Nurse, Come You Here!

by Mary J. Macleod

  All district nursing, no matter where, has a certain predictability about it and at times it can be repetitive and monotonous. But our unusual, often harsh location meant that such work was frequently punctuated by considerable excitement: near-drownings and other disasters at sea, fights between drunken crofters, cars in ditches, tramplings by cows (or bulls), and, now-and-then, a gunshot wound—usually a poaching expedition that had gone wrong.

  But sometimes, just sometimes, when my relief nurse was on duty, George and the boys were away for some reason, the animals fed and the chores finished, it was good just to be. Maybe on the shore as now or, in winter, sitting in the little porch at the front of the house, where I could gaze across the snow-covered crofts to the slate-grey of the sea and the white mountains in the distance. Nearer, the village would seem to be slumbering under its duvet of snow, as work slowed and cattle were driven into the byres for warmth. Footprints of rabbits, birds, and even deer would pattern the slopes near the house, only to be obliterated when the dogs were let out to rush about with delight, to eat lumps of snow and roll in ecstasy on the cold ground, barking with excitement.

  Now, lazing on the shore, musing in this way, I had not been aware of the approaching figure until the crunch of boots on pebbles brought me down to earth. I squinted up into the sun to see Alice gazing at me with some amusement.

  ‘You were far away. What were you dreaming about?’ she asked as she eased herself down beside me.

  ‘I was just thinking how lucky we are to live here, especially on a day like this.’

  ‘I know,’ she replied. ‘I feel just like that, too.’ She paused, looking at the waves and at the sky. ‘But, I think we should make the best of the next hour or so. Alistair predicts a storm by lunch-time. That’s why I’m out early, gathering these for the garden.’

  In her hand were some seed heads of sea pinks—obviously destined to spring to life in her garden next year. Alice was a great gardener. Real gardening—growing flowers and unusual shrubs as well as taming the wild, scrubby cliff plants—was her passion, and everything that she touched grew and flourished in spite of rain, hail, cold, thin soil, and the nibbling of rabbits and deer. Most folk had trouble so much as nurturing a cabbage!

  After a brief rest, she sighed. ‘I’d better get back. Alistair and Ben are out checking the anchors on The Spajag. They are regretting commissioning her so early in the season, I think.’

  We walked back along the shore together and even as we approached Dhubaig the skies were darkening; the wind had changed direction and was now stronger and blustery, while the sea, so inoffensive a few moments ago, seemed to be gathering its forces for an onslaught. The waves were now some eight or nine feet tall as they crashed over themselves on to the pebbles, and out in the bay we could see the figures of Alistair and Ben being tossed about as they chugged back to shore in The Spajag’s small tender.

  Ben was an old seaman who lived in a cottage on the point near Alistair and Alice’s house. He helped to maintain the boat and often accompanied Alistair on his trips around the various islands. He was indispensable, as Alistair had more enthusiasm than expertise and without Ben he would probably have been at the bottom of the sea long ago.

  Belatedly very aware of the impending storm, we parted with a quick wave. There was now anger in every cloud, and great bands of orange and blue streaked to earth in the blue-black sky. The mountains, so recently anodyne, were black with menace as they seemed to hunch their shoulders against the fury of the wind. We were used to this preamble, this gathering together of nature’s forces so that alongside our awe and admiration for the glories of sky and sea was the pragmatic rush to batten down everything that was movable.

  Nick and Andy appeared and helped me to secure the chicken house, the shed doors and the house windows, and to park the vehicles where they would receive some shelter. Even cars and caravans were sometimes toppled by the force of the wind. We tucked ourselves indoors by a roaring (if rather smoky) fire and listened to the tumult outside with a smug feeling of security.

  Not so Alistair and Alice!

  At about the same time, Alistair stood at his sitting-room window with his binoculars, watching The Spajag, his pride and joy, being tossed from wave to trough and back like a matchbox. Scarcely visible through the lashing rain and the spindrift from the mountainous seas, she appeared and disappeared, first bow up then stern up, completely at the mercy of the elements. Ben, too, was at his cottage window, but he, like Alistair, knew that there was nothing that they could do but watch.

  Suddenly, the boat was tossed higher than ever and immediately spun round. The forward anchor had broken and The Spajag was wallowing about on the stern anchor only! Both men knew that it would be only a matter of moments before that dragged or the chain broke. Sure enough, the boat began to move down the loch towards the open sea. Slowly at first and then gathering speed, she disappeared round the headland.

  ‘Alice! She’s gone!’ Alistair knew that no rescue was possible. He loved his boat and was sure that he would never see her again. Alice joined him at the window and was about to put a sympathetic hand on his shoulder when she stopped.

  ‘Al, look!’ She grabbed the binoculars. ‘She’s floating up the loch. Look!’

  There was The Spajag, floundering up the loch this time. After his initial relief, Alistair realised that this was not a much better scenario than before, as she would probably collide with one of the rocky islets with which Loch Na Caillach is littered. But at least it might be possible to salvage what was left, he supposed.

  ‘She’s well built,’ he muttered to himself. ‘Clinker built. Good and strong.’ He pulled out his pipe and began the pointless task of packing and lighting it: pointless because he was rarely successful and usually ended up with an unlit pipe full of dead matches.

  Alice spoke again. ‘Al, she’s coming back down the loch now.’

  And there she was—back again, heading for the open sea once more. Poor Alistair! For several hours, he was forced to watch his beloved craft drifting up and down the loch, tossed and buffeted, but amazingly still afloat. On one occasion, when she reappeared, she had lost her mast.

  Eventually, the storm abated and there was The Spajag, battered and bruised, minus most of her superstructure, wallowing in the little bay below the house, rather like a dog that has been off on a spree and has come slinking home.

  The cruiser was restored to her former glory in the little boatyard at Dalhavaig, but Alistair sold her the following spring. He felt he was getting too old for all this maritime drama!

  TEN

  A Damp Delivery

  In our Hebridean home, I was lucky in that even the washing-up was done looking at the view. As I clattered about, I could watch the gauzy mist of a November day drift in and out of the dark peaks of craggy mountains, or marvel at lightning snaking to earth through navy blue clouds. And on calm summer evenings I could revel in the golden serenity of the sunset mirrored in the glassy sea.

  Occupied in this way one day, I saw a low-loader making its cautious way up the track on the opposite side of the glen. As I watched, it lurched onto a croft and came to rest in front of a ruined house. There it began to disgorge its burden—a long caravan, part yellow, part blue. Several figures, diminished by the distance, were waving their arms about and running to and fro. Eventually, the caravan was positioned and the figures sat on a nearby wall for a smoke.

  I knew this to be the temporary home of Danny G whilst he rebuilt the croft house that he had inherited from his grandparents. The ‘G’ was added because there were so many Dannys (often with the same surname, too) that identification became difficult. This problem applied throughout the Highlands and Islands as a result of the traditional habit of naming children ‘for’ fathers, mothers, grandparents. There are countless beautiful names from which to choose, so I found these self-imposed restrictions hard to understand—but that was the way it had always been done. It would probably take many more years and frequent app
earances of romantically named film stars in the far-flung cinemas to change these ingrained habits. One family in Dhubaig had further compounded the confusion by naming both sons for the father: ‘Shoras.’ When the second child was born, it was necessary to differentiate, so the first-born became ‘Shoras Mor’ (Big Shoras) and the baby was ‘Shoras Beag’ (Little Shoras); but as they grew up, ‘Shoras Beag’ grew much taller than ‘Shoras Mor’ so with deadly Celtic logic, one became ‘Shoras Mor Beag’ and the other ‘Shoras Beag Mor’—big, little Shoras and little, big Shoras!

  * * *

  The delivery of Danny’s caravan reminded me of the arrival of our own, for we, too, had occupied a residential caravan while our house was rebuilt. We had bought ours from a large city dealer on the east coast of Scotland, so the delivery was bound to be long and complicated.

  In this remote location, the delivery of anything from a roll of carpet to a septic tank depended on the availability of a lorry, the whim of its driver, the reliability of its engine, the tides, the weather, the steepness of the hills, and the state of the narrow roads. In our case, all these variables were further complicated by the lack of any kind of track to our croft. We had to rely on the unlikely blessing of a dry spell to ensure that our goods did not get bogged down on the long-suffering Roddy’s croft next door as we trundled back and forth across it.

  Our caravan salespeople were apparently having difficulty finding a haulier willing to undertake the hazardous journey to Papavray. This included driving a forty-foot low-loader onto a roll-on roll-off ferry, a feat that required considerable skill in high seas or low tides. Added to this was the further sea crossing on a steamer and the negotiation of the notoriously awkward pier at Dalhavaig.

  Many phone calls eventually led to its arrival in Dhubaig: but only to a point on the narrow lane, where it clung to the hill behind the two crofts. There it stayed beside the road for two weeks while the rain fell in a steady downpour and we lived in our tiny tourer. No one could even contemplate trying to get it across the morass of Roddy’s croft in that weather!

  Then, quite suddenly, the rain stopped and the land dried out—a bit. I raced to the post office to phone the garage and tell them that we were ready for them to tow our monster into place. I should have known that it would not be so easy, but I was still very new to island limitations!

  The driver-cum-garage-owner-cum-undertaker was very sorry, but the lorry had ‘broke’ and was being ‘sorted.’ In Scotland, one does not ‘mend’ anything or ‘fix’ it in any way. One ‘sorts’ it.

  ‘When will it be ready?’

  ‘Ach. I’m no sure at all. Maybe Friday.’ And with that, I had to be content.

  Friday dawned, bright and brittle, but before I could walk the short distance to the phone, a dispirited drizzle began to fall. The ground quickly resumed its spongy texture as the drizzle turned to the now-familiar downpour. Saturday was no better and no one worked on Sunday. Well, the positioning of a home was not a ‘necessity’ or an ‘emergency’ and I’m quite sure no one felt like extending mercy in that weather, so the ‘no work on the Sabbath’ rule was honoured and everyone went to church.

  On Monday, however, the driver, the lorry, and the elements combined to favour us and at about two in the afternoon, the rumble and clank of an ancient vehicle was heard in the glen. A dilapidated contraption came into view travelling at about six miles an hour. I heard, later, that it was a modified American army lorry left behind at the end of the Second World War. I’m not really surprised that they did leave it behind. The tow-hitch arrangements were no less antiquated and it took four men (some of the crofters had joined us) half an hour to secure the caravan, to their voluble satisfaction.

  ‘Do you no think we’re needin’ an extra bit rope on here?’

  ‘Ach, no. You’re worrying, man. These wee bolts will hold.’

  ‘They’re no very big!’

  The driver, very much in charge, was losing his cigarette from his bottom lip where he managed to balance it at all times. The argument had to be brought to a close.

  ‘I’m tellin’ you, it’s as safe as yon hill!’

  Totally unable to follow this logic, everyone gaped at the hill, thus singled out as the safest among so many; but the driver obviously felt that he had won the day and smugly clambered into the cab.

  So the long, slow descent to Roddy’s croft started. A narrow, curving track lay at a steep angle and culminated in a gateway that allowed less than a two-inch clearance on each side (we had measured it). And beyond that, the still soggy field had to be negotiated. The driver began to inch forward in his old wreck with our bright, new, and expensive home slewing and rocking wildly from side to side, slithering and bumping down the steep slope.

  Almost all the men from the village had now arrived to watch, and varying instructions, interspersed with depressing prophecies, were yelled by one and all. The driver, however, gave no sign of having heard. Poker-faced, he disregarded every observation or piece of advice so generously given and at no time during the four-hour struggle did his hearing appear to improve. Sucking the muddy cigarette, with his eyes screwed up in an attempt to see through the filthy windscreen, he rattled and ground his gears, pumped the inadequate brakes, and cursed absent-mindedly. No one took the slightest notice of the tense female figure wringing her hands in an agony of frustration whilst watching many hundreds of pounds worth of bright, shiny metal lurching to what looked like undoubted disaster.

  Suddenly, he arrived at the gateway. The truck squeezed through, but due to the haphazard arrangement of Roddy’s outbuildings, the monstrous caravan could not follow at the same angle. So the whole weary business of unhitching, manoeuvring, and re-hitching began again and a precious half hour was wasted. It was beginning to cloud over, and the rain, never far away, had begun to fall in a light drizzle. My impatience increased; if they did not hurry, the field would soon be so wet that the entire assemblage might bog down and then it could take weeks to persuade anyone to attempt a rescue.

  At last we were ready and, after stolidly lighting another cigarette, the driver climbed laboriously into his cab. He let in the clutch with such ferocity that the old rig, taken by surprise, leapt forward as though suddenly remembering the vitality of its far-off youth. The caravan careered through the gateway. There was a sickening crash and a splintering of glass. The large picture window at the front of the caravan was no more!

  Several hours later, our new home was in place. With much manhandling, strange oaths, sore hands, and soaked clothing, we pushed and shoved in response to the bellicose orders growled wheezily between puffs of the inevitable cigarette. There were many opposing opinions as to how the van should be parked.

  ‘You could have it face the croft.’

  ‘If you put it over there, you’ll no get the sun.’

  ‘Murdoch, you come to this end and push.’

  ‘This is the end I’m standin’, so this is the end I shall push.’

  ‘Archie, pull yon side round a bit.’

  ‘What for would I do that?’

  And so the arguments continued, demonstrating once more the fierce individuality of the Gaels. But it was done, as things always are, with good-natured disputes ending in laughter.

  The picture window with its shattered pane was receiving the full force of the driving rain for it faced the sea, each raindrop being caught by the wind and hurled in through the gaping hole.

  ‘Archie, Roddy—do you have a tarpaulin that I might borrow?’ I begged.

  The driver overheard. ‘Ach, a wee drop rain’ll do you no harm.’ A derisive smile hovered around his mouth, threatening to dislodge the latest cigarette. Obviously pleased with this sally, he reversed his lorry, now free of its burden, and, with the raising of one finger in salute, trundled off into the darkening evening.

  It was four weeks before I could convince the island’s only glazier to come to Dhubaig and then he calmly told me that he had only come to measure the ‘wee windy.’ Another three
weeks elapsed before the glass was finally in place. We only just dried out for Christmas!

  ELEVEN

  Guilty or Not Guilty

  Doctor Mac had been visiting an old patient in Dhubaig and had dropped in for a cup of tea. He drank more tea than anyone I have ever known and often turned up at our house looking hopeful.

  We were chatting quietly when there was a rap on the door followed by a shout.

  ‘Are ye there then, Nurse?’

  Although it was about 6:00 p.m., I knew it would be Postie. This was our usual time for the mails to be delivered. One of the contradictions on the island was that the postman was termed the ‘postie’ but the actual post was called the ‘mails.’ So we had the ‘postie’ delivering the ‘mails,’ but no one, other than myself, thought this at all odd! On Fridays, he delivered the local newspaper as well.

  I called, ‘Come in.’ And into the kitchen marched Postie.

  ‘You’ll be wantin’ to see this, Nurse—Doctor too, I wouldn’t wonder.’

  He slapped the paper down on the table and stood back with the air of a magician who has successfully pulled off a difficult trick.

  The headline read, ‘Island Nurse Charged with Murder.’ Doctor and I read on with mounting horror and disbelief.

  ‘Angela Robertson, who has served as a district nurse on several of the Western Isles, was today (that was two days ago, of course) charged with the murder of her estranged husband who was found in his car outside her house with a fatal stab wound to his chest. The nurse … ’ and so the article went on.