Nurse, Come You Here!

by Mary J. Macleod

  Altogether, it was a steep, beautiful, rather eerie place, dangerous in winter and gentle in summer.

  This stretch of the road figured highly in Dhubaig’s life, as it had to be traversed before tackling the far more challenging Loch Annan hill and the slopes of Ben Criel in order to get to ‘the other side’: Dalhavaig, Cill Donnan, the school, the hospital, and so on.

  When we first arrived on Papavray, I thought of Clachan Beg as just one more hill among so many, but, gradually, I became aware of a sort of hush in the voices of the crofters when talking of this particular hill. It seemed that it had a story to tell but no one wished to tell it. Many things had happened on that hill and only some could be explained.

  Two or three hundred years ago, when this road had been nothing more than a track negotiable only by pony or on foot, a traveller came across the hills to Dhubaig. He was an itinerant preacher determined to save a few Hebridean souls.

  The man was welcomed and invited to stay with one of the crofters. He was fed and listened to with politeness as he preached fire and brimstone—exhorting them all to penitence. After a day or two, he went round the croft houses asking for donations so that he could go to ‘darkest Africa’ and preach to the ‘heathen natives.’ The people had very little—not enough for themselves—but they gave what they could.

  However, one of the crofters became suspicious of the preacher and, while he was asleep, rifled the sack which he carried everywhere with him. In it he found gold coins such as he had never seen before, some jewelry, and hundreds of coppers which the man must have collected from other villages such as Dhubaig.

  The crofter told five of the men. They came back to the house to challenge the preacher but he had gone; he must have heard them talking. They went after him and caught him up in Clannan Beg. They attacked him with sticks so that he dropped the bag and ran. In their estimation, justice had been done; they had retrieved more than they had lost. But one hot-headed crofter pursued the man, struck him with a stone, and killed him. The others—decent men—were horrified, but clan or family loyalty persuaded them to cover up the whole incident by burying the body and the jewelry. They would keep the dark deeds a secret.

  But after that night, whenever the six walked in Clannan Beg, they heard footsteps behind them, getting closer and closer, but when they turned round there was never anyone there. They became scared—demented—and began to scream and babble so that the whole village soon knew their terrible secret.

  The six decided to secretly exhume the body and burn it, hoping that this might destroy the ghost. So the grisly remains were dug up, but they were found to be so decomposed and wet that nothing would burn so they were reburied. The phantom footsteps continued. So they took the remaining money to a high cliff and threw it into the sea. This too failed, as the unremitting tide kept returning coins to the shore and the ghostly footsteps continued.

  When Archie told me this tale (not at a ceilidh in the usual way, but privately), he said that as many of the present villagers were descended from these six men, no one admitted to hearing the footsteps. But they were still heard sometimes, he assured me. Did Archie hear them? If not, how did he know that it still happened? I didn’t ask.

  Oddly, a year or so after Archie’s story, I found an old coin on the shore. I said nothing. I did not want to open that particular ‘can of worms’ again. The coin is still in a drawer in the house somewhere.

  I’m fairly sure that George cannot possibly be descended from any of those doubtful characters, but even so, Clannan Beg has not been very kind to the MacLeod family. This was the hill where I had a burst tyre and a broken steering column when on duty one day, but our problems in Clannan Beg started long before that—just a few weeks after arriving on Papavray.

  Andy had started at the little primary school situated near the hospital at Rachadal. The four children from Dhubaig were driven the ten miles or so in the ‘school car,’ Mungo’s ancient estate car (the crofters still called such vehicles ‘shooting brakes’). Sometimes a crofter would beg a lift so all the children had to be packed onto the back seat—there were no seat belts then. A bit of pushing and shoving went on but at least they were warm. Mungo’s heater had never been known to work, or, said some, he did not know how to turn it on!

  One winter day, the snow had begun to fall as Mungo picked the children up from the school. It was quite deep and slippery by the time he started to descend Clannan Beg. All the children were in the back, as Jacko had claimed a lift.

  Suddenly, on a steep bend, the car slid sideways, hit the rocks bordering the road, and turned onto its side. Another foot or so and it would have hurtled down into the burn.

  The first I knew of all this, having only just returned from a local call, was when Andy came in, blue with cold and shaking uncontrollably. His feet, clad in ordinary shoes, were so cold and wet that he could scarcely do more than shuffle. Lots of rubbing with warm towels, some dry clothes, hot cocoa, and a seat beside the Rayburn restored him and he was able to tell me the whole story.

  ‘I was on the bottom of the pile, Mum. We were all squashed in the back and wee Murdo-John was on my lap. We were playing ‘I Spy’ but it was boring because we couldn’t really spy anything; the windows were all steamed up.’

  ‘How did it happen?’ I asked, still rubbing his feet.

  ‘The car skidded on the ice or the snow and Mungo said some bad words … Mum, what does “bugger” mean?’

  I ducked that one. ‘Please, just tell me what happened.’

  ‘Mungo waggled the steering wheel but the car just kept on sliding. Then there was a big bump and a bang. Wee Murdo-John fell off my lap and the car turned onto its side and still went on sliding. Then there was another bump and Mungo said that we’d hit the rocks. Then the car stopped, but I was on that side and everybody landed on top of me. I couldn’t breathe properly because Roddie was on my face so I pushed him off and then I could breathe, but I was squashed against the door and the handle was sticking in my back and it hurt.’

  For the first time since arriving home, Andy began to cry.

  He sniffed and continued, ‘I was on the bottom of the pile, under all the others. Jacko got us all up and out, but we had to wait in the snow for Mungo. He was stuck behind the steering wheel and there were a lot more bad words, but he got out and we all walked home in the snow. It was so cold, Mum. Mum, what does “bugger” mean, ’cos Mungo said it again?’

  I just was not in the right frame of mind to go into explanations or anatomical definitions—I would need notice and a rather less stressed atmosphere to do that one justice!

  ‘I think a hot bath might be better than all this chat,’ I said. Cowardly? Maybe.

  Later, I heard the story again from Jacko. It seemed that all the children, some bigger than Andy, had been thrown to one side and Andy was, indeed, ‘on the bottom of the pile’ of children. He was very lucky not to have any broken bones but he was very sore and bruised from the weight of so many sturdy youngsters pressing him against the door handle. I thanked Jacko for what he had done in getting them all out and bringing them home.

  ‘Aye. Mungo and me, we felt like the Pied Piper of Hambelline,’ said Jacko.

  Clannan Beg was particularly difficult to negotiate in early morning icy conditions. On such days, no one wanted to have to follow old Dougall (he was a notoriously bad driver) up the two bad stretches of road: the Clannan Beg hill and even worse—Loch Annan hill. Usually I got away before him, as everyone tried to do, but one day I was late.

  On this incredibly beautiful but searingly icy morning, I slewed and slid towards Clannan Beg, getting ready to engage second gear and give the accelerator plenty of punch, the only tried, tested, and usually successful way to keep the wheels turning and the car moving forwards and upwards. My heart sank as I saw the back of ‘Daft Dougall’s’ car ahead of me, making its ponderous way towards the dreaded hill.

  I had just begun the ascent, hoping forlornly that he might make the top and so leave m
e the chance to do the same, when, to my horror, I realised that not only had he stopped going forwards, he was actually sliding backwards down the hill towards me. There was nowhere to go, nowhere to pass or pull over: the ground rose on the right straight from the edge of the narrow road while on the left was the deep, gaping, rock-filled chasm. With no time to think, I gently pressed my brake and stopped just before his car hit me. I kept my foot down hard on the pedal and my brakes held us both, to a degree, so that we slid about on the road rather than one or other or both plunging into the burn far below. We gradually came to a stop. Silently thanking the Good Lord for both of us, I was amazed when Dougall exploded from his car and stalked towards me, clearly very angry.

  ‘Could you not have got out of my way, Nurse? Or backed down the hill to let me by at yon passing place?’

  I couldn’t believe my ears.

  ‘Dougall! My brakes saved us both from going over the edge. You are lucky that I couldn’t back down the hill. As if I had time anyway, with you sliding back into me!’

  ‘What about my car? I’ll not get going again. What are you going to do about that?’ he ranted on.

  ‘Me? My car is damaged at the front and so likely to be more serious than yours. Anyway, Dougall, neither of us is likely to get going. We shall just have to wait for someone to come with a tractor.’ I knew that Archie patrolled the road on such days, making sure that folk got ‘off’ in the mornings and earning himself a little pocket money towing them out of trouble if they were stuck.

  ‘Well, I’ll no be payin’ for that! That’s your job, Nurse.’

  ‘Dougall, I think we had better leave all this to our insurance companies. I don’t think you quite understand.’ I fetched my insurance company’s address from the car and handed it to him. He looked puzzled.

  ‘I havenae one of these to me.’

  ‘I’ll call round this evening and get it from you then.’ But I was already guessing that he was uninsured.

  ‘Oh. Aye. Och, ’twas not my fault.’ He drew himself up. ‘I’m not feeling like acceptin’ responsibility for this, Nurse. So I’ll want you to pay for my damage.’

  I stared at him. Was he living on another planet? He obviously had no idea about the procedures to be followed after an accident.

  Luckily, at that moment, I heard the unmistakable sound of Archie’s tractor. With the usual puff of black smoke, he rumbled to a slightly uncertain halt.

  Taking in the situation, he said, ‘Ha. I see that Dougall has been drivin’ backwards again. Do you not think you’d get there faster, Dougall, if you tried forward gear.’

  Dougall scowled, ‘’Tis Nurse’s fault. She should a’ got out my way.’

  ‘Ho,’ said Archie, ‘it’s that one again is it? Doesn’t want to give his insurance number, Nurse, is that right?’

  ‘Well, yes, Archie. He doesn’t seem to understand …’

  ‘Oh, he understands all right. He isn’t insured at all. He is hopin’ you’ll just get fed up and pay up.’

  ‘No, Archie, I won’t. If he had not been so rude and aggressive, I might have done, but now I’ll have to get the police …’

  ‘No. No. There’s no need, Nurse. I’ll pay my part.’ Dougall was suddenly full of co-operation.

  ‘You’ll pay all of it—yours and Nurses, ye daft bodach.’ Archie was grinning. ‘I’ll make sure he pays. He doesna want the police—what with no insurance y’understand.’

  ‘He doesn’t seem to realise that if my brakes had not held, we could both be down there,’ I said, pointing down into the abyss.

  ‘Aye. He’s hopeless. Shouldna be on the road.’

  But next winter, he was still on the road—and off it—and we still had to try to get away from the village before he did.

  A few nights later we braved the wind and rain, which had replaced the snow, to struggle over the croft to Archie and Mary’s house to a ceilidh, where the chatter and singing was going full swing.

  ‘Where’s Roderick? He said he’d be here,’ wondered Archie.

  ‘Ach, he has a sick beast. He’s doubtless in the byre with her.’ Callum-the-hill lived near Roderick.

  We waited, chatting for a while, then Murdo began to grin. ‘Do you mind one time when he’d no turned up at a ceilidh? He’d been struck by lightning.’

  George and I pricked up our ears. We felt a story coming on.

  ‘What happened?’ I asked.

  ‘’Twas a long time ago—maybe thirty year or so. Roderick used to sell much more stuff in his wee shop back then, includin’ meat. He’d walk for miles, deliverin’. Very few had cars then, y’see. Well, he was on his way up Clannan Beg to old Mrs. MacTickle …’

  I interrupted, ‘‘‘MacTickle”? I’ve never heard that name before.’

  ‘Ach, no. Y’wont. The old soul had something wrong with her mouth and she couldna say “MacDougall.” It came out “MacTickle” so we always called her that.’

  ‘Aye,’ said Fergie. ‘But I don’t think old Mr. MacDougall did much ticklin’. She was a sour old besom, to be sure.’

  ‘Fergie!’ Mary pretended to be shocked.

  Murdo continued. ‘She lived up in Clannan Beg … ’ He noticed our puzzled looks. There were no houses in or near the Clannan Beg now.

  ‘Aye.’ He shook his head. ‘’Tis not there now. ’Twas washed away during the big flood in ’60. But she’d been dead a long time by then.’

  ‘Good thing, too. She’d have died in the flood anyway.’ Archie sounded lugubrious.

  Poor Murdo must have wondered if he would ever get to tell his story. He had a slurp of tea and started again.

  ‘Well, he was on his way up there when there was an almighty storm. Came from nowhere. Thunder, lightnin’, and hailstones. He’d have been about under all those old trees by then.

  Well, when it got to seven o’clock, old Mary, Roderick’s mother, began to worry. Then when eight and nine came and still no Roderick, some of us men set off on tractors to see would we find him. The storm and the lightning was something terrible. We were just gettin’ to yon hill, when we saw him comin’ towards us. He was walkin’ like a drunken man but we knew fine that Roderick never took a dram. We called him to climb up to take him home but he didna seem to hear us and when we looked at him, we could see that he still had the meat.

  ‘What are y’ comin back for? Ye havena taken the old caillach the meat yet.’ He said nothing and just stood starin’ ahead and his eyes looked funny.

  ‘Well, we took the meat to old Tickle, but when we handed it to her, she screamed and yelled that it was all muddy and soggy and she’d no have that and she’d no pay for it and so on. Ach! The woman!

  ‘We left and took the meat. It did look a bit muddy but it was dark, y’understand. We took Roderick to his house and when his mother saw the meat, she screeched, sayin’ that it was cooked and burnt and who had done that? We looked and sure enough, it was all charred up. So we looked at Roderick’s hands and they were all red and sore. Then we could see that his coat was burnt in front. His hair, too, was standing on end and he was still starin’ at nothing. He’d been struck by lightning, all right!

  ‘Next day, we took him to the doctor. He said that the lightning had struck the meat and not Roderick and that he was very lucky because the lightning had cooked the meat, not Roderick. Imagine that! Just a split second of lightning cooked that meat!’

  ‘Was Roderick all right?’ I asked.

  ‘Aye. It took a day or two for his hands to heal and he was a bit dazed for a whiley, but he was soon as right as rain.’

  Just then Roderick himself pushed open the door and stood looking round. We were all staring at him.

  ‘You’ve no bin struck by lightning this time, then?’ said Archie, grinning.

  ‘Ah. That’s what it is then. Which time were you telling them?’

  I was puzzled. ‘Was there more than one time then?’ I asked.

  ‘Oh, aye,’ said Roderick, as though being struck more than once by lightning was
the most normal thing in the world.

  ‘Only about a month after the first time, I was gettin’ the cow in across the croft in another awful storm. I just remember lookin’ round at the cow and she was lyin’ on the ground, not moving; and the rope round her neck was smokin’ and I could smell the smell of meat cookin’. She was dead. Aye, ’twas a blow, indeed. She was a good milker.’

  Roderick seemed more concerned at the loss of the milk cow than the danger that he had been in.

  ‘What about you, Roderick? Were you all right?’

  ‘Oh, aye. The rope had burnt ma hand, but that’s all. Oh, and ma coat sleeve was all burnt, too. Aye. Two coats burnt in the one month.’ He shook his head. ‘And the cow.’ He brightened, ‘But we used the carcass.’

  ‘How do you mean?’ asked young Janet.

  ‘We chopped her up and everyone had a bit.’

  ‘Ugh,’ said Janet.

  Archie laughed. ‘Who had the bit that was already cooked—the neck?’

  Roderick grinned. ‘I did. Ma Mother said it tasted grand.’

  Everyone laughed, tea and dumpling were passed around, and Janet was asked to play her bagpipes. To these folk, lightning striking the same person twice within a month was just part of life—and a good story for the ceilidhs.

  I was thinking how such an incident would have been dealt with in the towns and cities of the south. The papers would have had a field day with scientists, meteorologists, statisticians, storm-chasers, and fanatics all clamouring for print space. Roderick would have been subjected to medical tests and long-term monitoring, his coats examined and calculations made about the amount of heat, while erudite professors reported their conclusions in the Lancet. And so on.

  What was it on Papavray? Just a story for the ceilidhs!

  FOUR

  A Cow in the Kitchen

  Bump! Bang! Shake! Bang! The house was shaking: the dogs exploded into hysterical barking.

  It was early in the morning. I had been asleep.

  I jumped up, totally disorientated. Something was shaking the house.