But, of course, next spring I answered his call as usual. Still no ‘electric’, but I took my own torch!
20
Parents and Problems
MY PARENTS WERE coming to stay for two weeks. I had decided that it would be easier for them to take the large, once-weekly steamer to Papavray which came straight from Mallaig, without the need for ferry rides and buses or taxis. This weekly blessing was a summer concession only. The boat called at several other islands on the way, which was of great interest to visitors to the Hebrides but meant that it took so long that we rarely used it.
The great day arrived and we went to the pier to meet them. Rhuari emerged from his office (a small wooden shed).
‘Ach, Nurse, they’ll no be here the night, I’m thinking.’
‘What do you mean, Rhuari?’
‘There’s trouble with the engine or the steerin’: I’m no too sure which, but she’ll no’ sail the night.’
Thinking of Mum’s panic at being stranded, I said, ‘They’ll get lodgings in one of the hotels in Mallaig, I suppose, and come in the morning if it’s fixed?’
Rhuari shook his head, ‘There’s the festival. All the beds will be booked and gone for miles around, I wouldn’t wonder.’
This was a problem, indeed! Mother didn’t like wild, remote places anyway, and had taken some persuading to undertake the journey at all. I must have looked as worried as I felt.
‘Wait you, Nurse.’ Rhuari appeared to have had an idea. ‘Wee Iona works on yon boat. I’ll get in touch with the Harbour Master at Mallaig and see if –’ Leaving the sentence unfinished, he wandered off to his office. We waited in the car – it had started to rain.
Back came Rhuari, all smiles, ‘Wee Iona’ll find them a double berth on board for tonight. They keep several of them free for company directors comin’ to the islands sometimes, to have a wee look at us. They come from Edinburgh,’ he added with disdain.
‘You are a marvel, Rhuari!’ My relief was intense.
‘Ach, ’tis nothing, nothing at all.’
‘I don’t think I know Iona, do I?’
‘Maybe not.’ Rhuari pondered. ‘She’s from Lewis, y’see. Morag MacInnes’s daughter. Ye mind Morag – that was.’
‘Yes. I tended her for many weeks before she died.’
‘Aye, I know. Iona is that grateful for what you did for her mother, that she’s arranging all this at no charge.’
‘No charge? How can she do that?’
Rhuari tapped his nose. ‘She’ll do it,’ he said and pottered off.
I was still trying to think how to thank him, when he turned and said, ‘I gie ye a call tomorrow when she’s on the move.’ (The boat – not Iona).
In response to a call from Rhuari, we arrived at the pier at about lunch time the next day. Down the gangplank came the parents, with one of the crew carrying their cases. They were smiling broadly.
It seemed that they had been treated to a slap-up supper of freshly caught cod and again this morning – a fried fish breakfast. They were mightily pleased to have been treated so well and astonished, when asking for the bill, to be told that everything was free. They had trouble believing this even when I explained about Iona and her mother. This kind of gratitude and generosity is not readily understood by those who do not know the culture of these islands.
Home we went and got them settled in and the long planned-for holiday began.
‘It’s such clear, clean water!’ Father was enthusing about the crystal-clear water from the tiny spring on our land. Often in literature water is said to ‘sparkle’ – this really did! A jug of this ice-cold water from deep below the ground sparkled like diamonds when on a snowy table cloth, and it tasted as good as it looked. We were very proud of it.
‘Hmm,’ said Mum, unimpressed. ‘It’s a lot better than that brown stuff from the taps. Especially in the bath. It puts me off.’
‘It’s only the peat, Mum. The water passes through the peaty soil and picks up the colour and a few bits of vegetation sometimes. It’s very soft water. Good for your skin.’
Mum prided herself on her soft skin, but was not convinced about the brown water.
‘People drink it straight from the streams up in the hills, if they are walking or climbing,’ said Andy, trying to allay her fears.
But there were secrets to this ‘healthy’ peaty water! We were used to bathing, cooking even teeth-cleaning in it, but for a decent drink, we always chose the water from the spring. The village water supply to the taps came from Loch Annan, situated in the hills on the side of Ben Criel. We passed the famous Loch on the infamous Loch Annan hill almost daily but rarely gave the water supply a thought. At the outgoing end of the loch, there was a small, concrete structure with a metal grid, which filtered out any large objects like branches of trees and stones, before the water descended to the homes many hundreds of feet below.
From time to time, someone from the ‘water board’ would toss an indeterminate amount of chlorine into this tank. What most visitors (and certainly my parents) did not know was that this was only done if a dead animal (usually a sheep) had been observed floating in the loch or caught in one of the small streams that fed into it. We were used to this doubtful system but it was a secret worth keeping from visitors – and parents!
One of the many things that Mum could not understand about our northerly location was the vast difference in the times on the clock and place on the compass of the sunrise and sunset in winter and summer. Being so far north meant that the school-taught concept of the sun rising in the east and setting in the west had to be stretched considerably. I tried to explain, when they arrived that, being high summer, the sun would not set that evening until about eleven pm, barely west of north and would rise just a few points east of north at around four am, tomorrow, and that there would be no real darkness in between: only twilight as the sun rolled along just below the horizon. I loved this strange, silver light, which bathed the far mountains with a ghostly mantle, while the lochs and little white houses were clearly visible in the fairytale glow. This was a truly magical time, and one that I had often experienced whilst helping with a difficult lambing out on the hill, or driving home after a night call. Then I would stop and watch to see the summer sun peep over the mountains to announce a new day.
At first, Mother would say, ‘Oh, it’s light in the evenings at home in the summer,’ obviously thinking that I was making a lot of fuss about nothing. The only way to convince her of the huge differences between Papavray and ‘home’ (Somerset) was to show her. So we promised to stay up one fine night, for the parents to watch. Father, who had a much better understanding of the heavens, nevertheless wanted to see the phenomenon for himself.
So stay up all night, we did! Or at least until about four am. The only problem with this was that we had to be up in the morning for work and school whereas drinking tea in bed was about the most taxing thing that the parents had to do. But it worked! Father talked about it for weeks apparently: and even Mum had to admit that it had been an ‘experience’.
I took Mum with me sometimes when I visited some of my elderly, female patients. She chatted away to the patients’ families and when we were given the inevitable cuppa, she praised the cakes and dumpling. This kind of socialising was more to her liking and she was good at it, being undeterred by the heavy accents. Father was at ease with the crofters, being an outdoor man himself. During my childhood, we had had goats, pigs, chickens, geese, horses, dogs, cats, rabbits and white mice. But it was all only a hobby, however, so the crofters would probably have thought that it was not ‘real’.
I took them both to the little townships, all the beauty spots that were accessible by car and even to the peat bogs, where I demonstrated peat cutting. When Mum saw the brown, wet rectangles being wrested from the squelchy ground, she was amazed that this was what turned into the dry, crisp stuff that she saw in the peat basket by the fire.
Mum had never been able to comprehend my love of the outdoor
s, for wild unusual places and for challenging lifestyles. I think I had been a mystery to her from the day she married my father, a year or so after the death of my mother, when I was five years old. She was either amazed at or disapproving of almost everything I did and always declared herself surprised if whatever it was turned out well.
But they enjoyed their holiday. Father was genuinely interested in the animals, the beauty of the surroundings and the unique culture, and Mum enjoyed the cosy house and the fires which we lit in the evenings. But I think she was glad to go back to ‘civilisation’. I’m sure a lot of people would sympathise with her outlook, as we must have appeared to be most eccentric to southern, perhaps town-bred, people.
* * *
But among our friends on Papavray, there was one couple who appeared eccentric even to us. They seemed to live and think in another era altogether!
Quentin was an archaeologist of some repute, seeming only to be interested in ancient cultures and artefacts. He was often entirely oblivious to the modern world. Their home was in an outstanding position overlooking their own little bay with the garden running down to the shore.
One afternoon, soon after we met them, we were invited to take tea on the lawn, looking at the fantastic view of shore, sea and distant mountains. We watched oyster catchers skimming the shining water and enjoyed the sunshine with Quentin, while Barbara was indoors preparing tea. Quentin was about to embark on a very interesting dig in the Middle East and was enthusing to us about its prospects. We were genuinely interested and, not knowing him well, were too polite to mention the large black cloud which had just appeared. Then a gentle drizzle began but, Quentin, back in 3,000 BC, failed to notice. Neither did he stop talking when the drizzle rapidly turned to rain.
Just at that moment, Barbara appeared in the doorway carrying a tray. Seeing the rain, she stopped in horror.
‘Quentin,’ she called in a very stern tone. ‘Does it not occur to you that it is rather strange to be entertaining one’s guests in the garden in the rain?’
Quentin looked at her and then at the weeping sky. ‘Oh! My word! It’s raining,’ he said, with surprise.
Quentin was also inclined to take everything literally, sometimes with hilarious results.
Mum (not with us on this occasion) had a fund of silly sayings which she would trot out whenever she felt that one might fit a story or situation. Among them, there was a very weird tale concerning a woman who ‘waved her wooden leg smilingly to the crowd’. We never found out where this ridiculous piece of nonsense came from, but one day, in conversation, I was foolish enough to tell Quentin and Barbara about Mother’s love of idiotic sayings, in particular – that one. As I finished, Quentin looked at me with great concern.
He said, ‘I didn’t know that your mother had a wooden leg.’
We stuck to archaeology after that!
* * *
At the end of their holiday, the parents were to catch the train at Mallaig and change at Fort William for Glasgow, the south and home. I drove them to the pier for the weekly big steamer and handed their luggage over to be stowed for the boat trip and then taken to the train station at Mallaig. All very straightforward, one would think.
I had just arrived home from my morning’s duty, when the phone rang. It was Mother ringing from Mallaig.
She was frantic. ‘They have lost our cases! They were not on the boat when we docked.’
Oh gosh, I thought (or something like that) this is all we need!
I thought quickly, ‘You catch your train to Fort William as planned, Mum, while I try to sort something out here. They won’t be lost – just put in the wrong place at the pier, I expect. There is a wait at Fort William of about an hour and a half, isn’t there? Ring me again from there and I’ll let you know what is happening.’
I put the phone down. I was pretty sure that ‘Dougall the Pier’ would have put the cases in the wrong trolley.
I rang Rhuari at the pier and explained.
‘I’ll go and have a wee look round, Nurse. They may be here yet. Ach, it’s likely that Dougall!’
He rang back in moments. ‘Aye. They are among some incoming luggage. Roddy is off to Mallaig in his wee boat with his catch just now so I’m giving them to him. He’ll take them to the station as soon as he docks in Mallaig.’
‘But the train will have left by then, Rhuari.’
‘Oh, aye, indeed; that could be awkward, just.’ There was a pause. ‘I’m thinkin’ that Alistair-the-bus, him at Mallaig bus depot, y’mind, will be away to Fort William soon. Aye, I’ll ring him now before…’ He left the sentence unfinished as he rang off, presumably to ring Alistair-the-bus.
A few minutes later, he was back on the phone. ‘Alistair will take them. I’ve rung the stationmaster at Fort William and he’ll keep the train to Glasgow as long as he can and Alistair will drive fast…’ He paused for breath. ‘It will all be fine, Nurse. You’ll see.’
Thinking of the winding road from Mallaig to Fort William, I hoped that Alistair did not drive his bus too fast!
But Rhuari was right – it was all fine. Mother rang on arrival at Fort William. I calmed her and said that their cases were on the way and to go and have a cup of tea.
Some hour and a half later, she rang again. ‘They are here! Must go. Train’s waiting. Bye!’
I rang Rhuari to tell him and thank both him and Alistair (when he returned – with his bus). Rhuari seemed surprised that I should bother.
‘Ach, not at all, not at all, Nurse. No, no. ’Tis no trouble at all.’
It was all routine to him and his team, but we were amazed at everyone’s willingness to put themselves out to such a degree for a couple of suitcases.
I was remembering the last time that I had landed at Heathrow from Khartoum, when my two clearly labelled cases had gone to Karachi! It was five days before I was reunited with them, but here in the far north, ordinary, willing people do so much better. But they are the ones who are often deemed to be behind the times and not too bright!
21
Sunshine’s Adventure
THERE IS A MYSTERY about Sunshine, our pony, which has never been solved.
One bright, calm spring morning, George took the hay to Sunshine in her vast field and returned somewhat perplexed.
‘Mary J, she’s lying down!’ he reported.
‘She never lies down,’ I said, puzzled. ‘Is she alright?’
Having been brought up in a city, George knew very little about horses. ‘I don’t know. Come and have a look at her.’
The clear morning air was invigorating and redolent of seaweed and salt. The neighbouring islands were so clear that we could see cars and tractors on the coast roads. The sea sparkled and two white sails of fishing boats could be seen idling and flapping as the slight breeze caught them. In the quiet, we could hear the voices of the men on board and the lowing of cows across the water as they rushed to croft gates to receive their hay. Although it was May, the grass was not long enough or rich enough yet to stop giving the animals their winter feed. Another week or two should see the end of the morning and evening chore, but after a brief summer, we would start all over again in September.
Sure enough, Sunshine was lying down in a hollow and had not touched her hay. I encouraged her to get up so that I could see if there was any obvious reason for her lethargy. I called and she rose slowly and came towards me to take the nuts that I offered. No limp, no sign of injury. After standing for a moment, she ambled over to the manger and began to chomp happily at her hay. We resolved to check on her again later in the day. What could have caused this uncharacteristic behaviour? Highland ponies rarely lie down unless they are ill, old, or very young. But a very tired horse might sometimes need to rest its legs. Sunshine was not normally afforded enough exercise to get tired. She had not been ridden at all for a week so why would she be tired?
On our way home, past the bay near the field, George pointed. ‘Look! That’s Richard’s boat! Who on earth are those two?’
‘Those two’ were two youngish men in suits. No-one, but no-one, goes boating in a SUIT!
‘Well, they can’t row!’ said George with contempt. ‘But what are they doing with the factor’s boat?’
We watched them make landfall and step fastidiously on to the sand. They pulled the boat up the beach, making much of this simple task. Ties adorned their smart shirts while highly polished shoes, now covered in sand, showed below the fabric of their dark suits. They walked towards a tiny, unmade-up lane leading to a derelict croft house, leaving dainty footprints in the damp sand. As we followed at a distance across the beach, intrigued to know what they were up to, I noticed something else.
‘George, how many horses are there around here wearing shoes?’
‘One,’ said George, ‘Apart from Sunshine, I mean. Rhueben, Elaine’s horse.’
‘He lives on the other side and, in any case, he is huge with shoes to match. Look at these!’
We both examined the hoof prints, clearly visible in the sand. They belonged to Sunshine: I recognised a small nick on the outside edge of the rear left shoe. The tide had ebbed and flowed many times since our last visit to the beach, so clearly she had been here early this morning!
George sauntered nonchalantly after the disappearing figures while I followed the tracks of the pony to see where they came from. We met up a few minutes later and reported our findings.
‘They had a smart-looking car down that track. They got in and drove off in the direction of Loch Annan. For the ferry, I expect.’ George sounded suspicious.
‘The tracks come from the hills, over there. Once they leave the beach, I can’t see them very well, but it looks as though they come from the direction of Kilcraigie.’
This was the ruined village a few miles from Dhubaig. Although the remains of the buildings were high on a headland, there was a sheltered bay at the foot of the cliffs where the fishing boats used to land their catches many years ago. It was possible to walk over the hills to this bay and on warm summer days, we often had picnics there and sometimes bathed – if we were brave enough.
More Tales From the Island Nurse Page 16
