Nurse, Come You Here!

by Mary J. Macleod

  THIRTY-ONE

  Home!

  I seemed to have been packing forever.

  ‘And how long are you away?’ Mary was watching with interest. She was going to look after the cats and the chickens and keep the Rayburn stoked.

  ‘Just the week,’ I said.

  ‘You’ll no wear all those clothes in just a week, foreby. I’m thinkin’ you’ll be puttin’ one on top of the other. And how will you all get in that wee Mini? It will be a gey squash!’

  She was right. It was going to be a frightful squash in the Mini for the long journey, but the Land Rover had developed some alarming rattles and groans (in addition to the usual noises) and George spoke darkly of ‘big ends’ and ‘gaskets.’ The one and only garage would have to order parts, which would take weeks to arrive, no doubt. So the Mini, it had to be!

  But I was looking forward to the break: to the sophisticated lifestyle of the capital, the shopping, a theatre trip, and a real English Christmas. But I knew that the one week would be enough, and that I’d be happy to return to the island with its island ways, island people, and slower pace of life.

  There was a knock at the door.

  ‘Come in, Roddy.’

  ‘Now, how did you know it was me?’

  ‘Your knock is different from everyone else, Roddy.’

  ‘And how is that, then?’ Roddy was nothing if not persistent.

  ‘You start softly and get louder by the third knock,’ I said. I had noticed this strange habit, which made the knock sound like a drum beat. ‘What can I do for you?’

  Roddy produced a rather soggy parcel, wrapped in newspaper.

  ‘I have a wee bit venison for my cousin in London and I was wonderin’ if you would take it to him.’

  After ascertaining this cousin’s address, I realised that the task would be impossible.

  ‘I’m sorry, Roddy, but he lives much too far away. We will be on the opposite side of London.’

  ‘And is that a long way, then?’

  ‘Yes, Roddy. London is a very big place.’

  ‘Is it, indeed?’ Roddy seemed unconvinced. I realised that if I were ever to get the car packed, I would have to explain a little more clearly.

  ‘London is about ten times the size of Papavray, perhaps more.’

  ‘Is it, indeed? London is that big?’ Roddy was amazed, but still hovered.

  ‘Yes, Roddy, it is.’

  ‘Well, well.’ He paused, pondering. ‘Then it will be bigger than Inverness, I’m thinkin’.’

  ‘Indeed, it is, Roddy.’

  ‘Well, well.’

  He wandered off with his soggy bundle, muttering to himself, ‘I’d best be having my wee bit venison for my own tea, then.’

  ‘Silly old bodach!’ said Mary with good-natured contempt. Mary had never ventured farther than Mallaig, but felt that her study of all the glossy magazines that her cousin in Cheltenham sent her qualified her to feel superior. She was another one with far-flung cousins: they all seemed to have dozens of them!

  Nick was travelling south with us, but staying for an extra week with relations and returning by air. Heathrow to Glasgow and Glasgow to Papavray on the ‘new’ plane. George too would not be returning with Andy and me, as he was off on Boxing Day to South Africa on another contract.

  The Christmas trip south was a great success! Shopping (Oxford Street style), theatre, meetings and greetings, ‘catching up’ gossip, and Christmas fun with the family filled our days.

  But all too soon, the dogs were stowed in the back and Andy and I were climbing into the car for the journey home. A very sleepy group waved from their porch: it was only four a.m. When travelling back to Papavray from the south of England, I always tried to get through Birmingham and the Manchester area before the ‘rush hour,’ It is so much easier now with all the motorways, bypassing or flying over these towns.

  As we left the city, the weather was cold and clear. Andy and both dogs slept peacefully until, by mid-morning, we crossed the border into Scotland. We were making very good time, but as we approached Glasgow, I noticed that a white covering on the far hills and the sky, heavy with more snow, seemed to be hovering only just above our heads.

  We skirted Loch Lomond: the nearby fields wore the same white mantle, while the verges of the road gradually disappeared under a snowy blanket … I was regretting the fact that we had not had room in the overcrowded car for the usual spade and shovel—my travel companions during the winter months.

  Deeper and deeper into the Highlands, we drove. The snow ploughs were already busy so that, for the most part, the surfaces were fairly clear, but the growing walls of snow beside the road told their own tale, while the gap between them rapidly became narrower. Progress was slow now, as the road was only cleared to the width of one vehicle, meaning long hold-ups.

  But abruptly, we came out of the snow. We were skirting a large loch and, while the surrounding hills were still white and sparkling in the welcome winter sunshine, the wide, newly built road was clear, and I hoped to make up some time before tackling the more remote stretches of our journey.

  Suddenly, we were spinning! Black ice! I wrestled with the steering, trying to come out of the spin. The loch was perilously near on the left but somehow we spun towards the right, waltzing across the road. I realised that we were heading for a very deep, rocky, purpose-built ditch—but there seemed to be nothing that I could do to stop us. We slipped, bumped and bounded over a stone edge, and plunged down into this gully, head-first. A young tree, growing in the bottom, stopped our progress with a bone-jarring thump!

  Andy, who had not so much as squeaked, was unhurt; I was also unhurt. I looked towards the back of the car. It was an estate car and we had a grille to keep the dogs in the rear. Two very puzzled-looking animals were sitting on the grille! I realised that we were wedged in this gully almost vertically, nose down.

  I opened my door and struggled out among the stones and boulders. We were so far down that the back of the car was lower than the road surface. Thinking of the danger posed by other vehicles on the icy road surface, I told Andy to stay in the car. So far down in the ditch, he would be safer than standing beside the road. I climbed up and waited for a vehicle to round the far bend. I intended to flag one down to ask for help.

  I was lucky! The first vehicle to appear was a Land Rover. The driver, obviously used to these conditions, slowed carefully, and gently pulled to a slightly sideways halt.

  ‘Trouble?’ was the succinct question, asked by a weather-beaten face peering from the open window. I explained and pointed to where, from his elevated position, he could just see the back of the car.

  ‘Ach! We’ll have ye out o’ there in no time at all. Much damage?’

  ‘Nothing obvious, bar a few dents. But I don’t know if she will start. I had my feet off the pedals, so she stalled on impact.’

  ‘Aye, so she would, so she would.’ This man of few words was already heaving a sturdy rope from the Land Rover.

  ‘Get the wee boy out and stand well away.’

  Andy joined me and pointed, ‘Look, he’s got a winch on the front.’

  Only then did I realise that this was about the best vehicle I could possibly have stopped! It belonged to the Forestry Commission, and was well equipped for pulling anything and everything out of trouble.

  Our friend, ever resourceful, was winding the rope from the Land Rover round a tree on the opposite side of the road, stretching it back to the tow hitch on my car. A splendid idea, I thought. Then I went hot and cold with apprehension, for the rope was across a major highway, on an icy road, round a bend!

  ‘Um … what if something comes … ?’ I stuttered.

  ‘Ach, never you mind about that. Just get yourselves away over behind yon rocks.’

  Unconvinced and terrified for everyone’s safety, we nevertheless did as we were told and got ourselves behind yon rocks.

  Leaping in to the Land Rover, our friend started the winch. At first there was a whine and nothing
seemed to be happening; but then, slowly, the car, with two miserable canine faces peering out of the rear window, made its slow and jerky way up out of the ditch and onto the road. The driver leapt out, undid the rope from around the tree and wound it back into his vehicle, which he then eased over to the verge, beside our car.

  At that moment, an enormous articulated lorry came round the bend far too quickly, hit the ice, nearly jack-knifed, was righted, and carried on with a cheery wave from the driver. As we watched, I found that I was holding my breath. If that lorry had been two minutes earlier, we might all have been killed!

  Shakily, I approached the driver of the Land Rover, who was in my car by now, trying the engine.

  ‘That was a bit close,’ I said.

  He looked up. ‘Oh aye,’ he said vaguely. ‘Daft Donald always goes too fast. But no mind.’ He was completely unimpressed by what I had looked on as a brush with certain death!

  ‘Well, there y’ar. She’s goin’. There’s a wee garage round your next bend. You’d best be getting her underneath looked at.’

  ‘Yes, yes, I will. Thank you so very much for your help. We might have been there a long time, if you had not come along and been so kind.’ I think I was gabbling a bit. One shock after another was taking its toll.

  ‘Ach, no, no. ’Tis nothin’. Mind you how you go. Where is it you are goin’?’

  I told him.

  ‘Ach. I know it well.’ He frowned. ‘I’m no sure she’ll get so far. She’s a wee bit bumped about. See and get the wee garage to look at her.’

  I assured him that I would, and tried to thank him again.

  ‘Wheisht you. I told you, ’tis nothin’.’ And with a wave, he had gone.

  I got into the driver’s seat with trepidation, but the car responded to my very gentle pressure on the accelerator, and we moved slowly forwards. No sliding, no spinning! I seemed to have control, so we drove to the ‘wee garage.’ The mechanic peered under the car and affirmed that it had had a ‘wee bit bump or two’ but that it would be ‘fine, just.’

  I filled up with petrol (this was the last petrol station that we would pass) and we were on our way. A little farther on, I let the poor dogs out. They were rather subdued, but unhurt, while Andy seemed to have enjoyed the whole episode!

  Gradually, we drove out of the area with black ice and back into the snow. The ploughs had been out here, too, so the roads were passable with care, and as I began to regain my nerve and confidence, we made reasonable time. But I knew that we would have to rouse the steamer and ferry crews, as we would now be very late and finding anywhere to stay the night in the Highlands in midwinter was virtually impossible back in the seventies.

  We were now in the remote Glen Slachan and it had been dark for some time. Andy was happily munching a sandwich and chatting between mouthfuls, when the car headlights began to flicker. They went out and then came on again. This happened several times, and then they came on and stayed on, but they were so dim that I could only see a few feet in front of the bonnet. Then the heating stuttered and failed.

  ‘Put your coat on, Andy, before you get really cold.’ I knew that this state of affairs could become dangerous: there were no other vehicles on the road now and it was very, very cold without the heating. I carried on—it was the only thing to do—but the car went more and more slowly, until the lights went out altogether and the engine failed. I had enough momentum to drift into a handy lay-by, which was mercifully free of snow.

  ‘What now, Mum?’ Andy had no real idea of the danger that we were in. Because of the lack of space in the Mini on the way south, we had not brought the usual emergency blankets.

  ‘There is nothing we can do except try to keep warm,’ I said. ‘It is very unlikely that anyone will pass. The best thing, I think, is to get the dogs onto the back seat, put all the luggage into the rear and then we, too, will sit on the back seat and cuddle up to the dogs to keep warm. Dogs have a higher temperature than humans, so we will be all right.’ I hoped! Many folk have owed their lives to dogs in this way—but it was very cold.

  I was just about to put this plan into action, when, to my utter amazement, some headlights appeared behind us. As it neared, the vehicle slowed and pulled in to the lay-by behind us. Although thankful in one way, I was mindful of the fact that we were in a dark, remote glen and therefore very vulnerable.

  A youthful figure emerged and loped towards me.

  ‘What’s the trouble? You are not having a picnic, are you?’ This was delivered in a jocular English voice.

  I tried to emulate the jollity. ‘No. We are going to leave that until daylight.’ Then I explained about the ditch and what had happened to the lights and engine.

  ‘Ah. Yes. I think you have trouble with your alternator … or perhaps … ’

  Just then, incredibly, another set of headlights appeared. This car slowed and pulled in behind the first. A huge man eased himself out of the driving seat and approached.

  ‘Howdy, little lady! What have we here, then?’ A deep Texan voice boomed through the darkness.

  Before I could answer, the first of my ‘knights in shining armour’ launched himself into a complicated opinion of what was wrong, and a technical sounding conversation rumbled to and fro.

  I was sitting in the car with the window open, in order to hear what the verdict was, when the first young man handed me an oily-looking ‘something,’ saying, ‘Pop this on the back seat.’ Then the American pushed something else in through the window, ‘You sure won’t need this for a while.’ After a few minutes, various other bits of the engine were deemed unnecessary, and passed in through the window. I began to think we would have more in the car than under the bonnet. (Or, perhaps, ‘hood’?)

  They slammed the lid down and both leaned in to the car. ‘Start your engine, little lady.’

  To my surprise, there was an instant response.

  ‘Now! You will be all right if you keep going. Don’t switch off, whatever you do, because you will not get it started again.’

  ‘Yes, yes. I understand. But I have to go on the ferry and the steamer—the little winter one—to Papavray … ’

  ‘Papavray? Gee! That’s where my Momma’s Momma came from!’

  The other young man was unimpressed. ‘Never mind all that. Just remember not to turn the engine off. Those boats will have to put up with it. If you explain, it will be OK … ’

  But the Texan was not so easily put off and demanded to know where on Papavray we lived and so on, so I told him to call if ever he got there. Being an American, he would get there, I knew. But it was so cold that our teeth were chattering.

  ‘Can I put the heating on?’ I asked.

  There was a combined howl, ‘No, no, no! There is not enough power.’

  ‘Off you go now.’ The first young man was keen for us to get on our way, and once more, I was thanking kind people for their help. We were just pulling away, when our Texan poked his head in the window to instruct Andy to ‘mind, look after your Momma, now.’

  At last, we drew away. We had an uneventful—if extremely cold—fifty miles or so, and as we approached the ferry, the first of the two crossings, I was puzzled to see that the crew were still on board because it was long past the time of the last normal sailing for the day.

  I drove onto the ramp, with my window open, to say that I must not turn the engine off, and why.

  ‘Well, well. And here you are, then, Nurse. And the wee boy, I see. Ally Mac didna tell us about the engine, foreby.’

  I was completely at sea (in more ways than one) wondering how everyone knew about our adventure, but eventually it emerged that ‘Ally Mac’ was the name of the Land Rover driver, who had deemed it wise to ring his cousin (another one with cousins) on the ferry to look out for me. From his description, they immediately knew who he meant, but of course he had not known of the engine problem. They had had a very long wait, and once again, I was thanking everyone for such help.

  ‘I’m thinkin’ the wee steamer will be
about ready for you by the time you get there. I rang them when I saw your lights comin’.’ They would have been pretty sure that mine would be the only lights at this time of night so they had even alerted the steamer for the crossing to Papavray!

  Eventually, I drove over the familiar island roads towards Dhubaig, with the feeling that nothing was real any more. We were living in a fairy-tale! The amount of help and kindness that we had experienced this day was truly ‘awesome’—as our Texan would probably say.

  As we rounded the last bend into the village, the engine started to splutter. Would our luck hold to get us home? As we descended the steep track to our house, the lights went out and the engine coughed and died. We free-wheeled the last few yards and we were home!

  We fed the dogs, had some soup, stoked the Rayburn, and thankfully climbed the stairs.

  It was three a.m.! The New Year would begin in a few hours’ time. What would that bring, I wondered? And all the following years—what of those?

  * * *

  The next few years passed in much the same way as the last three or four. The boys grew, Nick left for pastures new, Andy, now thirteen, was ready to start at the senior school, patients came and many often sadly went as our population aged, and Papavray remained as beautiful and challenging as ever.

  Then, suddenly, everything changed. Far, far away in sunny California, plans were being hatched, visas arranged and contracts drawn up, and our lives were about to change yet again.

  THIRTY-TWO

  California Sunshine!

  George, Andy, and I woke at four a.m.

  We were jet-lagged after the thirteen-hour flight so we were really awake with no hope of further sleep at all.

  George blinked across the motel room, which we were all sharing.

  ‘Let’s go and have some breakfast,’ he said.

  ‘It’s four in the morning,’ offered an astonished Andy.

  ‘That’s OK. This is California.’ George seemed in high spirits in spite of the lack of sleep.

  We dressed. I had a problem remembering to put on just a tee shirt and jeans although it was only four a.m. Where were the emergency calls on Papavray when I was woken at four a.m. by the phone and bundled myself into layers of clothes before braving a sub-zero world and lashing rain?