over, but he would probably not want her to and Jannie would surely not let her.

  She put a bowl of tepid water on a chair by the bed, dipped the flannel in it and wrung it out. ‘Let me just freshen you up,’ she said. Daa put up both hands as if to warn her off, but Catherine caught them in her free hand and held them while she began to wipe the flannel gently over his face. To her surprise he succumbed, but when she suggested helping him into a clean shirt the offer was met with rising anger. ‘You’ll feel much better if we do,’ said Catherine, but Daa would not be moved.

  I’ve got to get it off him somehow, she thought, and wondered if Jannie would agree to help her. Taking her mother-in-law’s religious fervour into account she guessed that neither of them had ever seen the other without their clothes, so why would they allow a stranger like her to do so?

  Daa was becoming more and more lethargic, his breathing rough and laboured and he was sweating profusely.

  THIRTY ONE

  DAA COWERED IN the corner of the bed. Trembling, eyes staring, face distorted, he plucked at the sheets and cried, ‘He’s come for me. Get him out.’

  ‘Who’s come for you?’ asked Catherine.

  ‘Yon trowie man, can you not see him? I’m not bad to the wee folk; I’ve left them a grain o’ corn and bits fae da harvest. Make him go away, get him out.’ The outburst left him gasping; with shaking hands he pulled up the sheet to cover his face. Delirium had pitched him into a fantasy world.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Catherine, ‘I see him.’ As if to a small child she spoke in a soft comforting voice. ‘It’s all right, I’ll send him away.’ Going to the corner of the room she lifted her hand and wagged a finger. ‘Now you listen to me,’ she said to a non-existent trow. ‘The man of the house has done everything he should; there is no need for you to be here. We would be obliged if you would go back to where you came from.’ She opened the door and made as though to usher the trowie man out, bade him goodbye and closed it. ‘He’s gone now, Daa,’ she said.

  ‘Get you away from me,’ said Daa, when Catherine tried to readjust his pillows. ‘What are you doin in my house?’ Far from thanking Catherine for what she’d done Daa lifted his hand and gave her a stinging slap across the face. There was no recognition in his eyes when he looked at her and, strangely, no animosity in his manner when later she fetched a drink for him. Eagerly he took and drank, then, after wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, cowered back into the pillows. Quieter now that the imaginary trow had been sent away he lay back with his eyes closed; from time to time he moaned gently, then started up to mutter something and look suspiciously at Catherine.

  ‘Come, let me put this to your face,’ said Jannie. She put a cloth she had dipped in cold water gently on Catherine’s cheek. ‘He should not have done that.’

  The coldness of the cloth took away the sting. ‘He’s not himself,’ said

  Catherine. ‘You know as well as I that he would not have done that if he was.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter; you want to make him well.’

  ‘And we will.’

  ‘God willing,’ said Jannie.

  In order to take his temperature in the intervals when Daa was amenable, Catherine tucked the thermometer under his armpit. The reading crept up despite her efforts to keep the fever down and when she found it nearing 104 degrees she insisted that someone must fetch the doctor. The message was sent via the postman and Billie came to tell them that Lumsden had been called away to a difficult birth. Tears started to Catherine’s eyes. She had done all she could.

  With Jannie’s help and a bit of a struggle they had managed to change Daa’s shirt. They had made poultices and put them on his chest. They had patted his back, sponged his face and as much else as they could get at, given him warm drinks and held inhalations of Friar’s Balsam under his nose. They had kept the fire burning bright, checked the water in kettle, pots and pans. Now, with everything done that could be done, Jannie had collapsed into Daa’s armchair and fallen asleep while Catherine sat to wait for the doctor.

  Sitting beside Daa’s bed in the hot, steamy, kitchen Catherine suddenly remembered the joint of meat she had put in her own oven to cook, sighed and relaxed as she vaguely recalled Laura telling her she had rescued it. Laura had brought bowls of soup for their dinner, had fed the dogs and looked after Robbie. Billie had come over to help and had kept them supplied with peat an
d fresh water, had done her outside work, fed the ewes and checked that all was well. Now, perhaps Neil Lumsden would relieve her of her responsibility.

  She was tired, dead-beat and had nothing to do but wait. For three days and nights, never letting herself close her eyes for more than a few minutes she had sat up while Jannie dozed in the armchair. Her sleep-starved vigil had left her in a state of exhaustion and soon her head began to nod, her eyes to close and, despite all efforts to stay awake, she drifted into the never, never world of sleep. As she went deeper her body softened and relaxed and she began to lean sideways. Then she was falling. Suddenly awake she grasped for something to hold on to. Still drowsy she shook herself mentally and physically. Oh my goodness, I mustn’t do that, she thought, mustn’t let myself sleep. Instinctively she looked at her patient. Daa lay back against the pillows, eyes closed.

  An uneasy feeling made Catherine hold her breath. The room was quiet, too quiet; there was no noise other than the lazy quirk of the kettle, the slither of ash in the fire and the sound of Jannie’s snoring breath. Catherine strained to hear the wheeze and whistle of Daa pulling air into his lungs … there was nothing.

  ‘Oh please, don’t let it be …’ she whispered. She got up and went to the bedside. Daa lay limp and relaxed, his chest that until now had risen and fallen like the swell of the sea, lay flat. A sudden chill made Catherine shiver. Picking up his limp wrist she felt for a pulse, searched and uttered an audible sigh of relief when she found it. It was not strong, but it was there, beating rhythmically. He was sleeping, breathing peacefully. The crisis was over.

  ‘Oh, thank God,’ sighed Catherine. She leaned over him again. Yes, his face had softened and regained some of its normal colour and his breathing was slow and regular. All was well and now she too could relax.

  ‘Jannie.’ Catherine put her hand on her mother-in-law’s shoulder and shook it gently. ‘Jannie, wake up.’ Looking down at her, she saw the emotions of shock and surprise, hope, quickly followed by despair that flitted across her face. ‘It’s all right,’ she said. ‘The worst is over. Come and look.’

  They stood by the bed. Jannie looked closely at Daa and touched his hand.

  When she turned to look at Catherine tears were running down her cheeks.

  ‘Thank you. I should have known my Robbie’d make the right choice …’ She pulled a handkerchief out of her apron pocket and began to wipe her eyes.

  ‘Tea,’ said Catherine.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I could do with a cup of tea, couldn’t you?’

  ‘Ay, I’ll make it,’ said Jannie, and smiled as she put her hankie away.

  Catherine sat down. Jannie made tea, then ran to tell Mina and Laura the news. Catherine was ladling sugar into her cup when Neil Lumsden arrived. He had become her friend and she greeted him now with, ‘You know something? I don’t think I shall bother to call you to Deepdale any more. Your patient has passed the crisis, you’re too late … again.’

  He grinned at her. ‘And I don’t think I would bother to come if you did. Is that tea? Pour me a cup, would you, while I have a look at the patient?’

  Daa slept peacefully while the doctor checked his pulse, listened to his breathing, took his temperature. ‘I won’t disturb him any more,’ he said. ‘I’ll look in tomorrow after surgery. You’ve done a good job.’ He sat down to drink his tea. ‘When did you last have a night’s sleep? Is somebody going to take over?’

  ‘Yes, Mina will be here soon,’ said Catherine.

  As she saw Lumsden out Laura came in. ‘What did he say?’ she asked.

  ‘Not much,’ said Catherine. ‘But Daa’s over the worst.’

  ‘He’s going to be all right?’

  ‘He should be. Can you and Mina help Jannie now?’

  Laura nodded. ‘We can, and we’ll keep Robbie a peerie while longer.’

  ‘Thank you, Laura. Daa’ll be hungry when he wakes,’ said Catherine. ‘Beat an egg and put some hot milk and a spoonful of sugar with it. I’ll see if I can get some Bengers food tomorrow. You’ll have to feed him like a baby and help him get his strength back before he can have minced beef and tatties or anything like that.’

  Laura took both Catherine’s hands in hers. ‘You have a good heart. You and the peerie lad have brought sunshine to us. Now you have to think of your future, so when Norrie asks you say yes.’

  ‘I already have, but I told him he had to wait.’ To Catherine’s surprise Laura threw her arms round her and hugged her.

  ‘Then I wish you all the happiness in the world. Norrie’s a good man.’

  Happy to hand over care of Daa to Jannie and her sisters Catherine went home, turned the key in the door and went to her bed.

  THIRTY TWO

  WITH THE LAST day of March came the first of the lambs. After that they came thick and fast. But the ewes lambed easy and when the first flush was over Catherine allowed herself a little more time for sleep. Norrie came to look, patted her on the back and said, ‘I never thought you’d do so well, not having anything to do wi’ sheep before. Daa taught you well.’ Then he was away to tend his own flocks.

  When the Cheviots had all dropped their lambs there was a brief respite before Robbie was to start school. He had filled out, was growing fast and needed new clothes. Catherine took him to Lerwick to buy them.

  ‘What’s it like going to school, Mam?’ he asked.

  ‘You’ll love it. You’ll learn to read and write and there’ll be other boys and girls to play with.’ They were walking along Commercial Street.

  With an air of indignation he said, ‘I can read now.’

  ‘Yes, but you’ll learn to write too.’

  ‘Is that all?’

  ‘What do you mean – is that all?’ Catherine stopped and looked at him.

  ‘Laura was teaching me to read and she got me a pencil and I was learning to write. I’m no needin’ to go to school.’

  ‘All children have to go to school. Reading and writing are not the only subjects you’ll be taught. There’s a great big world out there, you’ll learn about countries and people and a lot of things. It’s a goldmine.’

  ‘What’s a goldmine?’

  ‘Well, there you go, Robbie. That’s something you’ll have to find out. Come on, I’ve got to buy you some new shoes.’

  When Robbie saw the child’s seat fastened to his mother’s bicycle he said there was no way that he would sit up there when he had a bicycle of his own.

  ‘Lot’s of children get carried to school,’ said Catherine. ‘Not only you.’

  ‘I’m not goin’ to sit on that.’ Robbie locked eyes with her. Catherine stared back at him, willing him to give way. When he didn’t she foresaw trouble looming in the future. ‘Oh well, have it your own way,’ she said, ‘but don’t blame me if you get tired and find it too much.’

  The aunts and Jannie came out to see him on his way. Laura gave him a buttered bannock. Mina patted him on the head and Jannie wished him luck. Then they stood and waved him on his way.

  Proud to be on the road at last, Robbie pedalled along in front of his mother. Though he still sometimes took a tumble he rode his bike well. It was just a short journey to the school, a little more than a mile but, thought Catherine, it was the first step on his journey away from her. Soon he would become involved in a world of his own, one in which he would have his own friends. There would be things he would not tell her, things she would not know about.

  At the door to the school they were met by the head teacher, a warm buxom woman who smiled at Robbie and said she was pleased to see him; wouldn’t he come and join the others? She took him by the hand, and with a smile dismissed Catherine. The door closed. Catherine, a knot in her stomach and an absurd feeling that she was going to cry, got on her bicycle and went home.

  Never had the day seemed so long. Never, when she’d left Robbie with the aunts or Jannie, had she given him a second thought. But now he was continually in her mind. She marked the day in sections. At ten he would be out
to play, at twelve he would eat the bannock Laura had given him, drink the milk and eat the sandwich she made.. At some time after two he would be out in the school yard again and at three she would be waiting for him.

  When at last the waiting was over and she was on her way to meet him she pedalled fast, praying that the children wouldn’t be let out early or that she would be late. Two other anxious mothers were at the school gate; she wondered if her anxiety was as patently obvious as theirs.

  ‘Is your lad started school today?’ asked one.

  ‘Yes,’ said Catherine.

  ‘Mine too. Wonder how they’re getting on?’

  Catherine gave a nervous chuckle. ‘Better than us, I expect.’

  Then there they were; half a dozen five-year-olds, coats on anyhow, socks wrinkled and hair-ribbons missing. Robbie was last. Everything about him, the set expression on his face and the determined way in which he walked told her he had not enjoyed the day. Wondering what had gone wrong, she went to meet him.

  ‘Hello,’ she said. ‘Have you had a nice time?’

  He gave her a withering glance. ‘I told you I didna need to go to school,’ he said.

  ‘Oh.’ Suppressing a smile Catherine watched as he marched purposefully to where he’d left his bicycle. Talk of school was better left until they were home.

  Robbie led the way as they cycled back to Deepdale. Catherine saw how he leaned into his task; his little legs pumping up and down. The poker-straight line of his back told her more than she could ever have seen in his face. She began to laugh. How could she have spent the day worrying about him? If family traits were inherited then he had more than his fair share. No one was going to persuade him to do something he didn’t want to, but she would have to make him realize that school was compulsory and he had to attend.

  At home she told him to change out of his school clothes; then she took him with her to see the sheep, let him visit the aunts, and didn’t broach the subject of school until after they had had their tea.