I nodded. Stony Field was not a ‘field’ at all, but an odd, flat slab of rock, perched on Echo hill high above Echo House. It was a long way up.
Dij gasped again but carried on. ‘On midsummer night. From there you can see all the way to the Cuillins. On midsummer night. Like the way we met. We go up there every year.’ She suddenly seemed to panic. ‘When is it, Mary J’?’
‘It’s tomorrow night.’
‘Oh, that’s good … I wondered if I might not make it … But tomorrow is good.’
She paused for so long that I prompted her. ‘What do you want me to do, Dij?’
‘Oh, yes. You will be here to do the night time injection. They will try to stop us … I know they will. They will think it too much for me … So what? I’m dying anyway. But you will tell them to leave us alone … We will come down when we are ready.’
‘And Brian? Is he happy with this idea?’
‘Oh, he will be. We have to have this time together on the hill, within sight of the Cuilllins.’ She was beginning to sweat with the pain, her face was deathly pale, and her usually fluffy hair was sticking to her head.
‘Dij, you must let me give you the morphine now. You are in far too much pain.’
‘Yes,’ she whispered. ‘I’ve done … But remember.’
‘I will. I promise,’ I said. I had deep misgivings, but a promise to a dying woman was just about as sacrosanct as anything could get. ‘I’ll see you in the morning,’ I said to the now peaceful Dij.
As I crept away, Brian appeared on the stairs.
‘It’s all right. I heard every word. I will take the greatest care of her, you know I will.’ And, with a shuddering gasp, this six foot five inch giant of a man seemed to fold up as he collapsed onto the top stair. I sat beside him and held him as I would a baby, while all the love and all the hurt came roaring out of him in howls and wails and long, jarring shudders. No tears—just this terrible, terrible, animal-like bellow of pain. Instinctively, I rocked him to and fro, and a ring of climbers at the foot of the stairs gazed in deep concern at their friend, helpless to ease his pain. These men, used to the dangers of the mountains, would have witnessed death, sudden and devastating. But this raw despair and single-minded devotion was something entirely different.
Gradually, he quietened. ‘I’m sorry. I shall do it for her,’ he vowed. ‘I shall do it.’ He kept repeating this, like a mantra.
The next evening, I drove to Echo House at about ten p.m. I had hoped that she might have changed her mind but she was as determined as ever.
Brian, white and strained, said, ‘I’ll take her up at about eleven o’ clock. I shall sit with her until then—help yourself to a coffee.’
So I left them together and joined four climbing friends to sit in mutual misery round the big table at which they had eaten so many hearty meals. They had heard Dij’s plea and were going to follow at a distance—in case there were problems.
‘We must not interfere, though,’ I reminded them. ‘I, too, will follow and keep watch from a little way off, in case she needs anything. We shall have to be very discreet because it will still be light—it is such a clear sky.’
We stayed in the kitchen until we heard Brian’s footsteps as he descended the stairs and set off for Stony Field with his precious burden. Then we quietly followed up the steep, boulder-strewn path, keeping some way behind. Even though she had faded to almost nothing, the strain of carrying her so tenderly over the rough ground would be exhausting—but Brian had promised and nothing would stop him!
At last he reached the huge, flat rock which gave the place its name. The sun had dipped behind the far hills and the silvery light of the gloaming showed him sitting on the ground, arranging her on his lap so that she could see the Cuillin hills in the distance as they rose in silhouette against the turquoise sky. In only a thin sweater, he seemed oblivious to the cool wind but had wrapped her in a shawl and a warm blanket and held her closely to protect her.
I settled down in a hollow, where I could just see them. The four climbers stayed a little distance away. None of us knew how long the couple intended to stay there, but so long as they remained, so would we.
Brian was holding and rocking her and I could just hear the murmur of his deep voice as he bent his head over her. I think the sight of that heart-rending tableau will be with me forever. This was not the superficial romantic notion of a flashy pair of drama-seekers, or a mere whim on the part of a sick woman. This was the very merging of two souls or spirits in their own way, in the place that meant so much to them: for the last time here on earth. Did they believe that they would meet again in another place and another time?
I went on watching. An hour went by and then another. I was stiff with cold. But I could just hear that Brian was still murmuring to Dij. This had gone on for too long, I thought. Although swathed in blankets, she would be getting chilled. But I had made a promise, so what should I do? I crept back to the huddle of climbers.
There were only three of them now.
‘We were getting worried,’ said one called Bob. ‘Dave has gone for the doctor … I know … I know … The promise. But there is a limit. Brian is only just about in his right mind and who knows … ?
I returned to my spot, wondering what Doctor Mac would think of the whole crazy scheme, as he would probably call it.
I gazed at the couple through the gathering mist of the approaching morning and something about them was different. Brian’s head was lower. He was no longer speaking.
I knew! In that moment, I knew! I was trembling and I held my breath as I watched Brian stand up, still cradling Dij in his arms. He lifted his head and howled. It was the same animal howl as before, despair just pouring from him into the hills and mountains that they had loved so much. This time the roar of pain came back again and again, rolling round and round on Echo hill until it gradually faded in to the night—just as Dij had faded this night.
I stood quite still until the roaring ceased and Brian seemed to crumple to the ground, holding the now still, quiet body of his beloved wife.
Then I approached and began to talk to him. I don’t know that I actually said anything—just vague murmurings that I hoped might help to bring him out of his torment. He quietened but still clutched Dij.
Doctor Mac was beside me; I had not heard him come. ‘Brian, we have to take you and Dij back to the house now. There is a storm brewing.’
‘Yes, yes.’ Brian seemed to respond to the doctor’s quiet authority. ‘I shall carry her home.’ But his strength had gone and he was stiff with cold.
Bob and Dave helped to lift Brian to his feet and, gently taking Dij from him, Bob carried her down the hill in the early morning light. As Doctor Mac and I followed, I wondered if Dij had known—or even if, somehow, she had decided to die out there on the hill. How do we know whether death can be willed like that? One thing was certain. She had wanted to go to the hill with Brian on midsummer night and see the Cuillins and she would undoubtedly have wanted to die in his arms. She had achieved both this night!
Once inside Echo House, Doctor Mac made Brian sit by the fire while he talked to him. I asked the men to carry Dij to her bedroom so that I could attend to her. Brian made no objection. I think he was exhausted: mentally, emotionally, and physically.
Upstairs, I gently unwrapped the blanket and shawl around the cold little body and then stopped in surprise. She was wearing her wedding gown! She had been plump when she was married and was now emaciated, but Brian had dressed her and pinned the dress together so that it did not hang in ugly folds but looked beautiful—as did its wearer. Somehow, although ravaged by the cancer, she looked peaceful and happy. There was another quality to her face that I could not quite place. But gradually, as I gazed at her, I realised what it was. Even in death, she had the serene glow of someone who had been deeply loved.
We buried Dij in the windy little graveyard by the sea, after a brief but difficult service. I was amazed at the number of people present—local
s as well as climbing friends. After the committal, Brian, in a strained but controlled voice, thanked everyone for coming, regretted that there would be no funeral breakfast, turned his back, and walked away. We heard his ancient Land Rover start up and depart.
Doctor Mac and I visited Echo House together several times in the next few days: we were worried about Brian. But he was never there. Bob and Dave seemed to be trying to keep the place going.
‘He’s like a hollow man,’ said Bob. ‘We can’t get through to him at all. He won’t talk and he spends all his time up there.’ He nodded towards Stony Field. Concerned though we were, if Brian would not see us, we could do nothing.
Then one day, the space where the track left the road was devoid of the usual cars. I drove up to the house. It was closed: windows shuttered, door padlocked, livestock gone. The place was as desolate as its owner.
* * *
It was ‘van time’ again some weeks later.
Starky was weighing apples. ‘Have you heard about yon young fellow from Echo House?’
I was suddenly horribly afraid.
‘He was killed in a climbing accident in the Cuillin yesterday.’
Starky put six bright red apples into a bag.
‘He was an expert climber. They don’t understand why he fell.’
TWENTY-THREE
The School Outing
‘Will you please sit still, Angus?’
I was doing my monthly ‘head, hands, and feet’ inspection at the little junior school and I had started with the reception class.
‘I canna sit still, Nurse. You’re ticklin’ ma feets that bad. Ha, ha, ha.’ Angus went off into paroxysms of hysterical laughter. All the other children found this infectious and we soon had uncontrolled hilarity.
Poor Elizabeth, the teacher—the sole teacher—was vainly trying to keep the attention of the nine- to eleven-year-olds on the other side of the one and only classroom. They were supposed to be doing geography as she patiently pointed to countries on the wall map.
But they, too, caught the infectious mirth and the whole school was soon laughing with Angus, who was delighted to be the centre of all the fun.
‘I’ll hold him down for you, Nurse,’ volunteered Murdo.
‘I’ll help.’
‘And me.’
Soon a pile of little boys fell on Angus but they were so enthusiastic in their efforts to keep him still that I began to fear for his ability to breathe.
Eventually, I had lines of boys (and it was boys, girls are cleaner) waiting at the wash basins to have their dirty fingernails scrubbed and their feet washed. No one was really filthy but island terrain is wet and muddy, so wellies are worn most of the time, causing feet to get smelly. Athlete’s foot is a problem, too. Hands that help with the croft work or the fishing are never going to be pristine, but fingernails need to be kept short and I sat several wee lads down with nail clippers. The intense concentration on their little faces as they snip-snipped away was most engaging.
Finally, the little ones were finished and sent out to play while I began on the older children. Even on Papavray, in the seventies, some of the girls wore pale pink nail varnish on their chubby, childish fingers. It did not look quite as sophisticated as they fondly imagined.
The head examinations were usually straight forward and I rarely found any ‘wee craturs’: only when visiting cousins from the teeming schools in Glasgow or other big towns had brought these hitchhiking pests with them.
As I was preparing to leave, Elizabeth took me on one side.
‘I haven’t told the children yet, but I am trying to organise a proper school outing this year.’
School outings were usually poor affairs, as Papavray was so small that the children knew every nook and cranny: nothing was new to them. There were no museums, gardens, or castles, other than Duncan’s home, so a picnic and a nature walk was about all that could be expected and no one got excited about that!
Elizabeth continued, ‘I want to hire two minibuses. There are fifteen children and I’m sure they will all come, and several mothers will have to come with the tiny tots. Arthur [her husband] will drive one and I don’t drive so I’m having a problem finding a driver for the second … ’
I could see where this was going, so I said, ‘Yes, of course I will. When is it to be?’
Elizabeth laughed as I pre-empted her request.
‘July tenth. I’m booking a tour of Castle Benrigg on Eilean Mor. It is a lovely old place, perched on a rocky isle just off the coast. It has just been restored and opened to the public. They do organised tours; there is a shop and a café. I think the children will like it. The ride alone will be a novelty for some. They will love the rather grim old castle and those who can bring pocket money can buy things in the little shop. I think we can manage dinner for them all out of funds.’
Elizabeth was so enthusiastic. She loved her job and the children and I was sad to think that she had been unable to have a family of her own.
Gradually, all the plans came together and she thought I would like to be there when she told the children. It took a moment for them to realise that this year’s outing was to be very special. Then uproar ensued! There were squeals of delight, clapping of hands, and shouted questions.
‘How far is it?’
‘Is it spooky?’
‘Are there any soldiers in the castle?’
‘Are we having dinner there?’
‘What about a ghost?’
These children from simple backgrounds were delighted to be driven to the next island, to look around a castle, have lunch, and be driven home again. They were so easy to please, having no grandiose ideas about sophisticated pursuits or exotic destinations. It was most refreshing.
The great day arrived. When I drew up at the school, having picked up the minibus from Roddy’s garage, the playground was already full of screaming, jumping children. And it was only quarter to nine! School days were never like this! I had Andy with me but he soon disappeared into the throng of excited children. Three mothers of little ones were coming with us and two of those had babies as well—so we were quite a crowd. Arthur drew up with the other minibus. Elizabeth looked slightly harassed as she began to tick her lists and control the rush to board the buses with the inevitable jostling to sit at the front. Arthur had insisted that Elizabeth travel in his bus as he was a little nervous in the presence of so many vociferous youngsters: this was all a far cry from his quiet job as an accountant for the Crofters’ Commission. I asked two of the mums to come with me, as I needed at least one other adult in my bus.
Eventually, the seething mob of ebullient humanity was seated and we set off. I delighted them by tooting the horn loudly as we passed various crofters, who paused in their work to wave to us. And again, only ten minutes later as we approached the harbour, I tooted to announce our arrival.
On the boat, we drove into the car parking area and then everyone went on deck to savour the views, the sun, and the sheer excitement of the day. Even the weather was good to us. A scattering of pellucid clouds in a serene sky was mirrored in an unusually tranquil sea, so clear that sea weed and fish were easily visible. Then to our intense delight, a pod of dolphin swam majestically past.
I was fascinated by one little girl, Amy, who lived by the harbour and had watched the arrivals and departures of the steamer several times daily every summer, but until today had never been on it. She was oddly quiet as she savoured this new experience. Most of the children were jumping up and down and shouting with glee but Amy stood slightly apart, watching the sunlight on the waves, occasionally glancing up at the wheeling gulls and then down again to the bow wave as the ship parted the water. I tried to read her thoughts—I would talk to Elizabeth about her. Was she repressed in some way so that she could not show her emotions or was she just quiet, deep, and maybe prematurely mature for her age? I had a strange feeling about her—that she was somehow different and would be special in some way when she reached adulthood.
I have not kept in touch with many of the islanders over the years but I was intrigued by this little girl and made a point of following her progress. Amy went to university in England, and then became a protestant nun. Later she was one of the first women to be ordained as a priest in the Church of England, in 1994. But of course, we knew nothing of this on the bright day of the school outing when she was just a fascinated little girl, absorbing all the new sights and sounds in her own quiet way.
I was also amused to watch Andy, who was well used to car rides, boat rides, plane rides—all these things since birth—but was now joining in the excitement of the rest of his friends, especially noisy Murdo.
But the boat was soon approaching the little harbour on Eilean Mor and we ushered the children back onto the buses. We drove along narrow roads, scarcely better than our own roads on Papavray but well signposted to Benrigg Castle. Lochans winked in the sunlight as we traversed boggy stretches, burns chattered as we plunged down into chasms and then we were breasting a heather-covered ridge, and there we caught our first view of the castle. I pulled over for a moment so that the children could see what a spectacular position the castle occupied.
‘’Tis nearly in the sea.’
‘We will need to walk over yon wee bridge to get to it.’
‘I wonder how they got all the stones over there to build it.’
‘It’s near bigger than the rock it’s on.’
‘It doesn’t look too spooky.’ This was from Murdo, who sounded quite disappointed.
He was right. The imposing castle looked inviting, perched on its tiny island, the granite stones sparkling in the sunshine, and surrounded by the huffing wavelets which splashed gently against the rocky shore. The picturesque little stone bridge had three arches spanning the narrow strip of water separating the island from Eilean Mor, while the high, purple mountains on the distant mainland formed the perfect backdrop to this impressive fortification.
We carried on down the hill to where the road met the sea and ended in a good sized car park.
Nurse, Come You Here! Page 18
