He sighed again. ‘You see, we’m goin to ’ave to leave Ardnacloich dreckly. Sven and Sonya drowned a few weeks back. Twas a right tragedy, it were!’
I murmured my sympathy. I could see what was coming.
‘Olga and me, well us couldn’t manage by ourselves. With all the animals and the land. I couldn’t expect Olga to do too much, but I ’ad wondered if we coulda got a coupla lads to ’elp but ’er din’t want to carry on. Sven ’ad left the lease and the money to ’er so we could’ve afforded to do that, but no, ’er ’ad ’ad enough and it’s ’ers now so . . .’ He sighed.
I offered him a lift to the castle, and he clambered in.
‘So what are you going to do?’ I prompted him.
‘Well, us made friends wi’ some folk from ’ere, who come to Ardnacloich to buy some goats . . .’
‘Goats?’ I interrupted.
‘Ahh.’
‘There is only one croft on Papavray that has goats. So it must have been Fergie.’
‘Right. And another fellow. Archie were ’is name. Cousin or something.’
‘Well! I am surprised. I remember the goats coming, but I didn’t know where they came from. They are very handsome animals.’
‘Ahh. The best! Us only breeds the best.’
‘So, what are you going to do?’ I repeated.
‘Well, this ’ere Fergie said as ’ow I should come and see ’is Lordship and see if us could get an ’ouse and work ’ere.’ He seemed less than enthusiastic.
‘Tis more convenient yer. You got some shops and tis better fer getting to the mainland and so on. Olga would like that.’
‘Where is Olga just now, by the way?’
‘I left ’er in Dalhavaig and come on round meself. ’Er ’ave to see some solicitor ’bout the money Sven left her. Do you know ’im? Angus Mac-something? Is ’ee all right, because I ’opes ’ee’s straight with ’er?’
Angus was the only solicitor on Papavray. ‘Yes, I know him. He will be straight with her.’ What I felt I did not need to say in these circumstances was that if there was ever something very private, local folk went to a solicitor on the mainland. Angus could be talkative.
But I was beginning to see that this likeable little man had spent most of his adult life trying to make sure that Olga was ‘all right’ and ‘’appy’. I was also forming a picture in my mind of a small, rather clinging little woman with blonde, Scandinavian-type colouring, who needed a lot of care for some reason. Maybe her health was delicate? She had not wanted to leave the Faeroes with him, had not been ‘’appy’ in Cornwall and now was looking forward to leaving Ardnacloich. I had heard nothing of what Harry wanted. Did they have to give up the lease? Surely they could obtain help, because men were always looking for work and there was precious little around.
We pulled the old-fashioned bell and the big heavy door was soon opened by Chrissie, who now worked for the laird.
‘Chrissie! This is Harry, who has come to see Duncan.’
‘Hello, Harry. The laird is expecting you.’
Just at that moment, Duncan exploded into the room in his usual boisterous manner.
‘How do you do, Harry?’
‘Well. Thank’ee, sir.’ Harry was ill at ease. Duncan, although friendly, could be a little overpowering.
‘Come through, Harry. We’ll go into the study. I have a few ideas that might interest you: a possible future for your island.’
‘Thank’ee, sir, but tis Olga’s island really, because it’s her lease now, ain’t it?’ Harry was hurrying after the laird. But Duncan suddenly stopped and looked round at Harry.
‘No, no. The lease was in the name of Sven Polson. Now that he is sadly no longer with us, it reverts to me, to reassign as I see fit, as part of my estates.’
And off he strode, with Harry almost having to run to keep up. I just heard his receding voice saying, ‘Well! I weren’t aware o’ that, sir. I thought . . .’ And they were gone.
Chrissie beckoned me, and I followed her into the vast warm kitchen, where a kettle was singing on the Aga.
‘Tea?’
‘Please, Chrissie. How is young Johnny? And what is happening now?’
Chrissie was busying herself with tea, and dumpling, of course.
‘He’s gone back to Gran and Gramps, as he calls them, for now, to finish school. He’s very clever and might be a vet one day. He goes to see Biddy, but . . .’ Her face clouded. ‘It upsets him, but he still goes. Indeed, he’s a good boy. When he comes to see her, he stays with us for a whiley, so we are getting to know him.’
She beamed, and we settled down to drink tea and gossip: a very agreeable pastime! I had said that I would drive Harry to Dalhavaig to join Olga.
After a while, an unusually quiet Duncan came looking for me, followed by a very subdued Harry. I didn’t understand the changed atmosphere but rose to take Harry on his way.
‘Thank’ee again, sir, all the same. Tis good of ’ee and I be sorry ’bout this. I am not ungrateful, sir. No, I ain’t.’
‘Well, well. Just talk it over with, er, um . . . Olga, and I’ll hold everything in case . . . Ah, yes. Yes,’ Duncan humphed and his voice trailed off. ‘Yes, yes, Harry. Talk to er, um . . . Olga, and come back to see me if you feel that you can go ahead.’
‘Thank’ee, sir. I’ll do that.’
Farewells were made, and Harry and I departed.
‘Well,’ he said. ‘That there lordship be very kind, very generous, but I don’t think Olga’ll go fer it. No, ’er ’eart’s set on ’ere or more likely the mainland. ’Er’s lost interest sin ’er brother died.’ He paused for a while, chewing his lip. Then, with a sigh that came from the bottom of his boots, he continued, ‘I sometimes wonder if ’er woulda stayed there wi’ me at all if it weren’t fer ’im.’
I let him ramble on. It seemed that Duncan and the factor had come up with an innovative idea for the future of the island and, with it, a future for Harry and Olga. It could be run, said Duncan, as a sort of ‘summer school’ or ‘outdoor-pursuit centre’. Young people could learn animal husbandry and crop management. Added to this could be facilities for naturalists and even for painting holidays. Harry would teach animal husbandry and would be in overall charge.
In his usual endearing but blundering way, Duncan had forged ahead with these ideas with ever-increasing enthusiasm, and for a while Harry was swept along with growing excitement. This was just what would suit him and a wonderful way to ensure the future of the island that he had come to love so much. But gradually he became quieter. He didn’t think Olga would be ‘’appy’ doing this. She was nearly 50 and didn’t want to work any more. She had Sven’s money and didn’t feel she needed to. Again, I wondered if what Harry wanted had entered the equation at all. He, too, was only about 50 and not ready for pipe and slippers.
It was a very dejected Harry whom I drove into Dalhavaig to join Olga. He looked around.
‘She’ll be at the quay. Ah. There she be, in that there café.’
We pulled up outside the damp and dreary harbour café. Harry waved and out came Olga. At least, I assumed it must be Olga, but where was my mental picture of the delicate little woman with Scandinavian colouring?
Standing there, with arms akimbo, was a tall, hugely overweight, dark-haired virago of a woman, who immediately began to berate Harry in a loud, hectoring voice.
For a moment, I was in shock. So much for preconceived ideas! This was the woman whose happiness had dictated Harry’s every move for his entire adult life. He tried to introduce us, but Olga pointedly ignored me.
Diffidently, Harry began to tell Olga about Duncan’s idea. As I turned away – obviously she did not want me there – I caught sight of Archie, Mary and Fergie standing nearby, watching the scene. Fergie unobtrusively lifted his arm and beckoned me. What now, I wondered?
‘Come you here, Mary-J,’ said Archie, and drew me a little way off – out of earshot of Harry’s pleading tones and Olga’s grating, accusatory voice.
�
��Yon woman! You know Fergie and I went to their island back last year to get his goats. Well, we both took to Harry – a nice wee mannie – but yon woman was not around, so we didn’t see her at all. From the way Harry talked, we thought she would be as nice as he was.’ He shook his head. ‘Fergie heard that Harry was comin to see the laird about the island now that Sven Polson is dead,’ he continued.
Fergie took up the tale. ‘We thought we might bump into him, so we were waitin here by the quay for him and we saw him bring her here. He just landed her and went off again, but it was obvious who she was. We couldn’t believe it! Great big, bad-tempered-lookin lump of a woman she was.’
‘Yes,’ I said, wondering where all this was going. ‘She had to come to see Angus about the money that Sven has left her.’
‘Aye, we know,’ said Mary. (Of course they knew!) ‘Angus came out after she had gone, and he was mutterin and moppin his head. We all went for a dram, and Angus told us all about it. Angus said that she stamped and swore at him. Aye, she swore at him when he told her that Sven had left the money jointly to Harry and her, not just to her as she had thought. And she had thought she had the lease now. To sell! Stupid woman! Everybody knows that it re . . . rev . . . goes back to the laird.’
Fergie now continued. ‘When she finally calmed down, she demanded her half of the money there and then. Thousands! He rang the bank and off she went, stampin away to get it. We saw her.’
These three had been busy!
‘I’m not knowing what Harry is plannin with the laird, but, whatever it is, she’ll not be a part of it.’
‘What do you mean, Fergie? “She’ll not be a part of it”?’
‘Y’see, we had a wee bit shoppin to do, so we sort of followed her up the road. Guess where she went!’
‘Where?’
‘Back here to the Steamship Offices!’
I was stunned. A dreadful suspicion was beginning to form in my mind and in the next breath Fergie confirmed it.
‘I followed her in, pretended to be lookin at some brochures. You know what? She booked a one-way ticket, single, to the Faeroes. She’s leavin him!’
I looked across at Harry and Olga. They were quieter now. She was standing in a triumphant posture, Harry just standing. Shocked? Distressed? Or . . . what? Unsurprised, perhaps?
As we watched, she strode off towards the hotel without a backward glance. Harry stood looking at his boots for quite some time. I believe I thought that he would watch her go or call out to her, even run after her. He did none of these things, just stood looking at his boots with a deep frown on his face. After quite a few minutes, he raised his head, took a deep breath, braced his shoulders and began to walk towards us. In that moment, he seemed to have grown in stature, determination and confidence.
Nodding to Fergie, Archie and Mary, he addressed me. ‘Nurse . . . will you take me back to that there Lordship, please? I b’lieve we can do business after all!’
THIRTY-EIGHT
Old folks’ secrets
One December morning, I was telling Mary about our plans for a visit to London as she sat beside me in the car.
‘Aye. Twill be good indeed,’ she replied. ‘And will you be going to all yon big shops, like Harrods and Belfridges?’
‘Selfridges? Yes. Harrods? No, too expensive!’
‘Aye,’ Mary pondered. ‘I’m thinkin I’d not like London at all. Too expensive and too many red buses. I’ve seen them on the television. And they have the Underground too! Why do they need buses and Underground? Can they no make up their mind?’
‘There are so many people in London, Mary, that they need both methods of transport to get them all to work and then home again.’
‘So why do they no live nearer to their work? I’m not understandin these London people at all.’
‘Houses are too dear in London, so most people commute.’
‘What is that?’
‘They travel in and out of the city.’
‘Mmmm.’ Mary was obviously not convinced. After a silence of a few minutes, she returned to more familiar topics. Local ones.
‘You’ll be goin to see old Sara, no doubt?’
‘Yes. She is getting so odd and forgetful that I’m afraid we’ll have to send her away for her own good eventually, but she has lived in that house all her life, I’m told.’
‘Aye, but she’s getting that weird. It’s the coal now, I’m hearin,’ rejoined Mary cryptically.
‘The coal?’
‘Aye. She’s polishin the coal now.’
‘Oh my!’
Old Sara, now at 85, was very odd indeed. She had always been inclined towards excessive cleanliness. She used to wash the cows’ faces, brush the sheep and attempt to comb the chickens’ feathers when she ran her parents’ croft. Now we often saw her polishing the windows with furniture polish and sweeping the grass by the door. Inside, everything shone, either with furniture polish or Brasso, and the old-fashioned range was black-leaded daily. Her clothes all had a bleached look from so much washing in harsh soaps and chemicals. More recently, she was becoming a danger to herself. I had found her walking in the snow in bare feet one day because she did not want to get her shoes dirty. On another occasion, I treated some infected scratches that she had sustained from the sharp claws of her bad-tempered old tomcat when she had decided to plunge him into a tin bath full of soapy water. When I remonstrated, she said, ‘But he was dirty!’ Now, it seemed, she was polishing the coal!
I knocked on Sara’s shining door. Receiving no reply, I peeped inside. A waft of furniture polish greeted me.
Sara was crouching before the fire in the old range, piling peat and coal onto some crackling sticks. She glanced up as I approached. ‘Ah, Nurse! Tis you. I’m just gettin a good blaze here.’
She was! The well-polished coal, with several lumps of polish still adhering to it, was spluttering and sparking, and, as she claimed, a ‘good blaze’ was roaring up the chimney.
But Sara was standing too close! The edge of her voluminous skirt suddenly caught light.
She screamed and started to beat at the flames with her bare hands.
‘No! No, Sara!’ I grabbed a cushion from the couch with one hand and tried to thump the skirt, while trying to rip it off with the other. The cushion (probably well polished) caught light immediately, but the skirt was coming down and off easily, as it was only held up by elastic at the waist.
‘Step out of it, Sara. Step out of it!’
But Sara was rigid with her mouth open, still screaming. She was tiny, so I picked her up and pulled her free of the blazing skirt and dumped her unceremoniously on the couch. Still she screamed. But I had to deal with the fire.
There was a bucket of water in the corner. I dowsed the burning skirt, the cushion and the rag rug that had now begun to smoulder. I threw all the black mess outside and turned my attention to Sara, who was still screaming. I talked to her, I touched her, I shook her; the screaming continued unabated. I splashed cold water in her face and eventually and very gradually the screaming stopped, her mouth closed and she relaxed against the back of the couch. At last, I was able to look at her burns. Her hands were tough and work-worn, so there was only slight redness, while her legs had not been affected at all. Perhaps the thick black stockings had protected her. At least they did not appear to have been polished!
‘What about ma skirt, Nurse?’ She struggled up and was making for the door. ‘I have to get ma skirt.’
‘It’s gone, Sara. Burnt! There is nothing left. Have you another?’
She ambled to the box-bed against the back kitchen wall. Kneeling down, she began to rummage beneath it, pulling out all manner of bits and pieces: trinkets, tools, a bridle and bit, and finally a thick, sack-like garment that she held up in triumph.
‘This is ma other skirt,’ she said, pulling it on over her petticoat.
It was green with mildew, but Sara did not notice and squeezed herself into it. It was much too tight. She looked most uncomfortable in this
child-sized skirt. Child-sized? It couldn’t be, could it?
The next minute, Sara confirmed my almost rejected thought, by saying, ‘Aye. I wore this when I was a wee girl – for school, y’understand. Tis a good strong skirt!’
‘Yes, Sara, it is strong, but it is far too small for you now. Do you have another?’
Sara appeared to think for a moment. ‘Aye, I have. But I’d no like to spoil it.’ And she wandered over to a big trunk in the corner and began to struggle with the lid. It was obvious that it had remained closed for many years, but between us we eventually prised it open.
I gasped as I peered inside. Sara was pulling out the most gorgeous royal-blue satin dress, much embroidered and bejewelled. I could see more beneath it: shiny silver lace, gold satins, red velvets. So many beautiful fabrics were all carefully folded and stowed in this battered old trunk.
‘Y’see why I’d no like to spoil it by wearin it?’ Sara held it up with pride. I judged the style to be from about the late 1800s. There were frills and flounces, lace, a tight bodice, a big skirt and a low neckline. It had probably been intended as evening wear for a wealthy and fashionable lady, and I had a little difficulty in imagining Sara wearing this to lock up the chickens for the night or fetch in the coal.
‘How did you come by all these lovely things, Sara?’
‘Aye. Twas ma mother. She worked for Lady Leticia Briggs – her that married yon laird in the big house on Lewis that’s fallen down and I’m not surprised. Lady Leticia gave her all these when she married. Ma mother, that is, when she married my father. She never wore them, and then she left them for me when she passed over. I have to look after them for her, y’see.’
As Sara spoke, she shook the blue dress she was holding and a cloud of dust joined the smoke still lingering in the room. But the dress could not withstand this treatment and began to break up. Bits of lace dropped to the ground, and the sleeves began to come away from the bodice. Sara looked on in horror.
The Island Nurse Page 23
