But Sara was standing too close! The edge of her voluminous skirt suddenly caught light.
She screamed and started to beat at the flames with her bare hands.
‘No! No, Sara!’ I grabbed a cushion from the couch with one hand and tried to thump the skirt, while trying to rip it off with the other. The cushion (probably well polished) caught light immediately, but the skirt was coming down and off easily, as it was only held up by elastic at the waist.
‘Step out of it, Sara. Step out of it!’
But Sara was rigid with her mouth open, still screaming. She was tiny, so I picked her up and pulled her free of the blazing skirt and dumped her unceremoniously on the couch. Still she screamed. But I had to deal with the fire.
There was a bucket of water in the corner. I dowsed the burning skirt, the cushion, and the rag rug that had now begun to smoulder. I threw all the black mess outside and turned my attention to Sara, who was still screaming. I talked to her, I touched her, I shook her; the screaming continued unabated. I splashed cold water in her face and eventually and very gradually the screaming stopped, her mouth closed, and she relaxed against the back of the couch. At last, I was able to look at her burns. Her hands were tough and work-worn, so there was only slight redness, while her legs had not been affected at all. Perhaps the thick black stockings had protected her. At least they did not appear to have been polished!
‘What about ma skirt, Nurse?’ She struggled up and was making for the door. ‘I have to get ma skirt.’
‘It’s gone, Sara. Burnt! There is nothing left. Have you another?’
She ambled to the box-bed against the back kitchen wall. Kneeling down, she began to rummage beneath it, pulling out all manner of bits and pieces: trinkets, tools, a bridle and bit, and finally a thick, sack-like garment that she held up in triumph.
‘This is ma other skirt,’ she said, pulling it on over her petticoat.
It was green with mildew, but Sara did not notice and squeezed herself into it. It was much too tight. She looked most uncomfortable in this child-sized skirt. Child-sized? It couldn’t be, could it?
The next minute, Sara confirmed my almost rejected thought, by saying, ‘Aye. I wore this when I was a wee girl— for school, y’understand. ’Tis a good strong skirt!’
‘Yes, Sara, it is strong, but it is far too small for you now. Do you have another?’
Sara appeared to think for a moment. ‘Aye, I have. But I’d no like to spoil it.’ And she wandered over to a big trunk in the corner and began to struggle with the lid. It was obvious that it had remained closed for many years, but between us we eventually prised it open.
I gasped as I peered inside. Sara was pulling out the most gorgeous royal-blue satin dress, much embroidered and bejewelled. I could see more beneath it: shiny silver lace, gold satins, red velvets. So many beautiful fabrics were all carefully folded and stowed in this battered old trunk.
‘Y’see why I’d no like to spoil it by wearin’ it?’ Sara held it up with pride. I judged the style to be from about the late 1800s. There were frills and flounces, lace, a tight bodice, a big skirt, and a low neckline. It had probably been intended as evening wear for a wealthy and fashionable lady, and I had a little difficulty in imagining Sara wearing this to lock up the chickens for the night or fetch in the coal.
‘How did you come by all these lovely things, Sara?’
‘Aye. ’Twas ma mother. She worked for Lady Leticia Briggs—her that married yon laird in the big house on Lewis that’s fallen down and I’m not surprised. Lady Leticia gave her all these when she married. Ma mother, that is, when she married my father. She never wore them, and then she left them for me when she passed over. I have to look after them for her, y’see.’
As Sara spoke, she shook the blue dress she was holding and a cloud of dust joined the smoke still lingering in the room. But the dress could not withstand this treatment and began to break up. Bits of lace dropped to the ground, and the sleeves began to come away from the bodice. Sara looked on in horror.
‘Look, Nurse! ’Tis fallin’ to pieces. Oh, what would ma mother say? Oh dear, dear!’
Huge tears formed in the old eyes and ran down the smokegrimed cheeks. ‘Ach. I’ll be puttin’ it back. ’Twill do for to dress me when I go to meet ma mother.’ She looked at me. ‘You’ll do that for me, Nurse, won’t you?’
I felt a sense of shock. It would be hard to say why, but I think it was to do with her complete and unquestioning belief that she would see her dead mother soon and that I would be here to dress her for that great journey. I assured her that I would do what I could when the time came. What else could I say?
The next minute, Sara had forgotten the dress and all that it meant and was bustling about. ‘I’ll be cleaning up all this mess and then I’ll get ma grate black-leaded.’
I could do no more and left, determined to call tomorrow with a skirt of my own that I had ceased to wear. She was much smaller than I was, but with the addition of some waist elastic it would be fine and it would be a good excuse to see what she was up to the next day. I worried for her safety.
Here we had the usual dilemma of the elderly when they became confused and forgetful. They were usually perfectly happy in the family home, in which they might well have been born. But they were often a danger to themselves with regard to fire, falls, electricity, and sudden illness. So, was it better to leave them where they were, happy but in danger, or insist on removing them to some sort of care, where they might be physically safe but quite possibly miserable? The eternal problem.
As I walked along the quay to my car, a voice hailed me.
‘Nurse! ’Tis good that I have caught you,’ Behag called from her doorway. ‘ ’Tis old Neilly.’
‘Sorry?’
‘Neilly! He’s gone!’
‘Ah.’
Behag shuffled her feet a little. ‘You’d best see Maggie afore you go to him.’
‘Yes. I know about Neilly’s circumstances, Behag. Dr Mac and I have tried to get him treatment and care again and again, but he wouldn’t have it.’
‘Aye. Maggie told me.’ She paused. ‘You’ll be goin’ there now, Nurse?’
‘Yes, I will, and I know only too well what I shall be dealing with there.’
‘She’ll be waitin’ there, outside the house. She saw your car at Sara’s.’
I drove the short distance to a little copse beside the road. Through the overgrown trees and bushes, a narrow path led to the dilapidated croft house. The thatch was patched with bits of tin, the door propped up with a piece of wood, while thick brambles obscured the walls and windows. The place was a sad sight.
Maggie was standing outside, whispering with two crofters. ‘Ah, Nurse. ’Tis a bad do, this.’ She was pale and her face had a wide-open, shocked look.
‘Maggie.’ I touched her shoulder. ‘You found him?’
‘Aye, I was making a try would he let me in to give him this.’ She indicated a cup of soup that she still held. ‘He usually shouts at me to go away. Ach! But today there was no sound, so I peeped round the door. And there he was. I didn’t go near, Nurse, but it was obvious that he had gone—a long time before.’
Poor Maggie. She was the only person who had been able to get near the old man for weeks now. Neilly had known for months that he was dying of cancer but stubbornly refused all efforts to hospitalise him or arrange care and medication at home. Dr Mac had tried many, many times to reason with him, but even when he was in excruciating pain he refused drugs and would accept no treatment of any sort.
Even before his illness, he had been a sour, grumpy old man. Even Dr Mac received the sharp edge of his tongue, which was something unknown on the island, as the good doctor was beloved by all. In spite of Neilly’s surly ways, everyone had tried to help him in the terrible months leading to his death. If ever a death was a blessed relief, this was the one.
For years he had lived a hermit’s life, only emerging to pick up the food and milk that Maggie delivered to his
door. The money for these meagre requirements was left in a bucket outside. We were aware that he never washed his clothes or himself, or cleaned his home. He did no repairs of any kind, went nowhere and saw no one, slipping outside only to gather peat from his dwindling peat stack or coal from a huge heap delivered several years earlier. How he spent his time in his dark, malodorous house, we never knew.
For the last four or five days of his life, he had been unable to leave his bed, even to use the stinking bucket in the back porch. (Until then, a nearby crofter had emptied this receptacle weekly into his own cesspit.) Maggie had continued to brave the smell and the tantrums to leave glasses of milk or soup by his bed. So I was all too aware of the state in which I would find the deceased.
‘I’ll bring you some old rags and towels of mine, Nurse. They can be thrown out afterwards. And I have an urn of hot water ready that we’ll bring over. And some soap. I’ll bring a sheet too.’ Maggie set off.
I pushed open the door. The smell was overpowering and I actually retched. Pulling myself together, I waited for my eyes to adjust to the gloom and then made my way to the window. With much effort, I was able to open it, poke my head outside, and take a deep breath. Only then did I look at the bed.
Poor Neilly must have died in torment as well as in filth. His face and his limbs were contorted, his eyes were staring, and one hand clutched the soiled sheet. I was appalled. Why had he refused help, care, ease from pain?
I approached the bed with care. The rotten wooden floor was full of holes, some so big that a whole section had fallen down and now rested on the mud below. The bed was at a crazy angle, and one corner was held up by a concrete block. The room was bitterly cold and damp, having had no fire for many days.
As I was putting my plastic apron and gloves on, there was a tap on the door. Maggie handed me the urn of hot water, the towels, rags, and a crisp white sheet. I took these from her and prepared to turn away, but she said quietly, ‘Nurse, you have the window open.’
I had forgotten the rule in island culture that while a ‘corpus’ is present, all doors and windows must be kept securely shut.
‘Maggie, I’m sorry, but I can’t work in here without some air. You know what the smell is like.’
‘I suppose not,’ replied Maggie. ‘Aye, well.’ I realised that I was flouting tradition, a thing I normally tried hard not to do.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said again. ‘I promise to shut everything tightly when I have finished.’
‘Right. I’ll have some hot water for you to have a good wash in my house, Nurse, when you have finished. And then a nice wee cuppie, perhaps?’
‘Thank you, Maggie.’ I had obviously been forgiven.
I think there is no need to go into details about the next hour. It will not be difficult for the reader to imagine the state of the patient after four or five days unable to leave his bed and unwilling to allow anyone to wash or help him in any way. Suffice it to say that, with one horrendous exception, it was the worst service that I have ever had to perform for a patient, alive or dead. But finally poor Neilly was cleaner in death than he had been for many a year in life and, wrapped in the crisp white sheet, he finally looked at peace. I paused for a moment when I had finished, to pray that he was now in a better place than this awful hovel.
I shut the window, did what I could to secure the door, and then took the urn back to Maggie. She had the bathroom warm and the water hot, and I gladly washed and scrubbed myself before drinking the much-needed cup of tea.
Maggie said, ‘You can ring Roddy [the undertaker] from here.’
‘It’s all right, Maggie. I’ll ring from home.’
Maggie looked at me. ‘Nurse, you should ring now so that he can get here before dark.’ She glanced at the clock. ‘It’s near three now.’ But I still did not appreciate the urgency.
She continued firmly, ‘Roddy must remove him, Nurse, in the next hour at the outside. Because of the rats.’
I went cold. Rats! Of course! Many of those holes in the floor were not from rot but from rats. And you cannot leave a corpse where there are rats. What a dreadful scenario that conjured up.
‘Maggie, of course! I still have a lot to learn.’ She smiled sadly and handed me the phone.
But the story did not end there. When I went to inform Dr Mac of Neilly’s death (of course, he had already heard), he opened a drawer in his vast old-fashioned desk and withdrew two envelopes, one slim and one very bulky.
‘The last time I went to see Neilly to try to persuade him to allow us to treat him, he was a little more inclined to welcome me. Well, not exactly “welcome”, but he handed these to me. I was to open the fat one and read its contents but not tell anyone about it until his death, when I was to open the other one.’
‘What are they?’
‘The small one is a kind of will. He leaves everything to Maggie . . .’
‘But what on earth did he have that Maggie could possibly want?’
‘This,’ said the doctor, picking up the larger packet. ‘It is Neilly’s life story. His spidery writing is not easy to read and his grasp of English grammar is poor, but I’m quite sure that a publisher would be interested if it could be typed out and tidied up.’
Dr Mac settled back in his chair. ‘Briefly, he was born on Lewis, the oldest child of a brutal, drunken father and a mother who committed suicide after the birth of her fourth child, who was malformed. Neilly was literally the “whipping boy” of the family. If the father beat him, he left the rest alone for some reason, so Neilly put up with this treatment to protect the other children. His father was in and out of prison, so Neilly, only a boy himself, brought up the three younger ones. They had very little money and none of them seem to have had much schooling, but eventually they grew and left. Neilly joined the army and saw action in several theatres of war, including the Second World War. He was captured, starved, and beaten.’
‘I saw the scars,’ I murmured.
‘Aye, and from his father, I wouldn’t wonder,’ rejoined the doctor, who then continued this harrowing tale. ‘After the war, he went to the States, joining the New York Police Department. He married and had a son. His wife and son were both killed in a drive-by shooting. He blamed himself, as he believed it to be a reprisal because he had been the means of bringing some big-time gangster to justice. He came back to Papavray, to his uncle’s croft, a bitter man, resolved never to love anyone or trust another soul as long as he lived. His story stops abruptly when he became ill, but it would have been the end anyway, I imagine, knowing the sort of person he had become. His hermit-like lifestyle would not have yielded much of interest for his pen.’
Dr Mac finished speaking. I remained silent for a moment, thinking of this terrible story.
‘So this is what he was doing in that dreary hovel. We did him an injustice, didn’t we?’
‘We couldn’t know,’ said Dr Mac.
‘But I still don’t understand why he would not accept any help and drugs when he developed cancer?’
‘I wondered about that.’ Dr Mac shook his head. ‘I think he saw it as justice—a rightful punishment. As I said, he blamed himself for the death of his wife and young son.’
‘Poor man! Poor man,’ I muttered.
Dr Mac took a deep breath and straightened up as though throwing off the gloom.
‘Now this needs typing out.’ He looked at me, speculatively.
I left to drive home, thinking about the day. Poor Neilly, with his terrible life and dreadful death, and old Sara slipping into dementia. Apart from the kindness of neighbours, they were both alone and unloved at the end. For all its beauty and gentle way of life, Papavray had its sad side.
THIRTY-NINE
John and Joanna
My eldest son John was unable to spend much time on Papavray because he started working at an early age. Never one to enjoy school, he found college ‘boring’, he said. He left after only one term and found a job in a huge antique market. He loved the buzz and excitement of Lond
on. He shared a flat with some friends and enjoyed the independence and freedom of this pulsating city. Now, many years later, his one desire was to find a home with no buzz, no traffic, and no crowds. But he wanted more sunshine than Papavray could offer.
We knew that he had met a girl in London. Her name was Joanna and it seemed no time at all before they moved in together. This was not as common in the ’70s as now, but we had to accept the arrangement as John was 19 and Joanna 20.
We had no sooner come to terms with this news than John rang to say that the antique market had closed and they were both out of a job. Optimistic as always, he was not worried as he would soon get something else, he said.
The weeks passed and we heard nothing. He had no telephone and was the world’s worst correspondent, so we just waited to hear how they were faring. One evening, the phone rang.
‘Mum.’
‘Yes. John! Lovely to hear from you!’
‘Mum, are you sitting down?’
That question always meant trouble! I sat suddenly on the stairs.
‘I am now. What’s wrong?’
‘Mum, Joanna’s pregnant! Can you find me a job and somewhere for us to live on Papavray?’
What a bombshell! I was very glad that I was sitting down. I was lost for words.
‘Mum? Are you there?’
‘Yes . . . What are you going to do? I mean . . . are you . . .?’
‘We are going to stay together and bring up the baby . . .’
‘When is the . . .?’
‘April.’ A silence.
‘Are you going to get married?’
‘Well, perhaps. We hadn’t thought about it.’
Another shock! Papavray was old-fashioned—30 years behind the times. This would not go down well. I turned my attention to his requests.
‘I can probably find you a job of some sort, just to start you off here. When you have been here for a while, I expect you will find something else for yourself. Somewhere to live will be more difficult, but I’ll try. A caravan is about the only thing I shall be able to find, I think.’
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