Nurse, Come You Here!

by Mary J. Macleod

  So what now? We knew that George’s month’s salary would soon evaporate and would not be replaced. And yet, we seemed to be trapped in a Micawber-like frame of mind, hoping that something would turn up. It just did not seem possible that there was nothing out there for George.

  We began to sell our possessions. We had some favourite antique furniture and a few unusual articles from other lands. It would have been hard for the crofters to recognise their ‘Nurse MacLeod’ in the person taking the box of goods into an antiques shop. We sold two rare Japanese dishes, a real Russian samovar, a lovely old Davenport, and many more precious things. The proceeds would keep us for a month.

  We were about to sell the boats as well when Mr. Micawber was proved correct—at least in our case—and something did ‘turn up.’

  A Californian colleague who had worked for the company for many years came to see George, telling us that he had found a job with a major engineering company in Pasadena. He confessed that he had suspected that all was not well and had put ‘feelers’ out before the company went bankrupt and had landed a good position. He had recommended George to the manager and an interview had been arranged.

  George got the job! What a relief!

  Andy relaxed, George was content, and I … well, I felt that it was all too good to be true. And we know what they say—it usually is! But I tried to dismiss these doubts and began to think about retraining. I had to be sure that it was what I wanted as it would cost a considerable amount and, I suppose, we had had such a shock that I was reluctant to commit our replenished funds to a project that might not work out. It was many years since my UK training: I had been a district (country) nurse in a gentle, behind-the-times area in the Hebrides and I realised that I would be very out-of-date even in my native country, let alone in California with its modern technology, faster life-style, and emphasis on youth. So I might be too old now anyway. I let things drift.

  At about this time Argentina invaded the Falklands. Little was made of it in California—it was all so far away, but there happened to be two Argentinian boys at Andy’s school, one in his class. Andy and this lad very sensibly shook hands, saying that it was not personal in any way and would make no difference to their friendship. The other boy confronted Andy, dubbing him ‘an aggressor,’ ‘filthy British enemy,’ and much more. Luckily, no one took much notice of his ranting, but Andy was careful to avoid him. How differently these two Argentinians dealt with the situation. If only nations could shake hands!

  We resumed our confident boating, swimming, dog (sorry—canine) walking in the hills, and as a family we had good times, but I was not convinced that our future lay here. I was reluctant to form any really close ties only to have to walk away from these friendly, generous people one day.

  Winter came again. Down near the coast where we lived, the temperature rarely dropped below seventy degrees but when the thermometer plunged to that apparently magical level, out came the fur coats. We felt it to be very pleasantly warm. But then again the ladies in fur had not known a Hebridean winter.

  Less than one hundred miles away, up in the San Bernadino mountains, lay the winter playground of Big Bear Valley with its lake lying at six thousand feet above sea level and the surrounding peaks topping nine thousand. In the summer the water sports were the main attraction, but ski shops and ski lifts suddenly appeared like magic the minute that snow was forecast. Andy swiftly added snow skiing to his list of achievements. There was no snow skiing for George and me—far too cold—so we drank coffee in the ski restaurants and watched the world go up and down. It was a fascinating fact that, had we wished, we could have been skiing at about nine thousand feet in the morning at Big Bear and swimming in the ocean at San Clemente in the afternoon: the temperatures were so diverse and the road to Big Bear rose dramatically from the flat coastal plain into these mountains through steep and dangerous terrain.

  Then, quite suddenly, the gentle, easy living that we were enjoying began to change yet again. I had a feeling of déjà vu. Apparently overlooked in George’s contract was a phrase requiring him to be available for work overseas if necessary.

  ‘Would you be prepared to travel?’ he was asked.

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘And to stay for months at a time?’

  ‘Well, um … yes, if I have to.’

  I think the bankruptcy scare had made George ready to comply with almost any requirement that guaranteed his continuing employment.

  So off he went. To Saudi Arabia!

  At first Andy and I stayed in California, but eventually plans were made to return to the UK and put Andy into a public school as a boarder. Predictably, he did not like this at first but it proved to be an excellent education and he soon adapted. I would join George in Saudi and Andy would fly out for school holidays (which he did like). Life was changing irrevocably once again.

  And the canines? Unfortunately, Pip had died while we were in California but Squeak came with us, becoming a much-travelled dog; one day, at the end of all our wanderings, he would fly back to the UK to resume a more normal doggy way of life in the English countryside.

  So I watched from the plane as California, with its sunshine, its friendly people, and its easy but somehow frenetic lifestyle, faded into the dusk.

  EPILOGUE

  California and Nevada were fascinating episodes in my life, giving me an insight into lives lived entirely differently from those that I knew so well on Papavray.

  In California, there was the need to strive to be always young and beautiful, to climb the career ladder as fast as possible. The near obsession with all things material was baffling to me and I contrasted these attitudes with the stoic acceptance of the status quo in the Hebrides, however harsh that might be. I saw the incessant purchasing of anything newly on the market and thought of the old, worn furniture and out-dated possessions of the crofters of Papavray, unnoticed and unimportant.

  And yet, in this materialistic, fast-paced society, there was an unrestrained welcome for us: an instant familiarity. The invitation to share a barbeque after the briefest of meetings, the interest in us that was transparent and unembarrassed—I compared this with the equally welcoming but quiet attitude of the islanders and their gently probing questions.

  I suppose the greatest and most obvious contrast between those precious islands and this big land of tall, blond people was the weather. Oh, the sunshine and the warmth! To be able to swim in the blue water of the warm Pacific, to lie on a beach in the sun with no thought of wind or rain was like a storybook existence to one who had been used to such things as answering night calls in snow, gales, and bitter cold.

  Life in Nevada was less focused on the need to possess ‘the latest’ or ‘the best,’ to be always striving to climb the financial ladder or follow fashion. People were content with less and seemed somehow more real because of it, while the space and freedom of that state reminded me of Papavray and its inhabitants. So there were parallels as well as contrasts.

  But even warm weather and easy living could not keep us in California or Nevada and, after only three years, we left for Saudi Arabia and continued to wander the globe.

  Both these states, however, have taken their place in my heart and my memory and I often think of them and their people with warmth. I look back sometimes and dream of all the different countries, contrasting cultures, and remarkable people that I have encountered and wonder, rather forlornly, if I really belong anywhere.

  Then I remember those misty, mysterious islands which will always call me back. They will never let me go.

  Although I might wander the world in my remaining years, I shall always feel the threads that bind me to the Hebrides. Kind, comfortable threads which, like gossamer, are hardly there at all but are oh so strong! Compelling, embracing. How could I live without that memory of the purple mountains, the silver sea, snow and sunshine, starlit skies and scudding clouds, fierce storms and the lilting tongues of island people?

  In the heat of deserts or a
mong the roar of city traffic—wherever I might roam—I can fly in my imagination to ‘my island’ where, once more, I can feel the welcome of the unique and friendly people. I can absorb the peace and the raw beauty of moorland flowers and barren, rugged hills. I can stand on the shore, feeling the spray from the restless waves as they pound against dark cliffs, or I may sit beside a chattering burn in the glen or on a rocky promontory where I can bare my soul to the splendour of a fearsome, fiery sunset.

  I’ll never want to be free from the call of those windswept isles, those little worlds surrounded and protected by the tumultuous ocean. We will perish, as all mortals must, but they will endure for ever: timeless and eternal.

  Glossary

  bairn a baby or toddler

  bonhomie cheerful friendliness.

  bothy (1) a stone hut or cottage usually a mountain refuge; ( 2) a poor labourer’s home (largely obsolete)

  ben or bheinn a mountain

  besom an irritating, unpleasant woman

  bodach an old man

  burn a small stream, often fast-flowing and stony

  byre a stone barn

  caillach an old woman (often wife), not necessarily derogatory

  ceilidh (1) a neighbourly gathering in each other’s houses for food, drink, and entertainment (amateur but often very accomplished); (2) a large, organised dance arranged for the tourists

  Ciamar a tha Hello, how are you?

  clootie dumpling a pudding made in a cloth (the cloot) and boiled. It contains flour, suet, dried fruit, oats, and sugar.

  croft a smallholding with a house

  cuppie a cup of tea (usually with a snack)

  fey second sight; acceptance of the unexplainable

  havering (pronounced “hayvering”) talking nonsense

  loch a lake—may be freshwater inland or sea loch

  lochan very small loch

  lum chimney

  peat decomposed vegetable matter, laid down thousands of years ago, mainly in the acidic soil of Scotland, Ireland, and other countries, dug for fuel (or gardens)

  peat hag an area of peat bog which has been delineated for rental

  sheiling rough shelter for crofters on the high summer grazing

  strupak tea and a bite (and a gossip)

  tannoy public address system

  Tha gu math Fine, thanks. How are you?