‘How exciting!’ At last, I thought.
‘Then it will go off again, takin yon body with it. What’s the point o’ that, I’m wonderin?’
‘It’s for explicity,’ said Mary knowledgably.
‘What?’
‘What?’
There was a puzzled pause, then Archie sighed. ‘Ach, the woman! I think she means “publicity”.’
‘Aye,’ said Mary, unperturbed as usual.
Archie had been thinking. ‘Twill cost a mint, I’m thinkin. The fare, I mean.’
‘No,’ said Mary. ‘I’m hearin that the Island Development Committee is goin to subscribe it.’
Archie nearly screamed. ‘Subsidise it, Mary! Subsidise it!’ he roared. ‘Ach, the woman will be the death o’ me, she will.’
‘Well, somebody, somewhere is goin to pay something so that the fares are no too high.’ For the first time ever, Mary seemed huffy. Archie looked a bit shamefaced. He had shouted very loudly, and the sound of his voice was still rumbling round the hills.
‘Ach, I’d no be so sure,’ said Old Roderick. ‘I had a letter from the post office last night. It’s goin to be about 50 pounds return to Glasgow, they reckon.’
There was a horrified gasp, then Fergie muttered, ‘I’m thinkin no one will use it, then.’
‘Oh, yes,’ piped Mary. ‘My sister from Oxford says she will come on the airyplane.’
Fergie sighed. ‘Mary, she’d have to get to Heathrow by train or coach, then from Heathrow to Glasgow on the shuttle and then on this plane that’s goin to cost a fortune. Very expensive.’ He shook his head. ‘Better come to Inverness by train and we pick her up from there and bring her by steamer and ferry. Twill be a quarter the price.’
‘When is the big opening ceremony to be?’ I asked.
‘Next Thursday – midday. I hope the weather holds.’ Old Roderick sounded doubtful.
Everyone cast worried glances at today’s serene sky.
‘Hmm,’ said Fergie. ‘It’s been fine for too long. Tis not natural.’
We were getting quite good at reading the weather now, so we squinted with the rest towards the mountains on the other islands, out to sea and finally up towards Ben Criel. Pointing to the herring-bone clouds, Fergie prophesied rain for Thursday. Old Roderick claimed that, as Ben Criel was clear, it might be fine for the great day.
The argument seemed set to continue when Archie interrupted. ‘The wireless will tell us.’
‘Ach! What does the wireless know about Papavray? The steamer canna sail sometimes even though the wireless has said “no gales”. What hope has a wee plane? Twill be off more than tis on, I wouldn’t wonder.’ Old Roderick was lost in thought for a moment, then he said, ‘D’ye mind a few years back, ma niece from Canada – her visit? We took her to the mainland for the train to Glasgow for her flight home. Well, we couldna get back to Papavray for the storms. The steamer was off, the ferry had been beached by the high tide, and we had to wait two days. Ma niece, she rang the post office here to say she was home afore we got back. Canada, mind! Thousands o’ miles and us just 20 mile away, waitin on the storm. Ach! Twill not do.’
‘Well, I’m no goin in one of them wee things. No as big as Archie’s boat, foreby. And only six seats!’ Kirsty was adamant. ‘The only time I’m goin up there is when I die.’ She thought about this for a moment and then added, ‘If I’m spared, that is.’
I was at a loss to follow this logic, but everyone else seemed to understand.
With that, we went back to our sandwiches and thermoses of tea, happily picking bits of wool off our teeth and lips while the oiliness of the fleeces that I was rolling was likening my hands to something resembling the inside of a car engine. There would have to be a lot of energetic scrubbing before I tended my first patient tomorrow.
‘Right! Off we go!’ The call to arms went up. It had been decided that the rather protracted tea break should end and the work began again. Another batch of sheep was approaching the pen, so the clipping and shouting and the inspection of the ewes’ fleeces and skin continued.
We worked on, glad of the breeze that kept the midges away. George did not repeat his efforts with the shears but helped to bring the sheep down from the high hills. Gradually, the thin, naked-looking sheep began to outnumber the woolly ones. After another three hours or so, the crofters reckoned that they had sheared some three hundred and twenty sheep at least.
‘Bound to be a few in the hills that we havena found. Come autumn, they’ll be down looking for better grass on the crofts and we’ll get them then, but they’ll probably have rubbed a lot off and what’s left won’t be much good. Happens every year.’
Archie was tired, as were all the rest, and they still had to go home to milk cows, feed livestock and shut chickens up for the night. And even continue the hay-making in some cases.
Quieter now from exhaustion, everyone started down the hill, each carrying as many fleeces as possible, tied together in bundles. Just as I had been the first person on the hill, so I contrived to remain behind the once-vociferous crowd as they wearily descended, the tired collies plodding beside them. The uncomprehending ewes, in their white underwear, watched them go and then returned to the important business of grazing.
I sat on the wall and looked out over the green saucer of land that was the village and its crofts. People the size of ants were already fetching in cows for milking and feeding chickens. Gradually, as the peace of the evening settled over the glen, I began to see little plumes of blue smoke rise from the chimneys as folk lit their fires. I listened – even distant voices had stilled, the hill was quiet once more, and I was left in the silent clamour of remembered noise. As the last birds flew off to roost, I picked up my bundle of fleeces and plodded slowly homeward.
Home! Our cosy, sturdy, gale-defying home among the tussocky grass, where we could watch the mountains changing colour and shape as clouds, mist, sunlight or even lightning raced between the jagged peaks. Where we had a view of the ever-changing sea: sometimes black and menacing, sometimes silver in owl-haunted moonlight or ice-blue winter sunshine, or, as today, sparkling under the clear summer sky. Whatever the weather or the season, this was a wonderful place to live.
TWENTY-SEVEN
Rowing boats and rucksacks
I gradually came to know the new people who had rented Tin Cottage in Struakin and found Robbie, Sarah and little Fiona to be an unusual and fascinating family. Sarah and I soon found that we had many interests in common.
She and Robbie had left the rush and noise of London, just as we had, but whereas we had to make a living, they had come into a great deal of money, leaving them the freedom to move to wherever took their fancy in order to pursue their hobbies. Robbie was an enthusiastic amateur naturalist, and Sarah was writing and painting and appeared to be very talented.
She and Robbie had been married within a month of meeting. The following year, Sarah had given birth to premature twins. Sadly, the little boy had died and Fiona, the other twin, was brain damaged. While still in London, they had sent her to a special-needs school, but by the time they relocated to Papavray she was able to attend the local school three days a week for mainstream education and was taught at home for the remaining time.
One beautiful day when I was off duty, I drove to the end of the ‘road’ and set out to walk the two miles of rocky path to the tiny hamlet by the sea. I was hoping to hear that little Fiona had made friends with the Johansson girls. The long school holidays would be very lonely otherwise.
The Johanssons were strange, reclusive people, dour to the point of rudeness. No one knew how they made a living, but Mr Johansson went away for long periods, and it was presumed that these trips were to do with his work. The crofters were curious: he was variously a spy, a scientist, a writer and so on.
Sarah had asked me to tea on this lovely summer day, and we sat in front of the house, gazing at the sea while Fiona played with seashells nearby. The house next door seemed to be closed up although it was
unusually warm.
‘He’s away again,’ said Sarah. ‘But she is there.’
‘What on earth does she do?’ I asked. ‘Why would she shut herself inside on a beautiful day like this?’
‘I sometimes hear a typewriter clacking away but not often. It’s the girls that I worry about. In term time, they have other company, but in the holidays they are often inside, not even allowed to play with Fiona some of the time.’ Sarah sounded concerned.
‘What about friends or relatives? Does anyone ever come to stay?’
Sarah shook her head.
‘None of this is a natural life for children, is it?’ I said.
‘And there is something else,’ Sarah said, then paused. ‘The other evening at about 11.30 – it wasn’t quite dark – Rob was on the cliff with his binoculars. He was watching for a mouse or a mole or something in the bushes beside the shore when he became aware of a movement on the rocks just around the headland. After a while, he saw Mr Johansson leave his house and make his way round the headland. He was going in the direction of the movement that Rob had seen.’ She paused to pour more tea.
‘This is intriguing – like a thriller,’ I said with a smile.
‘It gets better. Rob gave up the mousehunt and concentrated on the drama, but once Mr Johansson was round the corner of the rocks he couldn’t see him any more. A little later, back came Mr Johansson with a rucksack on his back and went off home. After a bit longer, Rob could hear a very slight noise from the direction of the sea and a small rowing boat appeared, sliding through the water, making almost no sound. He watched, and when it was well out to sea he heard them start an outboard engine and they disappeared into the darkness.’
She looked at me. ‘What do you make of that?’
‘The most obvious thing would be smuggling,’ I said.
We puzzled over this clandestine meeting in silence for a while.
‘When did they come to live here?’ I asked. ‘They were already here when we came.’
‘I don’t believe they have been here for more than about four years.’
‘They have always been a mystery. The crofters would love to know how they support themselves.’
Sarah laughed. ‘They must say the same about us, but we are only here temporarily.’
We changed the subject and talked of generalities for a while, but as I started my long walk back to the car I puzzled over the vexed question of the Johanssons. I was concerned for the girls: surely this secretive lifestyle could not be good for them? I determined to speak to Dr Mac. His long experience of people and of island culture made him a wise counsellor who often had a completely different way of looking at things. In the meantime I enjoyed walking in the sunshine of this perfect day, and I dawdled a little to watch the seals romping in the gentle waves. I listened as I walked and could hear only my own footfall and the song of the birds. No blaring radios, no roar of traffic or honking of horns. No brick walls, high-rise flats or multi-storey car parks. We had left all that behind and this peace was ours!
*
On Dr Mac’s suggestion, I began to think up reasons to attend the school more often in order to assess the Johansson girls, but before any progress could be made things were taken out of our hands entirely. And in a most dramatic fashion.
It began with the unusual sight of two high-powered police cars leaving the steamer from the mainland, while John, our own policeman, waited for them on the quay at Dalhavaig in his own modest Ford. The cars were first off the boat and stopped beside John. There was some consultation and then two policemen stationed themselves at the entrance to the quay while John jumped into one of the big cars, which set off at an alarming rate. They roared through Dalhavaig, scattering people and dogs, screamed along the narrow coast road, terrifying sheep and cattle, and leaving goggle eyes and open mouths as they tore off towards Struakin. It must have been a great shock to these enthusiastic young men to discover that they had to leave their powerful vehicles and walk the last two miles to the hamlet.
This was the most exciting thing to have happened on Papavray since the plane crash, but in fact for a quiet, peaceful backwater on the very edge of the British Isles we seemed to have more than our fair share of drama.
In Struakin, Mr Johansson was arrested and taken away, and, in spite of searching questions, John would tell us nothing. But eventually, of course, we heard the whole saga.
The Johannsons had come to remote Papavray to hide their identity and activities: this was a mistake in itself, as a big city such as Birmingham or Glasgow would have been better. People take less notice of each other in such places than on an island where folk take a consuming interest in their neighbours and newcomers are the subjects of intense scrutiny.
The crime itself was very serious. In spite of all the conjecture about Diarmuid Johansson, no one appeared to have guessed the obvious. This was the early ’70s but, although many had decided that he must be a criminal of some sort, no one had connected Mr Johansson with the IRA. Spy, scientist, writer? All these things had been discussed endlessly, and yet the truth should have stared us in the face. Perhaps it was the Swedish name? Or were we just being ostriches about the ‘Troubles’ because we were so far away from it all?
I heard the story from a shocked Sarah.
Apparently Mr Johansson was heavily involved in raising funds for the IRA. He had organised a system and a route by which money (actual cash) came into the island (the boat that Rob had seen?). He would pass it on when he was on those so-called business trips.
‘What about his wife? Was she involved?’ I asked.
‘I don’t think so, but she must have had some idea that something odd was going on. She is the really Swedish one, so she had no loyalty to either side. He is Irish through and through.’
‘But his accent?’ I asked with amazement.
‘All an act, I suppose. Being married to her and having lived in Stockholm for many years, it would probably have been easy.’
‘And the girls? Did they know anything?’
‘No. They had been told that all the secrecy was to do with “Daddy’s work”. I have been thinking about her, and I imagine she just wanted to keep the family together. He was devoted to the girls. Can you imagine how a father could help the IRA to blow up families with children just like his own?’
I shook my head. ‘It’s unbelievable. But what will happen to Mrs Johansson and the children?’
‘They are going back to her family in Sweden, I’m told. The house has been searched and emptied, but I don’t know any more than that. The police have asked us all sorts of questions, but, apart from Rob’s experience that night, we couldn’t tell them anything.’
We looked at the view for a while in silence, then she said, ‘Rob doesn’t want to stay here, and I’m not sure that it is the best thing for Fiona, especially as the girls have gone. So we too will be leaving Struakin.’
So suddenly Struakin would be empty of people and the little hamlet left to the sea and the birds. I hoped that someone would come to live there. A deserted village is a sad sight, and we had too many of them on Papavray.
TWENTY-EIGHT
Peat, trees and trouble
The weather this year had been erratic and the seasons mixed up. On 2 February, George and I had walked to a little coral beach near Coiravaig. We wore thick pullovers and took a picnic, for it was one of those days sent straight from heaven – clear blue sky and silvery winter sunshine. We settled ourselves on the dry white sand and leaned our backs against the rocks, facing the sun and the sea. In no time at all, George was asleep. Oystercatchers romped past, skimming the sea, their red-beaked, black-and-white bodies glinting in the sunlight and their trilling, haunting cry carrying across the water.
June the second saw a snowstorm! The white mantle clothed the far summits for a day or two until a vicious storm and gale-force winds washed it away and we returned to an uneasy spring.
Spring meant skylarks. They were so high up in the dome of the
sky that they were scarcely visible and as numerous as ‘currants in a dumpling’, to quote Murdo, a seven-year-old friend of Andy’s.
In April, we watched the skeins of geese flying north to spend their summer in Iceland or Scandinavia, and we listened to the honking and swishing of wings as they constantly changed the leader in their V-shaped formation. In autumn, back they came to share our moors and lochs with the few native geese that stayed all the year.
Another noisy springtime arrival was the cuckoo. No Hebridean cuckoos are ever immortalised in The Times by over-eager listeners claiming to be the first to hear that distinctive call. Our cuckoos did not arrive until May, and then Dhubaig alone was alive with at least six mating pairs!
The grass remained stubbornly dormant until about May, when the lengthening days and warmer temperatures stirred it into sudden, burgeoning life. Sheep were let out onto the hillsides, lambs appeared, and people began to look thinner as they shed a layer or two of winter clothing.
As the days lengthened and hopefully the weather warmed, the B&Bs and hotels began to prepare for their brief summer season. The opportunity to make a little money was short lived as our summers lasted for only three months, so the tourists had to be ‘caught’. The hotels advertised in magazines in the south – today, they have websites – and put up newly painted signs, while the B&Bs often had ingenious ways of attracting the unwary visitor.
Old Kathy, who lived by the pier, took advantage of this position to stand on the quayside when the steamer was due and approach the disembarking passengers with exaggerated claims about the position and facilities of her small croft house. Sometimes she succeeded in actually escorting them to her rather dingy abode and the more polite among them agreed to stay. But I have not heard of anyone spending more than one night there: they usually found an excuse to move on.
Other potential landladies positioned themselves at the end of their track where it met the road and waved and smiled until someone stopped. Even if the tourists had only been about to ask directions, they often found themselves politely invited to have a ‘wee cup of tea’ and then they would quite possibly stay for several days. The average crofters were innately hospitable; they enjoyed the company and hearing about the big wide world, and were only too happy to regale the southerners with tales, often true, sometimes not, of local lore. Many folk thus caught in the crofters’ trap would be so comfortable that they might return year after year.
The Island Nurse Page 17
