Nurse, Come You Here!

by Mary J. Macleod

  The castle was on the mainland side of Eilean Mor, which meant that we were out of sight of Papavray and this made the outing seem even more of an adventure. The car park was quite busy with two or three coaches drawn up and people spilling out of them, making for the bridge or just standing about taking photographs.

  ‘All these people!’ exclaimed a wide-eyed Angus.

  ‘So many folk, all come to see the castle!’ Ailsa stood near me.

  ‘There’s millions and millions of them!’ This was Murdo, of course.

  The children were momentarily quiet, staring at the people, and I suddenly realised that for some of the younger ones, this would be the first crowd that they had ever seen. Nowhere on Papavray would they have seen hundreds of people all together. I had not thought of this.

  ‘Just keep together,’ admonished Elizabeth, looking a little taken aback at the number of tourists already here. We gathered everyone together and marshalled them into a crocodile. The mothers who had accompanied their own offspring took charge of an extra child each, but even so, Elizabeth had a head count as we went through the barrier. Once on the little stone bridge, the children surged forwards in excitement.

  ‘I’ll bet there’s ghosts,’ announced Murdo. ‘I wonder if people got their heads chopped off here?’

  ‘Ugh! There won’t be ghosts will there, Nurse?’ (Although out of uniform and only the driver for the day, I was invariably still ‘Nurse.’)

  ‘I don’t think so and in any case ghosts don’t like the daylight, do they?’ I did not want to spoil the fun but some of the little girls looked scared.

  ‘I had not thought that there would be so many people here,’ said a rather worried Elizabeth. ‘Ah. Here is the guide!’ A tall man in a kilt, cloak, and bonnet smiled at the children and prepared to take us around the castle. He greeted Elizabeth, explaining that, as the castle had only just opened to the public, we were his first school party.

  ‘Is that Rob Roy?’ asked young Dougall.

  ‘Nae. Don’t be daft, man. He’s just nobody dressed up,’ explained Martin, informatively.

  Luckily our guide smiled at this less-than-flattering description and we were marched into the grand hall. He tried very hard to keep the children’s interest in the portraits but he had no hope as they had seen into the next room which was full of suits of armour, shields, pikes, cutlasses, knives of all kinds, and several life-like sculpted figures of fearsome-looking warriors. The boys were in seventh heaven! The girls were more interested in the dresses worn by two figures of women cowering under bushes while a battle raged around them.

  ‘She’ll be droppin’ that baby. It’ll fall from yon tartan cloak.’

  ‘She’ll not be too warm in that dress. It’s no got any sleeves.’

  ‘Just look at those feets. They are filthy, just.’

  ‘What particular battle is this?’ asked a studious boy of eleven, when the guide had realised the futility of trying to interest everyone in portraits and had wisely moved on. With relief, the man welcomed the question and launched into an explanation of the battle tactics of the time, which were brutal and uncompromising. After many ‘oohs’ from the boys and ‘ughs’ from the girls, we moved on into the bedrooms. The huge four poster beds were the subject of much speculation.

  ‘Look! They’ll be needin’ a step ladder to get in to bed. Why are they so high up?’

  I wish I could remember the guide’s answer because I don’t think I have ever known why four posters are so high off the ground.

  There were two realistic figures lying in the bed. Little Ailsa pulled at my sleeve, ‘Why have the men got nighties on—not pyjamas?’

  Two of the boys were hooting with laughter. ‘They’ve got bonnets on, too. Fancy wearin’ your bonnet in bed!’ The guide’s history lesson did not seem to be going too well!

  ‘They are wearing night caps,’ he offered weakly. Then he appeared to brace himself.

  ‘Now I must ask you to walk in twos and be very careful. We are going down to the dungeons and it will be rather dark.’ This was the worst thing he could have said. Several of the small girls screamed that they did not want to go while the boys were jubilant and surged forwards in an undisciplined mob.

  Elizabeth blew her very effective whistle. ‘Children! Behave properly and do as our guide tells you.’ She looked at me. ‘Would you stay with those who do not wish to go down, Mary J?’ I was quite willing as I have no great love of dark places and grim reminders of torture and suffering.

  The very young, one of the mums, and a number of the girls stayed with me and we found the room given over to costumes of the day. The girls were charmed by the splendid dresses of the aristocracy of that time and the basket cradles for the babies. It was a great relief from the frenetic enthusiasm of the boys for all things warlike or ‘spooky.’

  After a while, a weary-looking guide, a harassed Elizabeth, and the group of slightly more thoughtful boys and girls emerged from the dank dungeons. Apparently, the displays had been so graphic that even the most bloodthirsty of our students had been subdued. The horror of the instruments of torture and the terrible methods of inflicting pain and death had quashed all the bravado.

  Back in the main hall, Elizabeth thanked the guide, instructed the children to do likewise, and then announced that we were going to the café for ‘dinner.’ Among the enthusiasm that greeted this, I glanced at the retreating figure of the guide as he walked towards a door marked ‘staff only.’ He was mopping his brow. The poor man had certainly had a baptism of fire!

  Part of the café had been set aside for our use, but Elizabeth stopped the children at the door, admonishing them to be quiet, as other people were eating in the rest of the room. She then let four or five in at a time, only sending the next lot in when the first were seated. I admired her organisation, which prevented any unseemly rush and pushing.

  They sat quietly, eyeing counters laden with hot food which smelt delicious.

  Elizabeth sent the children to the counter a table at a time. I stood by to help the younger ones to choose from the rather baffling array of dishes: sausages, beef casserole, or shepherd’s pie. It took some a long time to choose and again, I realised that I did not know nearly as much about these island children as I had thought. It was apparent that some had never been to a café before and most had not had the luxury of choosing what they ate.

  We had healthy children on Papavray. They were adequately fed, but most households stuck to traditional meals and the children would have had the meal placed before them and would have eaten without argument or fuss. Unlike today, when we have innumerable sensitivities and allergies, likes and dislikes, and often mistaken ideas of what is ‘good for you.’

  Quietness reigned as they tucked into the first course with gusto. Occasionally someone would glance towards the dessert counter and discuss with a neighbour what they were going to have for pudding.

  Suddenly, Andy said, ‘Where’s Johnny?’

  There was silence. Everyone glanced around. No Johnny! Elizabeth paled.

  ‘Toilet, perhaps,’ she said. ‘Arthur, will you … ’

  Arthur was already on his way, but was back almost immediately. No Johnny!

  ‘I’ll have to stay with the children.’ She looked at me. ‘Can you … ?’

  I took one of the mums—Jenny—with me. We tried the ladies toilets in case he had got confused. He was only seven. No luck. I went to the costumes room and the armoury while Jenny looked in the main hall and the bedrooms.

  ‘Have you seen a little boy by himself?’ we kept asking as we weaved in and out of the crowds. We asked any members of castle staff that we met, but there were a lot of children running about so it was not going to be easy. Jenny and I met again at the entrance to the dungeons. ‘I hope he is not in there. He might be scared,’ said Jenny.

  ‘Is he a nervous boy, do you know?’ I asked, as we pushed our way through the people queuing to go down the steps. In spite of the excuse me’s and the I’m sor
ry’s, we were not popular.

  ‘Could be. He’s an outdoor type, really,’ puffed Jenny.

  Eventually, we descended into the darkness. There were several rooms or ‘cells.’ We looked in things, behind things under things—no Johnny.

  On emerging, we met Arthur who had been searching the staircases and corridors.

  ‘No luck,’ he reported.

  We were desperately worried by now. Returning to the café, we encountered a pale, tense Elizabeth. The children were devouring steamed puddings or apple tarts by now, completely unconcerned for Johnny’s whereabouts. Arthur hurried off to the reception and asked them to put out a call over the tannoy. Three calls later—still no Johnny! Jenny and I looked around the tiny rocky foreshore while Arthur went off to the car park in case Johnny had returned to the bus. We met again at the café—no luck.

  ‘I have asked the castle staff to instigate a proper search,’ said Arthur. ‘We should probably contact the police, too.’

  Announcements were made asking everyone in the building to make their way to the main hall to allow an organised search to take place. There were a few grumbles but most realised that the matter was now serious.

  It was very serious. Somehow, in spite of all the care and having six adults in the party of twenty-four, somewhere we had lost a small boy. How easily these things can happen!

  We kept the children in the café while the castle staff searched all the places that we could not have known about or had the right to enter.

  The general atmosphere had now changed from a slightly amused interest to a tense concern. Even the children, now replete, were quiet and apprehensive.

  The curator was called and decided to involve the police, but our own search continued as the nearest police station was some twenty tortuous miles away.

  Elizabeth asked the curator to telephone Cill Donnan post office so that they could tell Johnny’s mother. ‘I hate to worry her but I feel she should know. His father is at sea.’ Elizabeth was white and strained, Arthur had a permanent frown, Jenny was whispering reassurances to some little ones, and I was desperately trying to think what else we could do.

  A side café door opened to admit an oldish man in waterproof leggings, carrying quantities of fishing gear. He dumped all this on a chair and turned to the counter. He was quite obviously not one of the tourists.

  He became aware of the quietness and the strained atmosphere. He looked round and then turned to the counter staff, ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘A little boy is missing—everyone is very worried.’

  ‘Oh, dear!’ The man appeared to think for a minute. ‘Is his name Johnny?’

  There was a gasp. Elizabeth rushed forward. ‘Yes. Oh please, do you know where he is?’

  ‘Yes. There!’ He pointed to the small door, which was on the seaward side of the café. In the doorway stood Johnny!

  Elizabeth burst into tears. The children rushed at an astonished Johnny.

  ‘Where’ve you been?’

  ‘Oh, man. We were worried about you.’

  ‘You missed dinner,’ observed Murdo, severely.

  I took Johnny’s hand and led him to a table, indicating to the counter staff to bring him some food. ‘Where were you, Johnny?’

  The child was totally unaware of the furore that his absence had caused.

  ‘I was with Angus.’ He nodded towards the man. ‘Fishing.’

  ‘Why did you leave the rest?’ I asked.

  ‘I was in the dungeons, but I didn’t like them so I came out. You had all gone so I went out and onto the shore.’

  We had gone to see the costumes, thinking that those down in the dungeons would stay together.

  ‘Angus was there and he let me fish with him.’

  ‘Didn’t you hear or see people looking for you?’

  ‘No.’

  Angus said, ‘I saw a lot of people poking about, but they were too far away to hear anything. I didn’t think young Johnny here was lost. He didn’t seem lost to me! He’ll make a good fisherman, one day.’

  We were in time to stop the curator from ringing Cill Donnan and the police had not even left their station. The members of the public resumed their interrupted tours and we did a lot of apologising to everyone. The children took it all in their stride.

  Murdo said scathingly, ‘You didna catch any fish, foreby.’

  The drive home was quiet as many of the younger ones fell asleep. Johnny, who, at seven, failed entirely to understand the trouble he had caused, was something of a celebrity at the back of the bus.

  When we drew up at the school, various parents were waiting to collect their offspring. There was a terrific babble as everyone tried to tell their families about the day.

  Elizabeth immediately went to Johnny’s mother and told her of his adventure, apologising for losing sight of her son. His mum did not seem too worried about him or by the problems that he had caused, saying, ‘Ach, he’d rather be fishin’ than anything, I’m thinkin’.’

  When they had all gone, I said to a relieved Elizabeth, ‘Well. We shall not forget this year’s outing in a hurry!’

  ‘How could you doubt it?’ she replied. ‘They will be talking of it for months, I wouldn’t wonder.’

  ‘But … ’ I said.

  ‘What?’ she was wide-eyed.

  ‘How will you top this next year?’

  She laughed. ‘Sufficient unto the day and all that.’

  But much was due to happen before the next outing.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Miss Amelia Arabella Anstey-Smythe

  ‘She’s back from her cruise, I’m hearin’.’ Mary was full of some great news as usual.

  ‘Who?’ I asked, without much interest.

  ‘Miss Stephanie Smythe. Her in the big house. Craig Mor, y’mind. She’s been away for months. Now she’s brought someone home with her.’

  ‘Who?’ I asked again. This was more intriguing. Someone new on Papavray was always of interest.

  ‘Some relation of hers,’ Mary answered my question. ‘Comes from Australia. Somewhere called “Cranberry”.’

  Was there really a place in Australia called ‘Cranberry’? Or did she mean ‘Canberra’? Knowing Mary … !

  ‘Weird woman, I’m hearin’,’ continued my neighbour, as I refilled her teacup. ‘Hardly goes out at all; but Mary-Anne saw her one time. Long floppy skirts—I’m thinkin’ they’ll get gey wet in the grass. And big hats—they’ll blow off!’

  ‘Is she here to stay or just on holiday?’ I wanted to know. Stephanie’s house was large, like a manor house, so there would be plenty of room if some relation had come to live with this solitary woman.

  ‘I’m not knowing.’ Mary sounded aggrieved. She liked to know the whole story. ‘She’s called ‘Miss Amelia Arabella Anstey-Smythe!’ She was on firmer ground here. ‘What sort of a name is that, I’d like to know?’

  I knew Miss Stephanie Smythe fairly well as a result of my ongoing association with the Laird’s children. Duncan and Felicity had five delightful children who were educated at home by a governess while they were young, and then a tutor for a couple of years, before being sent off to boarding school at the age of twelve. Inevitably, there would be a gap when one teacher left and before another could be appointed. At such times, Felicity begged Stephanie Smythe to step in. She had been a university lecturer, had two degrees, a fellowship and the obe, but in spite of all these qualifications, she had to be brave, indeed, to tackle the daunting task of trying to beat some knowledge into those resistant little heads. Like their father, the children loved the outdoors, the water, the hills, horses, and dogs, frequently accompanying Duncan when he visited the other islands that made up his estate. He was a bluff, happy individual who lived for his wife and his family, and actively encouraged the children to pursue the outdoor life, but often at the expense of their schooling.

  So Stephanie filled the gaps and had many heated arguments with the Laird about the children’s education. Even so, she managed to
cope with Alicia, Victoria, Elizabeth, and Duncan junior—a regular little imp—for weeks at a time. Penelope, the oldest, was at a leading public school by the time that I knew them.

  My own involvement with these little terrors was all too frequent. Bumps, bruises, cuts, broken bones, mumps, chicken pox, a near drowning, and more than one black eye were but a few of the reasons for my close association with them. Doctor Mac declared that he had never known such an accident-prone family, but he enjoyed Duncan’s whisky on his numerous visits so he did not complain.

  I had encountered Stephanie on many of these occasions and we gradually became friends. She was about fifty, tall, and rather ‘rangy,’ much given to knitted stockings, shapeless jumpers, and good quality tweeds. With hair scraped back and piercing blue eyes she was a formidable figure.

  Stephanie’s house, perched on the cliff top at Rachadal near the recently built Somerled hospital, was huge with turrets and cellars, wide corridors, and a baronial-style hall. It was built in about 1850 by a wealthy Victorian forebear who had made his money plant-hunting in the Far East. So why such a person should choose to build a house on the windswept shore of an almost barren island was a mystery. Stephanie inherited on the distaff side, but by then, the bulk of the estate had dwindled away and she now ran the place with only three part-time helpers.

  This relative sounded more than a little eccentric and I hoped to see the strange lady soon, but the manner of our eventual meeting was bizarre in the extreme.

  It was a Friday afternoon: Nick was coming home from school for the weekend, so at about six p.m. I drove over to the pier at Dalhavaig to meet the steamer. Rhuari told me that there had been some engine trouble (again) and the steamer would be at least an hour late. The shops had closed, the pub had not yet opened, and the pier café was putting up its shutters. I knew that I would have been welcome in any house, but it was ‘tea’ time and I didn’t want to disturb anyone. What to do for an hour? The only place that had not been closed for the night was the church.

  The door creaked as I entered the cold, stark, gloomy house of God. The smell of dust and damp met me, combined with a faint and welcome aroma of furniture polish. So Anna-Mairi, a devout Free Kirker, had been busy. The good lady did her best to keep the place clean, but it remained a poor tribute to the Almighty.