Call Me Sister

by Yeadon, Jane

  ‘Gorse is a terrible plant,’ my old crofting friend Mr Munro had once told me. ‘There’s no feeding in it and the prickles give sheep Orf…’ He’d scratched his head, looking for a way to describe the word, then settled for, ‘… Impetigo of the mouth.’

  No wonder it was the scourge of crofters struggling to halt its relentless march. Still, I couldn’t help but savour the flowers’ coconut scent coming through the car’s open window. I knew that if Jock had still been employed as a roadman he wouldn’t have let the plant grow so prolifically along the road, and I was sure that’s why none grew near the Duthie house.

  Then I saw the brothers. They were standing outside the hen run, apparently having an amiable conversation with , it had to be, Dally and Dally at their feet. From time to time, the hens would look up enquiringly, as if about to give a considered reply. I had to stop even if it would make me late for Miss Macleod’s meeting.

  ‘It’s the wee nursie!’ Jock gave a welcoming cry and elbowed Willie, who’d immediately dropped his eyes, seemingly fascinated by the ground.

  He managed a modest, ‘Aye,’ before hurrying into the house, followed by a faithful hen. He’d have been quicker had he not been wearing such big wellies. Sound floated through the open door. I wondered if the brothers left their telly on all the time. Was I was hearing the BBC test card music? If so, the Duthies must really like telly!

  I must have unnerved Willie. Disappointed, I wandered over to a fenced-off piece of ground and noticed a row of flourishing plants. ‘Hey, Jock. I didn’t know you were a gardener. I wasn’t even aware that you had a garden, but that looks like a great crop of tatties.’

  Jock beamed. ‘That’s Willie’s work. He’s never been much of a gardener before, but he’s been watching Percy Thrower on the telly. As soon as the bonny days came, he’s been out making that garden.’ Jock drew breath. ‘And d’you know, Nursie, he’s feeling so much better these days, he’s been able to dig out that patch and now he’s planning growing more – depending on what the gardening manny says.’

  I wished I had Mr Thrower’s powers, then I could get Willie out of the house again, but I was running out of time so I said how pleased I was to see both brothers. ‘Look, I’ll need to go, Jock. Give my regards to Willie, will you?’

  Jock glanced at the house, sighed, then said, ‘I’m coming out to have look at that car of yours. I’m thinking you’ve a new one.’ He went up to it, looked it over carefully and, putting a horny hand on the bonnet, gave it a salutary pat. ‘Man! Is that no a daft colour,’ he said, grinning at the black hand print he’d left on the Imp’s white paintwork.

  ‘Hoy!’

  It was Willie. He was going so fast it was a wonder his wellies didn’t leave a rubber vapour trail. He was waving with one hand, whilst in the other he held a small cardboard box. ‘This is for you, Nursie,’ he said breathlessly, handing it over. He wiped his nose on his sleeve, tucked both hands behind his dungaree bib and smiled shyly.

  ‘Aw, Willie!’ I opened the box and saw half a dozen shiny brown eggs, the occasional bit of feather stuck to a bit of dirt giving provenance. ‘Oh my! These look wonderful.’

  ‘Its no from me. It’s from the girls,’ he said, and hurried away.

  ‘Aye well, ‘said Jock, nodding approvingly, ‘don’t eat them all at once, Nursie. You were once telling me they could make you explode inside.’

  Hurrying now, I put the car’s accelerator pedal down. When I reached Dingwall’s outskirts, I might have forgotten to take it off, had it not been for a line of eccentric-looking cars pulling aged caravans and coming towards me. Men in rough attire, comfortable with driving in the middle of the road, waved as I pulled in to let them past. Dingwall’s tinkers were on the move.

  I wondered if the bell-tenters were with them, or had they thrown in their lot with Bell. Sister Shiach might know. Hopefully she’d be at the meeting.

  Her new car was. Identified by Jomo peeping out from the driver’s window of a large estate, it straddled two of the Headquarter’s parking areas. I put the Imp well away from the estate, following the example of other car owners.

  I was sure I knew them, but going into the meeting room, I stopped short. This group of nurses looked different. They wore blue, open-necked dresses, made in a light, easy-care material verging on skimpy. Black shoes were gone, replaced by sandals.

  The plastic white detachable collar on my heavy-duty dress made my neck feel sticky and uncomfortable. ‘Summer’s arrived and you’re like a fashion parade,’ I said, envying the group’s easy attire even if I thought Miss Cameron would have fainted at the hem lengths.

  Sister Shiach said, ‘Yes, there’ll be a new dress for you too. Miss Macleod thought we needed a change of image. Wants to make us feel comfortable as well. Of course, some of us weren’t keen at first, but you know how it is with our modern-thinking boss.’ She gave a small smile. ‘Welcome back. How was Auld Reekie?’ She seemed a tad pre-occupied and didn’t wait for an answer.

  At least the room’s seating plan hadn’t changed. I took my usual place between Daisy and Ailsa.

  ‘Ah! Modern ways,’ mused Daisy, who looked years younger. She looked at her knees as if in surprise that she actually had ones. ‘It’s easy seen that Miss Macleod hasn’t had to bend over to give injections lately.’

  Ailsa nudged me and whispered. ‘Sshh! Keep it dark. Daisy’s so pleased she’s able to give them easily now, she’s practically signed up to join the local darts team.’

  ‘And what about you, Ailsa?’ I asked, ‘What’s new?’

  ‘Nothing much. Things are pretty much the same as when you left here,’ she said carelessly.

  Daisy, taking a keen interest in our chat, leant over and said with a twinkle, ‘Don’t you believe a word of it. She hasn’t even bought a car. Not like me!’ Daisy was smug, then mischievous. ‘But of course she hardly needs one, not when she’s got Charlie to ferry her about.’

  ‘The ambulance man?’

  Ailsa was deprecating. ‘Ach! He’s just a friend. Really, Daisy. You’re just an old gossip.’

  Daisy bridled. ‘No, I’m not. Otherwise I wouldn’t have to cover such a lot of your Saturdays when you and Charlie go dancing in Strathpeffer.’

  ‘I’m presuming you don’t go by ambulance?’ I said.

  Ailsa poked me. ‘Never mind me. I hear there’s a vacancy in Fortrose. Would you fancy that?’

  I nodded. ‘It’s been mentioned in despatches but nothing concrete.’

  ‘Leave it to me,’ said Ailsa, bobbing her head vigorously. ‘But, hey! Here comes the boss. Wonder what new tricks she’s got up her sleeve and, pardon the analogy but see her hemline, I bet it’s been given another hike.’

  ‘Ah! Sister Macpherson. You’re back.’ Miss Macleod came into the room. Her welcome, as brief as Sister Shiach’s, was nevertheless warm, but she seemed a lot more excited about the contents of the clear polythene bag she was carrying.

  ‘These are disposable syringes,’ she said, holding up the bag as if it was a prize exhibit and she was addressing the winners. ‘And not only that but we’ve disposable needles to go with them as well. So today’s good news, Sisters, is that there’ll be no more complaints about getting painful injections from blunt needles.’

  ‘What a waste!’ muttered Daisy.

  Miss Macleod was swift. ‘No it’s not, especially when you consider the expense and trouble having to boil up everything. And then, there’s the time you’ll save. No, Sister Mackay, I’m afraid you’ll just have to accept progress. Like everybody else, you’ll just collect your supply at the end of our meeting. I think you’ll find this new method will be invaluable.’

  Daisy squashed, subject closed, Miss Macleod cleared her throat then continued, ‘Now, I’ve been thinking.’

  A small groan swept the room.

  ‘Watch out!’ murmured Ailsa, and Daisy clicked her teeth.

  Undeterred, Miss Macleod looked round the room and frowned. ‘You know, I’ve often thought that thi
s room’s not set up properly. Rows of chairs make it far too formal. Doesn’t lead to shared discussion and, as we all know, talking’s good.’ As complete silence greeted this, she put her hands together as if orchestrating a ceilidh. ‘So let’s get the chairs in a semi-circle and see if that’s any better. I know Sister Shiach’s got a case history she’d like to discuss. Once we’re organised she can talk about it.’

  Concerned eyes took in the sister whose unusual anxiety showed in her worried face and nervous scratching of a dimpled arm. She waited for the noise level of scraping chairs moved by irritated people to stop. Then she went to stand behind her chair and, shaking her head in mock despair, began. ‘It’s actually more of a brainstorming session. I kinda need a bit of advice. You know, in our line of work, it can be difficult not to judge but I see a pair of my old patients reeling home from the pub every other day.’ She looked away, as if picturing the scene. ‘They’re an old couple and, frankly, have been treating their bodies abysmally all their lives. Yet they seem none the worse for it and actually I don’t need to visit them any longer.’ She nodded at me. ‘Sister Macpherson knows who I mean and, in fact, had quite a part in getting them to operate independently.’

  I shifted uncomfortably whilst she deliberated for a moment then added, ‘For better or for worse, they do seem happy, and I don’t grudge those old rascals their happiness.’ She sighed. ‘But it seems so unfair that I’ve got a much younger patient and she and her husband are never going to be able to do that. She’s dying of breast cancer.’

  She gestured at the window through which the sun streamed as if it would forever. ‘On days like this, I find it especially hard dealing with something so tragic. And if that’s not bad enough, she’s got family. Teenagers, a boy and a girl. Now the thing is, she doesn’t want them to know – yet.’ She bit her lip. ‘Wants things to go on as normal, but the trouble is that I don’t think she knows how ill she is and it’s beginning to be obvious to me, at least, that she’s running out of time.’

  ‘D’you see much of the family?’ someone enquired.

  ‘Not really. The kids are at school and when they’re at home they kinda hide away. I only know when they’re around when I hear them playing pop music in their bedrooms.’ She spoke without resentment. ‘I suppose that’s how teenagers are these days but with the mum not wanting them to know anything I can hardly flush them out of their rooms. To tell you the truth, I’m feeling a bit stumped as to what to do.’

  ‘What about the doctor?’

  ‘She doesn’t want him around. Says it will just worry everybody. Of course, I’ve spoken to him and we’ve discussed it, but my lady’s left it too long for any sort of treatment other than me going in and helping as best I can. You know, the usual. Skin care, plumbing matters, dressing a breast that should have been removed ages ago.’

  ‘And the husband?’

  Sister Shiach shook her head, almost in despair. ‘He’s at work and I’m pretty sure he’s not aware of the situation either. You’d think he’d be bound to know but she’s cute about keeping things secret. She’s moved into the spare bedroom ’cos she says his snoring keeps her awake.’ She shrugged. ‘And maybe he does, but the trouble is that his wife’s kept her cancer a secret for so long that that’s now a normal pattern.’ She looked round the room. ‘So my question is, how I can prepare a family for a sad outcome when my patient isn’t ready for it?’

  ‘How long have you known the family?’ asked Ailsa.

  ‘Since the bairns were little.’ The memory seemed to momentarily cheer the sister.

  Daisy’s kind voice broke in. ‘So, knowing you, they’ll trust you and that’s a great bonus. I’ve had a few cases a bit like that and they are heartbreaking. Looking back, I’ve never been sure that I was doing or saying the right thing.’ She sounded rueful. ‘But I do know, certain times came when it was easier to say particular things and, of course, you will be there for afterwards. That’s really important.’

  Sister Shiach nodded her head slowly. ‘Thanks, Daisy. Yes I suppose I should know that already. It’s easy to forget that the right moment will probably come, I’ve just to remember to look for it.’ Looking round the room, she smiled and dropped her shoulders. ‘You’re right, Miss Macleod. It sometimes does help to talk ourselves.’ Looking thoughtful, she sat down.

  Miss Macleod nodded approvingly. ‘Well, we are human and I’m sure as Sister Mackay says, you will have the right answer ready. I’m always aware that amongst my staff someone is likely to be dealing with a tragedy unfolding in a patient’s house, and that is hard. I’ve just been on a management course and one of the points that I thought was particularly relevant was that talking out problems is important.’

  She turned to me, ‘Now, I don’t imagine you’ll have had Sister Shiach’s particular one during your training, but what about giving us a resumé? Any patient that you’ll always remember, for example.’

  I didn’t have to think hard to say it was Mrs Henderson, but before I could go much further, Ailsa cried, ‘I got to know her when I was doing my training, and Hilda, her amazing home help. She couldn’t have managed to stay at home without her.’

  I hadn’t thought of Ann from Muir of Ord as being particularly vocal but now she too spoke. ‘Home helps are, to my mind, unsung heroines. My Miss Forbes has had her life transformed by one. The Munros, who are her neighbours, have become involved too. Mr Munro’s actually managed to turn her old ratty dog into a nice wee animal. Getting out and about and making him feel useful’s given him a new lease of life and he’s going to love these disposable syringe-things.’

  ‘So after your Edinburgh adventures, where now?’ asked Ailsa. ‘Is it back to Conon Bridge doing relief work?’ The question was casual.

  ‘I’m not sure,’ I hedged.

  Miss Macleod looked surprised. ‘But surely you’re going to Fortrose. I’m sure we talked about it before you went to Edinburgh.’

  I was certain that we hadn’t, but it would be hard to argue the point, especially with Miss Macleod. There was a short silence before Sister Shiach put in a smooth, ‘Yes, talking has its place, but listening’s just as important.’

  28

  ALL CHANGE

  I loved the view from my parents’ upland Morayshire farm. It extended over the Moray Firth to the Black Isle, and behind that to Ben Wyvis, a huge sprawling mountain further to the north. It dominated the landscape but only if it was a clear day, whilst the Rosemarkie transmitter, even if it was less attractive, was a constant landmark. ‘If you keep your eye on that, you might just manage to see me.’ I said, getting ready to leave after a few days visiting my folks. ‘Pity I can’t fly. I’d get to Fortrose in half an hour.’

  My father didn’t think much of my sense of direction. ‘Ach, you’d miss by a mile,’ he said, not entirely joking, ‘then you’d have to walk at least that distance to get back to your new home town. Better stick to road and ferry.’

  Recalling the conversation, I drove to Inverness’s Kessock ferry terminal. I saw Munlochy, Daisy’s fiefdom just across the water, and wondered if she was on duty or on this side, enjoying newfound mobility in her Mini.

  A tall man, with hands like paddles, stood at the ferry ramp, beckoning to the line of waiting cars. The twenty-mile road journey from Inverness to the Black Isle was long compared to the ferry taking the strait between the Beauly and Moray Firths. However, I was about to realise that motorists might have to pay for the shortcut in more ways than just the ferry tariff.

  The attendant, a permanent scowl stamped on his craggy features, was signalling to cars with such an impatient gesture I wondered if the firths were running out of water. It was impossible to make eye contact with the man on account of his sea-sprayed spectacles. Still, he must have seen the cars, and even if the drivers couldn’t hear him, his gape-mouthed words were plain enough. ‘Come on!’

  ‘Come on!’ His hands picked up speed, which is pretty much what he wanted the drivers to do.

  He glared
as the queue inched forward. His exasperation grew. Caution seemed to be holding back motorists unwilling to follow his directions. He seemed anxious to cram in as many vehicles as he could whilst the drivers showed a similar concern for not driving over the edge. Eventually the first couple of cars were parked to his specifications but when the drivers came out of their vehicles, they hung, ashen-faced, over the boat side. Maybe, like me, it was their first time on the ferry.

  ‘Come on!’

  As I started to crawl forward, something large leapt out of the water. Distracted, I jammed on the brakes to the consternation of the driver behind me and the annoyance of my navigator. He yelled, ‘Watch! No! Mind! No! Just forget that bloody porpoise!’

  At least it made a change from his ‘Come on’ cry. I’d soon learn that those beautiful creatures leaping in the firth were everyday sights, but, right now, I had to ignore them. Flustered by a car horn tooting behind and the attendant’s gesticulations, I shot forward, making contact with the car’s bumper in front.

  The attendant nodded approvingly. ‘Fine.’ He turned to the driver behind me, who’d stalled her engine and couldn’t start it again.

  His signalling technique didn’t work so he stomped to the old grey Hillman Minx, giving its rusting bodywork a sour look. The driver wound down her window. So did I.

  I could have sat listening to the slap of water on the boat side, the mewing cry of gulls as they wheeled above the ever-changing colour of sea water and admired the rich green of a peninsula called The Black Isle. I’m ashamed to admit that eavesdropping on what sounded like a lively conversation was far more interesting.

  ‘If you get out, I’ll give you a hand to push your old rust-bucket to a parking place,’ he said.