EIGHT
Deep ditches and high hills
The winter snows and Hogmanay celebrations had not finished with me yet. On the morning of New Year’s Day, the village was slumbering in the silver/blue dawn as everyone slept off the effects of the previous night’s jollifications, and I knew that folk on ‘the other side’ would be in a similar comatose condition. I was unlikely to hear any news about the state of the hill at Loch Annan, so I would just have to hope that I could make it to my regular visits.
So off I went: a lone little car on the narrow rutted road on the first day of 1971. With a few sideways waltzes and some tyre spinning, I was soon over the top and on my way to Cill Donnan. I attended to my first patient, a diabetic, and set off for the second.
As I approached the croft house, the usual three large dogs of indeterminate ancestry came rushing towards me, chorusing their disapproval of my intrusion. Bringing my trusty rolled and pointed umbrella into play, I waved it in a threatening arc before me and the dogs retreated, still creating a fearful din. Only once did a dog oppose this lethal-looking weapon and then he bit the point right off!
The deafening noise was further amplified this morning by Katherine, who came hurrying towards me, shouting at the top of her considerable voice. I could not understand a word that she was saying, so she turned her attention to quieting the dogs by means of more yelling. Finally, they slunk away and blessed peace reigned.
‘What on earth is the matter, Kate?’
‘Nurse,’ she puffed, out of breath from her efforts. ‘You’ve to go to Dr Mac’s. Y’see, I sent wee Geordie to the doctor to see would he get something for his dad’s sore head. The poor mannie does suffer so . . .’ She paused for want of breath.
Privately, I thought that the ‘sore head’ probably had a lot to do with the aftermath of Hogmanay rather than any medical condition.
‘Dr Mac said when you come to do Granny, would you go to see him,’ she continued with importance.
‘GEORDIE!’ she bellowed, attempting to attract her son’s attention. He emerged from the byre.
‘Do you know what’s wrong, Geordie?’ I asked, in a more moderate tone. Contrary to his mother’s apparent belief that her son was deaf, Geordie’s hearing was quite normal. I think he was so used to being yelled at that he just didn’t bother to reply until his mother did yell!
‘Old Charlie’s in bother. It’s the drink, I think,’ he said in unconscious rhyme.
Nothing sounded too urgent. If I knew anything about Charlie, he’d be in the throes of a bout of DTs again. Reassured, I went into the house to my patient.
Florence McClellan was about 80 years old and was one of my patients who spoke very little English. Unlike her gargantuan daughter, my patient was a frail and gentle lady, much given to sitting too close to the fire because someone was always leaving the door open and she could never get warm. Unfortunately, this habit gave rise to numerous leg ulcers that needed constant attention.
Having applied new dressings, I faced the wrath of the dogs once more and made my way to see Dr Mac. As there was no surgery on New Year’s Day, I went straight to his home. The house was set in a tiny wood near the steamer ferry at Dalhavaig and on sunny summer days it appeared idyllic in its sylvan surroundings. In winter, however, it was dark and damp with tortured trees reaching starkly skywards to throw black shadows on the house. Dr Mac and Fiona had lived in the draughty old place for 40 years in perfect contentment and appeared not to notice its shortcomings.
Fiona came to the door in answer to the clanging of the old-fashioned bell.
‘Come in, come in, Mary-J. A happy New Year to you!’ Although often in pain, she was always cheerful and now gave me a lovely smile as I returned her greeting.
‘Himself is in the study. You know the way,’ she said.
After the usual greetings, Dr Mac told me about Charlie’s latest escapade. Charlie Two (why the ‘Two’ I have no idea) was a roadman. All over the Highlands and Western Islands, there is an indispensable body of men called ‘the Roadmen’. Weatherbeaten and hardy, these men work alone on their allotted stretch of road, sometimes as long as 20 miles. They are employed to dig and clear out the fast-flowing ditches at the sides of the single-track roads and generally keep these vital links between remote villages open. On my rounds, I would see these stalwarts trudging along, shovel and spade over their shoulders, in all winds and weathers.
Charlie Two was a wiry 60 year old, always ready with a cheery wave. But it seemed that this Hogmanay had been just one more example of his tendency to go on periodic and colossal binges. For months, he would be the model crofter and roadman, and then, for some reason that no one could fathom, he would be off again. He would neglect his work, his croft, and himself. But never his dog! No matter how Charlie forgot everything else, Joc was never without a meal or a fuss and appeared to be quite content to spend long hours lying quietly under a barstool.
There was a twinkle in Dr Mac’s eye as he began to tell me about the old man’s latest adventure.
‘Charlie had apparently been wishing everyone a “Guid New Year” all night. When he finally set out for home, the snow was very deep and he was most unsteady on his feet . . .’
‘And he fell into a ditch,’ I finished for him. What was the matter with everyone this Hogmanay? First Hughie, now Charlie.
Dr Mac laughed, ‘Aye, he did indeed. A good deep one of his own digging.’ He became serious. ‘If it had not been for that dear old dog, Charlie would probably be dead.’
Evidently Joc had barked and howled and scrabbled at the snow but been unable to rouse him, so the intelligent animal finally ran to a nearby house and scratched at the door.
‘My door,’ said Dr Mac, shaking his head in wonder. ‘Did that dog know that he had chosen one of the very few houses where the occupants were sober?’
‘And he led you back to Charlie?’
‘He did, and I got the old fellow out. What a state . . .’ He shook his head again.
It has to be said that this so-called ‘old fellow’ was probably a good ten years Dr Mac’s junior! In spite of his advancing years, however, the doctor had managed to drag the inert form back to his house, where he and Fiona had warmed and revived him. Later, with much help from a startled guest, he had taken Charlie up to his croft house and put him to bed. Accompanied, of course, by Joc.
‘And now,’ concluded Dr Mac, ‘I’d just like you to look at his cuts and grazes.’
I climbed up to the ramshackle croft house wondering how the two elderly men had managed to virtually carry Charlie up the steep slope in the darkness. I pushed open the door and called his name. Obtaining no reply, I ventured into the bedroom, where Charlie was sitting up in a grubby and rumpled bed, looking bemused. Unshaven, with hair on end, he was absent-mindedly stroking Joc, who was sitting serenely on the pillow beside him.
‘Hallo, Charlie.’ I felt that this was not a good time to wish him a ‘Happy New Year’. ‘Are you feeling better?’
With an obvious effort, he seemed to focus. He frowned. ‘Nurse? What’s happened? What are you doing here?’
Before I could answer, Joc barked in Charlie’s ear. This seemed to chase away the remnants of the old man’s near-coma.
‘Ach, he’s needin’ his breakfast.’
‘Tell me where everything lives, and I’ll see to it.’
‘There’s tins in the back. He’ll need two.’
I departed to ‘the back’—a kind of lean-to—and there stood dozens of tins of top-quality dog food. Finding a battered bowl, I looked around for a tin opener. There wasn’t one, but beside the bowl and liberally spattered with dog meat was a murderous-looking knife of immense size. It was obvious that I was going to have to stab the tins and tear the lids off with this implement.
Joc stood beside me, patiently waving his tail gently to and fro. Finally, leaving a contented Joc munching an enormous pile of meat with the water bucket handy, I returned to Charlie.
‘Nurse, I rem
ember now. I was in the ditch, but who brought me home?’
He was very embarrassed when I told him that it had been the doctor. Charlie had great respect for Dr Mac, who had treated him for many a bout of DTs over the years. But as I explained that Joc was the real hero of the night, tears came into his eyes, and when the dog reappeared, licking his lips, he hugged him with obvious love.
‘Ach, I don’t know what I’d be doin wi’out him, Nurse.’
‘You’d be pushing up the daisies. That’s what you’d be doing, Charlie! You’ll have to ease up on the whisky, you know.’
‘Aye, I will, Nurse, I will.’
Hmm! Until next time, I thought.
At that moment, Mary-Ann bustled in, kicking the snow from her boots. Joc greeted her with ecstasy.
‘Now, what’s the silly old bodach been up to this time?’ was her cheery greeting. ‘And how’s the wee boy, Nurse?’ she continued. Andy was always referred to in this way, and I wondered how tall he would have to grow before he was no longer this ‘wee boy’.
She remarked, ‘The snow’s coming down again! I’ll see to Minnie the day, Nurse. You’d best be getting home or you’ll not get over Loch Annan.’
I left them to it, knowing that Charlie was in good hands. Sure enough, the snow had been falling heavily while I had been with him and now lay thickly on the ground. I decided to follow Mary-Ann’s advice: leave the non-essentials and make for home.
As I urged the little car up the steep, slippery road, with the wheels spinning and huge snowflakes almost obliterating my view, I soon realised that I was in trouble. I had already gone too far and too high to turn round: there was a deep ravine on one side of the narrow road and a sizeable ditch on the other. Gradually, the wheels grew tired of the struggle and spun round unavailingly, and I slithered to an unsteady halt.
The snow continued to fall heavily as I sat in my little haven and wondered what to do. It was New Year’s Day. Most of the locals would be still in bed or hungover, the patient house cows awaiting a tardy milking and the old folk wondering if there was any chance of breakfast. No one would be working and certainly none would venture up here on the snowy heights of Ben Criel. I was aware of a feeling of unreality, bordering on panic, as I realised that I could be here for a very long time. It might be hours before the family missed me, thinking that I was on my rounds.
Suddenly, to my utter amazement, I heard an engine! Turning on the wipers, I couldn’t believe my eyes when I saw a tractor coming towards me from the direction of Dhubaig. I was even more convinced that the cold had given me hallucinations when I recognised the driver in the jaunty cap as a young tearaway who was drunk more often than sober, never up for work in the morning and the bane of his longsuffering mother’s life. Pulling to a jerky halt, this apparition leapt off the seat and trudged towards me.
‘And a Guid New Year to you, Nurse!’
‘Donny! What on earth are you doing here?’
‘Ach. I have a new girl. She’s of the Brethren in Dalhavaig. I’m off to see her the now.’
‘But . . . You’re sober!’ I spluttered rudely.
‘Aye,’ replied Donny lugubriously. ‘She doesna approve o’ the drink.’
I couldn’t believe my ears. ‘Really, Donny? I mean, do you think you are suited to each other?’
‘Aye. She’s a bonnie wee lass and she sings like a bird,’ he sighed. ‘She’s going to reform me,’ he added, without too much conviction. He had returned to the tractor and was heaving a rope off. I came out of shock as he called me.
‘Nurse, can you tie this round the front axle? I’ll turn her [meaning the tractor].’
While I knelt in the snow and located the axle, which was already icing up, he revved and rattled the wheezy old tractor into place. Whistling and brushing the snow from his eyes, he hitched us up and jumped back onto his seat, shouting, ‘We’re away!’
We climbed the rest of the steep hill to the summit in decorous tandem, but then the steep descent past Loch Annan commenced. The little car yawed and slithered and several times caught up with the towing tractor, as I had virtually no traction on the wheels. And all the time, the yawning shape of Loch Annan gaped hungrily at the bottom of the ravine. It was entirely terrifying!
Then, all at once, we were climbing the next hill, belching black smoke and scattering white snow in contrasting plumes as we rumbled along. By the time we reached the lower ground near our village, I was shaking with fright.
Without warning, Donny suddenly stopped. Taken unaware, I put my foot on the brake, slid swiftly forward and crashed into the back of the tractor!
‘Oops!’ said Donny, somewhat inadequately. He disentangled us and untied the rope. He handed me my number plate, one of my headlights and several bits of bumper.
‘I’ll sort that for you on the morrow, Nurse. I’ll be off to see wee Fiona. You’ll be fine the now!’
I thanked him through chattering teeth. He turned the tractor and was gone while I drove the half mile or so home. Two dogs and two cats greeted me, while the chickens clamoured for their corn, but of the humans there was no sign and I realised with astonishment that it was only just eleven- thirty! I made myself some coffee, but I was shaking so much that I dropped the mug on the tiled floor. At least that woke them all up!
NINE
A ceilidh and a cold corner
‘That was wonderful, Janet. I’m not surprised that you did so well in the Mod.’
About ten of us were crammed into Mary’s living room one cold February night. Janet had just entertained us with one of the pieces she had performed so successfully back in the autumn. Rather like the Welsh Eisteddfod, the Scottish Mod gave young people a chance of recognition in their chosen field of music or poetry. Janet played the bagpipes, a difficult instrument not always appreciated in confined spaces! But she always practised outside, standing at the end of her parents’ croft house on the hill. I had heard her playing on the very first day that we had set eyes on the house that was now our home. The ancient lament had come drifting across the glen, adding its sad, haunting beauty to the peaceful scene. Tonight, it was different. Janet had just played in Archie and Mary’s porch and had come back in to join the ceilidh, receiving the congratulations with her shy smile. She was 12 and already held the promise of the slender loveliness to come.
I looked around at our friends and neighbours squeezed into the small room. Marion and Murdoch were huddled into a corner. Katy, in remission from the leukaemia once more and looking fitter than she had for months, had been given a fireside chair. Big Craig, Dhubaig’s roadman, sat on a milking stool by the door ‘to get a wee drop air’. George, Nick, Andy and I had been afforded the comparative luxury of a two-seater settee, where we tried to look comfortable. Catriona, from the Cill Donnan shop, perched on Rhuari’s knee, and the frail dining chair beneath them creaked in pain. Archie was in his favourite chair that he never gave up for anyone, while Mary bustled about with dumpling and cake. Lounging against the kitchen door was Fergie, whom we had not met before. Mary introduced him as her cousin, a salesman in ‘frozen foods and other combustibles’. We were fairly certain that she meant ‘comestibles’. But that was Mary!
These small ceilidhs occurred almost by accident and everyone was welcome. If this one ran true to form, another eight or nine people would pack into the little room before the evening was over. It would become unbearably hot, the windows would stream with condensation and someone would eventually be forced to open the door to allow a blast of cold, damp but blessedly fresh air into the stuffy atmosphere. But, in spite of all this, Archie would continue to throw another peat onto the blazing fire at the rate of about one every ten minutes.
We had all donated something to drink, and the unsophisticated entertainment was in full swing. There would be poems, a song or two, stories, and jokes (always in good taste when ladies were present) and, the most interesting thing of all to me, reminiscences about times gone by and people long dead.
Archie threw the in
evitable peat on the fire and leaned back in his chair. Lucky man! Our cramped conditions allowed for only synchronised movement and the shallowest of breathing.
‘Well, Mary-J,’ he said, glancing around. Archie was about the only crofter who called me anything but ‘Nurse’. ‘I never told you about old Morag when you bought the house, did I?’
Surprised, I said, ‘No, Archie, you didn’t.’
‘Well, I’ll tell you now if you like.’
We did like! We had always heard that there was some sinister reason for the cold spot that persisted under the stairs in spite of all the heat we put into the rebuilt and refurbished house. Until this minute, everyone had been evasive whenever we mentioned this phenomenon.
‘Aye, well. It was like this, y’see,’ began Archie. ‘Morag was an old besom. I mind as a wee boy I was afeart of her, but as we grew, we lads used to play tricks on her. One evening, we climbed the roof and stuffed some sacks in the chimney. Then we hid and watched. Out she came, bawlin’ and hollerin’ and screamin’ blue murder and black as a sweep she was. By! That woman’s language!’ He shook his head in mock horror, as island women rarely swore. Then he became serious.
‘Even as a wee girl, she was evil. She’d steal folk’s cats and string them up in her byre and then invite them in to see the poor dead things. Once, when the laird, Duncan’s grandfather y’understand, was ridin’ his lovely white horse near the castle, she jumped out, screechin’ and screamin’, and scared the poor brute that much he threw the laird off. He broke his shoulder and the horse bolted and fell in the sea. When she grew up, she’d tramp the hills, gatherin’ all manner of weird plants and insects, and then she’d boil them up in a big old pot. By! Did it stink! Then when the tinkers came, she’d get them to buy it, tellin them it was medicine.’
Mary eagerly joined in, ‘You mind what she did to Roddy’s mother?’
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