Blue Above the Chimneys

by Fraser, Christine Marion

  Oh God, I thought, please let me come back to the country one day. I belong here. I don’t want to be selfish but I wish I had been born where the sky is everywhere … not just above the chimneys.

  A song broke into my thoughts, soaring sweetly into the dreaming night. Tears of gratitude filled my eyes because although the tune was familiar the words were different, written by me during a rest hour. Mrs Winters looked over and winked, Snowy’s head gleamed silver in the firelight, Wullie’s pink face was thrown back in a moment of solemnity, and all I wanted to do was bury my face in my hands and cry. But I sang instead, feeling close to the dear people who had given so unstintingly of their time so that children like me could know the joys of the countryside. The song ended and everyone looked at each other in a moment of sadness. The last night, the last camp-fire.

  ‘C’mon everyone,’ said Mrs Winters cheerily. ‘Three cheers for such a jolly week and three cheers for our next camp!’

  Everyone complied loudly but inwardly I thought, The next camp! A year away! How will I live till then?

  A Small Hope

  Two years passed, years full of Guiding activities, summer camps, and many hours of boredom in between. I thought less and less of past days when I could run like a hare. I was referred to as a ‘cripple’. Oh, ugly word! It belongs to the Middle Ages and should be struck out of the modern-day language altogether. But I had resigned myself to life in a wheelchair and my feelings were somewhat mixed when my doctors wanted me to go into hospital for an operation to try and straighten one of my legs. If it was a success, another would follow on the other leg. All along a small hope must have lurked that one day I would get back on my feet, but I didn’t want anything to do with hospital while my life was reasonably full. ‘One of these days,’ I told myself, and immediately put the thought away again.

  Now the time had come, a decision had to be made. I wasn’t afraid of the operation, though the doctors warned Mam it would be a big one, the major surgery I had thought sounded grand in a silly childhood fancy. Mam, always the soul of diplomacy, told me the final word lay with me, but in the next breath said, ‘You’re growing into a bonny lass, Chris, just think of all the loons waiting to dance with you.’

  Kirsty came bursting into the kitchen just then, green eyes sparkling, cheeks pink from the walk home. She had been out dancing, and whirling my chair round in a moment of abandon she told us she had met a ‘smashing boy’ and was going out with him the following night. My mind had been made up before her appearance, but listening to her I became more determined than ever to go through with the operation. Now it wasn’t the thought of needles and enemas that frightened me. It was the idea of meeting a lot of new people. Though the Guides had given me back my self-confidence, I was still painfully shy with strangers. I was impulsive in many things but never found it easy to make friends and was always scrutinizing my appearance to reassure myself.

  Kirsty danced into the scullery to make the bedtime cocoa and I grabbed a mirror to stare at myself. Da was always telling me I was getting ‘big-heided’, but I paid no heed to him because I knew I was growing quite attractive, my best features being my grey-green eyes, smooth tanned skin, and my long waving hair which received so much brushing Da warned me, ‘Ye’ll pull the bloody lot oot by the roots.’ Now almost fifteen, I was still very thin, childishly so for my age. I had no bust though I longed for one, regularly looking to see if by good luck my ‘pimples’ were growing into little hills.

  My brothers teased me in the horrible way that brothers have. ‘Found any bosoms yet?’ Ian asked constantly, to which I would ably reply, ‘One day I will but you’ll never get a new face. You ought to stop taking ugly pills.’

  Both Alec and Ian had put Kirsty through hell while she had been in the process of developing, but it was easier for me being the second in line and I was able to give the boys smart replies. The doctors said I was a slow developer because of my illness but I would grow into a woman if all went well. There had been no sign in recent years of overactivity of calcium and the medics were confident that my disabling illness had now burned itself out.

  The time soon came for me to go into hospital and I was admitted to a surgical ward that seemed to stretch into infinity. White beds marched on forever and my heart flipped over with apprehension. God! I thought, There’s millions of people here!

  ‘Welcome tae Argyle Street!’ said a cheery voice, and I treated my immediate neighbour to a sickly grin. Her bed-clothes were humped over an enormous cage, open at the bottom to afford a perfect view of a plaster-encased leg, open a slit to let her wriggle her toes. Her face was very pale, the bright red lipstick and rouge making it mask-like. Black hair tumbled in a cascade over the white pillow, matching the thick dark mascara that clung to her lashes. She was possibly only in her late thirties but I was young enough to think that she was quite antiquated.

  ‘They’ve got me trussed up like a bloody chicken,’ she said cheerily, indicating the cage and the saline drip attached to her arm. ‘I only got my operation yesterday but I’m scunnered wi’ bed already.’ She leaned up on her elbow to look at me. ‘You watch it in here, hen. They’re a bunch o’ hot totties for rules and regulations. When they were preparing me for my op one nurse said, “Ye’ll need to take aff yer make up, Mattie. Ye canny go tae theatre like that.” Know what I told her? I said, “Away tae hell! The Gods might see my bum but they sure as hell won’t notice my face.” Is that no’ right, hen?’ I giggled in agreement and she continued, ‘What are ye in for? Is it yer legs? I saw ye being wheeled up on a chair.’

  ‘I’m to have an operation to try and help me to walk again.’

  ‘Aw! Can ye no’ walk? That’s a shame! Never mind, they’ll no’ be long in cuttin’ ye up,’ she grinned maliciously. ‘They hack ye to bits, sew ye up and expect ye tae live! No fear o’ peace either. It’s worse than Sauchie on a Saturday night. Trolleys whizzin’ aboot! Doctors pokin’ yer belly! Nurses jaggin’ ye on the bum every five minutes! As for privacy, they havny heard the word here. I’m glad I havny got wallies because they take them away to the lavvy to clean them. They could get mixed up and you’d be puttin’ somebody else’s wallies in yer heid! Do you call that hygienic?’

  ‘Er … no,’ I spluttered, storing up all her quaint chatter so that I could relate it to Mam.

  She moved restlessly, chewing gum with a fervour that matched her quick tongue. ‘Is yer mammy comin’ the night?’ she raced on. ‘My man goes tae the boozer first then shows up at the last minute and gies me all his worries. The weans are all at death’s door accordin’ tae him. I blame his cookin’. Tinned beans and greasy links! It’s all he can make for the poor wee souls!’

  She wiggled her toes energetically and said disgustedly, ‘I wish I had a fag! One wee drag and I’d be happy. I asked that wee fat nurse tae put the screens round me so that I could have a puff but she wouldny hear o’ it. Feart I’d set the bed on fire! Ye’d think ye were straight oot the loony bin … still,’ she smiled, ‘at least ye get yer grub served up … even though it’s mair suited for the pigs!’

  In the week that followed Mattie was a ray of sunshine in a world that was too busy or too ill to be bothered with small talk. The nurses were friendly and attentive but were forever being called away and the other patients, in various stages of recovery or apprehension, couldn’t be bothered with fun.

  The day of my operation came at last. I was anxious to have it over with but couldn’t help the butterflies that churned in my belly when the nurse came to prepare me for theatre.

  Mattie, up and hobbling about now, popped her head round the curtains, her ready smile tinged with sympathy. ‘Is it no’ awful the way they dress ye up, hen? Ye feel yer goin’ oot for yer Hallowe’en. I felt a right mug wi’ my goonie and fitba’ socks … how are ye feelin’?’

  ‘A bit … funny,’ I gulped as the nurse added the finishing touch to my theatre garb, a large white cap into which she tucked all my hair. She smiled. ‘There, now you’re all
set.’ She turned away. ‘I’ll be back in a minute to give you an injection that will make you feel nice and relaxed.’

  ‘Mair like flaming drunk,’ said Mattie sympathetically. ‘But I must admit it’s a nice feelin’. Just kid on ye’re going to a party tae get sloshed!’ she chuckled. ‘Is it no’ terrible the way they shave yer bum? Mine are just startin’ tae grow and it’s awful itchy. My man says it’ll be like makin’ love tae a clothes brush!’ She laughed again and scratched immodestly. ‘Keep yer pecker up, hen,’ she instructed cheerily. ‘See ye soon.’

  The nurse came back with a syringe, the needle pierced my flesh and before long I was floating on a hazy cloud, my last minute fears fading into insignificance.

  Vaguely I knew the trolley had come to take me to theatre. Masked figures made appropriate jokes but I was too drugged to do more than mumble drunkenly. Swing doors opened to admit me into a brightly lit room. I got a vague impression of a huge circular light dominating a white ceiling. I knew I was ‘there’ and in a mild panic raised my head to stare at rows of gleaming instruments. In a dream I saw gowned and masked figures floating about. One came towards me, an anonymous head blotted out the light and a detached but kindly voice said, ‘Time for arithmetic, Christine. Can you count to ten for me?’ I knew he was about to give me the anaesthetic and I welcomed the deliverance it would give me from this strange world of floating lights and ghostly people.

  ‘In a few minutes,’ I told myself, ‘they’ll be cutting me up, my blood will be everywhere but I don’t care because I won’t be here to see it.’ I smiled at my own weird logic then began to count, ‘one, two … three …’ The anaesthetic swept over me, engulfing my senses and real fear choked me. I struggled to shout out, the anaesthetist’s voice soothed me, then I moved into a world of oblivion.

  Struggling through the remnants of the anaesthetic I awoke while I was being wheeled along a corridor. Surprised, I saw a nurse walking alongside holding aloft a bottle of plasma. It was only when I was being lifted into bed that I realised the blood was dripping into me.

  I was in a little side ward containing three other beds besides mine. The curtains were whipped round me, doctors fussed with needles and drips and slowly I sank into the abyss of sleep once more. Sometime during the night I wakened to see a doctor sitting at my bed with my wrist between his fingers. I looked at him through half-shut eyes, noting his dark curly hair and brown eyes. The night sounds of the hospital came to me, the banging of a distant door, the muted clatter of cups, footsteps along the corridor, a soft groan from somewhere near at hand. Suddenly I felt wonderful. I was alive. Eyes and ears proved it. I became aware of clinical smells, the most prevalent being the faint smell of anaesthetic that lingered round me. The fear I had before the operation, that of not wakening from the anaesthetic, now seemed ridiculous, and my heart sang with joy.

  ‘How are you feeling, Christine?’ said a voice at my side, a quiet, cultured voice that blended with the solitude of the night.

  ‘Great,’ I assured the cool, white-coated figure who owned the voice. ‘How long was I in theatre?’

  ‘About five hours, it was a long job. Do you have any pain?’

  ‘No … none,’ I said, surprised. Gleefully I told myself if this was all there was to a major operation, then I would gladly go through one again. I concentrated my thoughts on the newly operated leg. I knew it was in plaster because I could feel the cloying folds of it against my flesh, but otherwise the limb was void of sensation. For what seemed like hours I chatted to the doctor, my tongue looser than that of a drunk. He told me that Mam and Mary had been phoning, also some of my Guiders. ‘You’re very popular, Christine,’ he said with an engaging grin and lying there, in the clinical hospital bed, my leg encased in plaster, tubes dripping blood and saline into me, I thought he was the handsomest young doctor I had ever seen.

  Very soon, however, I ceased to have any feelings for anyone but myself. Pain burned in great throbbing waves through my leg. I knew the doctor was watching me and something told me he had been waiting for the symptoms I was now experiencing.

  My world became full of pain that grew in intensity till tears flowed from my eyes and I moaned in despair. I was given an injection of morphine; once again I floated and my senses slipped away. For days I lived in a drugged haze, longing only for the drugs that eased my pain and the blessed sleep that claimed me after each dose. Food wouldn’t stay down. I was repulsed by the very smell of it. Glucose drinks were my mainstay.

  My family came to me but it was beyond my capabilities to speak to them or acknowledge their presence. They spoke but their voices seemed to come from a long distance. Desperately I made supreme efforts to communicate but my voice came out in a croak. Mam’s beloved face hovered and her hand smoothed the hair from my hot brow. ‘Don’t try to talk, Chris, my lamb,’ she said quietly. ‘We’re all here. I won’t go away from you. Try to sleep, you’ll be better soon. It was a terribly big operation but,’ she made an attempt to smile, ‘it will be worth it. You’ll give the loons a dance yet.’

  ‘No, Mam,’ I cried silently, ‘don’t raise your hopes too high.’ It was some time before I wanted to come back to the land of the living but my need for the world was stronger than my pain and one morning I woke up and told a nurse I was hungry. Willingly she went to get me tea and toast and sat on my bed while I savoured every mouthful. ‘I’ll tell Mattie you’re with us again,’ she said happily. ‘She’s asked every day to see you, driving us all crazy with her questions.’

  Mattie’s intrusion into the little side ward was like a sudden gust of wind on a calm day. She battered through the door, the rubber pads of her crutches making squelching sounds on the polished floors.

  ‘You no’ up yet, ye lazy bugger?’ she imparted delightedly, ignoring the look of horror from an elderly lady in the next bed. ‘My God! Some folk are born wasters! First ye sleep like a log for days on end then ye lie aboot lookin’ like ye’d never left yer bed since the day ye were born! Is yer leg any better?’

  ‘It’s stopped giving me so much hell,’ I returned, feeling nicely wicked on uttering a word that was so utterly foreign in the deathly quiet of the little room.

  ‘Aw, that’s good,’ said Mattie, throwing herself on to a chair and depositing her crutches against the neighbouring bed. The action earned another look of disapproval from the elderly lady and Mattie said loudly, ‘We’ll need tae get ye oot o’ here, hen! It’s like a morgue … no’ the kind of place for a young lassie!’ She lowered her voice to a diplomatic whisper. ‘I’m right fed up in here, Chris. I was in the lavvy this mornin’ when an auld wifie chapped the door and started shoutin’ the odds. She had the skitters and was on at me to hurry for fear she would mess her breeks. Two other empty lavvies but the blind auld bat couldny see them for lookin’. Ye canny even get a pee in peace!’

  Her voice had grown louder in her vigorous throat and as her words fell on the ears of my neighbour she humped her back and dug her nose into a book.

  I giggled and gasped, ‘Och Mattie, that wife won’t look at me again but I don’t care. You’ve given me the best laugh I’ve had in ages.’

  ‘That’s what I came for,’ she intoned triumphantly. ‘Nothing like a cackle tae make ye feel better. When ye’re back in the big ward I’ll gie ye some mair but ye’d better hurry for I’m goin’ hame next week. I’m away for a puff now but I’ll be in touch. Don’t let the excitement in here go tae yer heid! I’ve seen stuffed dummies wi’ mair life!’ She stomped away, leaving my three wardmates to look at each other meaningfully.

  ‘It takes all kinds,’ sniffed a lavender-haired old lady, and I earned further disapproval by muttering a heartfelt, ‘Thank God.’

  Next day my bed was taken into the big ward and placed next to Mattie’s.

  ‘Welcome hame, hen,’ she smiled as she helped the nurse to arrange my locker. ‘Take yer finger oot yer nose and have one o’ my chocolates. A present from my man! I near died wi’ shock when he gave me them.’ Tak
ing a chocolate from the proffered box, I felt good to be alive. Mattie’s rough and tumble nature was just the tonic I needed. Her repertoire was a mixture of curses and moans but her eyes twinkled all the time and she was a great favourite with both staff and patients. Several days later my plaster was removed, the wound cleaned and dressed and a new plaster fitted. This was to keep my leg straightened. Pain had diminished till it was a bearable throb. Intermittent pains seared through my foot, which I thought was strange till I learned that several important nerves had been severed under my kneecap, resulting in a ‘dropped’ foot.

  The wound in my leg stretched from under the kneecap to the base of my left buttock. When the stitches were removed it was discovered that the delicate tissues surrounding the hamstrings had failed to knit, resulting in a raw sore. Skin grafts were talked about but discarded because my general health was poor, which meant a lot of time might pass before the wound healed completely.

  During this period Mattie went home, moaning and cursing to the last but tears in her eyes when she bade me farewell. ‘I’ll come and see ye, hen,’ she told me with a watery sniff. ‘And ye’d better be up on yer pins or I’ll skelp yer wee bum. The Gods didny cut ye up for nothing, ye know! They like their pound o’ flesh!’ She laughed and went off. As good as her word, she breezed in to see me on several occasions, but each time I was unable to tell her I was ‘up on my pins’, for I had not been allowed to put any weight on my leg. My days were spent with the limb in a sling, my plaster now sporting the autographs of staff, patients, and visitors.

  At the end of five months the hard shell of plaster was removed and I was sent to physiotherapy for electric treatment on my dropped foot. It was an agonizing business, with each tiny electric shock piercing my numb muscles to bring the foot up with a jerk. I dreaded the treatment. Anyone who has experienced an electric shock will appreciate my meaning. Doctors congregated round my bed now, gently easing the limb to its fullest extent, but it was only fractionally straighter than before and I knew such a slight improvement would never enable me to get my foot flat on the ground.