Fergie had a cardboard box containing some mysterious bottles and three or four old paintbrushes. Paintbrushes? He saw me looking at them.
‘Aha. These are for paintin’ antiseptic on the sheep’s skin if the maggots have got to it yet.’
I nodded. The fleeces were thick and any maggots were well hidden. But once the woolly overcoat had been shorn off, they would be visible in the fleece itself, and any damage to the flesh might be in need of treatment. Maggots are pale, disgusting creatures that, if left for any length of time, can burrow into the body of the sheep and virtually eat it alive. It doesn’t bear thinking about.
The last to arrive was George—not as fit as the sturdy, hardy crofters who were so used to striding about in the hills. He had in his hand a pair of his own shears, bought for the occasion in the crofters’ store in Dalhavaig. He was going to be taught how to use them.
In the 1970s, shearing was still done by hand on most of the more remote islands. They used the large, clumsy-looking, scissor-shaped metal shears that had been around for centuries. Farms in the more affluent south had long been using electric shears, making the job so much quicker and easier. On Papavray, although ‘the electric’ had come in the 1950s, the supplies were to the villages in the glens, while the fanks, built so long before electricity was thought of, were high in the hills.
More recently, modern amenities have started to become commonplace. Ugly, galvanised-iron fanks of complicated design are appearing in or near every village, so that ‘the electric’ is available for the shearing. The old shears are consigned to the back of the byre, and the new automatic implements are used. The collies bring the flock down from the hills to be sheared and then back again.
But today, here on the high hill, there was a flurry of activity, a lot of whistling, and soon a group of twenty or so sheep appeared over the brow of another hill. The dogs, who seemed to know by instinct what to do—the crofters giving very few commands—drove the flock into the fank and then lay down at the entrance to discourage attempts at escape. Several men grabbed a sheep each, hauled her into an uncomfortablelooking ‘sitting’ position, and set to work.
‘Right then, George! ’Tis time you had your first lesson. Y’see, you get hold of her like this . . .’ Archie demonstrated as he spoke.
George made a futile grab at a docile-looking beast, lost his footing, and the ewe pranced away. I’m sure she was grinning! After several more attempts, George was ready and Archie handed him the shears. He began . . .
Thirty minutes later, he straightened up, red in the face, covered in sweat and breathing heavily. Then he realised that everyone had been watching him. He glanced down at his poor, patient old ewe. In some places the skin was pink and rather sore, in others tufts of wool stood out like lavatory brushes. A loud, raucous cheer broke out.
‘Don’t give up the day job, George!’ Archie laughed heartily.
George came over to where I was rolling the grubby, oily fleeces.
‘Phew! It looks so easy when these guys do it. Five minutes per sheep! My poor beast will probably be psychologically damaged for life.’
‘Well, at least you had a go. I wouldn’t even get one into position, I’m sure. I’m safer just rolling fleeces.’
Just then, a shout went up. It was time for tea. There was a break before the next batch was brought down from the high hill, so we sat in a circle on the grass or perched on the old walls of the fank and drank thirstily in the warm, bright sunlight.
‘Have ye no heard the latest?’ Archie was mumbling through a mouthful of dumpling.
‘Heard what?’ George had recovered his breath.
‘About the airyport. ’Tis to be opened next week, I’m hearin’. Some grand body is comin’ to cut a bit o’ ribbon and then the first plane will come in and land.’
‘How exciting!’ At last, I thought.
‘Then it will go off again, takin yon body with it. What’s the point o’ that, I’m wonderin?’
‘It’s for explicity,’ said Mary knowledgably.
‘What?’
‘What?’
There was a puzzled pause, then Archie sighed. ‘Ach, the woman! I think she means “publicity”.’
‘Aye,’ said Mary, unperturbed as usual.
Archie had been thinking. ‘ ’Twill cost a mint, I’m thinkin’. The fare, I mean.’
‘No,’ said Mary. ‘I’m hearin’ that the Island Development Committee is goin’ to subscribe it.’
Archie nearly screamed. ‘Subsidise it, Mary! Subsidise it!’ he roared. ‘Ach, the woman will be the death o’ me, she will.’
‘Well, somebody, somewhere is goin’ to pay something so that the fares are no too high.’ For the first time ever, Mary seemed huffy. Archie looked a bit shamefaced. He had shouted very loudly, and the sound of his voice was still rumbling round the hills.
‘Ach, I’d no be so sure,’ said Old Roderick. ‘I had a letter from the post office last night. It’s goin to be about 50 pounds return to Glasgow, they reckon.’
There was a horrified gasp, then Fergie muttered, ‘I’m thinkin’ no one will use it, then.’
‘Oh, yes,’ piped Mary. ‘My sister from Oxford says she will come on the airyplane.’
Fergie sighed. ‘Mary, she’d have to get to Heathrow by train or coach, then from Heathrow to Glasgow on the shuttle and then on this plane that’s goin to cost a fortune. Very expensive.’ He shook his head. ‘Better come to Inverness by train and we pick her up from there and bring her by steamer and ferry. ’Twill be a quarter the price.’
‘When is the big opening ceremony to be?’ I asked.
‘Next Thursday—midday. I hope the weather holds.’ Old Roderick sounded doubtful.
Everyone cast worried glances at today’s serene sky.
‘Hmm,’ said Fergie. ‘It’s been fine for too long. ’Tis not natural.’
We were getting quite good at reading the weather now, so we squinted with the rest towards the mountains on the other islands, out to sea and finally up towards Ben Criel. Pointing to the herring-bone clouds, Fergie prophesied rain for Thursday. Old Roderick claimed that, as Ben Criel was clear, it might be fine for the great day.
The argument seemed set to continue when Archie interrupted. ‘The wireless will tell us.’
‘Ach! What does the wireless know about Papavray? The steamer canna sail sometimes even though the wireless has said “no gales”. What hope has a wee plane? ’Twill be off more than’tis on, I wouldn’t wonder.’ Old Roderick was lost in thought for a moment, then he said, ‘D’ye mind a few years back, ma niece from Canada—her visit? We took her to the mainland for the train to Glasgow for her flight home. Well, we couldna get back to Papavray for the storms. The steamer was off, the ferry had been beached by the high tide, and we had to wait two days. Ma niece, she rang the post office here to say she was home afore we got back. Canada, mind! Thousands o’ miles and us just 20 mile away, waitin’ on the storm. Ach! ’Twill not do.’
‘Well, I’m no goin’ in one of them wee things. No as big as Archie’s boat, foreby. And only six seats!’ Kirsty was adamant. ‘The only time I’m goin’ up there is when I die.’ She thought about this for a moment and then added, ‘If I’m spared, that is.’
I was at a loss to follow this logic, but everyone else seemed to understand.
With that, we went back to our sandwiches and thermoses of tea, happily picking bits of wool off our teeth and lips while the oiliness of the fleeces that I was rolling was likening my hands to something resembling the inside of a car engine. There would have to be a lot of energetic scrubbing before I tended my first patient tomorrow.
‘Right! Off we go!’ The call to arms went up. It had been decided that the rather protracted tea break should end and the work began again. Another batch of sheep was approaching the pen, so the clipping and shouting and the inspection of the ewes’ fleeces and skin continued.
We worked on, glad of the breeze that kept the midges away. George did not repeat
his efforts with the shears but helped to bring the sheep down from the high hills. Gradually, the thin, naked-looking sheep began to outnumber the woolly ones. After another three hours or so, the crofters reckoned that they had sheared some 320 sheep at least.
‘Bound to be a few in the hills that we havena found. Come autumn, they’ll be down looking for better grass on the crofts and we’ll get them then, but they’ll probably have rubbed a lot off and what’s left won’t be much good. Happens every year.’
Archie was tired, as were all the rest, and they still had to go home to milk cows, feed livestock and shut chickens up for the night. And even continue the hay-making in some cases.
Quieter now from exhaustion, everyone started down the hill, each carrying as many fleeces as possible, tied together in bundles. Just as I had been the first person on the hill, so I contrived to remain behind the once-vociferous crowd as they wearily descended, the tired collies plodding beside them. The uncomprehending ewes, in their white underwear, watched them go and then returned to the important business of grazing.
I sat on the wall and looked out over the green saucer of land that was the village and its crofts. People the size of ants were already fetching in cows for milking and feeding chickens. Gradually, as the peace of the evening settled over the glen, I began to see little plumes of blue smoke rise from the chimneys as folk lit their fires. I listened—even distant voices had stilled, the hill was quiet once more, and I was left in the silent clamour of remembered noise. As the last birds flew off to roost, I picked up my bundle of fleeces and plodded slowly homeward.
Home! Our cosy, sturdy, gale-defying home among the tussocky grass, where we could watch the mountains changing colour and shape as clouds, mist, sunlight, or even lightning raced between the jagged peaks. Where we had a view of the ever-changing sea: sometimes black and menacing, sometimes silver in owl-haunted moonlight or ice-blue winter sunshine, or, as today, sparkling under the clear summer sky. Whatever the weather or the season, this was a wonderful place to live.
TWENTY-SEVEN
Rowing boats and rucksacks
I gradually came to know the new people who had rented Tin Cottage in Struakin and found Robbie, Sarah, and little Fiona to be an unusual and fascinating family. Sarah and I soon found that we had many interests in common.
She and Robbie had left the rush and noise of London, just as we had, but whereas we had to make a living, they had come into a great deal of money, leaving them the freedom to move to wherever took their fancy in order to pursue their hobbies. Robbie was an enthusiastic amateur naturalist, and Sarah was writing and painting and appeared to be very talented.
She and Robbie had been married within a month of meeting. The following year, Sarah had given birth to premature twins. Sadly, the little boy had died and Fiona, the other twin, was brain damaged. While still in London, they had sent her to a special-needs school, but by the time they relocated to Papavray she was able to attend the local school three days a week for mainstream education and was taught at home for the remaining time.
One beautiful day when I was off duty, I drove to the end of the ‘road’ and set out to walk the two miles of rocky path to the tiny hamlet by the sea. I was hoping to hear that little Fiona had made friends with the Johansson girls. The long school holidays would be very lonely otherwise.
The Johanssons were strange, reclusive people, dour to the point of rudeness. No one knew how they made a living, but Mr Johansson went away for long periods, and it was presumed that these trips were to do with his work. The crofters were curious: he was variously a spy, a scientist, a writer, and so on.
Sarah had asked me to tea on this lovely summer day, and we sat in front of the house, gazing at the sea while Fiona played with seashells nearby. The house next door seemed to be closed up although it was unusually warm.
‘He’s away again,’ said Sarah. ‘But she is there.’
‘What on earth does she do?’ I asked. ‘Why would she shut herself inside on a beautiful day like this?’
‘I sometimes hear a typewriter clacking away but not often. It’s the girls that I worry about. In term time, they have other company, but in the holidays they are often inside, not even allowed to play with Fiona some of the time.’ Sarah sounded concerned.
‘What about friends or relatives? Does anyone ever come to stay?’
Sarah shook her head.
‘None of this is a natural life for children, is it?’ I said.
‘And there is something else,’ Sarah said, then paused. ‘The other evening at about 11.30—it wasn’t quite dark—Rob was on the cliff with his binoculars. He was watching for a mouse or a mole or something in the bushes beside the shore when he became aware of a movement on the rocks just around the headland. After a while, he saw Mr Johansson leave his house and make his way round the headland. He was going in the direction of the movement that Rob had seen.’ She paused to pour more tea.
‘This is intriguing—like a thriller,’ I said with a smile.
‘It gets better. Rob gave up the mousehunt and concentrated on the drama, but once Mr Johansson was round the corner of the rocks he couldn’t see him any more. A little later, back came Mr Johansson with a rucksack on his back and went off home. After a bit longer, Rob could hear a very slight noise from the direction of the sea and a small rowing boat appeared, sliding through the water, making almost no sound. He watched, and when it was well out to sea he heard them start an outboard engine and they disappeared into the darkness.’
She looked at me. ‘What do you make of that?’
‘The most obvious thing would be smuggling,’ I said.
We puzzled over this clandestine meeting in silence for a while.
‘When did they come to live here?’ I asked. ‘They were already here when we came.’
‘I don’t believe they have been here for more than about four years.’
‘They have always been a mystery. The crofters would love to know how they support themselves.’
Sarah laughed. ‘They must say the same about us, but we are only here temporarily.’
We changed the subject and talked of generalities for a while, but as I started my long walk back to the car I puzzled over the vexed question of the Johanssons. I was concerned for the girls: surely this secretive lifestyle could not be good for them? I determined to speak to Dr Mac. His long experience of people and of island culture made him a wise counsellor who often had a completely different way of looking at things. In the meantime I enjoyed walking in the sunshine of this perfect day, and I dawdled a little to watch the seals romping in the gentle waves. I listened as I walked and could hear only my own footfall and the song of the birds. No blaring radios, no roar of traffic or honking of horns. No brick walls, highrise flats, or multi-storey car parks. We had left all that behind and this peace was ours!
*
On Dr Mac’s suggestion, I began to think up reasons to attend the school more often in order to assess the Johansson girls, but before any progress could be made things were taken out of our hands entirely. And in a most dramatic fashion.
It began with the unusual sight of two high-powered police cars leaving the steamer from the mainland, while John, our own policeman, waited for them on the quay at Dalhavaig in his own modest Ford. The cars were first off the boat and stopped beside John. There was some consultation and then two policemen stationed themselves at the entrance to the quay while John jumped into one of the big cars, which set off at an alarming rate. They roared through Dalhavaig, scattering people and dogs, screamed along the narrow coast road, terrifying sheep and cattle, and leaving goggle eyes and open mouths as they tore off towards Struakin. It must have been a great shock to these enthusiastic young men to discover that they had to leave their powerful vehicles and walk the last two miles to the hamlet.
This was the most exciting thing to have happened on Papavray since the plane crash, but in fact for a quiet, peaceful backwater on the very edge of the British Isles we s
eemed to have more than our fair share of drama.
In Struakin, Mr Johansson was arrested and taken away, and, in spite of searching questions, John would tell us nothing. But eventually, of course, we heard the whole saga.
The Johannsons had come to remote Papavray to hide their identity and activities: this was a mistake in itself, as a big city such as Birmingham or Glasgow would have been better. People take less notice of each other in such places than on an island where folk take a consuming interest in their neighbours and newcomers are the subjects of intense scrutiny.
The crime itself was very serious. In spite of all the conjecture about Diarmuid Johansson, no one appeared to have guessed the obvious. This was the early ’70s but, although many had decided that he must be a criminal of some sort, no one had connected Mr Johansson with the IRA. Spy, scientist, writer? All these things had been discussed endlessly, and yet the truth should have stared us in the face. Perhaps it was the Swedish name? Or were we just being ostriches about the ‘Troubles’ because we were so far away from it all?
I heard the story from a shocked Sarah.
Apparently Mr Johansson was heavily involved in raising funds for the IRA. He had organised a system and a route by which money (actual cash) came into the island (the boat that Rob had seen?). He would pass it on when he was on those socalled business trips.
‘What about his wife? Was she involved?’ I asked.
‘I don’t think so, but she must have had some idea that something odd was going on. She is the really Swedish one, so she had no loyalty to either side. He is Irish through and through.’
‘But his accent?’ I asked with amazement.
‘All an act, I suppose. Being married to her and having lived in Stockholm for many years, it would probably have been easy.’
‘And the girls? Did they know anything?’
‘No. They had been told that all the secrecy was to do with “Daddy’s work”. I have been thinking about her, and I imagine she just wanted to keep the family together. He was devoted to the girls. Can you imagine how a father could help the IRA to blow up families with children just like his own?’
Call the Nurse Page 17