A few things were worrying me. The baby was quite tiny (barely 5lb, I thought) and seemed to be slightly premature. I was also becoming increasingly convinced that Jaynie was not 16. Her body was childish and unformed, and her whole attitude was immature. It was almost as if she hoped the whole thing would go away. She did not want to look at the baby, much less hold her.
Eventually, we installed the baby in a drawer, which Ina had placed beside the box-bed. I started to tell her that I would get the doctor to have a look at mother and baby later when she put her finger to her lips and made signs to me to accompany her.
‘Come you into the room, Nurse.’
I followed the older woman into the adjoining room. ‘Now, Ina. Tell me all before I go to get Dr Mac. Why did no one tell me that Jaynie was pregnant? No matter what the circumstances, she should have been having antenatal care.’
Ina burst into tears. ‘Nurse,’ she sobbed, ‘you’ll no believe me, but I didna know that she was expectin at all. Me! Me, as has had seven bairns to myself! And what will I tell Angus? Oh, dear, dear, dear!’
She was distraught. It looked as though she had kept her head during the last few hectic hours, but it had all been a great shock and now she was on the verge of hysteria.
‘Ina, stop blaming yourself and just try to tell me how all this happened. How did she keep such a thing a secret? It seems almost impossible in a small house like this, with everyone around.’
‘Nurse, I swear to you, the Lord spare me, that I knew nothin until this morning. She waited until she heard Angus goin and then she came down the stair and lay on the couch. I found her when I came in from the chickens. She had been in labour most of the night, but didn’t dare let on until Angus was away.’ She paused, gasping.
‘Jaynie is our youngest and the only wee girl. Angus just dotes on her. He’ll be beside himself, he will. Oh, he will! And he’ll blame me.’ Another storm of weeping followed.
I put my arm around her. What a shock she had had.
‘Let’s not worry about Angus just now, Ina. What happened when you found her on the couch?’
‘I didna realise at first. I thought she was just puttin on so as to get off school. Then I looked at her properly and I could see that she was in labour. Oh my, my, Nurse! I was never so shocked! How could I not have seen before? I just can’t take it in. Well, I’d no time to get you or anyone, because her waters went and in no time the wee soul was here. Is baby all right, Nurse? She looks awful wee.’
‘I think they are both fine, for the moment, but I want Dr Mac to have a look at the baby.’
‘Oh, Nurse. What will Doctor think of me?’ Ina rocked to and fro.
‘It isn’t your fault, Ina.’ I paused. ‘Ina, how old is Jaynie?’
She stopped rocking; she almost stopped breathing.
‘Thirteen,’ she whispered.
I nodded. This was worse than I thought.
‘Do you know who . . .?’ I got no further.
‘No, I do not! But I’ll murder him when I find out! May the Lord help me, so I will!’
‘Jaynie hasn’t said?’
‘No. And I can’t think who it might be. She hasn’t a boyfriend and doesn’t go out much. Angus always meets her after ceilidhs.’
‘It must have been about last May sometime, I think. The thing is, Ina, whoever it is will be in a lot of trouble, as she is so young.’
Pre-marital sex was common among couples who were ‘going together’, and there were plenty of ‘shotgun’ weddings. But the couples were usually intending marriage anyway, so everyone, except the most pious or prudish, looked on them with indulgence. They were often very young, but not 13.
Ina had been deep in thought, and gradually a look of horror crept over her careworn face.
‘Last May? Oh, the Dear Lord! No. It canna be him!’ Her hand flew to her mouth and her eyes stared unseeingly across the kitchen.
‘What is it?’
But Ina’s eyes slid sideways as she said, ‘Och . . . nothin. No, nothin at all.’
It was obvious that I was not going to get any more information on those lines, so I said gently, ‘Angus will have to be told, Ina.’
She looked scared. ‘No, no. Ach, he’ll likely kill . . .’ She stopped.
‘Surely he would not harm you?’
‘No, no indeed. He’s a good man but . . .’
Again she stopped and seemed so distressed that I moved to the practicalities of buying or, more likely, borrowing the gallimaufry of baby equipment that would be needed.
I could do no more. The family side of all this would have to be resolved later, but for now my priority was to get Dr Mac’s opinion and perhaps send Jaynie and her baby to the island hospital for a day or two.
I found Dr Mac in the middle of his surgery, and I popped in between patients. The good doctor was virtually unshockable. He had seen much in his long career.
‘Jaynie is only 13,’ I reported. ‘She will not name the father, but I’m sure Ina has guessed who it is and is terrified that Angus will kill him.’
Dr Mac looked at me sharply. ‘She hasn’t told you any more?’
I shook my head. ‘It was obviously in May or thereabouts,’ I mused.
‘Ahh.’ He thought for a moment. ‘May . . . hmm.’ He sighed. ‘Right, Nurse. I’ll be there as soon as surgery is finished. The business about the father will have to wait.’
On my rounds, I wondered about the effect of motherhood on so young a girl – physically and psychologically. That Ina would care for the baby I had no doubt, but what was this going to do to the already large family? And why was Ina so scared at the thought of the father’s identity, for I was sure that she had guessed it? But I had the feeling that there was something else here. Dr Mac had reacted to ‘May’; so had Ina. Why? After all, Jaynie was at school with any number of boys in May, as at any other time of the year. And how was an upstanding churchman like Angus going to take the news?
That evening, Dr Mac phoned to ask me to call in to the surgery in the morning before I went to check on Jaynie and the baby. He had an interesting tale to tell.
‘I think you realised that I knew, or at least thought I knew, who the father of Jaynie’s child might be. Ina realised this as well, and we had a long chat when I was there. I timed my visit to coincide with Angus getting in from his work.’ He paused. ‘You see, Ina and Angus had a son before they came to live here; they were in the Outer Isles then. Unfortunately, the little boy was not quite normal . . .’
With mounting horror, I realised where this was going.
Dr Mac continued, ‘As he grew, he needed more care than the parents could give, as several more children had been born to them by then, so he was put into a special home on the mainland. Well, over the years his response to his treatment meant that he could be allowed out into the community – under supervision. In May of last year, his escort lost him and, to cut a long story short, he ended up here. His parents were in a predicament, as the other children had not been told about him.’
The doctor noticed my look and said with a rather sad grin, ‘That is still the way of it here. Surprisingly, they had been able to keep it quiet, probably because he had been born before they came to Papavray. Well, of course, when he turned up, they had to take him in, and Angus came to me for help and advice. It was the first I had known about it all. The rest of the family were told who he was, but not Jaynie. It was still a secret from the outside world, you see, and the parents felt that Jaynie, being little more than a child, would not be able to hold her tongue. He was passed off as a visiting friend.’
Dr Mac sighed. ‘It took me a while to find another place for him; we had lost all confidence in the first one. So the lad was here for most of the month of May. You know the rest.’
I was trying to take in all the implications of this appalling story. ‘She is very much under age and he is her brother! What do you think will happen to him?’
‘Probably nothing. He will be deemed to be of dimini
shed responsibility and placed somewhere more secure, I would think. They might be able to keep it all out of the papers . . . I hope so for their sakes. No, he’ll be all right. It’s Jaynie and the baby that I’m worried about. And Ina and Angus.’
‘The baby? Is the little soul normal, do you think?’
‘Too early to know. We’ll keep an eye on things and deal with problems as and if they arise. I’m glad that Angus and Ina are such good people. Of course, Angus is an Elder.’
I looked at him with amazement. This was Dr Mac actually praising a churchman!
‘Ach well, Nurse, they are not all canting hypocrites like yon minister. There are plenty who believe in love and compassion.’
Embarrassed by expressing his feelings, he cleared his throat. ‘I’ll be starting the surgery now.’
But this was not the end! As Churchill said, it was only ‘the end of the beginning’.
TWELVE
Bones and boats!
This particular Saturday started just like any other. Nick was home for the weekend from his school on the mainland, and he and Andy planned to take our small boat out onto the sea loch to do some fishing. We had enjoyed a spell of unusually fine weather with uncertain sunshine and a placid sea.
The boys raced about gathering fishing and boating gear, while I prepared mounds of sandwiches and thermoses of coffee. I was looking forward to a fairly light workload this morning and hoped that I would be back in Dhubaig by lunchtime. I did not quite trust the brittle sunshine and the deceptive calm. Ours was a very small boat. ‘Unsinkable’ supposedly, but look what happened to the Titanic!
So off they went and I gathered my bag and made for the door. At that moment, the phone rang.
‘Nurse . . .’ It was Dr Mac, and I could tell immediately that something was badly wrong. ‘I’ve fallen and I’m sure I have fractured my leg.’ He was obviously in pain.
‘Fiona has called Ramsey [the ambulance] and I’m off to Rachadal, but I want you to stand in at the surgery. I’m still at home and I haven’t opened up yet. Tell the patients and deal with anything you can.’ He paused to catch his breath.
I was worried. Dr Mac was 70, arthritic and undoubtedly overworked. When he spoke again, he said, ‘You’d better come to the hospital now, because Ramsey has just arrived. See me there and I’ll give you the surgery keys, and I’ll give you some numbers to ring for a locum.’
I stood for a moment, phone in hand, my mind skipping over the current patient list and trying to remember if there was much outside my sphere that day. By tomorrow we would have found a locum – I hoped!
*
‘Will ye no keep still, Doctor? I canna take the pictures with you jumpin about like yon.’
The X-ray technicians were having trouble making Dr Mac sit still, as he kept shuffling notes and jotting down phone numbers.
‘I’ll be having a walking plaster,’ announced the indomitable doctor.
‘Indeed and you will not! Tis too bad a break for that. You’ll no be walking anywhere for a wee whiley.’
I departed with a head full of instructions and a sheet full of the phone numbers of various retired doctors on whom Dr Mac occasionally depended.
I drove to his surgery, where a few patients were waiting, vaguely aware that something had happened to their beloved doctor. Two of them went home and two more had only minor problems that I could deal with on the spot.
I began the search for a locum, and after several abortive calls I rang a number in Glasgow. A broad Irish voice answered me.
‘Dr O’Donnell here.’
I explained the situation, and he agreed to set off immediately.
‘And tell that young man to mend soon!’
This was his parting shot. Dr Mac young? At 70? I wondered just how old Dr O’Donnell would turn out to be!
The weather was already deteriorating as I set off on my rounds. I was passing the harbour at Dalhavaig when I noticed a crowd gathered on the pier, which was quite a surprise as there was no steamer due for several hours. Suddenly, a figure jumped out in front of the car. I braked hard and slewed to a halt on the wet road.
‘You’ll get yourself killed, Shoras.’
Old Shoras, ‘The Pier’, squinted in at the window. ‘Nurse! Young Ally’s in the water!’
I stared stupidly. ‘In the water?’
‘Aye, he fell off the wall. He canna swim.’
I got out of the car, grabbing a blanket as I went. I followed the sprackling old man towards the agitated crowd.
There, in the murky depths of the harbour, were two figures. I instantly recognised the huge form of Rhuari, our island ‘giant’, striking out powerfully towards a pair of flailing arms. The watching crowd was voluble in its advice.
‘Stay you still, Ally!’
‘He’ll sink if he does.’
‘Nearly there, Rhuari!’
‘Throw that life ring in, Angus.’
‘There should be a rope on it.’
‘Old Callum took it for his boat, the silly old bodach.’
‘Throw it in anyway!’
And so on.
Meanwhile, Rhuari had reached the spluttering boy.
‘Stay you still!’ we heard him bellow, but Ally still struggled, grabbing Rhuari by his hair, whereupon the boy received a sharp cuff on the shoulder and was finally still. Turning him, Rhuari’s spade-like hands went under Ally’s arms and with a powerful kick he made for the pier. At last someone threw the lifebelt. It landed firmly on Rhuari’s head!
Perhaps it was Rhuari’s shock of curly hair or the giant-like proportions of his head, but he shrugged off the weighty lifebelt as though it were an annoying fly. He struck out for the steps. There he slung Ally over his shoulder and climbed to the pier.
I pushed my way through the throng to give assistance, but I was hardly needed. Rhuari upended the young lad, thumped him firmly on his back and waited for him to cough and take a good deep breath before lowering him gently to the ground. With a grin in my direction, he marched off amid much backslapping. He looked embarrassed by all the congratulations.
I wrapped the unfortunate Ally in the blanket, wiped his face and walked him to the car. He seemed no worse for his impromptu ducking, so I took him home to his mother.
Back in Dalhavaig, I did my regular visits (injections, dressings and minor childhood ailments), aware that the weather was deteriorating further, and as I made my way to Dr Mac’s home I began to worry about the boys. He had insisted on being sent home, and I found him in his study before an enormous fire, with his plastered leg raised on a stool. He was drinking the inevitable cup of tea, and he looked white and strained.
I had just finished letting him know about Dr O’Donnell’s imminent arrival when the phone rang. Fiona answered it and came back into the room looking worried.
‘It’s for you, Mary-J. Something about the boys.’
I glanced out of the window. The sea was now choppy, with huffing waves. I picked up the phone. It was ‘Basher’, Nick’s friend from the small island of Schula. (His name was some unpronounceable Nordic word, so ‘Basher’ he was.)
‘Mrs M! I thought you might be at the Doctor’s. Nick and Andy have just landed on Isle Cruach . . .’
‘Isle Cruach? Why? Are they all right?’
‘Yes, I think so. I can see them through the binoculars. I was watching because I thought they were coming here, but they seem to have lost power and they have drifted onto Isle Cruach. I’d go for them, but it’s too windy for the taber [his tiny boat], and Mum and Dad are on Eileen Mor with the dory.’
My head was spinning. Isle Cruach was a tiny island, only about a hundred feet in each direction. Where would they shelter?
Before I could speak, Basher continued, ‘I have rung the shop that Mum and Dad were going to. They can pick Nick and Andy up on the way back. It will take about an hour or more . . .’ He trailed off.
‘But what if the weather worsens and they can’t get back?’ Even a dory would not be safe among
the jagged islets in really bad weather.
‘Well . . . if it holds at this, they’ll get there.’
‘And if it doesn’t?’
‘Coastguard, I suppose.’
‘I’m going home,’ I decided. ‘Dhubaig is so much nearer. Ring me there when you know any more. Thank you, Bash.’ How I hated that nickname! It suited him not at all: he was a gentle, well-mannered boy.
The blustery wind was now buffeting and shaking the little car as I made my way over Ben Criel, and the rain was so heavy that, in spite of the wipers, I could scarcely see through the windscreen.
It was getting dark now and I was becoming very concerned. George was away. I reflected irritably that he always seemed to be away when there was any family emergency. I rang Basher on Schula. (Surprisingly they had a phone on their island.)
‘Any news, Basher?’
‘None. I don’t even know if Mum and Dad have received my message. I can’t see far now it’s getting so dark.’
‘I think I’ll ring the coastguard. There is nothing else either of us can do. Thank you, Basher.’
I was just about to make the call when there was a thundering on the back door and Archie burst in, shouting, ‘Are ye there, Mary-J? Where are your boys? Your boat’s no at the shore!’
He had been to secure his own boat against the storm and noticed that ours was missing. I told him what had happened and that I was about to call the coastguard.
‘No good,’ he said. ‘Two calls already. Boats in trouble well out to sea. They’ll no go for the boys if they are safe on dry land – well, not dry exactly, but you know what I’m meaning.’
I realised that he had been indulging his hobby of listening in to the emergency waveband on his old transistor radio.
‘What am I to do, Archie? They won’t drown, I know, but they will be cold, wet and hungry, and Andy will probably be scared.’
‘I’ll go!’ Archie volunteered with no hesitation. ‘I’ve a good strong boat.’ He pushed his cap up and scratched his head. (This meant that Archie was pondering.) ‘I’ll take a crowbar and some tools so we can get into the bothy and out of the weather. Mary-J, get you some food together and blankets and something hot to drink. I’ll meet you at the shore.’
The Island Nurse Page 7
