More Tales From the Island Nurse

by Mary J. Macleod

  But we were snug: the chickens shut in their hut, two cats and two dogs asleep in front of the Rayburn while the family sat before the fire which belched peaty smoke into the room with every squall. Even Sunshine was safely tucked up in the hay shed. This weather had been forecast so I had had time to bring her home from her field, where her shelter was showing signs of rot and might well take flight in such weather as this.

  Secure in our sturdy – if smoky – home, George and I dozed while Nick and Andy played Scrabble. I think some strange words were being added to the English language. All was peaceful.

  Suddenly, all the lights went out. We were used to power failures in such weather but, looking from the window, I could see lights still on in the croft houses in the village, so this was obviously not general. There must be something wrong here. And there was! As we peered out, we watched in fascination as the electricity pole with the big, metal transformer at the top began slowly to bend, creak and, finally, break. The top half, with its burden, fell slowly to earth. It bounced twice and we could hear the sound of shattering metal. A few sparks added to the spectacle.

  George sighed. ‘Well. That’s that. We can’t expect Young Doug to come out in this!’ ‘Young Doug’ was the linesman who had installed the pole and the transformer in the first place and who did all the local maintenance work for the electricity board. He was unnaturally enthusiastic about his work.

  ‘I don’t think we will ask him,’ I replied. ‘He would probably come out in an earthquake let alone a storm!’

  I was recalling the occasion of the initial installation.

  * * *

  When we bought the old croft house in 1969, electricity was already connected to the village but the mains supply was insufficient to take an extra property, so we had to have a pole and a transformer. All at vast cost, of course. The only place for a pole was in the area that we had already made into a sizeable chicken run, but this was no problem to Young Doug, apparently, although his job was to fix the transformer to the top of the pole.

  Along he came and drove his van as close as he could to the pole, emerged and untied a tall ladder from the roof rack. There was a brisk wind blowing on that occasion, too, but I wondered – was his unsteady gait due to the elements, the weight of the ladder or had he been drinking? I was horrified to think that he was about to climb so high, shouldering the transformer, a sizeable and doubtless heavy object, and then cling on while using both hands to affix it. I could see that he was having trouble even placing the ladder against the pole. I ran outside hoping to delay and possibly sober him a little.

  ‘Would you like a cup of coffee?’ I shouted.

  ‘Ach, no. I never drink the stuff.’ (Later, I learnt that very few crofters drank coffee.)

  ‘Tea?’

  ‘Ach, no. I’ll be gettin’ on wi’ this the now.’

  Once at the top, he somehow balanced the transformer while he put a strap around himself and the pole. It promptly came undone and fell to the ground.

  I ran to pick it up from the mud.

  ‘Ach. Leave it be. I’m no’ needin it.’

  And there he dangled. It was a foolish and dangerous thing to do for a sober, man but Doug was very far from that. I watched for a while but I felt that he did not like my attention, so I went indoors. The job was done, eventually, and I persuaded him in to the warmth and finally to drink a cup of tea. He slouched on the settee, almost lying rather than sitting. I think the sudden warmth must have rekindled the effect of the whisky (and I had been here long enough already to know that it would be whisky) so that he seemed almost asleep.

  Then he said, ‘I saw the eggs.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Eggs. I saw them.’

  ‘Oh! Are there any today? We have not been getting any recently.’

  ‘Ach, no. You’ll not get any wi’ the mud.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘I saw them eating the eggs.’

  I looked at the bleary face. What was he talking about?’

  ‘Who was eating the eggs?’

  ‘The chickens, foreby.’

  The chickens? Eating their own eggs? I decided that he was more drunk than I had thought.

  ‘Aye, well. I’ll be on ma way, then.’ He lumbered to his feet.

  ‘But… would you like another cuppie?’ I asked in desperation. He was still in no state to drive.

  ‘Ach, I’m away.’

  I took a deep breath. ‘Doug, you are in no fit state to drive, you know.’

  He drew himself up. ‘Indeed I am. I’m able to drive no matter how many drams I have. And you have only given me tea.’ He made it sound like an accusation.

  I persisted. ‘But what about other people on the road?’

  ‘Ach. They are alright. They’ll be no so drunk as me.’ And with this incomprehensible sally, he drove off. Very slowly and most carefully.

  What can you do with a man like that?

  Hesitantly, I rang John, our policeman, whom I did not know well at all so early in our time on the island.

  ‘Well, Nurse. It is difficult. I know he drives when drunk but the thing is, he always drives much more safely and slowly when he is drunk than when he’s sober and that means I can’t easily catch him.’

  There were no breathalysers then and drunken driving on the island was shockingly commonplace. It was accepted with the same resignation as the weather. I would soon discover that there were accidents related to drunkenness but remarkably few. I can only think that they all had Doug’s tendency to drive more carefully when under the influence.

  But what did Doug mean about the chickens eating eggs? I consulted Archie. As the months and years went by, I turned to Archie for almost all information concerning crofting, fishing and anything local.

  ‘Young Doug told me that he saw the chickens eating the eggs. But he was drunk and literally up the pole at the time.’

  ‘Ach, that mannie! I don’t know how he stays up the poles at all – he’s that drunk all the time.’ He paused. ‘But he’s right about the chickens. They sometimes eat the eggs for the shells. We have had a lot of rain – is your run wet and muddy?’

  I nodded.

  ‘Aye. That’ll be it then. And have you not given them any grit?’

  Grit! I suddenly remembered my father giving the chickens grit when I was a child. I had forgotten and while the ground was fairly dry and sandy, they had been fine, but chickens need access to some hard, gritty substance to help the corn break up in their crops. The recent heavy rain had washed the sandy soil away, leaving soft mud. The poor things must have been desperate. They were soon given grit and we had eggs for breakfast again.

  My next well-meant innovation for the chickens was not crowned with success either. We had built the chicken house on stilts to foil any hungry foxes but so far I had needed to lift the chickens in at night as they had had their wings clipped to prevent escape and had trouble flapping their way up to the doorway. This was a chore, as catching them was considered by them to be a game. In the morning they were so keen to get out that they launched themselves from the doorway and landed with a plop on their beaks or stomachs, risking injury. Something had to be done! I built a ramp which I placed up to the door of the hut in the morning, taking it away at night. The chickens clucked fussily over it for a while but soon got used to a rather more comfortable exit in the morning. Eventually, I raised some lovely, fluffy, yellow chicks who, when they left the protection of their mother, joined the flock in the hut.

  One evening, I went to shut them all up for the night only to find that the ramp had slipped away from the doorway and fallen flat onto the ground. Under it was one very dead, very squashed chick! I was most upset and made sure that the ramp was better secured after that.

  But in spite of all my precautions, we began to lose chicks – about one a day. This was a mystery until I happened to see the culprit in action. A large gull used the electricity pole as a lookout and as soon as a chick wandered from the protect
ion of the flock, he dived and made off with a nice fresh, fluffy, yellow dinner.

  I was now down to three chicks, which were growing very quickly. It soon became obvious that we had just one hen and two cockerels and the pen was turning into a battleground as these two took to fighting at every opportunity. Egg-laying suffered as the noise and ferocity of the war upset the hens. Again, something had to be done and this meant that one cockerel had to go.

  George and I were both squeamish when it came to neck-wringing, but a friend happened to be staying with us and was very used to such things so I asked him to do the grim deed and despatch ‘Eric’.

  The other cockerel, ‘Russ’, was a beautiful russet colour and was friendly to all. Eric, however, was the worst-tempered bird I have ever met. No-one was safe from his claws and beak, so the sacrificial choice was easy. Having explained all this to my friend, I departed in cowardly fashion, leaving him to do the dastardly deed. A while later, he entered in triumph with the dead cockerel swinging from his hand.

  It was the wrong one! It was my beautiful, friendly Russ!

  And so the disasters went on. I persevered for years, but eventually gave up the unequal struggle and gladly accepted eggs from grateful patients. They knew a lot about keeping chickens and were inclined to laugh at my pathetic efforts.

  * * *

  When the weather subsided, we contacted Young Doug to come and replace the broken pole. To our surprise, he brought a young man with him. The lad did all the climbing and heavy work while Doug stood by in lordly fashion. But I noticed that he was sober and encouraged the young man to use the safety harness. Did we have a reformed character here? Almost. What we did have was Doug’s young son doing an apprenticeship and Doug himself displaying sense and caution. I was most relieved.

  At about this time, we began another eggy venture which started one evening when we were having dinner with Alice and Alistair. The starter was an enormous hard-boiled egg, halved with the yolks mashed with something very tasty, topped with a sprig of mint. I was intrigued and enquired what exotic bird had laid these eggs.

  Alice laughed. ‘Hardly exotic. Seagulls.’

  ‘But they are not at all fishy to the taste!’ I said. (I don’t understand even now how the eggs of fish eating gulls could not taste of fish.) ‘And how do you get them?’

  Alistair and Alice’s house overlooked Loch Na Caillach, There were several tiny, rocky islets scattered here where seagulls nested. Alistair took his dingy out to two of them in the spring, located the nests and destroyed any eggs already laid. From then on, he would return daily and collect any newly laid eggs secure in the knowledge that he only had fresh ones. As their eggs were predated in this way, the obliging gulls laid more but as the spring wore on, Alistair would stop his visits to give the gulls their chance to raise a brood. Good for the gulls and good for Alice’s delicious dishes next year!

  Humbly choosing a different isle, we began the same piratical visits, turning them into picnics on the islets, exploring the rocks and pools. We enjoyed watching the faces of dining visitors when they were told where the tasty eggs came from. I felt a little guilty as the poor gulls kept laying to try to raise a family, but, like Alistair, we stopped our thieving in time to allow at least one hatching of these vociferous monarchs of the sky. How beautiful they can be with their white plumage stark against the blue-black of an approaching storm! At such times, I can almost forgive the one who took my chicks.

  17

  A Four-Legged Sailor

  ‘HAS ANYONE SEEN ma wee dog?’ Amy Macdougal poked her head into the surgery waiting room.

  Amid the coughs and sneezes, there was a general shaking of heads. ‘That animal is queer in the head. He’s always away,’ observed old Callum dourly.

  ‘Aye, he’s a funny wee fella, right enough,’ agreed Amy. ‘He’s usually up the hill or happen at Danny the butcher’s. Sometimes Postie brings him back with the mails.’

  I was passing through the waiting room on my way to my first call.

  ‘What is his name so that I can call him if I see a lonely looking collie?’ I asked.

  ‘Ben. But och, he’s that deaf, he’ll no be hearin’ you, anyway.’

  How was anyone to recognise a collie as being the escapee if he could not hear his name being called? They were all black and white!

  ‘Aye, well. He’ll no doubt turn up,’ sighed Amy and opened the door to leave. She appeared to be about to chat on but a chorus of ‘shut the door’ caused her to scuttle away into the brisk wind that was whistling round everyone’s ankles.

  Two days later, the dog had still not been found. Amy extended her search to the harbour, asking all the boat owners if they had seen him.

  ‘There was a collie here tryin’ to steal ma fish,’ said a lad who was fishing from the harbour wall.

  ‘Aye, he’ll be hungry indeed.’ Amy was beginning to hope. ‘And where is the rascal now?’ She peered about.

  ‘Och, he’s no’ here,’ the captain of one of the larger vessels spoke up. ‘He boarded the steamer to Mallaig.’ He paused. ‘Why? Was there no-one with him, then?’

  Amy stared. ‘Are you sure? On the steamer to Mallaig? He must have gone by himself then. There is naebody with him.’

  The captain roared with laughter. ‘He’ll be getting himself a free ride, then.’

  Amy drew a deep breath, ‘I’ll have to be getting to Mallaig mysel’,’ she said.

  Again the captain’s laughter rumbled out. ‘You’ll no be getting a free ride, I’m thinkin’.’

  ‘No, indeed,’ said Amy, unable to see why her predicament should be the cause of so much hilarity – she was not a good sailor.

  She boarded the departing steamer right away and when it came alongside at Mallaig that afternoon, a rather wan-looking lady disembarked. For once, there was not a collie in sight, so she started to walk up the hill in the steep little town. Ben would likely be hungry, she thought, so she made her way to the butcher’s shop. But Lachlan the butcher had not seen him. The post office was unable to help and neither was the pub.

  There was only one steamer per day, so Amy would not get home that night. But she had a cousin in Mallaig, and Bella was delighted to see her and happily offered her a meal and a bed for the night.

  ‘There’s a ceilidh at Geordie’s the night,’ she said. ‘You’ll likely see everyone, I’m thinkin’. And maybe someone there might have seen that mutt of yours.’

  So they set off for an evening of chatter, singing and storytelling. Amy met up with many old friends and they asked everyone if they had seen Ben.

  A stalwart young fisherman frowned, ‘Aye,’ he said, ‘I saw a lost lookin’ collie that I didna know yesterday.’

  ‘Where? Where?’ asked an excited Amy.

  Seriously, the young man replied, ‘He was boarding the steamer for the Isle of Muck.’

  ‘The Isle of Muck?’ stuttered Amy. ‘Why, that’s… Och, indeed…!’ She was totally nonplussed.

  Bella was very concerned, ‘You’ll no get there, Amy. There’s only one steamer a week for Muck. I know ’tis not far, but there are only about a dozen people living there, so the boats no bother with it much.’

  ‘Well, it went yesterday so it will no be going for six more days,’ said the dour young fisherman, counting on his fingers.

  ‘What am I to do?’ Amy was very worried about her adventurous canine. ‘Will they be good to him? I don’t know anyone on Muck.’

  Lachlan, the butcher spoke up. ‘I’m away over to Muck for some beef tomorrow in ma own wee boat. I’ll fetch him back.’

  ‘Oh! but how will you know him? He’s that deaf, he’ll no hear you call his name.’

  ‘On Muck, every dog and every cat is known to everyone and possibly every chicken too. Certainly all the beasts are known by name and sometimes they don’t like to slaughter them and I have trouble getting ma meat. So you see, if your wee dog is there, they will all know he doesna belong.’

  It all seemed so simple that Amy w
as happy for the first time in days and true to his word, Lachlan fetched the dog back to Mallaig the next day and Amy brought him home to Papavray in triumph.

  The next week the local newspaper carried the headline, ‘Local Dog takes an Island-Hopping Holiday’. And there was a picture of Ben, tongue hanging out, one ear up and one down, sporting a soppy grin. But that was not the end of it. Not by a long way! The imagination of the national press was excited by the bizarre adventures of the sailor dog and ran the story, with many embellishments, in one of the well-known dailies. Amy found reporters on her doorstep and photographs of her and Ben graced the pages of more than one newspaper. Next came the animal magazines. Some were genuinely interested, but some carried ridiculous articles accusing her of negligence or glory seeking. Amy didn’t know what to think and was relieved when, after a few days, they lost interest.

  But a short while later, she was amazed to see postie staggering over the croft to her house with a bulging mailbag. Fan mail was arriving! The letters were mostly addressed to Ben and various gifts were sometimes included. A warm winter coat: Amy didn’t even know what it was at first. Tins of expensive dog biscuits: a brilliant red studded collar (Ben had never had a collar on in his life) and a long, bright chain with a handle on the end.

  Amy studied this for some time and then said, ’T’will be handy for bringing the cow down from the moor.’

  18

  The Lure of Papavray

  IT WAS A GLORIOUS day in June: cool but dry and sunny. It was just the day to get on with the job of stacking the peats. George and I had cut the brown, wet rectangles out of the soggy bog early this year as we had enjoyed a blessedly dry spell in late March. They lay on the tussocky grass where we had placed them and were now crisp and brittle. I needed to stack them into the required pyramids to ensure that the wind blew through them to complete the drying process.

  So here I was, ‘in the peats’, glad of the stiff breeze which kept the midges away. Digging or stacking peats was almost impossible if the midges were about. As soon as a breeze dropped, they appeared in their millions from goodness-knows-where to torment us. They got up your nostrils, in your eyes, among your hair, up sleeves, down shirt necks and generally lived up to their name of ‘the scourge of the Highlands’ or in this case ‘Islands’.