But his mother had loved him! It was obvious from the diary of her mother that Biddy had loved him deeply for the short time that he had been with her. This was of paramount importance to him.
Johnny remained in shock for several days. He gradually adjusted to all that he had been told and even found himself assuring Gran and Gramps that they were still, and always would be, his family.
So Johnny was taken to visit his mother. She did not know who he was at all: she only smiled and nodded. But he could see that she was sweet-natured and he readily believed that she had loved him. He realised that he could not even imagine the pain she must have felt when her baby was so brutally taken from her. Through his tears, he promised to visit her again soon. Then he set off for Chreileh—the isle of his birth and where, he had been told, he had an aunt who was waiting for him.
He was only just in time. On the very day of Johnny’s arrival, this lonely isle, which had seen his birth and all the pain and wickedness that had surrounded it, was abandoned forever.
TWENTY-THREE
Andrew
Being a young child when we went to Papavray, Andy was luckier than the other three, spending the best years of his childhood in the freedom of the island. Elizabeth and John enjoyed visiting, but the island could never really be home, as they had their own lives elsewhere. Nick had some good memories of his time there, but at 12 onwards boys are beginning to leave childhood behind, so he had missed the best years in which to be a part of such a wild, free environment.
I suppose it was inevitable that Andy’s best friend was Thomas the factor’s son, the only other stranger to the Gaelic tongue, and the two spent much time together and often stayed overnight in each other’s homes. Thomas was three years older than Andy and was therefore the leader in most of their exploits. The factor’s house was near a rocky bay not far from Dalhavaig, and Thomas and Andy spent many happy hours there with fairly primitive fishing rods. I don’t remember ever being asked to cook any fish, but they had fun!
One day in early spring, Big Craig was trudging along the road from Dalhavaig to Cill Donnan when he heard shouts and yells from the direction of the shore. At first he could see no one, but he turned off the road and down through the bushes towards the sea. Emerging from the cover, he looked down on the waters of the little bay with its multitude of tiny rocky islets. There, on the largest and farthest away, were two bedraggled figures surrounded by the swirling waters of the incoming tide! They were yelling their heads off in an attempt to call attention to their plight. Being so intent on their fishing, they had failed to notice that they had become marooned on their rock and that the smaller ones towards the shore had disappeared beneath the sucking water, leaving none of the footholds over which they had jumped so joyfully a few hours previously. Now they were terrified!
Big Craig shouted to the pair, ‘Stay where you are! You’re no to try to get back. The current’s too strong. I’ll be with you on yon rock in no time!’
Sturdy though he was, the waves and the suction of the swirling sea around the rocks buffeted him from side to side. Soon the water was above his wellies, so off they came. They floated away and then sank in the open sea. Soon he was up to his thighs and still he was not at the rock.
‘Take off your boots!’ he ordered. The water was now lapping at their ankles. Big Craig battled on, flinching as the sharp stones and shells on the seabed bit into his bare feet. He noticed the boys trying to hold on to their boots and fishing gear.
‘Leave all that,’ he shouted. ‘I canna take all yon!’
He arrived at the rock at last and, extending his massive arms, told the boys to catch hold of his hands.
‘You’ll be gie wet but no matter.’
They were reluctant to enter the cold spring sea, but a sharp tug from the big man unbalanced them and they landed in the choppy water in two splashy belly-flops. Big Craig was now up to his waist, but, holding each boy’s arm in his huge hands, he forged his way towards the shore, dragging them horizontally across the water.
Two more crofters had now arrived on the shore and they helped the cold, wet, exhausted trio onto the pebbles. Andy and Thomas coughed up a great deal of seawater and were then very sick. Big Craig just sat on a rock staring out to sea.
‘I’ll no see ma boots again,’ he muttered. He seemed totally unaware that he had just saved the lives of two very foolish little boys!
Someone had called the island ambulance, which was based at Rachadal hospital a mere half-mile distant. Checked over in the hospital, rubbed down, and wrapped in blankets with their feet in the smallest white theatre boots that could be found, the boys were no worse for their watery brush with eternity. Big Craig was also cocooned in a large blanket, but his feet were so big that nothing could be found for him to wear, so he sat barefoot waiting with the boys for Richard and George to fetch them. (I was on duty elsewhere and only heard about all this on my return.)
Next day, the two miscreants and their parents arrived at Big Craig’s house. He was obviously amazed to receive more than the perfunctory thanks of the day before. He refused money for wellies but accepted the offer of a lift to the crofters’ store, which was the only place where he was sure to get some big enough. The boys had brought him chocolates (most locals were virtually addicted to chocolate) and were sincere but subdued in their thanks. I think they had both had the worst scare of their young lives. Just before we left, Richard said, ‘A bit deeper and you’d have had to swim for it, Craig.’
‘Ach. Not at all!’ said Big Craig. ‘Not at all! I canna swim. I never learnt!
To this day, Andy bears the scars of his next flirtation with doom.
*
Sometimes, during school holidays and weekends, Andy went with George to the fishing boats or to Papavray boatyard. He enjoyed this and felt equal to the island boys, who often worked with their fathers on the croft or at the fishing.
One Saturday morning, I had just driven home after a very light morning’s work and was planning a relaxed afternoon. As I opened the door, the phone was ringing. Unsuspectingly, I dumped my bag and hat and lifted the receiver.
‘Mary-J! Andy has been hurt . . .’ It was George.
I sat down on the stairs with a bump.
‘He’s been hit by a block and tackle, and the doctor is here now. You had better come.’
‘How bad is he? Tell me how he is. Is it his head or what?’
‘Yes. But he has come round now. He’ll be all right. Just come and get him.’
And with that I had to be content. Come round? So he had been unconscious! And what was a block and tackle?
Heart thumping, I raced back to the car. I was up and over Loch Annan as fast as the rutted road allowed, all the time wondering what damage, temporary or permanent (horrors!), Andy had sustained.
When I entered the boat yard and saw the pathetic, whitefaced, blood-stained little figure, I was horrified. Andy was sitting on an old chair in a little hut that was obviously used for making tea. When he saw me, he burst into tears. George was standing by the door.
‘Where’s Dr Mac?’ I wanted to know.
‘He’s had to go. Someone has fallen off a cliff somewhere. When I told him you were coming, he said to take him to Rachadal hospital for stitching—if he needs it.’
‘Have you been sick?’ I asked Andy.
‘Yes—very! And my head hurts.’
I looked at the gash on his forehead. Luckily he had been hit on the front of his head rather than the back. (A bang on the front is less likely to cause as much damage.) But there was so much blood, in his hair, on his face, clothes, even his shoes, and the whole place was so unsanitary that I thought the best thing to do was to bundle him into my car and make for the hospital without delay.
‘What was it that hit him?’
George went to the hut door and pointed. ‘The block and tackle.’
A huge square steel or iron affair hung from the roof, and attached to the underneath was an enormous hook.
The staff was ready for us and the efficiency of this small but excellent hospital swung into action. Andy was X-rayed, assessed, cleaned up, and three stitches were inserted. We could now see that his pupils were normal size and equal, and he said that his headache was not as bad. His colour was beginning to return, and he was no longer tearful. He had been very lucky indeed!
He did not know it, and I doubt that he does to this day, but I spent the night on the floor, beside his bed, unconvinced that he had got away with such minor injuries when I thought of the size of that hook.
TWENTY-FOUR
Wedding bells (without the bells)
At about Easter time, excitement began to be felt in the MacLeod household. Elizabeth and Paul, home from college, were busy making plans for their wedding, which would take place in the summer. Lists of guests were flourished about, and when George saw the length of them his face took on a haunted look. The families on both sides were fairly extensive, and hordes of college friends were also to be invited.
The local Church of Scotland minister, the Reverend McDuff, was contacted and the exact date fixed, then the hotel for the reception and dance, then the band, cars, flowers, clothes, and myriad other things considered. All this would be stressful even in the south, but there were many difficulties to be overcome on a small, remote island.
An appointment was made for the couple to see the minister almost immediately, as they would be back at college until close to the date of the nuptials.
On the evening of the interview, Paul and Elizabeth made their way to the manse. The door was opened by the minister’s stern and weatherbeaten sister, who told them that ‘Himself’ was in the garage and would be in shortly, and would they care for a cup of tea while they waited? Declining, they sat stiffly in the cold, damp study for some time. Finally, the door opened, but it was Miss McDuff again to say that they had better go round to the garage themselves, because ‘Himself’ appeared to have forgotten and she had to go out to a meeting.
They obediently went round to the back of the manse to seek the elusive and forgetful minister. At first the garage appeared to be empty, but then a figure emerged from beneath an elderly Morris Minor.
‘Ach. It’s yourselves! Indeed, I had forgotten. I’m having a little trouble with the manifold but I think I have fixed it. The Lord be praised!’
For a moment, Paul and Beth were not quite sure if the praise, thus offered to the Lord, was for the car’s manifold or whether they were supposed to bow their heads in prayer. But the good Reverend began wiping his hands on an oily-looking rag in a very businesslike manner and peered short-sightedly at them.
‘You’ll be the nurse’s daughter,’ he averred. Then, looking severely at Paul, he continued, ‘And you are to be joined to her in holy matrimony.’
Both nodded and turned to go back to the cold study, but to their surprise the minister sat himself down on a handy oil drum and indicated that they were to sit on a rather grubby bench nearby. He began his (obviously much-used) pep talk. There seemed to be a great deal about the evils of fornication and very little about the joys of married life. Perhaps this was because he was a 60-year-old bachelor! He thundered on about the sanctity of the married state but kept glancing at the Morris, obviously more interested in returning to his beloved car than instructing the two young people in the importance of the step they were about to take. The actual wedding arrangements were only briefly touched on, as the holy man seemed to think that the usual service would be followed verbatim. He was most surprised when the two young people expressed a few ideas of their own but grudgingly agreed to these modest changes. However, when Beth mentioned ‘bells’, the poor man nearly had apoplexy!
‘Bells? Bells? Those heathen sounds? Oh no, no, indeed no! We have no bells in my church, and we certainly would not ring them even supposing we had. Dear, dear!’
Finally he rose, obviously feeling that the two were chastened, shook hands with Paul, calling him ‘Hamish’, ignored Beth almost entirely and was on his way under the car before they had left the garage. The two arrived home in a dazed state, wondering if the Reverend would remember to emerge from his garage to marry them at all.
They went back to college for their last term. Telephone calls flew back and forth. A few weeks later an enormous box arrived bearing the legend ‘Bond Street Bridal Wear’. When George saw it, the haunted look deepened.
I was very busy, as the arrangements for an island wedding are very much a do-it-yourself affair. The cars were a disappointment. Beth had set her heart on a white Rolls-Royce. Unsurprisingly, there was not one on the island so the local garage (the only garage) produced a white Mercedes. Where this came from, we never knew.
The hire of a band was another problem. The island group was remarkably proficient in Scottish dance music and Celtic ballads but knew nothing of ‘that English stuff’. In the event, it didn’t matter, as the youngsters thought it a great laugh and happily leaped about to reels and Gay Gordons. Well, they were in Scotland, after all!
The biggest problem, I thought, was going to be the accommodation of some 30 people, all of whom would have travelled 600 or 700 miles by land and sea. Students are not known for their wealth, so I could not just expect them to go to the B&Bs or the hotel, and our house would be bursting at the seams with Paul’s parents, Beth, her bridesmaid, and the four of us.
I need not have worried! As soon as the jungle telegraph got going, the offers of ‘a wee room for the two nights’ were pouring in. In no time at all, beds had been arranged for all the guests. I was amazed and grateful to so many generous people.
The summer term ended and Elizabeth arrived with an enormous number of bags and cases. The following day was spent on the phone, assuring nervous motorists from the south that, although they were primitive, we did have roads.
I had insisted that the kindly hosts should not have to feed the hungry hordes as well as house them, so it was arranged that everyone would come to our home for meals. As eight was the maximum number that our table would seat, this meant three sittings of eight people, three times a day for two or three days, depending on the length of time that each was staying. Quite an undertaking!
At last, the great day arrived. The weather was fine, the kilts swung and the top hats remained where they should, as there was no wind. The ladies’ dresses were beautiful, but they all had trouble with their high heels on the uneven ground. Elizabeth was a vision in the dress and even George appeared to have lost the haunted look. The Scottish service was undoubtedly strange to most guests, the organ was its usual asthmatic self, and we all knew about the bells! But none of this seemed important as Elizabeth and Paul, looking proud and happy, were joined in holy matrimony.
The minister disappeared quickly after the blessing. I expect he preferred to be under his car. I’m sure he felt that we were all beyond redemption anyway.
The photographs were taken in glorious sunshine on the lawns of the hotel, with a magnificent backdrop of mountains and sea. When the midges began to join in the photo session, everyone trooped inside to eat a hearty meal.
I began to relax for the first time in weeks. My cup overflowed when the Scottish dancing (much of it on the lawns) was a huge success, and I felt that I could congratulate myself that there was nothing left to go amiss.
I was wrong.
The guests had all gathered outside the hotel to wave the happy couple off on their honeymoon when one of the ‘welloiled’ crofters staggered and fell backwards against the very substantial wall of the old building. His head made loud and sickening contact with the granite, and he fell to the ground unconscious.
The usual flurry of activity followed, and the evening ended with the departure of the island ambulance, bearing the now- vociferous crofter, who was claiming that it was all due to the sherry that we had ‘made’ him drink, having nothing at all to do with th
e many whiskies he had purchased at the bar during the dancing.
I collected him, personally, from the hospital several days later. He was still blaming the sherry!
TWENTY-FIVE
Searching the seas
‘Oh, Nurse, I can’t make out what’s botherin her. I can’t at all. She’s never wanted anything to do with the little soul from the day that she was born,’ Ina sighed. ‘But now, suddenly, she’s wantin’ to know how much feed she has and how do I make it up, and how often do I change her and what does everything cost.’
‘Isn’t that a good thing, Ina, that she is taking an interest at last?’
‘Aye, but y’see, Nurse, she still doesna want to hold or cuddle the wee child. It’s all too quick. And another thing, the headteacher wrote that she’s been skippin’ school, and the hostel says that she’s often late comin’ in in the evening.’
Jaynie was at the same school as Nick, on the mainland, so she had to stay in the hostel from Monday to Friday.
‘Perhaps she is under some pressure. Or maybe being teased about the baby. Perhaps even ostracised by some of the children. Would you like me to have a word with her, Ina?’
‘Aye. Perhaps that might be best. She’ll no listen to me at all.’
Ina was caring for Jaynie’s baby, as I had known she would. At thirteen (fourteen now), Jaynie was certainly not ready to be a mother to her four-month-old baby, but to ignore her altogether was odd. Fourteen-year-old girls usually get quite ‘gooey’ over babies. So Jaynie’s complete rejection of her child seemed to point to some deep-seated problem, but now she was suddenly showing an interest? I had an uneasy feeling about this.
‘Ina, what has happened to Callum-Ally?’
‘Ach, he’s in another home on the mainland. I hope they keep a good eye on him. Angus says he’s very resentful and sometimes they have to sedate him because he gets violent. Oh, Nurse! I wonder what I did wrong that I gave birth to a boy like him. A boy? Huh, he’s near 30 year old now.’
Call the Nurse Page 15
