‘Aye, she took all the blankets off the bushes where they were dryin and threw them in the sea. Then she goes into the byre, gets the cow and drives the poor beast over the cliff. She got worse and worse, and nobody felt safe from her. She let on she had “powers”. Witch’s powers, y’ know.’
Archie sighed, and we sensed a change of atmosphere in the room.
‘Douggy’s mother, Mairie, gave birth to a wee girl.’
‘Ah, the soul,’ put in Marion, shaking her head. Douggy, who had just come in, nodded sadly.
We were riveted. ‘What happened?’ asked Nick.
‘That besom turned up and made all sorts of weird noises beside the two o’ them and threw some of that filthy muck of hers over the child. Then she pretended to make a curse on her. Mairie screamed, but Morag just laughed and said, “That child will be dead within a week.” And she was!’
Marion and Mary were openly sobbing now, although they must have heard the tale a hundred times. We were horrified.
‘How?’ I whispered.
Archie shook his head. ‘ ’Twas thirty-odd year ago, Mary-J. Nobody knew why the wee girl went, but from the day she was born, she was dyin’. She just faded away. And that wicked woman was in the kirkyard when they buried the wee soul, and she laughed and yelled that it proved that she had “the powers”.’
Another peat went on the fire. Archie cheered up a little and grinned at Douggy. ‘A couple of nights later, someone set fire to her byre where she kept all her potions and rubbish.’
‘Aye, ’twas my father. Everybody knew, but no one ever spoke of it.’ Douggy gave his gentle smile.
Archie resumed, ‘After that, she started to get letters threatenin to burn her house down as well . . .’
‘That wasn’t my father.’
‘I know, Douggy, but it frightened her and she disappeared for years. Nobody knows to this day where she went, but one day, back she came, even battier than ever! She’d have been about in her 50s by then, I’m thinkin’. That’s when we boys used to play tricks on her, and our parents never stopped us; they couldn’t forgive her for all her evil deeds, y’see. Well, next thing was, some years later, her aunt turns up to look after her. Morag was too batty to be able to see to herself, y’see, and folks didna know what she might get up to. Old Shona had a job, to be sure, but she managed pretty well. She’d lock Morag up when she got too violent, and we’d hear that besom’s screamin’ and swearin’ across the glen, just. Shona was a big, strong woman, very dour, and wouldn’t let anyone help her. That went on for years.’
Archie took a large swig of whisky.
‘Why didn’t she get sent away to Craiglan?’ I asked, mentioning the area’s psychiatric institution.
‘Ach. Too proud was Shona. She was from Uist, y’see.’
This was obviously meant to explain everything.
Having fortified himself, Archie settled back once more, Mary’s face took on its rapt expression and we realised that the story was far from over.
‘One night, there was even more yellin’ and screamin’ than usual, and in the morning there was nae smoke comin’ from the chimney. Several of us men went over to see what was the matter. My dear Lord! What a sight! The pair of them slept on that old box-bed, and that’s where they were—dead as doornails! There was an old kitchen knife on the floor by the bed and blood everywhere!’
We gasped. Andy and Nick were enthralled.
‘We went for the doctor and the polis and the undertaker, and then we thought maybe we should get the minister. Well, the doctor was on Rhuna, the polis had to send for detectives and there was no money for the undertaker, so he went home again. The minister thought Shona had killed Morag and then herself, and the doctor said Morag had murdered Shona and then done away with herself. At first, the polis agreed with the minister, so the doctor wouldn’t sign the death certificates. What a do that was! In the end, the polis said the doctor was right after all, and so he signed. The minister wasn’t convinced and said how would he know which one to bury in hallowed ground? And he refused to bury either of them in the kirkyard. There was no family to protest, y’see, so they were buried just over the kirkyard wall. But there was no money . . .’
‘They died intesticle,’ said Mary importantly.
There was dead silence. I stared hard at Nick, willing him not to laugh.
Suppressing a snigger, Douggy said, ‘I think you mean “intestate”.’
Completely at ease, Mary murmured, ‘Oh aye.’
‘How long ago was all this?’ asked George.
‘The deaths? Oh, about seven, eight year ago. It was the year we got the hay in before August, I mind.’
‘Yes, and wee Janet started school,’ said Katy, smiling at a rather white-faced Janet.
‘Shona didna rest easy, though. She was seen.’ Mary was following a thought of her own. She nudged Archie, ‘You haven’t told them about the ghost.’
So there was still more?
‘Ach ’twas only once or twice. Old Hughie thought he saw Shona walkin’ the hills, but it might have been the drink, and Murdoch here thought he saw her over the croft one day.’
‘No “thought” about it. I did see her. ’Twas broad daylight and I’d not had a drink at all.’ Murdoch sounded indignant.
Marion rushed to the rescue, ‘Well, anyway, we told the minister and he came over to the house . . .’
‘And he did an exercise,’ said Mary.
‘Exorcism!’ Laughing, Fergie spoke for the first time.
‘Aye, he did, and she was not seen again. Then he blessed the house itself, as it had seen so much evil, he said.’
Big Craig spoke up. ‘Aye, but we all felt it was not fair on Shona not to be buried in the kirkyard. Just because she didna go to the kirk didna mean she was not a good woman. By! There’s not many as would look after such a one for nigh on twenty years!’ There were murmurs of assent. He continued, ‘We reckoned she’d been tryin’ to tell us that she was not at peace, so some of us made a wooden cross with some wood from the shore and set it up on Shona’s grave. Grand, it looked. The minister didn’t like it at all, but he couldn’t very well go pulling up the Lord’s Cross now, could he?’ He paused and then, with a sly grin, he said, ‘Anyway, we buried the bottom so deep he couldn’t have got it out. We all felt better about her after that.’ He looked round for confirmation.
Everyone nodded, ‘Aye, we did, we did.’
‘I wonder why we still have this cold spot where the bed was?’ asked George.
Katy spoke again. ‘I think the house needs the warmth of people and laughter and love to get rid of that. It’s not real cold. It’s just a memory. A memory that will fade now that you are here and your family comes and goes, and good things happen. The house does not have any evil there any more, so it will forget all the dreadful things.’ She stopped and looked round. We were all staring at her. She blushed and we looked at the fire instead.
I had the oddest feeling, as though I were listening to someone who knew so much because she was close to knowing everything. In other words, close to death—the ultimate knowledge. Lovely brave Katy, who looked so well at the moment. Was this remission to be short-lived? I was suddenly very sad.
George was speaking. ‘What a tale! And you were all involved.’
‘Aye, we were, we were.’ Again, the older ones nodded in unison. Then, by some unacknowledged resolve, the subject was changed, while dumpling, Scotch pancakes, and tea were handed round.
When we wandered homewards across Archie’s croft, the sky had cleared to a crispness that dispelled the heat and smog of cigarettes and peat smoke, and we took in lungfuls of clean air.
‘Mum. Look!’
We looked skyward. All around us were shimmering curtains of gold and blue and red, flowing to and fro like the swishing drapes of an opulent theatre stage. We turned slowly through 360 degrees and the same lights were above, to the sides, behind—everywhere at once! Like a huge domed tent of some fabulous, golden fabric, the
northern lights displayed their splendour in a beautiful, swaying, rhythmic movement that glittered and glowed in the night sky. Awed and amazed, we could only stand and watch. I could imagine choirs of angels, jewelled harps, Heaven’s golden gates and, perhaps, God himself, walking in the billowing space surrounded by these magnificent lights. I could only wonder at the marvels of this universe and the diminution of puny humanity when faced with such grandeur. Scientists can explain the aurora borealis if they wish, but they cannot take away its impact on an individual’s consciousness. What we know and what we feel do not always coincide. I have seen the ‘Merry Dancers’ many times since but never in such splendour as on that night, and it is an experience that will remain with me forever.
TEN
Flora and Annie
One very cold morning, I woke at about 5 a.m. I lay in the warmth of my bed, thinking how lucky we were and how warm and cosy the house was in spite of the freezing weather outside.
I was brought back to earth by the phone. Oh no! When a district nurse’s phone rings so early, it usually means trouble. It was the doctor.
‘I apologise for ringing so early, Nurse. Loch Annan is impassable at the moment, I’m afraid, so I can’t get to your side of the island. Rather a nasty spell of weather,’ he added in his precise way.
Dr MacDonald, or Dr Mac as the patients always called him, was something of an anachronism with his old-fashioned ways, immaculate appearance in rain, wind, snow, or hail, and his gentle way of understating everything. He was the sort of man who might refer to the Second World War as ‘an unpleasantness’. However, in spite of his mild manner he was often vociferous in his condemnation of Free Kirk dogma as expressed by some of the clergy. Far from being intimidated by his almost Victorian bearing, the patients loved him. I think he was a link with a past that may not have been good but at least they understood it. Life was moving too fast for many of them now.
‘I’ve had a message, via the postman, from Annie-Mac in Glen Muic about her sister. Flora’s tranquillisers do not appear to be working too well and she is becoming quite violent. She needs a visit and if you have anything that would . . .’
We went off into a discussion about drugs as I tried to drag on a dressing gown whilst holding the phone under my chin. I rummaged in my bag. Yes, I had the necessary drug, which would have to be given by injection.
‘Annie-Mac herself may need your help too. Apparently Flora has bitten her arm.’
‘Is young Angus at home just now?’ I asked. ‘Young’ Angus was probably a lot older than I was, but in keeping with tradition he had been given the same name as his father, so the ‘young’ had been added to identify him and it had stuck into middle age.
‘No. He is at sea. May I suggest that you take a helper with you? Let me know how you get on.’
I knew that I would probably find the old lady naked. She always stripped off when she had one of her little ‘spells’, as her saint of a sister called these outbursts, but I didn’t have time to rouse one of the crofter women, especially so early, so it would have to be George. A very startled and wary George was woken and given a brief rundown on the situation, the need for speed and for strength, which was why he was coming.
Leaving a quiet and sleeping house, we set off along the coastal road to the track, about three miles away, which led into a wild valley. ‘Glen Muic’ meant ‘valley of the pigs’, so I suppose that at some time in the past pigs must have been kept on the island, but I never met anyone who remembered. The track soon petered out and we had to finish the journey on foot. Of course it was raining!
The house, high on the hillside, was really no more than a wooden shack: a hotchpotch that had started life as a sheiling, a rough dwelling crofters used while grazing their sheep high in the hills in the summer months. It had been extended and ‘improved’ but was still a poor place for two old ladies. There was no smoke coming from the chimney.
As we approached the door, Annie’s querulous voice bade us ‘Come away in.’ She was calling from the only bedroom, just off the tiny hallway. George hung back as I entered the cold, smelly room. On the floor by the bed lay the huge, naked figure of old Flora. A face flannel, or something like it, had been stuffed into her mouth, presumably to stop further biting with her few remaining teeth. Sitting astride her middle, wearing a thick coat and gloves, was Annie—Annie-Mac to all. She was trying to keep a blanket on her screaming, thrashing sister. Poor Annie! Flora had developed dementia about four years ago and Annie, a widow for many years, considered it her duty to look after her. It was too much for her, though, and when Flora had these violent moods, she was in real danger.
‘Oh, Nurse. I’m that glad you’re here. I didna know if postie would remember to tell the doctor.’
‘Postie’, from the Royal Mail, came only twice weekly, the last visit being the previous evening. He was Annie’s only contact with the outside world.
Kneeling beside them, I asked, ‘How long has she been like this?’
‘Two, maybe three days.’
Annie had a bloodstained hankie round her arm. The blood was congealed and dark.
‘When did that happen?’
‘Day afore yesterday.’ And with that Annie fainted!
Quickly moving her to one side, I called to George.
‘Cover Flora up,’ I ordered.
‘What? She’s naked!’
‘Yes. Just do it, please.’
He pulled some of the blankets from the bed onto the stillscreaming old woman. I delved into my bag and quickly drew up the maximum permitted dose of tranquilliser, as advised by the doctor on the telephone. I had to hold the arm with a grip like a vice to keep her still.
‘Hold her down for a few more minutes. I have to see to Annie.’
With no trouble, I was able to lift her slight weight onto the only bed, which the two old ladies must have shared (and Flora would undoubtedly have been incontinent). I pinched the skin on Annie’s arm, finding that she was badly dehydrated. Rubbing her hands and feet brought her round, and in a panic she tried to sit up.
‘Lie still, Annie. Flora’s quiet now. We’ll see to everything.’
I relieved George so that he could go and find water and some way of heating it to make Annie some tea. The kitchen fire had obviously been out for days, so George lit the old Primus stove.
We managed to dress Flora in a voluminous nightie and then we began the formidable task of lifting her 20 or so stone off the floor and onto the high old-fashioned bed. We pushed and pulled, first her top half and then one leg and then the other. As fast as we got one piece of her on the soft feather mattress, so another part fell off. There didn’t seem to be anything firm to hold. Finally, however, she was there and by that time almost unconscious. The tranquilliser had done its job.
George brought in a cup of sweet tea. All the strength that Annie had had to muster to deal with Flora had now gone, and I had to support her so that she could drink. With the rest of the hot water, I bathed the deep tooth marks on her arm.
George found some sticks and then some rather damp peat and managed to light a fire in the bedroom while I rummaged among the oddments of food on the kitchen table (there was no larder or cupboard). I found some oatmeal and made a little slightly lumpy porridge on the Primus stove. I spooned this into Annie’s mouth. At least we could get food and drink into Annie, but Flora, too, in spite of her leviathan proportions, was dehydrated and probably had had very little or nothing to eat for several days.
Annie dozed; Flora snored. George and I sat in the kitchen. Young Angus would have to be informed, of course, but we had to do something now. Flora would not be ‘out’ for more than about four hours and neither lady could be left here.
I looked round. Stone floors, rotting wooden walls with tendrils of fungus growing up them, a vast old range, a few pots and pans and bits of crockery. A table, three chairs, and an old couch, presumably where Angus slept when at home, completed this sad home. No electricity, no water, and no sanitation b
ar a bucket in a little shed out back. How could Angus leave two old souls in a place like this? But they did, these seamen for whom the sea was everything.
‘We can’t get an ambulance over as Loch Annan is still blocked,’ I muttered.
Sometimes we took patients out by sea, but we were high on a hill here and a long way from the sea: even farther from any harbour or jetty.
George grinned, ‘Well, it’s the helicopter again, isn’t it?’
He was right, for I could see no other way.
‘I’ll have to stay here. You go home and ring the doctor. He can get the RAF this time.’ I wrote a quick note for George to dictate over the phone.
Off he went and I looked about outside. I was relieved to see that the helicopter should be able to land fairly near to the house. The weather did not look good, but there was no wind, so I hoped they would consider this to be a ‘weather window’. I gathered all the old papers that I could find, screwed them up and left them, together with the can of paraffin, beside the door so that at the last minute we could take them outside and try to make a brief blaze to attract the pilot’s attention.
I checked on the two women from time to time and looked about for some clothes and toiletries to pack for them, but there was pitifully little. I included a picture of Annie’s long-dead husband and one of Young Angus. Now, there was a man with whom I would have words!
At last George was back, bringing reinforcements in the shape of Archie and Mary. Mary sat rubbing Annie’s cold hands and feet. ‘Ach! The poor soul! She’s hypodermic, isn’t she? She’s awful cold.’
Archie just sighed and raised an eyebrow.
Dr Mac had arranged for the helicopter, which, ‘weather permitting’, would be here in about an hour from his call—about 15 minutes from now.
‘Listen! That’s the hovercopter,’ said Mary.
Archie dashed outside with the bundle of paper, which he flung on the ground. Grabbing the can of paraffin from George, he threw about half its contents onto the makeshift bonfire. We all leapt back as he followed this with a bundle of lighted matches. There was a ‘Whoomph’ and we had a blaze for a moment and some smoke, which we hoped the circling pilot would see.
Call the Nurse Page 6
