by Yeadon, Jane
She was adamant. ‘No! If we do that we could do more damage than it’s worth.’
I thought she had a point. A gull landed nearby, adding its squeaking-gate squabble cry to the continuing argument.
Eventually the car door opened and she got out, shouting, ‘Well, do it yourself then!’
She was dressed for a Scottish summer in a sensible brown coat, a scarf and a green tartan head square. A sea breeze made the back of it flap behind her like a small windsock as she strode off to join the other travellers at the boat’s side. Fascinated, the rest of us watched as the attendant got into the car, slammed the door shut, turned on the engine and moved the car. He did it effortlessly. Unimpressed, the car owner continued to inhale on her cigarette whilst gazing seaward.
I was curious about the woman and wondered if she was a local or someone heading north. But this was my first day in Fortrose, and with other things on my mind, I was keen for the ferry to get going. So too, it seemed, was the attendant, meantime scanning the waiting area and checking his watch. He glanced up at the captain, who was looking out from a control room resembling a turreted telephone kiosk. Both men shrugged, a lever was pushed and slowly the metal-boarding ramp began to rise. Then it stopped as a blue Mini came down the slipway with the roaring sound of a gear stuck in third. With a huge echoing clang, the ramp returned to ground level.
The attendant’s face relaxed into a beam. His signalling hand was expansive and transformed into a welcoming gesture as he guided the Mini into a space big enough for an ambulance. As the driver wound down her window, he cried in the cheeriest manner, ‘Hello, hello, Sister Mackay. We were thinking you were about to miss the ferry. Dougie-Dog would have had something to say if we hadn’t waited, wouldn’t he?’ He fished in his pocket and handed something in. ‘And he’ll be looking for his usual, I suppose.’
I was sure Daisy’s car would be the first one off and, reluctant to disturb her royal treatment, didn’t let her know I was on the ferry. Anyway, it was a very short journey, with most of her time taken up chatting to the attendant. When we reached the other side and she’d been safely seen off, he resumed normal service. Now, forgetting anything other than my own destination, I headed for Fortrose.
My new home was on a road just off the High Street and tucked between two stone-built houses. Mine was white-washed, had small-paned windows and the quaint charm of a gingerbread house. I wasn’t expecting visitors but a young couple were waiting in the small garden at the front door. I should have sussed problems but was too excited at arriving to pay much attention to the girl’s haunted eyes or his anxious sidelong glances at her. She wore a short-sleeved dress and held up her arm so I could see that it was bandaged.
She spoke apologetically, ‘We were on the High Street looking for something for this, but the chemist’s closed. Then we came down here and saw the Nursing Sister sign outside your door and thought that you could maybe help.’ Fresh blood marked the outside of the bandage, which went from her wrist to her elbow. ‘I seem to have hurt myself, haven’t I, Johnny?’ She looked up at him as if she needed his assurance.
‘That’s for sure.’ He spoke very softly. ‘You’re always doing that, darling.’ He had the bright-eyed, fresh-faced outdoor look that would have earned him a Curly McLain part in Oklahoma. She, on the other hand, had the frail look of a piece of thistledown. Her eyes were dark pools sunk in a pinched white face with her mini-dress, its vivid turquoise colour making it even more of a contrast. A small smile flickered across her thin lips, then she grimaced and clutched her arm.
‘I’m new. Only just arrived,’ I explained, searching for the house key, ‘but come in. There’s been a relief nurse covering here and Rosemarkie and she’s been working from the wee office.’ I pointed to a window on the right-hand side of the house. ‘I’m sure we’ll find something for your arm there. You didn’t think to go to the doctor?’
The girl began to pull on some strands of her long lank hair as she said, ‘No, we were just passing through. Johnny’s the one who’s anxious. Not me. Not really.’
She followed me into the house, calling over her shoulder, ‘You should stay outside, Johnny. You’re that big I don’t think there’ll be room for you. Anyway, you don’t like the sight of blood.’
Johnny seemed relieved. ‘Good idea, Lorn, but maybe as the lassie says, we should take you to a doc. You can see she’s just moving in.’
Lorn came back sharp. ‘No! I’m sure that I’ll be fine. The nurse here’ll sort me. It’s just a wee thing.’
‘Oh well, if you’re sure. You’re so brave you make me feel a right Jessie.’ He sounded forlorn.
Lorn took a seat in the office. ‘Men!’ she shrugged, then started to look about the small room with a lively interest.
‘I think he’s just concerned about you, Lorn. Now let’s have a look at this arm. What have you done to it?
It was a general question but her answer was almost defensive. ‘A careless mistake with broken glass.’ She patted her hair. As she sat back, she looked about her again.
The office wasn’t designed as a casualty outlet but it had a small instrument steriliser, wash hand basin and enough room to set out the wound-cleaning equipment I found stored in a cupboard. I unwound the bandage, aware of her eyes trained on my reaction.
‘Did you nick your finger?’ I asked, puzzled by fresh blood on the outside of the crepe bandage when the actual wound looked as it was an old, if neglected, one.
‘No.’ Lorn shook her head violently. She sucked her finger and casually slipped that hand into her dress’s deep pockets. ‘I don’t know how that got there. But look, it’s fine. Really.’ She jumped up.
I put out a soothing hand. ‘No it’s not. Just you sit down. You’ve got a nasty sore there and it does need looking at but, you know, I think it would be better without such bulky dressing.’ My finger traced an irritated area of skin round a straight gash on her forearm. ‘Sometimes too much bandaging can encourage infection.’
‘Infection?’ She jumped at the word.
‘Well, maybe that’s too strong a word. Tenderness – that’s probably a better one. But actually, the wound needs a little soothing care and, you’ll see, it’ll soon clear up with that.’ As I got busy with antiseptic lotions, Lorn, conspicuously averting her gaze, looked out of the window. ‘Honestly, Johnny’s such a fuss,’ she said, watching her boyfriend, who was pacing outside like an expectant father.
‘He really cares for you,’ I said, ‘and he’ll be pleased you can tell him your arm isn’t going to fall off.’
Lorn merely chewed on a lock of hair. When I was finished, she got back to Johnny, holding up the dressed arm like a torchbearer. ‘Look! I’m ready to go home now.’
‘Great! And has she to do anything more to it, Nurse?’
‘I think it’ll heal fine if it’s kept clean and dry. And why not visit your own nurse or doctor? Where was it you said you stayed?’
But they were already halfway along the street with Lorn seeming to force the pace. Moving out of the reach of Johnny’s arm, she called back, ‘Thanks, we’ll come and visit you when you’ve more time. See how you’re settling in.’
As I started to clear away the equipment I thought about Lorn and Johnny and wished that I didn’t feel so uneasy about them. Maybe knowing more about them would have helped me explain better to Lorn how easy it was to get her arm to heal. It only needed simple care, but somehow I wasn’t convinced she’d listen.
Since I wasn’t really open for business and not expecting any other callers, I finished clearing away. I was about to start moving my belongings in when there was such a sharp rap on the window. I nearly dropped the newly sterilised forceps. I was sure I didn’t know anybody in Fortrose, but immediately recognised my caller in her tartan headsquare.
29
A DAY TO REMEMBER!
‘Sorry, lassie, I know you’ve just arrived.’ The woman was as breathless as she was apologetic. ‘And I won’t take up your time.’
She held up a thermos flask. ‘I thought I’d bring you something to oil the flitting wheels.’
She was so friendly and had such a touch of mischief, I got cheeky. ‘I think that if there’s anything needing oiled it’s that car of yours.’
She laughed, lines etching deep into her brown face. ‘Blast! I wondered if you’d heard that exchange. Yes, I did see you. You’ll soon find that there’s no secrets in Fortrose and even less on that ferry. I’m sorry, you didn’t see me in my finest hour, but the ticket bloke’s so sour you’d think he lived on lemons. By the way, I’m Molly.’ Her handshake was brisk. My hand came back feeling slightly earthy. I noticed her grimed nails and wondered if she was a gardener.
I opened the door wide. ‘You must come in. Do, please.’
‘No, no. I can see you need to get on, but maybe when you’ve a minute you could call in to our house – we’re just down the road from you. We’ve a lassie staying with us at the moment. Single girlie. We’re looking after her, you see, but she’s as scared of her family finding out,’ she tapped the middle button of her coat and raised her eyebrows, ‘as she is of being seen by a medical cove, but I know she needs a look, if only for myself and the Rev’s sake.’ Molly narrowed her eyes in thought and turned on her heel. ‘Nothing dramatic, you understand, it’s Nature, after all.’
‘What’s your address?’
She tied her head square so tightly it gave her a double chin. ‘Church of Scotland Manse. You’ll easy find it. Now I must dash, otherwise I might get an urge to help you settle in and you look as if you can manage perfectly well yourself.’ She searched in her pocket, found a packet of fags, offered me one.
‘No?’ Casting her eyes heavenward, as if in pity, she lit one, inhaling on it with deep satisfaction. Then, in a cloud of smoke, she was gone. I was disappointed. I’d no sooner arrived and met people than they seemed in a hurry to leave. Maybe I should go and say hello to the local doctor before he disappeared as well.
It was late afternoon when I drove through Rosemarkie, the pictureseque village half a mile from Fortrose and also part of my district.
‘There’s no big hurry to visit old Mrs Reid,’ Dr Jack had said. ‘She lives in a wee wooden house on the Rosemarkie to Cromarty road. You should find her easily enough, although whether she lets you in or not is quite another matter.’ He sucked his lip in frustration. ‘She showed me the door the last time I called.’ He tapped his head. ‘I think things might be going a little awry there. She’s got a schizophrenic history and it’s starting to look as if she’s neglecting herself and her cats as well. That good Samaritan Molly kind of keeps an eye on her, minds her garden, but there’s only so much she can do. Anyway, Molly’s a gardener, not a nurse.’ His lips twitched, then he continued, ‘so it’d be good to get your opinion. With a bit of luck, she’ll allow you to see her.’
Thinking of Miss Forbes and LBP’s uncertain temper, I asked, ‘Has she a dog?’
He might have thought it was an odd question, but he took it in his stride. ‘No, her cats are enough.’ He’d the pleasant unruffled manner of an experienced GP but I could see he was busy. It’d be a good start if I could prove how useful I was.
Mrs Reid’s house was easy to find once I forgot about the picturesque aspect of the drive and concentrated on staying on the road. Even though the doctor had mentioned Molly’s expertise, I was still surprised to see such a well-tended garden. Rows of vegetables flourished in a fenced-off area, marigolds made a bright and cheerful statement in a flower pot on one side of the front door, whilst a clump of cat mint grew on the other.
‘Hi Puss,’ I said to the tortoise-shell-coloured cat sunning herself in the middle of it. ‘You’d better not let Molly catch you doing that.’
By way of answer, the cat arched her back, spat and ran to the back of the house, bushy tail streaming behind her.
‘Hello.’ I knocked at the door, but got no reply. Carefully, I tried the handle. The door was locked. I tried again, then peeped through the letterbox. An awful smell came through, as well as some faint noises. I tried to picture the scene inside and prayed that if it came to the worst, the smell was only dead cat.
There were windows, one at either side of the door, with half-drawn curtains over them. These so limited the view into two rooms that all I could see were furniture-crowded, dark, dingy-looking places, but no Mrs Reid.
Hurrying now, I took the cracked paving slabs leading round to the back, only to find the door here locked as well. However, there were a couple of windows, set out much the same as the front, but those had half-net screens, and they allowed a better view into two other rooms. The first one had to be the kitchen with its oilcloth-covered table with a pot of porridge sitting on top and a mangy-looking black cat licking out of it. With that certain arrogance cats have when safely out of reach and intending to stay put, it looked up, flicked its tail, and continued eating.
But at least there wasn’t a body. Maybe Mrs Reid was out for the day. Buying a lovely ribbon perhaps in that nice haberdashery store I’d spotted in Fortrose. A slight breeze made the surrounding trees sigh as if at such a silly thought, and I went back to thinking that I’d done everything with nothing needing to be fixed.
The sun glanced through the tree branches, making shadows of them on the ground. I stepped over them on my way to the last window. Thinking more kindly of my nice new home comforts than the bed of nettles meantime embracing my ankles, I peered through the grimy cobwebbed glass.
I’d have been seriously spooked if it had been dark. It was bad enough on a sunlit late afternoon with the nearby fir trees whispering amongst themselves, the quick repeated chink-chink alarm call of a blackbird sending out a cat warning, to look in and see a scene that was reminiscent of Miss Havisham in her final days.
An old woman with long straggling white hair lay, surely unconscious, in a huge old-fashioned bed covered in a red satin quilt. Its grandeur was as much at odds with the shabby room as were the other occupants. Kittens. As far as was discernible, Mrs Reid was surrounded by them. I took a deep breath, blinked, cleaned the window and looked harder. I’d to be glad that at least she was alive, even if her respirations were so laboured they shifted the bed-covering and made the animals look as if they were surfing on a crimson sea.
It was useless knocking on the window. I tried, then had a go at opening it. Got nowhere. I ran back to the kitchen window. It wouldn’t budge. The cat continued eating. I heaved hard and managed to ease open a small gap. Then adrenaline came to my aid. Between that and muscle, I managed to yank up the window, ignoring its scream of protest.
No thanks to the constricting limitations of the new uniform, I bundled through the gap. My hand landed in the porridge pot, the cat scratched my leg.
Drat! A ladder! I could feel it running up my leg. I wasn’t in the mood to be grateful it wasn’t a mouse. Not with that hungry assailant. She’d scarpered and was now green-eyed, spitting and glaring out from under a rocking chair.
The house felt cold with the kitchen range fire long dead. The smell of ammonia was eye-watering in an atmosphere of quiet despair. The only thing to bring it alive would be sunshine and fresh air, but Mrs Reid would surely need a lot more than that.
‘Mrs Reid?’
I hadn’t really expected a reply but neither had I anticipated the grotesque accompaniment to my patient’s heavy rasping breath. Five purring kittens were cosily arranged round the old lady. It was awful the way they’d sought comfort and warmth, and found it beside a seriously ill human being. With matter in their eyes, they didn’t look that healthy themselves and they were pitifully thin, as was she.
Tiny and old, she was burning up. Her skin was dry, there was a worrying flush on her cheeks and her weak pulse was racing. I didn’t need to take her temperature to know it was at danger point. She was so deeply unconscious the only perceptible response was that when I lifted one of her eyelids, the pupil dilated.
The room was airless and dusty, but the animals were completely
at home. I supposed the porridge-eating cat must be the kittens’ mother and used to a least one human being. The tiny animals kept on purring as I tried to figure out what to do first. Struck by the irony of this being almost a summer equivalent of Willie with his hypothermia and the problem of getting his low temperature up, I was now faced with the challenge of getting this patient’s high one down. I picked up a thick empty glass off the floor, dumped out the dead fly and ran back to the kitchen.
Had my Edinburgh Mrs Collins been here, I thought as I filled the tumbler with water, she’d have had the sink’s brass taps polished and she’d have been horrified at the pile of dirty dishes filling the wooden draining board. She certainly wouldn’t have approved of using water in the way I was about to.
I sprinkled some on Mrs Reid’s forehead. The kittens blinked and stopped purring. One shook its head as if bewildered, and since I couldn’t immediately think what to do with such vulnerable animals, I left them where they were. I also figured if they were moved I might have to add an angry cat to the problems list.
A telephone would be a godsend though it was doubtful that my patient had one. Heart pounding, I raced back to the living area and cast round desperately. Nothing. I’d no option other than leaving the house to get help. At least I’d get one door open, and since I knew she had to have medical help, the front one would be the handiest. As I hurried along the corridor leading to it, I spotted a brown plaited cable on the skirting board. Telephone cable! It led from a connection point beside the door to one of the front rooms I’d tried to look into from outside.
Now that I was actually in it and despite all the furniture clutter and jumble in the room, I got to the empty display cabinet at the far end of the room easily enough. It had two wally dugs on its top, as if guarding the black Bakelite telephone sitting between them. I couldn’t imagine why it was in such an awkward place, or even that the GPO was still servicing the line.