Nurse, Come You Here! Read online

  Also by Mary J. MacLeod

  Call the Nurse

  Copyright © 2014 by Mary J. MacLeod

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without the express written consent of the publisher, except in the case of brief excerpts in critical reviews or articles. All inquiries should be addressed to Arcade Publishing, 307 West 36th Street, 11th Floor, New York, NY 10018.

  First North American Edition 2015

  First published in the UK by Luath Press Limited under the title More Tales from the Island Nurse

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  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available on file.

  Cover design by Owen Corrigan

  Cover photo: iStock/Thinkstock

  Print ISBN: 978-1-62872-536-0

  Ebook ISBN: 978-1-62872-543-8

  Printed in the United States of America

  This book is dedicated to Elizabeth—a dear friend.

  I thank all those members of my family and my friends who have encouraged me. I thank ‘Andy,’ my ‘techno wizard,’ and the people in the book for just being themselves.

  CONTENTS

  PROLOGUE

  ONE Down in a Ditch

  TWO Grey Shadows

  THREE Clannan Beg

  FOUR A Cow in the Kitchen

  FIVE A Quiet Bay?

  SIX Josh

  SEVEN Tears and Twisters

  EIGHT A Light in the Night

  NINE The Calm and the Storm

  TEN A Damp Delivery

  ELEVEN Guilty or Not Guilty

  TWELVE Riding Sunshine

  THIRTEEN Father Peter’s Quest

  FOURTEEN Bowler Hats

  FIFTEEN The Tangled Web

  SIXTEEN Eggs, Eggs, and More Eggs

  SEVENTEEN A Four-Legged Sailor

  EIGHTEEN The Lure of Papavray

  NINETEEN Island Animals

  TWENTY Parents and Problems

  TWENTY-ONE Sunshine’s Adventure

  TWENTY-TWO The Echo in the Hills

  TWENTY-THREE The School Outing

  TWENTY-FOUR Miss Amelia Arabella Anstey-Smythe

  TWENTY-FIVE The Man Who Washed

  TWENTY-SIX Johnny’s Village

  TWENTY-SEVEN Elizabeth, Ina, and a Lot of Snow

  TWENTY-EIGHT Little Boy Lost

  TWENTY-NINE From the Deep to the Sky

  THIRTY 007 in a Morris Minor

  THIRTY-ONE Home!

  THIRTY-TWO California Sunshine!

  THIRTY-THREE Nevada

  THIRTY-FOUR Storms and Speed

  THIRTY-FIVE A Grasshopper and a Black Widow

  THIRTY-SIX Back to California

  THIRTY-SEVEN The End of an Era

  EPILOGUE

  GLOSSARY

  PROLOGUE

  Again and again my thoughts return to that happy time spent among the beauty and peace of the islands of the Hebrides.

  I remember the warm, unquestioning welcome of the people, the stoicism with which they met the hardships of lives lived in that remote place and the laughter and banter of the ceilidhs in crowded croft house kitchens on cold winter evenings.

  I recall the island’s unsophisticated children who delighted in the simple things of life: the sheepdog trials, the arrival and departure of the little island plane, the comings and goings at the steamer pier, and a school outing to a castle on an adjacent isle.

  I knew old folk who had tales to tell of an earlier era—of a time before radio, electricity, planes, and cars. Tales of war and the cruelty of the sea, of family and loyalty and stories with no beginning and no ending.

  Papavray—I need to revisit you in my memories, write once more of the splendour of your mountains and seas and enter again into the lives of your gentle people. I want to revel in the remembered smell of peat smoke curling into the frosty air from tiny white chimneys, to feel the soft rain on my face or to hurry through a storm, head down to the cosy shelter of our home among the hills and glens of that beloved isle.

  I shall remember and dream again as I look back over the years.

  ONE

  Down in a Ditch

  George and I sat looking out of the window at the rain lashing down and dreamed of a holiday in the sun. It was about the sixth weary week of almost persistent rain and we were yearning for the warmth of the Mediterranean or the Canaries, where we had been accustomed to holiday before our great escape to the north. These thoughts only surfaced briefly in midwinter, when the days were short and dark and the nights long and even darker and the storms seemingly unending—as now—and we would experience a sort of ‘cabin fever’ and long for a holiday.

  But then, suddenly, a silver sun would break through Stygian clouds to bathe the sparkling slopes of purple mountains, and touch the sea to create restless pathways of golden water. The wind would drop and we would stand in awe of the sensational and enduring beauty in which we were privileged to live. We would wonder just why we had fancied the six- or seven-hundred-mile journey to Heathrow or Gatwick, a wait of x number of hours in a crowded, stuffy airport, the cramped and uncomfortable flight with the very real possibility of the loss of our luggage and the press of dozens of angry, pushing, perspiring folk (perhaps also minus luggage) in blistering heat. Why would we do this?

  Why? Here, we could wander unhurriedly in the clear air, and watch the shafts of sunlight weave between the peaks of the mountains until a golden day faded into a shining evening. Then pink and orange streaks would appear in a silver-blue sky and soft mist would begin to obscure the hills so that only their tops showed, seeming to float in the heavens. Then we were content, once more, only to leave our hallowed isle for the briefest of times. After all, we had a warm, welcoming home in a superb location with incredible views, in a friendly village on a glorious island! What more could we want?

  The boys were happy in the island culture, with outdoor pursuits and the freedom to learn the lessons of life as well as more academic ones. They knew folk of all ages: the differences did not seem important. Nick was now old enough to join the sailing club and was accepted by ‘the young lads’ and the older men. He fitted in wherever he went. But he was not a good scholar: I think, perhaps, he loved the outdoor life and the freedom too much and gave little thought to the future. Papavray only had work of the manual kind, and no apprenticeships. School leavers with high grades usually got into college or university, but further education did not look as though it would be an option for Nick. But he loved the sea and had met a deep-sea diver who was prepared to take him on at weekends and possibly train him for a job on leaving school. I was alternately horrified and relieved! It was undoubtedly dangerous, but at least he had found a very real interest which might prove useful later—I hoped.

  At Andy’s age, there were no such worries. He was happy at school, with his friends and with Nick. They still fished and climbed and ‘messed about in boats.’ In Andy’s case, the worries of the wide world were still a long way into the future.

  I enjoyed my work as the district nurse. I liked caring for the elderly, tending children, advising mothers, dealing with injuries, illnesses, emergencies, and generally being part of the fabric of the island. Consequently, I was welcomed into the homes and li
ves of the islanders in an affectionate and, perhaps, unique way.

  George, the only true Scot among us, was the one who was not entirely content. He was happy to be on his mother-isle, of course, but found the pull of the exciting overseas jobs, that he was called upon to do from time to time, irresistible. Our original intentions had not included such things, but had centered on local or semi-local work and there was plenty of that. But he enjoyed the challenge of the more sophisticated work abroad. And, inevitably, the weather just now was adding to his impatience to get away on the next contract and I, too, was so fed up that I almost envied him.

  So here we were, gazing at the rain and dreaming of holidays and sun and exciting jobs—all the things we had left behind!

  At that moment, Andy came bursting in from school, bringing us back to reality with a bump.

  ‘Hi Mum, Dad. Murdo is here. He’s going to stay for a bit. His dad is working in Coiravaig and he’s picking him up later. Can we have something to eat, please? We are starving.’

  Having eaten enough for an army, they departed over the croft to play some complicated game involving a lot of rolling about in the wet grass. They did not even seem to notice the rain. A few minutes later, they were back.

  ‘Mum! Mary told us to tell you that Archie said that Murdo’s dad is in a ditch in Coiravaig.’ Andy paused for breath.

  ‘Slow down, slow down. What has happened?’ I was already collecting my first aid box and my nursing bag.

  Taking a deep breath, Murdo took over. ‘Archie was passing where Dad was working and saw him in the ditch, somewhere on the track to the witches’ house. Mary was with Archie. Archie stayed with Dad, but Mary got a lift back and saw us on the croft. His truck is stuck.’ As an afterthought, he added, ‘He’s bleeding.’

  I was horrified. How long had he been there? How bad was he?

  ‘Let’s go,’ said George. ‘Everyone into the Land Rover!’

  At that moment, Nick appeared from the shore, heard this and said, ‘Mum’s Mini is behind it.’

  ‘Well. Move it!’ I said.

  Everyone stopped quite still, looking at me. Nick was only thirteen! Pulling on my wellies, I said, ‘For heaven’s sake, Nick! I know you have been driving it up and down our track for months.’

  As we set out, Murdo said, ‘Archie might get his tractor and pull Dad out.’

  I was thinking rather more of the bleeding and how severe it might be and wondering how long Murdoch had been there before Archie had discovered him. Amazingly, the rain had stopped but the high wind might hamper any rescue.

  There was a horseshoe-shaped marshy area at Coiravaig which was covered by the sea in exceptionally high tides. There were large peaty holes surrounded by spongy grass so the narrow track across it had been built up by about four or five feet. It led to the house that the boys called the ‘witches’ house’ and on up to good grazing on the hill behind it. That was where Murdoch, senior, had been working.

  We swung round the last bend in the road and could see the truck lying at a crazy angle, virtually hanging off the edge of the track with the driver’s side only just above the marshy ground. It was so far onto its side that we could see the underneath. Archie had climbed up to pull the passenger door open and was leaning in and down to where Murdoch still sat in the driving seat.

  ‘Hurry!’ Archie shouted, ‘She’s slipping all the time. I can’t get him out. He’s stuck!’

  Murdoch’s voice came to us. ‘I can’t get my foot out; I think it’s stuck under the pedal. And my leg’s bleedin’.

  ‘Archie, I must get in to see to the bleeding,’ I called as I approached.

  ‘No, no. The movement might make her slide right in.’

  George came nearer, ‘Not if you, (meaning Archie) Nick, and I haul on this side (indicating the passenger side which was almost vertically above the driver’s side). Our combined strength would be enough to stabilise it and Mary J could go round the other side and see to Murdoch.’

  George, Archie, and Nick grabbed parts of the passenger side of the truck to pull it, using their weight to counterbalance the slithering vehicle. This seemed to work, and I was able to squelch my way round to the driver’s side, in the cold, sucking marsh. Murdoch’s door was broken and hanging off. I could just get my head and arms in to the cab.

  ‘Where does it hurt, Murdoch?’

  ‘Foot mainly. Can’t get it out.’

  ‘Did you hit your head at all?’

  ‘No. No, I didn’t. But there’s a lot of blood down here.’ He indicated the other leg.

  I could see a deep gash which was certainly bleeding heavily, but not so much as to be life threatening, so I turned my attention to the foot.

  ‘Can you feel that?’ I asked, pressing his welly.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Can you move the foot at all?’

  He wiggled his foot, saying, ‘Yes, but it’s mighty sore.’

  ‘I’m going to bind the cut on that leg and then I’ll cut your welly off this one, so that we can get your foot out.’ I hoped that I sounded confident: there was no guarantee here.

  Calling to Andy to bring the first aid box, I eased myself into the cab.

  ‘Whoa! Whoa! You’re shifting her!’ George warned. ‘Be as quick as you can.’

  ‘Pass me a lump of cotton wool and a bandage and I’ll just bind it roughly for now.’

  The boys took me at my word and an enormous piece of cotton wool was tossed down in to the cab, followed by a bandage some four inches wide! It would have to do.

  ‘Buck up, Nurse. We can only hold this for so long.’ Archie was sounding worried. ‘This wind’s not helping us any.’

  I began to cut away Murdoch’s welly around the accelerator pedal. Surgical scissors are hardly meant for thick rubber, but eventually I was able to pull some of it away. With every movement, Murdoch winced in pain.

  ‘Murdoch, I’m going to try to lift the pedal a bit. Now the boot is almost gone, can you try to pull your foot out when I say? It will hurt a lot, but I think it will work.’

  ‘Aye—that I’ll do, Nurse.’

  The pedal was old and battered and quite loose, so I was able to move it fairly easily, while Murdoch pulled on his lower leg with his hands to help to free the foot. He was a canny countryman and a tough crofter, and he would realise the dangers that he and I were in should the men be unable to hold the truck and prevent it from sliding. It would probably topple into the marshy ground, trapping us beneath it. So, he pulled and wriggled and finally out came the foot! His sock had gone and we could see that there was a deep wound on the instep.

  ‘He’s free!’ I shouted. ‘Now, we have to get out.’ There was no way that he could climb up to the passenger door, so we would both have to slither out of the broken driver’s door into the wet, black, soggy ground.

  ‘Hurry, hurry you,’ shouted Archie. They were pulling and holding with all their strength, but we knew that by struggling to get out we would be shaking the vehicle, causing more strain, and the truck would slither ever nearer the edge of the track.

  I grabbed Murdoch’s arm and began to heave him out. He was determined to help himself.

  ‘Go you, Nurse—out of the way—round past the bonnet. They’ll no hold her with me jaunterin’ about tryin’ to get out o’ here.’

  He was breathless with pain and effort but he seemed more concerned for me.

  ‘Come on.’ Ignoring his advice, I caught hold of his jacket and dragged him out of the door. I probably caused him even more pain, but the men were grunting and gasping now and I could feel the vehicle shuddering and slipping with every gust of wind.

  Then we were out! Murdoch could not put any weight on his foot, but we both half crawled, half waded through the smelly, wet mud.

  ‘Mum! It’s going! Quick! Get out of the way past the bonnet. Quick!’ Nick shouted frantically.

  Archie was peering across the bonnet. ‘They are free of it and comin’ round the front,’ he reported to the rest, who could not
see our progress. ‘They are out of the way now to the side. We can leave it go now!’ And they did!

  The old truck reared up and slid gracefully down into the mire with creaks and gurgles as it all but disappeared, only the underside of the engine remaining visible.

  Everyone helped Murdoch and me up onto the track. We were completely covered in disgusting, green and brown, slimy, smelly, peaty mud and shivering with cold. Shows of emotion were not in the male crofting culture, but Murdoch gripped my hand briefly.

  I swilled my filthy hands in a puddle and inspected the foot. The remains of the boot had long gone. An angry bruise was developing and the whole foot was swelling as we watched. The grazes that we had probably caused trying to release him were not as deep as I had feared, and he could wag his toes and his ankle. It seemed unlikely that he—or perhaps we—had broken any bones.

  ‘We need to get him to the hospital to get this stitched soon and to have his foot X-rayed.’ I looked around. Everyone was rubbing screaming muscles and stretching aching backs. There would be some stiff people tomorrow!

  Murdo went over to his father, ‘You all right, Dad? I’ll milk the cow tonight for you. Andy will help.’

  Andy looked a little startled at this. Milking was not high on his list of achievements.

  Murdoch, senior, grinned, ‘Thanks, lads. So I can retire now, can I?’

  George and Archie made a ‘fireman’s chair’ and carried him to the Land Rover, Andy and Murdo holding a leg each.

  ‘Nick, sit beside him and maintain pressure on the leg. My dressing does not seem to be doing the job.’

  Suddenly, Nick and I looked at each other and grinned. ‘What does this remind you of, Mum?’

  ‘That plane crash last year!’

  On that occasion, too, Nick had been told to maintain pressure on the wound.

  ‘Thank goodness, there are lots of us around—I remember it being a pretty lonely and worrying time, then,’ I said, thinking of the unconscious pilot, the twisted aircraft, the darkness and the feeling of helplessness. No—this was nothing like that awful day.

  I climbed into the rear of the vehicle as I was so dirty. Murdoch must have been in pain, but he still managed to joke with the boys, telling them that the hospital staff would hose him down outside before they would let him in, because of the smell of the disgusting, slimy mess that covered him. Being in the same state, I let the others take him in: I felt that one person with half a marsh was enough for any hospital.