This relative sounded more than a little eccentric and I hoped to see the strange lady soon, but the manner of our eventual meeting was bizarre in the extreme.
It was a Friday afternoon: Nick was coming home from school for the weekend, so at about six pm, I drove over to the pier at Dalhavaig to meet the steamer. Rhuari, told me that there had been some engine trouble (again) and the steamer would be at least an hour late. The shops had closed, the pub had not yet opened and the pier café was putting up its shutters. I knew that I would have been welcome in any house, but it was ‘tea’ time and I didn’t want to disturb anyone. What to do for an hour? The only place that had not been closed for the night was the church.
The door creaked as I entered the cold, stark, gloomy house of God. The smell of dust and damp met me, combined with a faint and welcome aroma of furniture polish. So Anna-Mairi, a devout Free Kirker, had been busy. The good lady did her best to keep the place clean, but it remained a poor tribute to the Almighty.
I sat in the gathering darkness for a while. The building had never been wired for electricity and relied on oil lamps and candles, while Roddy’s young son worked the old-fashioned bellows to coax wind into the ancient, asthmatic organ – on the rare occasions that the frivolity of hymn singing was tolerated.
I was suddenly aware of a movement to my right as someone or something flitted down the side aisle. Startled, I was left doubting my eyes. In an empty, gloomy church on a dark evening, it was easy to imagine things.
Just then a blast of cold air told me that the main door had been opened. Footsteps advanced up the aisle; it was Stephanie.
‘Amelia! Amelia! Are you in here?’ she was calling, and as she neared the front of the church, she became aware of me.
‘Ah! Mary J!’
I told her about the figure flitting silently around the aisles.
‘And where is she now?’
I pointed towards the vestry. The door stood ajar and an uncertain light flickered through the crack. Stephanie put a finger to her lips and we crept forward until we could see the inside of the room. Seated at the desk, attempting to light one candle from another, sat an outlandish figure. I could see long, loose black hair and clothes that appeared to descend from her shoulders with as little shape as an old curtain. Her thin, white hands trembled as she placed the candle on the desk, and were then pressed together as though in prayer.
Stephanie spoke gently, ‘Amelia?’
The woman turned quickly and I saw a pale face so thin that the cheekbones appeared sharp beneath the yellowed skin. Candlelight is supposed to be kind, but this face would look ravaged in any light. She looked from my companion to me and I saw burning eyes with the wild look of madness.
Stephanie advanced slowly towards the pathetic figure. ‘Amelia, this is my friend, Mary J.’
Miss Amelia rose. She was very tall and her body had a grace and poise that belied the haggard face and wild eyes.
‘I am delighted to make your acquaintance.’ She graciously inclined her head as she pronounced these stilted words in a deep, but monotonous voice.
Stephanie spoke quietly and gently and, taking Miss Amelia by the arm, led her back into the church and down the aisle. I blew out the candles, shut the vestry door and followed. I was just in time to see the two ladies drive away.
A few days later, Stephanie rang to ask me to ‘take tea’ with her while Amelia had her afternoon nap. Seated in her spacious drawing room with its view of the sea and the hills beyond, I heard Miss Amelia’s sad life story.
The cousins had attended a Surrey boarding school together. Parents and teachers were concerned about Amelia from an early age as she showed signs of extreme eccentricity, gradually becoming irrational and unpredictable. When she was in her teens, her parents moved to Australia, where her father took up a government post. She became more wild and devious as the years past, frequently absconding and she would be found in strange, dark places or wandering in the outback.
When her parents were killed in a plane crash, Amelia was put into a secure mental home run by nuns. She spent about fifteen years there and was happier and calmer than she had ever been. Then disaster struck for Amelia. The home closed! As the only known relative, Stephanie was sent for and had travelled to the Antipodes. There, she discovered that her cousin was not only severely disturbed, but also suffering from cancer and was not expected to live for more than a few months. So Stephanie made the brave decision to bring her back home to Papavray.
I listened to the sad tale with enormous respect and admiration for her, but I could not help wondering whether a cliff-top house on a remote island was an entirely suitable environment for a deranged and very sick lady.
As though reading my thoughts, Stephanie said, ‘I know this is not ideal; but she has no-one else. I shall do my best to look after her.’
A few weeks later, Stephanie’s altruistic devotion to Miss Amelia nearly cost her her life!
It was purely by chance that I became involved in the drama at Craig Mor. I was driving away from the hospital, when I heard shouting and screaming and the deep-throated bark of a dog, from that direction. Some instinct told me that Miss Amelia was the cause of the commotion, so I changed direction and sped towards the house.
A group of people had gathered where the grounds ended in sheer cliffs dropping to the angry, green sea, some one hundred feet below. Others were running across the grass carrying various bits of rope and chain. It was not hard to guess that someone (Amelia?) had gone over. Just then the island’s ancient fire engine lumbered into view and drove near to the edge of the cliff.
Charlie, the roadman, came towards me. ‘’Tis that Miss Amelia. She climbed down – the Lord only knows how – and now, she’s on a ledge away down yonder. They’ve called the coastguard but they’ll be a wee whiley, I shouldn’y wonder.’
I could see Stephanie’s tense figure standing near the edge.
‘Hurry!’ she was shouting. ‘She won’t hold on to anything. She’s just standing there and the wind is going to blow her in. It’s catching her skirt.’ She noticed my arrival. ‘Oh, Mary J, I’m so glad you are here. She’ll be so cold and wet when they get her up.’
Peering over the edge, I could see that it was going to be very difficult to rescue her, particularly as she was unlikely to cooperate. Meanwhile, the firemen were attaching one end of a rope to the fire engine and dangling the other over the edge.
‘What good will that do?’ Ally asked. ‘She’ll no be able to climb up – even supposin’ she could understand.’
‘I’ll go down the rope and get her!’ exclaimed Charlie immediately.
‘Ach, no. You’re too wee. You’d never hold her.’
‘Wind’s rising to gale,’ warned Fergie, who had just arrived.
‘I’ll go!’ Everyone stared at Stephanie. ‘I’ll go,’ she repeated. ‘Amelia is my responsibility: it’s right that I should go. At least I could hold her until the coastguard arrives.’
There was a shocked silence, and then everyone started to talk at once.
‘You’ll no’ do it!’
‘One of us should go!’
‘Yon woman down there’s daft. She’ll no’ do as you say. She could take you over the side with her.’
‘How’ll ye do it, foreby?’
‘I insist. I will not allow any of you to take such a risk. Tie me to the rope and lower me over the side.’ Stephanie sounded nervous, but determined.
‘You will be risking your own life!’
It was no good. ‘I can’t just do nothing. I know the danger, but I cannot just stand and watch.’
The firemen began to loop the rope around her and make it safe, then in a surprisingly sprightly way she wriggled over the grassy cliff-edge and began to descend. Just then, Amelia screamed, startling Stephanie who lost her purchase on the rock face. She fell the last six or seven feet, landing beside Amelia on the ledge.
‘Stay still, Stephanie,’ I shouted. ‘Lean against the rock face i
f you can. It will be safer there.’
I could see that one leg was at a strange angle and that she was supporting one arm.
‘What now?’ I asked. ‘How long until the coastguards get here?’
Donald shrugged in despair. ‘They are supposed to be on their way,’ he said.
But fate was kind. Chas (Doctor Charles Spencer, who was standing in for Doctor Mac)) arrived at that moment, having heard the commotion. As he got out of his car, several voices gave him a garbled update and he peered over the cliff edge.
‘Miss Smythe,’ he called to Stephanie. ‘I’m coming down, so stay still.’
Chas was the doctor to the Mountain Rescue Team for several islands, and an obsessive climber, so he always seemed to have a car full of climbing equipment. I ran back to get his medical bag while he collected ropes and harnesses and various bits and pieces from the boot. Once more the fire engine was used for one end of the rope, while Chas stepped effortlessly into the harness and disappeared over the side.
There was only just room on the ledge for the three of them, but he was able to give Stephanie something for the pain. Amelia had begun to scream again.
He looked up. ‘I’m going to give the other lady a sedative. We can’t possibly get them up the cliff or down to a boat, so you’ll have to get the helicopter.’
I was more than familiar with the helicopter, having needed to call it out on several occasions, so off I went into the house to phone.
‘Thirty minutes, max,’ came the answer. ‘Winch job, is it?’
‘Yes, it will have to be,’ I replied. I returned and relayed the message.
Chas replied, ‘I shall stay with them.’
The helicopter arrived in less than twenty minutes and hovered above us while the winch man was lowered to the ledge. Amelia was taken up first, and then Stephanie was secured onto a stretcher and lifted to the waiting aircraft, which quickly disappeared into the skies.
Chas climbed back up, wandered back to his car, stowed the climbing and medical equipment, jumped in and continued his rounds as though nothing unusual had happened.
Stephanie recovered well, but Amelia died the following day. I think the escapade on the cliff had been just too much for her fragile body, but probably saved her a lingering and possibly painful death.
25
The Man Who Washed
‘WHAT ON EARTH is that bowl of water doing outside the door?’
I had just entered Doctor Mac’s room at the surgery to discuss any potential problems for the day. I had been surprised to see a bowl of water on a stand together with a towel and soap outside the door in the little porch.
‘Ah well, Nurse. Old Bennie has finally lost his senses altogether, I fear,’ answered the precise doctor.
‘Bennie?’ I queried. I knew most folk on the island but I could not place ‘Bennie’.
‘The old hermit – or at least recluse – on the moor near the castle. “Old Bennie” is what they call him. I do not even have his full name on my books. He is not a native but wandered here many years ago. He lives in an old caravan tucked away from the world. He found it abandoned by the harbour, took it apart, piece by piece, carried it all up to Dhub Moor and rebuilt it.’
‘By himself?’ I asked, getting a picture of a large muscleman.
‘Yes, by himself. I’m not surprised that you have not met him. Duncan and previously his father seem to have looked after him, giving him food and allowing him to stay on estate land.’
‘Does he work for Duncan?’
‘Well, officially I suppose so, but I don’t think he does much.’
‘I look forward to meeting him,’ I said.
Doctor Mac looked at me rather wryly. ‘Hmm. Well, he has been getting more and more eccentric and now he has decided that he will not enter any house without washing his face, hands and, rather more worryingly, his feet. Hence the bowl.’
I smiled. Having lived in the Middle East, I was reminded of the Muslims removing their shoes before entering the mosque and the five times daily wash before prayers. Could Bennie, too, have lived among Muslims? Was he reverting in his old age? Perhaps he was of that faith? This was intriguing.
‘So he is here now? What is wrong that he needs to come to the surgery?’
‘Duncan told me that the old man was limping badly so I asked him to bring him in. Evidently it took Duncan some time to persuade him into the Land Rover and when they got here he refused to come in without washing. He sat outside until I gave him the bowl of water and now he is waiting quietly.’
Just then there was a hubbub from the waiting room with several raised voices. The door burst open and a dishevelled figure barged in. Bennie! He had obviously got tired of waiting quietly and decided to jump the queue.
‘Doctor, sir, I’m here.’ He sat himself down in the doctor’s chair and, without preamble, lifted his trouser leg.
‘’Tis here, sir.’
I approached, ‘Come and lie on the couch, Bennie.’
Bennie jumped as though shot. He had not noticed me.
‘I don’t know you,’ he said with a frown.
‘I’m the nurse.’
He looked doubtful, but obediently climbed on to the couch. I started to take his wellies off.
‘’Tis not in ma wellies, can y’ no see.’ And once more the trouser leg was pulled up.
A red, angry area of flesh surrounded a grey, suppurating ulcer some two inches in diameter. I was appalled.
‘That must be very painful, Bennie.’
A shrug.
‘How long have you had this, Bennie?’
Another shrug.
Doctor touched the angry skin. ‘Painful?’
‘Aye, some.’
‘Bennie, you will need to come here every day for Nurse to clean and dress this.’
‘What for?’
Doctor patiently explained about infection and dirt.
‘I can wash it. Yes, I can do that,’ declared the old man.
‘Not really, Bennie. You see it’s difficult for anyone to do their own leg, so I will do it for you.’ I hoped to calm him.
‘Well, I’m no comin’ all this way for a bit o’ bandage.’
‘Shall I come to you, then?’
‘No, no, no. Nobody comes to my home. Nobody. ’Tis mine. Mine.’ He was quite agitated. He muttered on about ‘private’ and ‘mine’. We were getting nowhere until he nodded and gave a toothless grin.
‘There’s the box.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Ally’s post office. The box. ’Tis on the grass by Ally’s shop.’
I was beginning to see through the fog.
‘You mean the telephone box outside Ally’s house. What about it, Bennie?’
Ally’s ‘shop’ was not a proper shop at all – just somewhere where folk had parcels left for them and sometimes the Dalhavaig shop would take groceries and leave them at Ally’s house for the scattered few crofters to collect.
Bennie gave me a contemptuous look and didn’t answer.
‘Do you mean that I should see you in Ally’s house – but what about Bella. Would she mind?’
‘Do you not understand me, woman. I’m speaking of the box. Ally has put water there for me so I can wash before I go in to get my goods. It’s grand just with a wee stool and all.’
‘But I can’t see to your leg in a telephone box, Bennie!’
‘And why not indeed? ’Tis the only way. It’s a great wee box – a lovely colour of red and you can see the sunsets from it, too.’
I looked across at Doctor Mac for help and was amused to see the doctor almost doubled up with suppressed mirth. What was I to do with this crazy old man?
The doctor recovered his composure and said, ‘I’ll give you some antibiotics too, Bennie. You must take two in the morning and two in the evening.’
‘I’m no’ likin’ pills.’
‘No, I know, but they will make your leg better much more quickly.’
Bennie looked pu
zzled. ‘Do I eat them, Sir?’
‘Er… yes.’
‘Then I’m not understanding how the goodness of them gets to my leg from my mouth.’
Doctor looked taken aback. ‘Never mind about that. They will do the job – that’s the thing.’
‘I shall forget.’
Doctor Mac and I were beaten for the moment. Not so, Bennie.
‘I know. Nurse can bring them to the phone box and give me one. Aye. There we go. That’s the thing to do.’ He was triumphant.
‘But what about the dressings, Bennie? We haven’t decided where I am to do those.’
‘Aye, we have indeed. You are going to do them in the box. Do you not remember, woman? Och indeed, just.’
‘Bennie, there is not room in a telephone box for two people and the equipment that I should need or room to actually do the job.’
Bennie drew himself up. ‘Indeed, there is room. I shall sit on the wee stool and you can leave the door open to give you room to do ma leg. ’Tis the only way.’
Nothing that either of us could say would persuade this stubborn, crazy old man that a phone box was not a fit place for cleaning and dressing a nasty ulcer. We begged, we argued, Doctor became quite firm and I flatly refused at one point.
I was told, ‘Well then, we’ll no’ do it at all and ye canna make me do aught I’m not wantin’ to do.’
He was right in that we could not force him to have treatment but at the same time there was no way that we could let him go unattended with such a frightful ulcer.
I drooped as I said, ‘So where is this phone box?’
He brightened immediately, ‘’Tis right by the road, Nurse. Ye canna miss it.’
Then he really cheered me by saying, ‘All the folk who pass will see that I am having the treatment. It will be grand, just.’
It was definitely not grand as, for the next two weeks; I cleaned and dressed that leg kneeling on the concrete floor, with my bottom sticking out of the open door of the phone box while Bennie waved to every passing soul, while happily chewing his tablets.
Against all odds, the ulcer healed well.
26
Johnny’s Village
AS THE LAST of the tourists left, Papavray began to belong to us, the ‘locals’, once more. I once asked one of the crofters if he liked having the ‘visitors’ as they are called. He said, ‘Ach well, it’s nice when they come and it’s nice when they go.’ We soon felt this way, too. The visitors brought a breath of the outside world and much-needed cash into the shaky economy of the island, but its peace and community spirit were severely compromised sometimes by their lack of understanding of any lifestyle other than their own. So, like the crofter, we welcomed the several hundred folk who came to our island each year and did our best to make them feel comfortable in what, to them, was an unusual environment; but we breathed a sigh of relief when they departed.
More Tales From the Island Nurse Page 20