More Tales From the Island Nurse Page 7

  Surprisingly, I seemed to have been the only casualty and my cuts were not serious.

  On Sunday, I took the dogs for a walk on the shore. It was only two days ago that I had been here, walking and thinking; but the beach had changed dramatically. Where there had been pebbles, there was now black sand, like the beaches on volcanic islands. The sea, too, appeared dirty and all manner of flotsam was floating in the shallows. But the vertiginous hills looked clean, bright and rain-washed, and a silvery sun shone between the peaks of the distant mountains in a deep blue sky.

  I sat on the same rock and felt the return of peace in my soul. The burn, widened by the storm, chattered nearby, finding its new route to the sea; oyster catchers skimmed the waves, while gannets performed their skilful dives, emerging with shining fish. A small boat rocked gently in the bay as two figures cast their lines. I could smell peat smoke from some of the croft houses and the musty aroma of warm seaweed. Sea pinks nonchalantly waved their heads, and a robin perched on the grassy bank and eyed me speculatively.

  Nature is resilient, unperturbed by its own recent outburst. The hills, the sea, the glen were all at peace in the sunlight on this – the day that we call ‘Sunday’.

  At peace. Minnie, too, was now at peace, and I was able to be more rational about her death. Maybe, she would not have wanted to go on living the half-life with which she had been left by the strokes. Now, her spirit, at least, was whole and happy, resting in God’s arms, as she had believed that it would.

  The island would mourn Minnie, but with great respect for the way that she had lived her life. However, no-one would ever forget the day she died.

  ‘The day that Minnie died? ’Twas the day of the tornado.’

  8

  A Light in the Night

  ‘I DID SEE A LIGHT in the church!’ Andy was trying to convince Nick.

  ‘You’re just imagining it,’ said Nick. He was in no mood for ghostly lights in old buildings – his mind ran more on the lines of girlish smiles and pretty faces.

  ‘I’m not! I was on the shore with Thomas and we both saw it. It wasn’t bright enough for a torch – more like…’

  Nick interrupted, ‘More like a candle, held by a lady in flowing white robes, gliding through the church in the darkness, wailing pitifully…’ Nick grinned at his own imagination.

  Andy was getting very annoyed, ‘I was going to say, “a cigarette lighter”.’

  The wrangle continued with Andy insisting that he and his great friend, Thomas, the factor’s son, had indeed seen a dim light in the once splendid old church on the shore.

  I began to listen. It became obvious that Andy really was serious. He was referring to the large, near-derelict church built many hundreds of years ago on Dhubaig’s shore. The bay was shaped like a flattened horseshoe with an arc of steep cliffs at one end, where there was just enough room between the high tide line and the folded and tortured rock face for the mighty bulk of the church to be located.

  I think that the sea must have encroached since its building, for the old grey stones were now washed by every spring tide and lashed mercilessly by the winter storms. A heap of pebbles blocked the entrance where the sturdy, but now decayed door once welcomed worshippers.

  As with all derelict buildings on the island, most articles considered to be of any use had been ‘rescued’ for the repair of a byre or as a croft gate, or just as firewood.

  The fallen slates, too, had been broken up and scattered to cover byre floors or croft pathways. ‘Recycling’ may only now be gaining popularity in the cities of the south, but it has always been the norm among the people of the Hebridean islands. The garnering of anything that might be useful is instinctive for those who live in remote places, far from timber yards and DIY stores. So, apart from some sea pinks and scrubby grass, together with a thistle or two, there was little of interest inside the old church.

  But the outside must once have been quite impressive. Unlike the austere and often ugly churches much beloved of the Free Kirk of Scotland, this place had once had ornate embellishments including a short spire. The sad remains of that now lay scattered on the shingle, while snarling faces of gargoyles on broken pinnacles leered down at all the sinners who passed beneath. The once elegant, mullioned windows looked out at the sea, sometimes framing a sparkling blue vista, but more often taking the full force of the gales that swept across the bay.

  It was rumoured to have been a Roman Catholic Church, but I found this hard to believe, as all but a few of the Outer Hebridean islands are fiercely Protestant. No-one seemed to know its history, or when it closed its doors forever. From time to time, some ill-advised enthusiast from a southern town would try to buy it with some idea of converting it into a holiday home. These plans usually suffered a quick reversal when the first high tide was seen to batter its way into what would have been made into a tastefully appointed sitting room. In any case, the Laird would not, or could not sell it, as he was unable to establish whether it belonged to his estate or to the church – Roman Catholic or otherwise. Such confusion was not uncommon in the islands. So it stood on the shore, slowly breaking up, slowly returning to earth and sea; the rocks of which it was built gradually regaining their freedom from the hand of man.

  None of this concerned Andy, of course. To him, it was a magical place to play; to imagine all kinds of sinister goings-on and to fight endless battles with his friend Thomas.

  ‘Mum! Mum, you are not listening. I really did see a light, although we were making a noise and it went out. I wish Dad was here and we could go and investigate.’

  ‘Dad is on the mainland getting electrical stuff for the castle; I don’t know if he will get home tonight. In any case, it’s too late.’

  Andy was crestfallen. ‘Well, couldn’t you…’

  ‘No!’ I said firmly. I was not inclined to poke about in a dark old church at nine o’clock at night, in the pouring rain.

  ‘I’ll go if Fergie or Archie could come too.’ Suddenly Nick’s love-life paled in the face of adventure. Not surprising, perhaps, as he was only fourteen.

  Just then, as though on cue, Fergie’s voice was heard in the porch as he removed his boots. This was a courtesy that he always extended and, whilst I appreciated the consideration shown in respect of my carpets, there was sometimes a price to be paid if the boots had been on his feet all day!

  ‘Fergie,’ babbled Andy, ‘will you come down to the church on the shore. I saw a light there…’

  ‘So did I,’ said Fergie, to Andy’s great satisfaction. ‘On my way here. Now what was it that I was wanting, I wonder? And where is George?’ Fergie gazed around as though expecting George to be hiding somewhere.

  Nick’s lively imagination had been stirred at last. ‘Never mind that. Let’s go and find out what’s going on at the church.’ In spite of an age gap of some fifty years, Nick and Fergie were great friends.

  Fergie looked at me. I knew when I was beaten, so the boys pulled on their waterproofs and boots while Fergie resignedly donned his again, picked up his torch and off they went into the night.

  Half an hour went by. Then another.

  I sat by the fire, listening unhappily to the tumult of the storm, which seemed to intensify by the minute. Hailstones rattled at the window and fizzed on the hot peats in the fireplace, while the wind roared in the chimney. ‘Never Silent’ is the name given to the north wind in myths and legends. How right that is!

  I pulled on a coat and went outside to stand at the front of the house. In daylight, this vantage point commanded a truly breath-taking view of mountain, glen and sea. And even at night, I might have had the welcome sight of bobbing torches wending their way over the crofts. But as I gazed into the night, trying to keep my eyes open in the wind and driving rain, I could see nothing but darkness in the glen: even the mountains were lost in the rain. Only the sea glittered and foamed in the bays as it roared and sucked at the fragile land, as though to devour it.

  I was just turning to get my wellies to go and
look for them, when I heard a shout above the fury of the storm. Gradually four figures emerged from the darkness into the light spilling from the windows. Four? Who had joined them? I stared, but did not recognise the outline of the fourth. Andy was gabbling something, but it was lost in the clamour. As they drew nearer, I saw that the fourth figure was that of a drenched, ragged man. Was he a tramp? He was certainly a stranger to the island.

  ‘Mary J,’ bellowed Fergie, trying to make himself heard above the tumult. ‘This is Steve. We found him sheltering in the church. He needs some food. By! He’s gey wet, foreby.’ And wet he was!

  ‘In!’ I ordered, opening the door. Steve glanced at me, but did not reply. We were all blown into the house by the force of the wind. I went to put the kettle on, urged the boys out of their wet things and had a quick look at Steve, now that we were in the light. He was haggard, dirty; half-starved and had a haunted look about him.

  Fergie was showing an unexpectedly sympathetic side as he spoke quietly.

  ‘You’ll be fine the now, Steve. Mary J will find you some dry clothes. And perhaps you want a wash.’ Steve was sitting awkwardly on the edge of a kitchen chair and seemed not to hear Fergie at all.

  I pulled myself together and showed Steve to the ground-floor bathroom indicating the shower. I gave him a towel and went to get some trousers and a pullover belonging to George. Back in the kitchen, I looked enquiringly at the three.

  ‘Who is he and what’s the story?’

  ‘We found him in the church, trying to pull together the remains of a tatty tent,’ replied Fergie. ‘There was nothing left of it and all his food and bedding was soaked. If we hadn’t gone down there, I don’t know what would have happened to him.’

  ‘What do you make of him, Fergie? Has he spoken to you?’

  ‘He’s muttered things, but I’m not knowing what to make of him at all. I think he’s been in some sort of trouble and been living rough for some time. Maybe a death. Or divorce or something.’ Fergie warmed to his subject. ‘He might be a criminal on the run.’

  Andy looked rather scared. ‘Do you think so, Fergie? Maybe he’s murdered somebody.’

  ‘That I have not!’ Steve stood in the doorway. We had not heard him come back into the room. He looked shocked and angry. ‘It was not my fault.’

  None of us could think what to say, but then we variously brought out that trite remark – so inadequate for such times – ‘Sorry.’

  As always, practicalities were a blessing in awkward situations and I busied myself making tea and cutting sandwiches. As an afterthought, I opened some cans of Scotch broth and put them to heat on the Rayburn. Steve resumed his seat on the kitchen chair and watched silently.

  I became aware of the barking of the dogs and remembered that they were in the porch. I let them in. They stood for a second and then bounded towards Steve. He showed no sign of surprise at their precipitous approach, but immediately knelt on the floor and took them both in his arms, crooning to them. As he fussed and cuddled the two delighted animals, he seemed to change. He looked up at me with a smile.

  ‘I had dogs. My… my wife and I had dogs.’

  With a sigh of relief, I felt that normality was being restored.We all sat round the Rayburn for warmth, and drank soup from mugs and munched sandwiches. It was obvious that Steve had had little, or nothing, to eat for some time. As the heat warmed him, he began to look less pinched, but his eyes were dull, his skin grey and his figure emaciated. I tried to guess his age. He could have been anywhere between thirty and fifty.

  We all chatted about nothing in particular, just trying to put Steve at ease and then, quite suddenly, he began to talk. It was as though the pent-up floodwaters of suppressed emotions had been released.

  ‘It was about this time last year,’ he said, staring straight ahead. ‘Sylvia, my wife, was expecting our first child. She had begun labour early – about eight months. I rang the GP, who said to take her straight to the hospital; not wait for the ambulance. It was weather rather like this and I was driving fast. I was almost there…’

  Steve took a shaky breath. ‘I was just turning into the hospital emergency entrance, when an ambulance, going very fast, came the opposite way. I swerved and hit the wall of the hospital. I was knocked out and came round in the A&E department. I remember looking for Sylvia and they said that she was in the maternity ward. They wouldn’t let me go to her as they insisted on stitching me up first.’ He pulled up a sleeve and we saw a huge scar running up his forearm.

  ‘Eventually, I went through. She was there alright, but the baby had been born dead and Sylvia was in a bad way. She had lost a lot of blood, due more to the birth than the accident, they said.’ Here he paused for so long that I began to think that he was regretting his confidences. But with a huge sigh, he continued his sad tale.

  ‘She lived for another two days; she had developed septicaemia and the antibiotics didn’t work. She remained unconscious until she died so she didn’t know about the baby.’ He nodded slightly. ‘I’m glad of that, at least.’

  Fergie and I murmured our sympathy. The boys didn’t know what to say, so wisely kept quiet. The tale was harrowing enough, but there was another cruel twist to come.

  Steve continued, ‘I was arrested. It seemed that I had been going into the Exit instead of the Entrance. The ambulance was coming out at speed; going to a car crash. Also, earlier in the evening, long before Sylvia started labour, we had had a bottle of wine with our dinner. Because of the baby, Sylvia had very little, so I finished it off. When her pains started and things were not right, and the GP said to take her straight to the hospital, I had completely forgotten about that wine! I just didn’t give it a thought.’ He looked around at us, obviously wondering if we believed him.

  ‘Well, of course, with that and going into the hospital the wrong way, they accused me of manslaughter.’

  ‘Manslaughter?’ Fergie was incredulous.

  ‘I was so upset at losing Sylvia and the baby that I didn’t argue. And I blamed myself for everything. Still do. So I went to prison. Eventually, my solicitor insisted that I appeal and they decided that it was “dangerous driving” instead. I did six months and then they let me go. I didn’t want to be free. I didn’t want to live!’ He sighed. ‘Sylvia’s family, all our friends, everyone has turned against me. I don’t blame them. My job went when I was convicted. I’ve been roaming about in the Highlands, living rough, not eating… not caring.’

  ‘You sound as though you were hoping to die, perhaps?’ I asked gently.

  His eyes were full of misery, as he nodded. ‘But it doesn’t work like that does it?’

  I shook my head. ‘Don’t you know anyone you could go to? Where do you – or did – you live?’

  ‘Dundee. Yes, I have a sister. She was living abroad at the time, but she’s back now and living in Inverness. She wrote to me in prison and wanted to come to visit, but I wouldn’t let her. I didn’t want to see anyone.’ He paused. ‘We used to be close, though.’

  ‘I think you know that you can’t go on like this, Steve. You need help to deal with the guilt. It’s destroying you. It was an accident! A dreadful one, I know, but not really your fault. Would you let me talk to our island GP in the morning? I think he might be able to get you some appropriate help, and perhaps we could get in touch with your sister. She’ll probably know that you have been released. She might even have been looking for you.’

  Before Steve could answer, Fergie said, ‘He could stay with me the night, and get things going in the morning.’

  ‘Good idea,’ I said. I was relieved that the problem of a bed for Steve for the night had been solved so easily. I looked at him, ‘Can I ring Doctor, Steve?’

  His shoulders sagged but he heaved a sigh and nodded. Perhaps he felt that it was time to try to forgive himself.

  I heard from him some weeks later. He was visiting a counsellor regularly and his widowed sister had taken him to live with her. He had found a job in a rehoming centre for dogs a
nd cats and had adopted a collie himself. Remembering the interaction between him and our two dogs, I could see that this would help him – as well as the dog. He seemed hopeful, if not happy. It would take a long, long time.

  9

  The Calm and the Storm

  I WONDER WHAT could be more relaxing and rewarding than sitting alone on the shore on a warm, sunny morning? No work (day off) no boys (out for the day) no George (away on a contract)… just me and the two dogs, Pip and Squeak.

  The advancing army of the white-topped waves was sparkling in the silvery sunshine of a spring day. The ruined castle on the headland, brilliant against a blue sky, appeared to grow out of the rocks rather than having been built among them, while cattle nosed between the old walls searching for the longer grass which grew in the sheltered corners.

  I sat on a grassy stump, where the pebbles gave way to the scrubby vegetation, and leaned back so that I could watch the clouds as they scudded past. Although there was a serene calm where I sat, the wind must have been strong at higher levels as these grey and white, woolly clouds were hurrying across the sky, appearing to nudge each other out of the way. I watched, as they formed and re-formed, changing shape, changing colour as the sun caught them, climbing and falling until they became amorphous as they hid behind the distant mountains.

  In our wild location, we needed to make the most of any calm, warm weather with which we were only occasionally blessed. We were more used to apocalyptic storms, snow, icy roads, heavy rain and the rattle in the wind of the bare, brittle, winter branches of our few trees, rather than gentle breezes and dry, sunny days. But all this buffeting by nature’s forces is what had fashioned our mountains, burns, shores and the islands themselves: had formed the torrents that rushed down the hillsides, the lochs, dark under grey skies but glistening in sunlight, or restless with huffing wavelets in the wind. Even while we grumbled about getting wet every day for, it seemed, weeks on end; even when we battled to keep the car on the narrow, rutted road in ice or snow; even when I was called out, yet again, at three in the morning on a cold, dark, winter night – yes, even then – we loved this beautiful place with its unique culture and homely people, its sense of timelessness, its history and its folklore. I often felt that the whole spectrum of life was played out in miniature around us.