Mary J. Macleod - Nurse, Come You Here!: More True Stories of a Country Nurse on a Scottish Isle

Also by Mary J. MacLeod

Call the Nurse

Copyright 2014 by Mary J. MacLeod

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without the express written consent of the publisher, except in the case of brief excerpts in critical reviews or articles. All inquiries should be addressed to Arcade Publishing, 307 West 36th Street, 11th Floor, New York, NY 10018.

First North American Edition 2015

First published in the UK by Luath Press Limited under the title More Tales from the Island Nurse

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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available on file.

Cover design by Owen Corrigan

Cover photo: iStock/Thinkstock

Print ISBN: 978-1-62872-536-0

Ebook ISBN: 978-1-62872-543-8

Printed in the United States of America

This book is dedicated to Elizabetha dear friend.

I thank all those members of my family and my friends who have encouraged me. I thank Andy, my techno wizard, and the people in the book for just being themselves.

CONTENTS

PROLOGUE

Again and again my thoughts return to that happy time spent among the beauty and peace of the islands of the Hebrides.

I remember the warm, unquestioning welcome of the people, the stoicism with which they met the hardships of lives lived in that remote place and the laughter and banter of the ceilidhs in crowded croft house kitchens on cold winter evenings.

I recall the islands unsophisticated children who delighted in the simple things of life: the sheepdog trials, the arrival and departure of the little island plane, the comings and goings at the steamer pier, and a school outing to a castle on an adjacent isle.

I knew old folk who had tales to tell of an earlier eraof a time before radio, electricity, planes, and cars. Tales of war and the cruelty of the sea, of family and loyalty and stories with no beginning and no ending.

PapavrayI need to revisit you in my memories, write once more of the splendour of your mountains and seas and enter again into the lives of your gentle people. I want to revel in the remembered smell of peat smoke curling into the frosty air from tiny white chimneys, to feel the soft rain on my face or to hurry through a storm, head down to the cosy shelter of our home among the hills and glens of that beloved isle.

I shall remember and dream again as I look back over the years.

ONE

Down in a Ditch

George and I sat looking out of the window at the rain lashing down and dreamed of a holiday in the sun. It was about the sixth weary week of almost persistent rain and we were yearning for the warmth of the Mediterranean or the Canaries, where we had been accustomed to holiday before our great escape to the north. These thoughts only surfaced briefly in midwinter, when the days were short and dark and the nights long and even darker and the storms seemingly unendingas nowand we would experience a sort of cabin fever and long for a holiday.

But then, suddenly, a silver sun would break through Stygian clouds to bathe the sparkling slopes of purple mountains, and touch the sea to create restless pathways of golden water. The wind would drop and we would stand in awe of the sensational and enduring beauty in which we were privileged to live. We would wonder just why we had fancied the six- or seven-hundred-mile journey to Heathrow or Gatwick, a wait of x number of hours in a crowded, stuffy airport, the cramped and uncomfortable flight with the very real possibility of the loss of our luggage and the press of dozens of angry, pushing, perspiring folk (perhaps also minus luggage) in blistering heat. Why would we do this?

Why? Here, we could wander unhurriedly in the clear air, and watch the shafts of sunlight weave between the peaks of the mountains until a golden day faded into a shining evening. Then pink and orange streaks would appear in a silver-blue sky and soft mist would begin to obscure the hills so that only their tops showed, seeming to float in the heavens. Then we were content, once more, only to leave our hallowed isle for the briefest of times. After all, we had a warm, welcoming home in a superb location with incredible views, in a friendly village on a glorious island! What more could we want?

The boys were happy in the island culture, with outdoor pursuits and the freedom to learn the lessons of life as well as more academic ones. They knew folk of all ages: the differences did not seem important. Nick was now old enough to join the sailing club and was accepted by the young lads and the older men. He fitted in wherever he went. But he was not a good scholar: I think, perhaps, he loved the outdoor life and the freedom too much and gave little thought to the future. Papavray only had work of the manual kind, and no apprenticeships. School leavers with high grades usually got into college or university, but further education did not look as though it would be an option for Nick. But he loved the sea and had met a deep-sea diver who was prepared to take him on at weekends and possibly train him for a job on leaving school. I was alternately horrified and relieved! It was undoubtedly dangerous, but at least he had found a very real interest which might prove useful laterI hoped.

At Andys age, there were no such worries. He was happy at school, with his friends and with Nick. They still fished and climbed and messed about in boats. In Andys case, the worries of the wide world were still a long way into the future.

I enjoyed my work as the district nurse. I liked caring for the elderly, tending children, advising mothers, dealing with injuries, illnesses, emergencies, and generally being part of the fabric of the island. Consequently, I was welcomed into the homes and lives of the islanders in an affectionate and, perhaps, unique way.

George, the only true Scot among us, was the one who was not entirely content. He was happy to be on his mother-isle, of course, but found the pull of the exciting overseas jobs, that he was called upon to do from time to time, irresistible. Our original intentions had not included such things, but had centered on local or semi-local work and there was plenty of that. But he enjoyed the challenge of the more sophisticated work abroad. And, inevitably, the weather just now was adding to his impatience to get away on the next contract and I, too, was so fed up that I almost envied him.

So here we were, gazing at the rain and dreaming of holidays and sun and exciting jobsall the things we had left behind!

At that moment, Andy came bursting in from school, bringing us back to reality with a bump.

Hi Mum, Dad. Murdo is here. Hes going to stay for a bit. His dad is working in Coiravaig and hes picking him up later. Can we have something to eat, please? We are starving.

Having eaten enough for an army, they departed over the croft to play some complicated game involving a lot of rolling about in the wet grass. They did not even seem to notice the rain. A few minutes later, they were back.