Nurse, Come You Here!

by Mary J. Macleod

  ‘The next thing I remember was looking down from a great height on the ever-diminishing boat with faces staring up at me. I thought that I was already dead. Then I became aware of a throbbing, whirring noise above me and I realised that I was suspended beneath a helicopter. I must have passed out again—perhaps with relief at knowing that I was still alive! I came round briefly to hear a voice saying, “Hang in there, Nick, we land in five minutes,” and then I passed out once more. I returned to a semblance of consciousness while being pushed at speed on a wheeled trolley along a brightly lit passageway with doors crashing open before us. I was rushed into an even brighter room where a hazy, white-coated person peered at me.

  ‘I finally came round properly in the recompression chamber: the pain had gone and I felt a great deal better. I believe I was in the chamber for about four hours.

  ‘I remained in Aberdeen Royal Infirmary for several days being cared for and bossed about by some very strict Royal Navy nurses. The doctor told me that I had ruptured my left lung, which had collapsed, filling the left chest cavity with air. The swift and efficient rescue and recompression treatment had ensured a quick recovery, but I remember a lot of very painful coughing for some time.

  ‘Had Doug dived as he should have done, I would have been able to take a breath from his apparatus, alternating with him, using the air from his tank for both of us. This is called “buddy breathing.” But he had not dived as planned, so I was alone.

  ‘Sadly, I was told never to dive again.’

  * * *

  So ended a career before it began! Although sorry for Nick’s dashed hopes, I was so relieved at the positive outcome of a dangerous accident that I could only be glad that his flirtations with a watery eternity were at an end.

  THIRTY

  007 in a Morris Minor

  It had been an odd week, I reflected, as I arranged some very business-like cups and saucers on a tray for the visitor due this afternoon. George had been working on the island for two or three weeks now, so life had assumed a pleasant, gentle normality which was a nice change from the often frenetic dashes for the plane or the long trek south by road when the company that he used to work for got in touch. They seemed to forget that he was not actually employed by them any longer and called on him in various crises. He was usually only too pleased to accept the challenge and the adventure, but occasionally even he felt that time spent at home was beneficial. Then he had time to appreciate the peace and beauty of the island and the slower pace of life, which, after all, was why we were here.

  But yesterday, the phone had rung and a very stern voice had asked to speak to George.

  ‘Am I speaking to the George MacLeod who works for Control Gear and Engineering CA?’

  ‘Well, I am not actually employed by them any longer but I do work for them from time to time. Who is this?’

  ‘I am not at liberty to discuss anything on the phone but I represent M16. One of my colleagues will call on you tomorrow afternoon. We would like a little information from you.’

  ‘Oh. Um. Yes, of course.’ George was flummoxed. This was not what one expected on a remote Hebridean island!

  It was arranged that the ‘colleague’ would call at about half past three, and we were to keep the matter quiet. What a hope on Papavray!

  Yesterday evening, we had puzzled over what it could be. I was inclined to be nervous. George had worked for a California-based company, but had been sent to some countries with dubious reputations for human rights observance and several communist regimes. I wondered if George had ‘witnessed’ something or other. I was always wryly amused by the fact that a company from the most overtly capitalist nation in the world seemed to be in such demand in communist countries.

  Andy had to be told that someone was coming because he would be home from school while the visitor was here. His eyes were enormous with excitement as we explained that it was someone from M16.

  ‘It’s just like James Bond,’ he said. ‘Will he have a gun? Will he be in an Aston Martin like in the films?’

  ‘I hope not,’ I said. ‘Papavray would never get over it.’

  ‘He might want to talk to Dad in private so we will have to push off somewhere,’ I said. Our house was open-plan with no really private room.

  ‘Does he want to know about that country where you gave the man who was following you the slip by jumping off buses?’

  ‘Well, if it is, Andy, he is jolly late because that was a year ago now.’

  ‘Tell us all about it again, Dad.’

  So George began to reminisce.

  * * *

  He had worked in three different communist-held towns in the Eastern Block where the American company was involved in installing computerised control systems in factories. (Computers were in their infancy in the seventies.)

  On their first visit, George and an American colleague, Hank, flew in to the capital of the area on an international airline arriving at seven in the morning local time. They were met and swept out of the airport in a large car with darkened windows, straight to a meeting. No quiet coffee to recover from the trip, no gentle introduction to the country. No—they were taken directly to a meeting like no other!

  A long, shiny table was surrounded by large, earnest men in badly made suits and several female interpreters, who were the only people to speak English other than George and Hank. Down the length of the table stood bottle after bottle of vodka and many of the assembled company were drinking heavily already. It was not even nine a.m.!

  George and Hank were pressed to partake and their refusal was clearly resented until the interpreter explained that they were not used to drinking so early in the day or at a meeting. This was greeted with much mirth and little understanding, but, as the meeting was discussing the job that they were to do, they said they needed a clear head. This seemed to be an alien idea and caused more laughter.

  When the meeting broke up, the two were taken for a meal. They had a while to look at the shops, which were pitifully empty, and at some of the architecture left by a more affluent age before communism swept away a lot of the beautiful buildings.

  They were then hustled off to the railway station and onto a hissing steam train of outdated design, which rattled off across vast, snow-covered plains. They slept until the train pulled in to a station in the darkness of the Arctic winter night. They were met by a dour giant of a man, muffled in smelly furs. He pointed to a car, once more with blacked out windows, which looked as ancient as the train and, taking their cases from them, flung them into the boot, jumped into the driving seat, and took off at an alarming rate, horn blaring continuously. Of course, George and Hank knew that in going to a communist country, they would be subject to all manner of rules and restrictions, but this extreme treatment was worrying. Were they being protected from something, or suspected of something? Neither spoke the language (or languages—there were many dialects) and here, there was no interpreter so they could not ask the driver for any information. They had the feeling that in any case, he would not tell them anything.

  Although he drove at breakneck speed, his eyes seemed to be on them in the mirror more than on the road. Happily, there was no traffic at all and they were to find that there were very few cars in any of the three towns that they were to work in—the regime was too strict and the general public too poor.

  At last, the car stopped before a shabby but once-ornate building which appeared to be in darkness. The driver opened the car door and grunted, wagging his head towards the door of the hotel, as it turned out to be. They went to retrieve their cases but were pushed aside while the giant lifted them and strode into a dimly lit hall. Here, he held out his hand, and they realised that he wanted the keys to open the cases. They stood by while he rifled through their possessions, grunted with apparent satisfaction, stuffed everything back in, and marched off with them up the stairs. Hank and George followed. It was obvious that the stairs and the corridors had not been cleaned in a long time. They passed bits of food, d
ust, discarded clothes, and an empty vodka bottle. The giant opened a door and almost pushed the two men inside.

  Where were the two well-appointed single rooms that had been promised? By the dim light in the centre of the one room, they could see two wooden beds, old and chipped. There was a faded rug on the linoleum floor, two armchairs, and a table, while a curtain was drawn across a corner to form a wardrobe. But the linen looked clean and there were two large, new towels on the end of the beds. The giant grunted again and led them along a corridor to the bathroom, which they could smell well before they reached it. This too was primitive but had a shower of sorts and a washbasin as well as a disgustingly stained toilet without a seat.

  Back in their room, they tried to indicate to the giant that they were hungry, so where was the restaurant? With a shake of the head, and the word, ‘Nya,’ the man pointed to his watch. It was past midnight, so presumably the restaurant was closed. They would remain hungry, it seemed.

  With that, the giant left the room, banging the door behind him. It was bitterly cold and there was no heating but there seemed to be plenty of blankets on the beds—all rather elderly and topped by old-fashioned eiderdowns. So, tired from their journey and resigned to their hunger, they undressed and climbed into the lumpy beds.

  Before it was light, there was a pounding on the door and a shout. They assumed that they were being given the local version of an alarm call. Downstairs, the restaurant was vast and bare but already full of men eating what looked like salami and grey bread. At least there was tea to drink—they almost thought that there would be more vodka. How different this was from the sophisticated town of yesterday!

  Almost everyone in the town seemed to be employed at the factory that George and Hank were to computerise. The crowd, made up of many different nationalities, clumped along the rough road; the scene reminded George of the men of the northern mining towns of England back in the thirties. The two immersed themselves in their work and, at the end of the day, ate in the canteen and returned to their dingy hotel.

  During the night, George woke to hear some very colourful language, interspersed with loud thumps. He opened his eyes to see Hank chasing round the room whacking the floor with his shoe.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Killing this bugger—I hope.’

  A huge brown rat was scuttling round the room, pursued by Hank. Just then, there was a sickening ‘squish’ as Hank finally killed it. He calmly opened the window, dropped the body out and went back to bed. But that was not the end. Several more nights were disturbed in the same way. When they complained (with difficulty) they were told, with a shrug, that it was not at all unusual. It seemed that they just had to put up with it.

  There was little to do in the town. There was a market and a few shops which were poorly stocked. Such things as fruit, cakes, even meat and milk were only available occasionally, so everyone took to carrying a string bag, in case they happened to see something which they would have to buy there and then, because it would be gone tomorrow! These became known as ‘in case’ bags, and George and Hank soon took to carrying them.

  ‘Is that the town where you had a secret policeman following you all the time, Dad?’

  Andy was enthralled by the rats but eager to get to the fun bit.

  ‘No, that was in the next town. That town was so-called ‘closed,’ and up to a point, it was. We were taken in and out of the place by train under cover of darkness, only allowed to walk about in a small area of a few streets and not allowed outside the town at all. But there were some nice old buildings and a few churches—hardly used—and a few up-market shops for foreign workers like me, so, as I was by myself on this job, I enjoyed wandering into these places. A secret policeman was assigned to me … ’

  ‘Did he have a gun, Dad?’

  ‘Oh yes. They all had guns. I sometimes wondered if they knew how to fire them or, indeed, if they even had bullets in them.’

  ‘Wow!’ said Andy.

  ‘Well, this guy followed me everywhere—to the shops, to the nice old buildings, to the factory, to the scruffy little park, and so on, so I decided to have a bit of fun. I used to get on a bus, wait until I saw him get on and then just as it started up, I would jump off again, leaving him stuck on the bus behind the automatic doors. Then I’d walk alongside the bus and wave. He would get off at the next stop and plod along behind me wherever I went. He was rather fat and I often walked and walked and walked just to tease him. Eventually, we came to a kind of understanding. He was always waiting in the hotel foyer when I came down in the morning ready to follow me when I left. It was a lot of nonsense really because he knew that I knew that he was always watching me. So, in the end, I would tell him (in sign language) where I was going. He had more sense of humour than many, because he’d laugh and put his thumb up.

  Andy laughed. ‘I wish I could have seen his face when you jumped off the bus!’

  * * *

  As I was putting out some cakes and biscuits in readiness (no cocktails here—shaken or stirred), Andy came in.

  ‘I’m home in time. And I haven’t told a soul, I promise.’

  Half an hour went by, then another, and then the sound of a very ordinary car engine was heard and a small Morris Minor began slowly to descend our track.

  Andy’s face was a picture. ‘This can’t be him!’

  But it was. The elderly car drew up by the gate and an equally elderly man emerged.

  Poor Andy! The man was short, arthritic, and wore thick glasses—not the dashing James Bond type of Andy’s dreams.

  We greeted Mr. Downs—not even an interesting name—and invited him to have some tea. In a broad northern English accent, he accepted.

  He and George sat by the fire and, when I brought the tea, with Andy helping, we were invited to join them. Mr. Downs seemed reluctant, but after a lot of ‘humming’ he began.

  ‘I believe you have recently been to … ’ (He mentioned one of the communist countries.)

  ‘That’s right. I was there helping to install computerised control gear in a factory making trucks. But it was not recently. It was a year ago!’

  Mr. Downs seemed rather embarrassed. ‘Oh. Ah. Yes.’ But he offered no explanation for the immense delay.

  ‘Can you describe the work, the factory, the towns for me?’

  This was going to take some time. The American company had contracts for many computer-based projects at a time when computers were very new, and many less well-developed countries and those under oppressive regimes had no experts of their own.

  Andy tried to ignore his disappointment in Mr. Downs and his Morris Minor because the fact that M16 wanted George’s opinion on things was exciting in itself. And then suddenly, he became a part of it.

  ‘Have you any photos of the factory?’ Mr. Downs asked, taking notes.

  ‘Well, no,’ said George. ‘We were not allowed to take photos—in fact we were not allowed a camera at all. I was followed by their secret police everywhere I went.’

  ‘Dad! I have that booklet that you brought home, showing the lorries —not the factory or anything. Just the lorries.’

  Mr. Downs looked at Andy with surprise. ‘Can you fetch it for me to see?’

  The booklet was an attempt on the part of the regime concerned to impress its people, and merely showed pictures of rather old-fashioned-looking lorries, but Mr. Downs seemed very interested.

  So the interview went on. Nothing new to us was revealed as Mr. Downs was there to gather information rather than impart any.

  Right from the first call from M16, I had been shaking my head in disbelief. There were so many things that were so unbelievably amateur about all this. Being discussed was a visit that took place a year ago! Here was a government department relying for some information on a booklet given to a child! Questions were being asked about the location of the factories that were obviously already well known to the American company concerned, and an employee (George) was asked for photos. Surely Western agents
had had a year in which to take any number of pictures that might be of interest.

  This was the time of the so-called ‘Cold War,’ so there was skulduggery on both sides. Yet the information that Mr. Downs was gathering was a year old! Some of the towns that George had worked in were supposed to be ‘closed cities’—in other words, no foreigners were allowed in, so it was assumed that all sorts of secret and possibly sinister ‘goings-on’ were being kept hidden. Hmm! We knew about eight or ten people from the West who were working in—or had been working in—these places.

  Yes, George was followed everywhere and not allowed past the town perimeters, and the trains taking him to these towns travelled at night and many of these factories were underground, but none of this was unusual in such secretive countries. There must have been dozens of trained agents at work in the Eastern Block, so why George?

  Mr. Downs stayed for about two hours, filling page after page of his notebook with neat writing and asking often very simple questions. He seemed to me like someone who had never been abroad and was unsophisticatedly interested in the most ordinary things.

  After he had gone, we discussed his visit endlessly and realised that if the British Intelligence Service was generally as pathetic and out of date as on this occasion then we, the public, had much to fear. Hopefully, this was an isolated incident, but we were amazed and appalled and completely unbelieving about the sheer naivety of M16.

  We were told to discuss the visit with no one. We would not have been inclined to do so anyway, as we were embarrassed by what we felt was the stupidity of the whole thing. We also knew that the locals would have been intrigued by a visit to the island by M16 and it would have got in the local paper. But of course we allowed Andy to tell Nick, who was mightily unimpressed when told about the Morris Minor!

  We never heard from M16 again. It was as if none of it had happened at all. Andy never saw his book of trucks again. I wonder what they did with it?