Edinburgh Excursion

by Lucilla Andrews

  ‘Mrs McWilliams. You’re welcome.’

  Mr Richards was forty-eight, with a fine-boned face that looked ten years older and the powerful shoulders and arms of a much younger man. He had been a miner for thirty-three years, and his hands were scarred with coal. His breathing was laboured and his cough painful. He said, ‘I’ve had it worse.’

  He was an ill man, a very good patient, and he did not want to talk. So I worked in silence. When he was in clean pyjamas in a bed remade with clean sheets, he said, ‘That’s better.’

  ‘Good. Just your injection.’ He rolled up his left sleeve. ‘I hope that didn’t hurt, Mr Richards?’

  ‘No.’

  The double bed took up most of the room. The bedstead was old, but the mattress and bedding were newish, thick, and clean. Every inch of furniture and floor had the high polish I had now come to expect in nine out of every ten houses I visited, irrespective of the financial and social background of the occupants.

  I discussed this with Catriona, walking home that evening. ‘In comparison, we three are slum-bodies. Our floors haven’t been polished since Wilf did ’em. Just as well the neighbours don’t call. They’d think we’re lowering the tone of the house.’

  ‘I shudder to think how they already view us!’

  I laughed. ‘You’re not serious?’

  She was. ‘Since, to most people, there are only two types of nurses, the sinners and the saints, and we’ve men calling at all hours, can one wonder if our neighbours think the worst?’

  I looked at her pale, composed, and exquisitely etched profile without answering. We both knew the only men to call on us since Wilf were Bassy and Robbie. The neighbours knew Bassy was my younger brother, which presumably let him out. Mrs Kinloch knew Robbie was an R.O., and enough about hospital life from a medical son-in-law to appreciate the long and odd hours worked by all hospital residents. All hospital residents have a tough time in getting away even when officially off duty, but none tougher than the obstetricians. To be any good at that job a man or woman must be genuinely fond of babies and like women. No good obstetrician lightly hands over a woman in labour or a problematical baby, and large city maternity hospitals seldom, if ever, consider employing even a junior obstetrician who is not good at his or her job. Mrs Kinloch might not know for sure, but Catriona certainly did, that Robbie either called on me when he could get off, whatever the hour, or not at all. Her rather childish crack would have been excusable from an outsider, but as she was an intelligent and generally non-childish insider, I found it very thought-provoking.

  Gemmie’s cold was better, and as Saturday was her day off and tomorrow Friday, Miss Bruce had said she could go home in the morning. For once all three of us were free on Saturday. Catriona asked what I was doing and on hearing said it was time she went home. ‘Will you mind being alone for the night, Alix?’

  ‘Not at all, though if Bassy’s having his usual Friday-night rave I’ll probably stay there. I feel like some air, so I think I’ll go down now and find out his plans. Either of you coming for the walk?’

  Neither had the energy. Gemmie offered me her bike to use now and whilst she was away. ‘The back tyre’s getting a slow, but stays up if you pump it.’

  The back tyre did not need pumping that evening. Bassy was at home along with a couple of dozen fellow-students. I hesitated in the doorway at the rows of hairy, hostile faces. ‘Should I go away?’

  Bassy was holding the floor. ‘You can stick around. Only my sister,’ he explained. ‘Only a nurse. Strictly tech type.’

  A small girl with long, dark hair, white lips, and outsize black-rimmed goggles made room for me on a cupboard. ‘Hi, Alix, I’m Melly Drew, Bassy’s bird.’

  ‘Hi, Melly.’ I climbed up by her and looked round. I had never seen so much hair in one room at a time. Most of the hair needed washing, and all combing. ‘What’s going on? Bassy on a protest kick?’

  ‘With every reason! We’ve to back up poor old Tam.’

  ‘Which one’s poor old Tam?’

  ‘He’s not here. Bassy told him to stay under cover.’

  I was very curious. ‘What’s he done?’

  Her reply made me smile. ‘He’s lucky he’s not a Martha’s student. For this he wouldn’t be under possible suspension,’ I murmured, ‘he’d be out.’

  Bassy had the hearing of a gun-dog. ‘Probably the only system an uneducated medic’ll understand.’

  ‘Medics aren’t educated?’ I queried rashly.

  The room fell about with laughter. When Bassy could make himself heard he said that despite the much broader educational system insisted on by the Scottish universities, he had yet to meet the scientist who was not an illiterate barbarian. Two dozen Arts heads nodded in smug agreement. ‘Most of us here,’ Bassy went on, ‘are over twenty-one. All of us have an intelligence high above average, or we wouldn’t be here. To treat highly intelligent adults like irresponsible, low-grade teenagers is something stupid!’

  I said, ‘Even when a highly intelligent adult behaves like an irresponsible, low-grade teenager?’

  The room shouted me down. I shouted back. They won. Bassy saw me out. ‘Don’t lose any sleep over this, Alix. We know what we’re doing and we’ll get what we want.’

  ‘You wouldn’t, were I one of “them”. I’d tell the lot of you to stop playing the fool and get out! Where do you get this “have to be at university” rubbish? You’re here first because you chose to come, then were accepted. If you made the wrong choice, as you’re all so bloody intelligent, who’s fault is that? If you don’t now want your places just step aside and let all those thousands with good ‘A’s who couldn’t get a place move in.’

  Bassy smiled indulgently. ‘As ever, you’re missing the main point. And we didn’t just choose to come. We worked something hard to make the right grades.’

  ‘I know that! But what none of you seems to know, or have even a glimmering of suspicion about, is your incredible good luck in having these years ‒’

  ‘No luck involved! Bloody hard work!’

  ‘No luck?’ I turned furiously on the hairy faces watching entranced through the open doorway. ‘You lot should come out on district with me any day of the week. You’d see kids younger than yourselves doing adult jobs, running homes, coping with bedridden Gran upstairs, Mum in a mental hospital from worry and overwork, Dad either at work or at the pub, plus three or four younger brothers and sisters ‒ and not just in Edinburgh, but in London or any other city! And some’ll have just as good brains as any of yours, but at the right time they weren’t in the right place, didn’t get the right food, the right teaching ‒ or, if they did they’d to stay home to help out too often to use it ‒ and that takes parental backing. You don’t think luck comes into this?’ No-one answered. ‘It’s no good trying to make you see sense!’

  Bassy said, ‘What is “good” and what is “sense”? Define and discuss.’

  ‘You know I can’t. Even if I could, it’d be a waste of time when you’re on a rabble-rousing kick.’

  ‘This is no kick,’ he said quietly. ‘A very real principle is involved, though you’re too thick to appreciate it.’

  ‘Oh, blimey!’ I knew what he was like when a real or imaginary principle stuck in his throat. ‘Had I tears to shed I’d shed ’em now for “them”.’

  Mr Richards’ breathing was less laboured in the morning.

  The sound of his cough continued to appal me. I flagged down Mrs Duncan’s car.

  She said, ‘Even with the improved machines and conditions mining remains a hard and dirty job. His temp’s down? That’s good.’

  ‘His cough tears me apart. What it must do to him!’

  ‘You’ve not worked in a mining area before? You’ll get used to that cough if you do. That cosy coal-fire on a chilly day can cost a lot more than the money you paid for it.’

  ‘Yet his wife says he’s fretting to get back below.’

  ‘I’ve no doubt she’s right. Have you many more before lunch?
It’s nearly time to return.’

  ‘Only one injection at my post-office.’

  The sub-post-office-cum-general-stores lay at the far end of the road and on the same side as the Archie-Meggy buildings. The shop was on a corner, and the road running by at right-angles to ‘my’ road marked the boundary of Sandra’s present area. Charlie’s empty car was parked just round the corner and, as there was no other available space, I drew in directly behind it. He came round from the shop as I was locking my car. He was looking slightly more human as the stiffish breeze had untidied his hair, but more a ‘Charles’ than a ‘Charlie’. From its deplorable cut his hand-woven tweed suit was a family heirloom.

  We had met earlier up the other end, and, having then dealt with the approaching end of the demolition, only the weather remained. It was a chilly, grey day, with the pale sun just occasionally struggling through the thick overcast, but the breeze had kept the blue-grey rain-clouds moving too fast for a squall, and at that moment the sun broke through again. ‘Isn’t it a grand morning, Nurse!’ every other patient had announced, as always when not actually pelting. A two-hour cloudburst they termed ‘a nice wee drop of rain’. A twenty-four hour deluge was ‘a good shower’. Having discovered I genuinely preferred this cooler, wetter, but infinitely more bracing climate, my ‘Lovely day after a dubious start!’ was no act.

  Charles gave the sky a dour glance. ‘The rain’s kept off.’

  Close by a bicycle bell was rung with unnecessary vigour. I looked round as Sandra sailed passed and returned her wave. ‘One of my set. Lives in the flat below ours.’

  The impassive silence in which he received this would have disconcerted me two months ago. Messrs MacThis, MacThat, Richards, Brown, and others had taught me such a silence need imply no more than the obvious fact that the man in question considered speech superfluous. ‘I must get on,’ I said, ‘or I’ll be late for lunch.’

  ‘You must, if you’ve shopping in mind. The post-office is about to shut.’ His tone was impatient, even hostile. He walked on to his car before I could explain I was paying a professional call. I was not sorry, as I was in a hurry and there was a limit to the sweetness and light I was prepared to shed on, such a patently unwilling recipient.

  The little shop was still packed with customers. My patient, the sub-postmaster’s wife, was helping out behind the stores counter. The counter-flap was weighed down with parcels. ‘Can you get under, Nurse?’

  I ducked beneath to encouraging clucks from postmaster and customers. ‘As well ye’re but a slip of a lassie, Nurse!’ We retreated to a back room piled high with boxes of soap powder, tins of sweets and biscuits, cans of every variety, bottles of pickles, ketchup, salad cream, and shampoo, and plastic shopping-baskets. ‘My man’s that pressed, so you’ll not mind giving me the injection in here, dearie? There’s a wee sink over the corner for you to wash your hands. Or should we go up?’

  ‘Here’s fine, thanks.’ I propped my open nursing-bag on a stack of tins, washed my hands, then took out the sterile pack containing all I needed. Cleaning my patient’s arm with spirit, I thought momentarily of the countless injections I had given in hospital. I was now using the identical technique, but, as Mrs Duncan once said, ‘in two different worlds’.

  ‘That’s grand, Nurse! I didna feel it at all! Will you take a sweetie? Maybe a biscuit? Do you never nibble? Ach, small wonder you’ve that wee waist! Ye’ll not mind if we return?’

  We raced back to the shop. I ducked again under the flap and straightened my hat. ‘See you next week.’

  ‘I’ll be looking out for you, Nurse. Cheerio just now!’

  ‘Cheerio just now!’ echoed her husband and the remaining customers.

  My district had hooked me. ‘Cheerio just now!’

  During that afternoon I decided a quiet evening alone in the flat would be very pleasant. After one solitary hour I had had enough. I changed out of uniform, stuffed my bag and a raincoat into Gemmie’s bike-basket, and, as the wind had dropped, the sky cleared, and by any standards it was a glorious evening, I bounced leisurely over the cobbles in the Royal Mile, hoping Bassy would provide me with some concrete excuse for not staying in and writing up a lecture.

  When I reached his flat little Pete was locking up. ‘Like you’re looking for Bassy? He’s making the sit-in scene.’

  ‘There’s a sit-in over Tam? That why you’re loaded with blankets and food? Hell! This going on all night, Pete?’

  ‘It could happen.’ We went down the stairs, and he surveyed my back tyre lugubriously. ‘Like it needs air.’

  ‘So it does! I thought the cobbles extra bumpy. Must be a slow slow.’

  Pete deposited blankets, milk-bottles, bread, cheese, a bag of apples, and half a stale cake in a heap on the pavement and pumped up the tyre. ‘Does Bassy have the message, Alix?’

  Though unhooked on his pop-English, I found it nauseatingly infectious. ‘Like why I’m here?’

  ‘You read me good, man.’

  I explained having forgotten to tell Bassy last night I was on my own and that I was in the mood for a T.G.I.F. (‘Thank God it’s Friday’) rave. ‘This sit-in lasting all weekend?’

  ‘The whole scene’s changing. Could be a happening.’ He reloaded himself. ‘It grieves me, Alix.’

  ‘Not your fault protests are Bassy’s own thing, Pete. Thanks for pumping my tyre. You’re a dolly.’

  He had a very shy and quite delightful smile. He ambled off with the milk-bottles clinking in his pockets and the back of his neck bright red.

  The sweet-shop on the corner reminded me of the post office this morning and then of my first evening. I smiled to myself. If Charles shared Robbie’s views on London dollies, that kiss, as Catriona would undoubtedly say, must have confirmed his worst fears. Then I turned upwards into the Royal Mile, and, as on my first evening, the austere beauty of the scene got me by the throat I pushed uphill very slowly, stopping occasionally to hang over the handlebars and absorb the delicate and infinite variations of greys.

  In that evening’s light John Knox’s house was near-pink, Huntly House had a mauve tinge, the cobbles a pearl-grey sheen, and St Giles loomed ahead like charcoal velvet, and awesomely unostentatious. On either side the high buildings seemed to be still huddling together to keep inside the old Flodden Wall, and I thought how strange it was that that wall had originally been built as a defence against the old enemy, my ancestors. The thought left me vaguely guilty, and feeling as if I had no right to this personal enchantment with this alien city.

  Once I had attempted to explain this enchantment to Robbie. He had taken it as a great joke. I remembered that now, and then how well Charles had seemed to understand and how he had shown me that view from the hill. He had understood my remark about Beethoven. I had not mentioned my passion for Beethoven to Robbie, nor would I mention Edinburgh again to him, in this context. I did not mind being laughed at, but I minded very much when people and things I loved were made laughing-points.

  I pushed on even more slowly, being in no hurry to exchange enchantment for an empty flat and lecture notes. Even the girls below were out ‒ Sandra on a date and the other two at some hospital dance.

  ‘Nurse Hurst!’

  I stopped and looked round vaguely, wondering if I had imagined that woman’s voice. Then: ‘Nurse Hurst! Up here!’ It was Mrs Brown at an upper window of a small restaurant. ‘Can you wait, Nurse?’ She vanished, to reappear in the doorway. ‘My boss says I may have a word with you. Are you away anywhere special, or can I ask you a great favour?’

  ‘Hi, Mrs Brown! I’m just pottering. What can I do for you?’

  She came out onto the pavement, looking ready to hug me. ‘Providence must’ve sent you, Nurse! I’ve been that upset, not knowing what to do for the best. You’ll know I’ve an awful good boss, and he’s asked me to work late this once as the other waitress is poorly. But Archie’s expecting me home by eight, and he’ll fret if I’m late. Could you ride over and tell him? You will? Och, Nurse, I’m th
at grateful! The weight off my mind!’

  The ride would have taken only about twenty minutes had the back tyre stayed up. After the first mile it refused to hold air for more than a few yards at a time. Eventually I gave up and walked.

  Archie Brown was at the window in his dressing-gown. I called up, but he did not hear, and as I was in a sweater and skirt with my hair down and minus a car did not recognize me. When I rang his doorbell he all but flung the door off its hinges. His hollow face was yellow-grey. ‘No bad news, Mr Brown. Your wife’s working late. She’ll be home at ten.’ I explained why.

  ‘Nurse, I’m that obliged. I don’t mind telling you, I was getting a wee bit anxious. Will you step inside?’

  ‘No, thanks, as I should be getting back to a lecture I haven’t written up, and you should be back in bed. All right now?’

  ‘Just fine. Just fine.’

  I had left my bike by the main entrance. It was surrounded by Meggy and gang when I got down. ‘Ye’ve a wee flattie, Nurrrsie! Ye canna ride yer bike!’

  An older boy was investigating. ‘No wonder ye’ve a flattie!’ He gave me a woman-driver-what-can-you-expect scowl. ‘The valve-rubber’s gone. Have ye no got a spare?’

  ‘I hope so.’ I looked in the tool-bag. It contained only one of Gemmie’s dirty aprons. ‘No. Is there a shop handy?’

  ‘Aye, but it’ll be shut just now.’

  I shrugged. ‘So I have to push back.’

  Meggy had shot off whilst I was looking in the tool-bag. I did not notice where.

  ‘Having a busman’s holiday, Miss Hurst?’

  I pushed back my hair from my face. Meggy had returned tugging Charles after her by the hand, having apparently produced him out of the air. There was no sign of the pathologist’s van or his car. ‘Hi! No. Not so much a holiday as a demonstration of what my grandmother used to describe as the cussedness of inanimate objects. Look at that back tyre!’