Old Joe’s sea-green eyes betrayed nothing. ‘Ach no, not at all, Doctor,’ he rebuked gently. ‘We are waiting for the lads to come over the glen to see will they have news for us.’
‘Ay,’ put in Erchy the Post who, with his satchel slung over his shoulder and one foot on the pedal of his bike, had the air of someone who had been rudely interrupted in the middle of a busy day. ‘That is a fact. Doctor. Also Matthew was asking us to wait and tell you that Biddy is not at home.’
‘But I know that!’ Lachlan cried. ‘She spent the night at the Smiddy!’
Fingal McLeod, a tall lanky young crofter who had lost his leg to a fox snare, nodded wisely. ‘Well, well now, that is likely why she is no’ at home.’
‘But I told Matthew she would be at Todd’s,’ Lachlan said.
‘Ach well, that’s where she’ll be right enough,’ Erchy murmured.
Lachlan was growing exasperated. The islanders could be trying and unhelpful when they had a mind, and it was obvious they were in no mood to be helpful now.
Shona felt her temper rising. It was a trait over which she had to exercise control but just then it erupted in a mixture of anxiety and grief. ‘Well!’ she cried hotly, ‘one of you get along over to Todd’s and fetch Biddy!’
‘Matthew will be over there now,’ Fingal said soothingly.
Shona tossed her auburn head and her eyes sparkled with rage. ‘You are just like a bunch of old women! The laddie you are gaping at so eagerly may die! Lachlan can’t do everything himself and I’m not fully trained to help properly! For God’s sake! He’s a German, I know, but he’s also a human being!’
Lachlan had disappeared into the house leaving Elspeth listening at the door. Her strangely immobile face was gaunt with outrage at the very idea of a German, wounded or otherwise, being allowed to cross the doctor’s threshold. In Elspeth’s mind, Slochmhor and everyone therein owed all to her efficiency as a housekeeper and she felt it was her right to exercise her opinion as to what went on there. When Phebie had asked her to help prepare the surgery for an emergency case she had agreed willingly enough, scrubbing and cleaning till the air reeked of antiseptic. But not until the Commandos crossed the doorstep with Anton did she realize that for the past hour she had been preparing the way for a German airman, and she was speechless with indignation. Now, though, at Shona’s words she found her tongue quickly. ‘Wait you there, Erchy McKay!’ she said to Erchy, who, shamefaced, was straddling his bike ready to push off. ‘It is the King’s business you should be about! You have no right to be gallivanting off when you are on duty!’
Elspeth was coming down the path into the crowd and Erchy stopped in mid-flight, his kindly face bewildered and angry. He was about to tell her that the ‘King’s business’ was only a part-time job on an island that received mail only three times a week, but before he could speak another figure came flying past on a bike, pedalling swiftly along the bumpy glen road. It soon proved to be Babbie Cameron, her wind-tossed hair a fiery beacon, her pale, freckled skin whipped to a delicate rose. The bike had been left in the ditch by Murdy the night before and Babbie had simply borrowed it. It was a rusted heap with a wobbling front wheel and Babbie now discovered it had no brakes. Babbie’s feet rasped along the stony road in an effort to stop the machine, but she catapulted into the crowd, sending everyone scattering. Gallantly the menfolk rushed to her aid, having to make no excuses for hands that grabbed at forbidden fruits in order to avert a catastrophe.
Babbie was an attractive sight standing against the backcloth of the mountains. Her red hair, which breathed of sunshine and all the bright fire of autumn, made the slopes of Sgurr nan Ruadh look dull in comparison. The pallor of her skin was startling in its glowing frame yet oddly in keeping; her mouth was too generous for her to be beautiful, but her smile was so radiant that to observe it was to know enchantment. She was slim to the point of being skinny but though her sweater was in itself shapeless it couldn’t entirely hide the curving swell of her breasts. Rhanna men liked their women ‘well padded’, and no matter how beautiful the face or figure of a slim woman she rarely merited a second glance after the first swift appraisal. But it was a different matter if the slimness was enhanced by properly placed padding, and Babbie fitted this category. While she panted for breath the men fussed and Elspeth glowered.
‘Sorry everyone . . . and thanks,’ Babbie smiled, adroitly removing Fingal’s hand from her left thigh. She turned to look at Shona. ‘Your father popped in to tell us about – things . . . I thought I might be needed.’
Shona felt like hugging her there and then in the middle of the glen. Instead she put out her hand. ‘You’re just in time, Babbie – the doctor will be waiting.’ And with her head held high she marched with Babbie up the path to Slochmhor, an outraged Elspeth forced to make way for them at the gate.
‘I’ll be telling Biddy to look in on her way home,’ called a rather subdued Kate. ‘She will not be liking it if she feels left out.’
‘As you like,’ Shona said from the door. ‘Though ’tis a pity you were not thinking about it sooner.’
The villagers ambled back to Portcull in a somewhat embarrassed silence, Fingal and Erchy breaking away from the others at the hill track leading to Nigg. Erchy’s satchel already contained two rabbits which he had collected from his snares half an hour earlier. He pushed his bike into a clump of bushes and grinned at Fingal. ‘Let us go about the King’s business then,’ he said in a hideous falsetto. Both men roared with laughter, made all the merrier at the prospect of an afternoon poaching Burnbreddie.
‘We might find the other Jerry waiting to ravish her ladyship,’ Fingal snorted ecstatically. He halted for a moment to sit down on a mossy stone. ‘Wait you, Erchy, I will have a wee look to see have I got everything we need.’ Carefully, he unscrewed the bottom half of his peg leg, peered inside, and then, satisfied as to its contents, fixed it back in place. ‘Old Peggy is fully equipped,’ he grinned. ‘I have an extra flask of Tam’s whisky in there too. We will no’ go thirsty.’
In the surgery at Slochmhor, Lachlan, too, was finding every reason to be grateful to Tam. Earlier in the day he had pressed a generous bottle of whisky into Lachlan’s hands, and nodding and winking he had warned, ‘Don’t be telling a soul, Doctor. ’Tis for your nerves when you have to be doing these awful things like Todd’s appendix.’ Lachlan had put the bottle to the back of the cupboard thinking it unlikely that it would be needed in the near future, and now he smiled wryly at the small glass in his hand. Todd’s appendix was nothing to what waited for his immediate attention. Anton lay scrubbed and ready . . . Ready for what? Life or death? The responsibility lay with Lachlan and the thought made his hands shake.
‘Ready, Doctor?’ One of the Commandos, a sturdy young man with a strong stomach, who had volunteered to stay behind and help, popped his head round the door.
Lachlan gulped down the whisky and spluttered, ‘Yes, I’m ready.’ He smiled. ‘I don’t make a habit of this, Private Anderson.’ Anderson looked at the whisky bottle with interest. ‘Would you like a drop?’ Lachlan asked, amused despite himself.
‘I don’t mind, sir, I really don’t mind.’ He gulped down a generous mouthful, straightened his shoulders and followed Lachlan briskly into the surgery.
Phebie was just coming out. Inside, her stomach was churning with misery, and all she could think about was Niall, her son, her beloved eldest child, once again bringing anxiety and deepest despair to all those who loved him most. Her bonny plump face was strained and pale but she managed to smile at Lachlan and whisper ‘Good luck, Lachy. Shout if you need me.’
He gripped her shoulders tightly and bent to kiss her cheek. ‘It’s you I should be with just now,’ he said huskily. ‘You’re always such a tower of strength, yet I know . . . even the strongest of towers needs a bit of propping up now and then. Our son will be all right, my darling. The young rascal has come through worse. I’ll be in there operating on a mortally wounded German laddie but my prayers will be
with Niall.’
‘Mine too,’ she said shakily and stood back to let him pass, hardly able to see for the tears drowning her eyes.
Babbie, masked and gowned, stood looking down at Anton. He was wrapped in wind-bleached folds of gleaming white linen which seemed to match the deathly pallor of his face. His forehead was patterned with bruises whose livid colour leapt out from the white skin. He looked very young and completely helpless and Babbie thought, ‘So, this is a German. If you had been ugly . . . perhaps just a little bit evil-looking, Anton Büttger, I might have hated you . . . but you’re not, you’re not! If you had been then I might not feel so obliged to help try and save your life. Damn you, Anton Büttger,’ her heart cried. ‘Damn you for looking so young and innocent. I hate you for making me feel that I must do all the right things to give you a chance of life!’ Her thoughts made her feel sick and her hands trembled.
Shona saw the hesitation and though her own legs were shaking, she said reassuringly, ‘You’re doing fine, Babbie. The beginning’s always the difficult part.’
‘Are you all right, Babbie?’ Lachlan asked a trifle sharply, all the old doubts about his own abilities piling into his head at sight of the young German’s ghastly wounds.
‘Yes . . . I just skipped eating most of my dinner with all the upsets,’ Babbie said faintly, her green eyes full of an odd apprehension. ‘It’s just hunger pains.’
‘Would you like me to get you something?’ Anderson asked. He had not batted one eyelid at the sight of Anton’s stomach piling out from the surrounding flesh.
‘No – no, I’m fine now.’
Lachlan gave her a worried look. ‘You have had experience of surgery, Babbie?’
‘Oh yes, yes of course . . . it’s just . . . never with a German.’
‘You must put that out of your head,’ Lachlan said gently. ‘Just think of him as a patient who deserves all our skill to pull him through.’ Then Lachlan turned to begin the operation, and as he worked he forgot all about his doubts and concentrated solely on the task at hand. His long, sensitive fingers worked with a faultless skill that made everyone in the room glow with admiration. His aura of confidence seemed to reach out and embrace them all and after the first few minutes they were working together as an efficient team.
Biddy grumbled long and loudly as she struggled awake. With a dry mouth and an aching head spinning alarmingly, she hastily closed her eyes again. She felt sick and for a moment couldn’t sort out one thought from another. Then the smells of the Smiddy came to her: horse manure, leather, fragrant hay and rusting bits of iron. For a few seconds she lay unable to believe it was daylight and that she must have spent the night in Todd the Shod’s barn. Bits of hay had worked their way into her clothing and were making her very uncomfortable. Carefully she moved an arm in an experimental gesture. Well, one limb was still intact anyway. Slowly she shifted the position of her cold, cramped body and immediately a searing pain shot through her ankle. ‘Damt bugger!’ she swore through gritted teeth, the pain bringing her sharply to her senses. Wincing, she raised herself on an elbow to grope for her glasses, but they eluded her searching fingers. Screwing up her eyes she peered round the big shed but there was no sign of life. The visiting horses had probably been collected earlier by their owners, and as she was ensconced in a pile of hay which was almost smothered by a jumbled heap of ironmongery, she must have escaped notice.
Biddy’s first feelings of surprise soon turned to extreme indignation. What kind of place was it where people went about everyday affairs without a thought to the nurse who had tended them so devotedly for years? The cold of the night had played havoc with her circulation. Her extremities were like lumps of lead, especially her feet which were nearest the side door. ‘Damt Germans!’ Biddy muttered under her breath. ‘I’ll kill the buggers if I catch them!’ Then she raised her voice, uttering appeals for help which flowed with such lusty frequency that the pigeons in the loft fluttered up in a cloud of dust and made a hasty exit. Then Mollie McDonald came running in, a red-faced bustle of amazement.
As Mollie stood in the doorway, taking in the sight of the old nurse, toothless and without spectacles, lying among the junk and hay, her mouth fell open. It was well known that Biddy was fond of ‘a wee tipple’. She carried a hip flask wherever she went and fortified herself whenever she felt the need. It was purely for ‘medicinal purposes only’ she told anyone who questioned her, but few did. Hers was a job that called her out at all times and in all weathers and so devoted was she that no one blamed her for ‘having a wee snifter to warm her auld blood’. Indeed, the islanders saw to it that her flask was never dry and frequently topped up her ‘firkin for the fireplace’. But Mollie was in a mood that morning to blame the ‘Uisge-beatha’ for a great many things. Her good nature allowed her to overlook many of her husband’s little misdemeanours, but the manner of his arrival home the night before had caused her some embarrassment. And now Biddy was lying in their barn hideously glassy-eyed and stupefied, her wiry grey hair hanging in limp strands over her lined, yellow face. She was obviously suffering from a massive hangover. Mollie folded her arms and moved forward into the shed.
‘Well now, Biddy McMillan!’ she said, her voice taut with disapproval. ‘A fine thing this is indeed, and you with your reputation to uphold. It’s a reputation for an alcoholic cailleach you’ll be earning and no mistake. I knew last night there was something funny goin’ on wi’ Todd and his cronies but never – never–did I imagine that yourself of all people would be in on a thing like that. You’re worse than auld Annack Gow and that’s sayin’ something for she was never sober when Jock was alive if I’m mindin’ right!’
Biddy was speechless. She had found her specs and had hastened to put them on in order that she might hear better the words of sympathy that would surely follow her discovery, for it was a belief of hers that glasses aided not only the sight but also the hearing. Small inarticulate grunts escaped her toothless mouth.
Mollie snorted and continued softly. ‘Ach, but it is terrible just. The world is goin’ to ruin! Germans and soldiers all over the island an’ our very own nurse lyin’ drunk in my Todd’s place o’ business. ’Tis no wonder you were not over seeing to him this morning,’ she clucked reproachfully. ‘Biddy, mo ghaoil, if you had to sleep it off could you not just have stayed in the house to be decent-like?’
Biddy removed her specs because she could hardly believe her ears. Her ankle was throbbing, she was frozen to the marrow, and instead of sympathy she was receiving abuse. ‘Is it blind you are, Mollie McDonald?’ she gasped through tears of exhaustion and self-pity. ‘It is the doctor I am needin’ this very meenit! I feel like I am dyin’ wi’ exposure and my ankle is broken! Get help quickly, you silly woman – and put the kettle on for a cuppy.’
But before Mollie could hasten away Kate McKinnon appeared, and she too stared at Biddy. ‘What way are you lyin’ there for, you daft cailleach?’ she twinkled. ‘It’s no wonder Matthew couldny find you! They are needin’ you over at Slochmhor.’
Biddy’s howl of derisive indignation split the air asunder. ‘Needin’ me! God! It’s the doctor I am needin’ and quick! Go and get Matthew and get me in that house before I die!’
Matthew came running at Kate’s boisterous call, and between them they carried Biddy into the house amid a shower of abuse, instructions and complaints.
‘Go you and fetch the doctor, Matthew,’ Kate ordered. ‘And don’t be longer than two minutes.’
An astonished Todd, wallowing in self-pity over his post-operative discomforts, found his martyrdom seriously undermined by the advent of Biddy who was placed near him on an adjoining sofa. Mollie hastened to swing the kettle over the fire while Kate went upstairs to look for spare blankets.
The operation was well underway when Matthew’s voice, loud and excited, drifted through from the hall, mingling with Phebie’s soft and pleasant tones. Moments later she tapped on the surgery door and put her head round. ‘Biddy had an accident last night,�
�� she explained in some harassment. ‘She was asleep in Todd’s kitchen when she thought she heard noises in the Smiddy. She went out to look, thinking it might be Germans and she tripped on some junk and knocked herself unconscious. Mollie found her just a short time ago and it seems as well as everything else she has hurt her ankle rather badly.’
‘Damn!’ Lachlan cried, exasperated. ‘I can’t possibly leave this.’
‘I’ll go,’ Shona said rather gladly, her first experience of surgery rendering her so nauseated she had been wondering how long she could go on without fainting. ‘It sounds like something I can deal with.’
‘Biddy says she wants the doctor!’ Matthew’s voice echoed from the hall.
‘Well, she’ll just have to make do with me!’ Shona said firmly. ‘I’m better at the Jack-and-Jill stuff anyway . . .’ She took a last look at Anton on the table. ‘A lot better than anything I can be doing for him. Is it all right, Lachlan?’
‘Run along, lass,’ Lachlan said kindly. ‘You’ve done a grand job here. If Biddy starts grumbling at you just you tell her I’ll be along later to sort her out.’
On the sofa Biddy groaned loudly with pain in between gulps of hot tea laced with brandy. ‘It’s broken, I know the bugger has broken itself!’ she proclaimed loudly, addressing her swollen ankle.
Kate helped herself to tea from the huge pot, then sat down on the edge of Todd’s sofa to eye Biddy thoughtfully. ‘It’s an assistant you should be having, Biddy,’ she began sternly, pausing to let the inevitable barrage of protest subside before going on. ‘I was just thinkin’ the thing last night when I heard you had to sprachle out your warm bed to see to Todd here. It’s too much to ask o’ an auld chookie and now you are having this accident and maybe endin’ up wi’ piles and piddle trouble wi’ the cold gettin’ up your passages all night.’
Biddy wrapped a patchwork quilt round her knees and glowered into her tea. She knew Kate was right but she wasn’t going to admit it because to do so, even to herself, was a signal that she really was getting beyond nursing the island single-handed. There had been an assistant several years before but she hadn’t stuck the post for more than a month, and this fact she sourly pointed out to Kate, who made a gesture of impatience with her big, capable hands.
Rhanna at War Page 11