Call Me Sister (10 page)

Whilst Daisy had gone even pinker than Ailsa’s cardigan, I noticed Miss Macleod cross her legs and raise one eyebrow. A smile flickered.

I decided on a direct approach. ‘So how old’s the baby?’

Ailsa had such a gleam in her eye I’d have wagered she’d say a week. Instead, she went for three weeks. ‘I didn’t want to ask the last nurse. I thought I might shock her, but pardon me for saying this, Sister, but you’re
quite
young. You might understand sex matters better.’

‘Thanks, Ailsa,’ I could have said. Instead, remembering some fairly robust conversations with Belfast fathers during my midwifery training, I soldiered on. ‘I’ve found it sometimes helpful for dads to meet us. Then we can discuss this sort of thing together – and probably best to do it sooner than later, eh?’ I looked at my watch.

‘Okay. Great!’ Ailsa dived into her pocket and took out a piece of paper. ‘Excuse me a moment.’ She made a great show of rolling then sucking on it. She blew an imaginary cloud of smoke into my face, meanwhile giving me a measured look. ‘This keeps me chilled. I hope you don’t mind.’

I waved my hand and started coughing, really getting into the part. ‘Sorry. It’s my weak chest, you see. My mother used to smoke all the time and it made me vulnerable to any kind of smoke and, of course, that’s what gave her terrible bronchitis. But of course you’ll know how defenceless babies are. You won’t be smoking near yours, will you, and where’s the wee one, by the way?’

Ailsa looked about her in an astonished way, as if she had forgotten she had one. ‘He’s about to waken up, I should think.’

‘And how are you feeding him?’

Making a show of stubbing out her fag, Ailsa stood up. She stretched out her arms as if to embrace the world. With a cry that might have alerted the emergency services had we been in hospital, she shouted, ‘Breast!’

The cardigan was swept apart like curtains being opened. I fully expected a full frontal. Instead, Ailsa’s blue frock took centre stage and with a groovy move she crooned, ‘Yeah, my Sister, you gotta dig it. Breast sure is best.’

After a stunned silence there was a burst of applause and Miss Macleod stood up. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘I don’t know about education, but that was certainly entertaining, and if you do have a hippy or two on your district, you might well be prepared for a similar conversation.’ She glanced out of the window then, finally acknowledging the gathering dusk, said, ‘You’ll all be wanting to get home but just before you go, has anyone some brief advice for Sister Macpherson?’

‘Yes, I have,’ said a familiar voice from the back. ‘I’ve a warning and it’s that crofters can be a fly breed. They watch their pennies and most of them don’t want to call out a vet when they think a nursing sister will do instead. I’d a call from a shepherd yesterday. He’d a lambing with twins that came together. The live one couldn’t get out for the other one, which was dead with its head stuck in the birth canal. Because I’d hate to think of anything suffering I did make a visit but it was all a bit traumatic.’ She bit her lip and looked upset. ‘All I’m going to say is, I’m glad the man had a sharp blade. He just needed me to tell him to use it.’

Remembering Dr Duncan’s lecture, I thought that without Willie to cook for him Jock might resort to an egg-alone diet. Perhaps I should warn him he might disappear in a cloud of sulphur or simply drop dead.

He was shutting in the hens for the night. As they settled on their roosts, their squawks died to a croon and sounded as comforting as Jock. ‘Eggs, you say? Och, you’ve no need to worry. The poor things are off the lay.’

He must have got his bonnet back from Willie. He took it off, scratched his head, then pointing to its egg-shaped dome, said, ‘But I’ll show the hennies this and it’ll maybe remind them to get back to work.’ His smile was brave, but he faltered a bit, saying, ‘An’ when the bonny days come the hennies’ll be sure to get back to the lay and by then surely Willie will get home home.’

He didn’t look convinced as I protested, ‘He’ll be back long before then. Hospitals don’t want folk taking up beds forever and I bet he’ll be planning menus in his chair in front of his own fireside before you can say you’re hungry. Unless of course you’ve heard otherwise.’ I gazed around at a wintry scene. ‘You not having the phone, how would you know?’

Jock nodded at his bike. It had the sleek class of a Raleigh, somewhat marred by that awful old hat, back to covering the seat. ‘I biked in this afternoon.’ He sucked his teeth and shook his head. ‘He’s on the mend and liking hospital – especially the tellyveesion.’ Mournfully, he continued, ‘Now, with all those comforts he mightna want to come home. D’you know what he was telling me, Nursie?’ His eyes widened into pale blue orbs.

‘What?’ I asked, thinking that Willie’s spell in hospital must have restored his voice as well as his temperature.

‘He says they’re talking of landing men on the moon. The moon! I was sure he was havering but the nurses said not.’ He drew breath. ‘But why would anybody want to be doing that?’ He scratched his brow in bewilderment. ‘When they get there, they’ll only fall doon on the ground. And Willie says it’ll be on the telly.’ He tried out the word in a wondering way. ‘The telly.’

We looked up at a sky where the moon, unaware it was soon to have visitors, was serenely sailing.

Jock was beginning to get into his stride. ‘You know yon manny they talk about here – the Brahan Seer? Kenneth Mackenzie was his real name but they cry him after Brahan Castle, where he was a labourer. The castle’s been demolished but it’s where the Big Hoose is now.’ He jerked his head sideways. ‘The Seer’s long gone but he’s famous for foretelling things.’ He tapped my arm. ‘And some of it’s come true. But he never said anything about men on the moon.’ Jock shook his head in amusement. ‘So I’ll believe it when I see it. Anyway, we’re no getting a telly, a telly.’

‘But I’ve heard he prophesised black rain too,’ I chuckled, all too unaware that oil finds would soon transform this part of the world. Who’d have dreamt the Firths would be surrounded by fabrication yards building oil rigs to drill for the black stuff the seer apparently had predicted?

‘Just goes to prove you shouldn’t believe everything you hear,’ I added.

‘Same goes for eggies,’ Jock managed a twinkle. ‘Don’t you worry about me, Nursie, the farm folk have said that if I give them a hand, they’ll make me food to take home and maybe they’ll manage the odd denner too, denner too.’

I left him gazing heavenward and wondered was it my imagination or was Jock repeating himself less frequently. I headed for home. I was hoping to find the same level of comfort there as Jock’s hens heading for their roosts, and I might have broken into a cluck myself had it not been for those wretched long johns. As if highlighting the freedom of a moon riding the skies, they hung, damp and tethered in as disconsolate a way as they’d jigged so joyously before.

Pulling them off the washing line, I said, ‘You’re sullying my reputation. Come inside at once and get properly dry. You’re going home soon, and that’s a promise.’

Despite my brain registering the middle of the night, my watch insisted it was seven a.m. whilst the owner of the wakening voice at the end of the phone said she was Ann, Muir of Ord’s Sister. She sounded anxious. ‘Sorry to wake you so early but Miss Macleod asked me to give you a call. You see, my mother’s taken ill and she’s been rushed to hospital in Perth. She lives near there. I need to get down as quick as possible.’ There was a pause then she said in a small voice, ‘So could you manage to fill in for me?’

I remembered her from yesterday’s meeting where I’d found her gentle, spinsterish way a little more predictable than Ailsa’s mischievous one. I suspected that with her level of quiet self-containment she’d have found it difficult asking for help.

‘Certainly. I’d be delighted.’ That was true. Already I was out of bed, taking instructions and feeling excited. Even though Muir of Ord was Ann’s district, I’d be their nurse until she came back.

She continued, ‘There’s a diabetic needs insulin. His name’s Mr Munro and he’s due his injection at half past eight. Could you make that? If you can it’d give me time to catch the bus into Inverness so I can get the Perth connection. I’ll leave the house key at the back door.’

‘Is he on his own?’

‘No. Lives with his wife. They’re a sweet old couple. Retired from crofting. You’ll enjoy meeting them.’ She went on, ‘I suppose you should go on using your relief car rather than the one that’s here.’ She clicked her teeth. ‘It annoys me to see this one just sitting there and going nowhere when I could have jumped into it and been off. Uh! It would be so much easier if we had our own cars. Dogs or no bally dogs.’

Amused, if surprised by her direct tone, I said, ‘Well, it’s no problem this end of the line and Muir of Ord’s really close. I’ll be there in a jiffy. Just keep in touch and let us know how things are with both you and your mum.’

I’d hoped to sound reassuring, but she was gone and I had to get to Muir of Ord quick. All I needed to do now was to leave a forwarding address on the answering machine.

The previous night was the first time I’d used one. It was huge and seemed to have more buttons than a cardiac monitor. Still, I’d had fun pressing the record knob and singing into the microphone. Confident I’d mastered the technology and sure that my bawdy ballad-rendering had been replaced with cool and clear details as to my whereabouts, I headed for Ann’s house at Muir of Ord.

I didn’t want a patient with a diabetic coma to be the first casualty of the day but there was one of another kind already waiting at Ann’s house. ‘You’ll find a note of my week’s work in the office beside the green book and phone, and maybe you should check for any messages,’ she’d said.

When I got there, a red light was blinking on the answering machine. I pressed the ‘play’ button and nearly jumped out of my skin. Right away I turned down the volume, scared that if the Muir of Ord folk heard Miss Macleod’s bellowing voice, they’d be thrown into as big a state of alarm as myself.

‘I’ve just called you at your house and heard your message on the answering machine. How dare you!’ There was a brief silence as if she was too shocked to speak, but then she continued, ‘There were two totally unsuitable messages on it. I was shocked by both. The first one was bad enough. I’ve never heard a ruder song. What kind of thing’s that to leave on any phone, never mind one belonging to a supposed professional and then, as if that wasn’t bad enough—’ There was another silence. I twiddled the volume knob but it made no difference. Her voice came back, full-boom. ‘You’ve referred to yourself as Nurse Macpherson on the other message.
Nurse!
You’ll just get back and change that message as soon as possible. It’s not the sort of thing I ever want to hear again. D’you hear me, S
ister
?’

The message ended as she slammed down her phone.

I felt thoroughly chastened and wondered if she had heard Miss Macleod would Ann have let me loose in Muir of Ord? Her office spoke order and efficiency. Antiseptic Savlon and Eusol bottles were lined up with military precision on a shelf where they shared space with swab packs and cotton wool. The nursing bag stood on its own.

Ann must have spent hours polishing it for it had such a gleam it could have put Daisy’s shiny shoes to shame. There was enough equipment inside the bag to cope with a nuclear fallout, with the instruments glittering like a canteen of prize cutlery. The bag was very unlike my own third-hand, battered model. Hoping it would convey a suitable degree of efficiency and professionalism, I grabbed it and got back into my car.

Ann’s directions were clear and Muir of Ord not very big so finding Mr Munro, my diabetic patient, was easy. I wondered how he’d react to getting treatment from such a disgrace to the profession. Glumly, I parked the car. At least I was in time, with his wife, obviously on the lookout, answering the door at my first knock.

I explained Ann’s absence and that I was her substitute. Despite the fact that there was nobody around, Mrs Munro spoke at a run, as if she needed to get her message over before being interrupted. ‘Come away, come away. Himself’s in the kitchen, aye, waiting for you – well we’ve both been.’ She wore a flowery-patterned apron and wiped one hand on it before shaking mine. ‘Oh! Mind it’s maybe not very clean. I’ve just been scrubbing the sink all ready for Sister Ann. And now it’s you. Well that’s a surprise, I can tell you.’ She bustled ahead, pulling at her clothes then patting them to check all was in place. A faint smell of bleach hung in her wake.

The Munros might be retired but Mrs Munro had the voice and laugh of a young girl. I was supposed to be the cheerful and bright one but she was much better at it. Now mischief dimpled her rosy cheeks. ‘We’re always thinking Sister Ann might surprise us all one day and just elope. She’s a bonny, kind lassie and would make a great wife.’

Miss Macleod might not have approved of an inference that
Mrs
was the only title worth having, but then Mrs Munro continued with a laugh, ‘And we’d be the worse off for losing her. Look how she’s got us to set out your stuff, eh, Angus?’

A tall man, as thin as his wife was plump, got up from the table where a white plastic tray was laid out with an insulin vial, medical wipe, small forceps in a bowl of Savlon and a spotlessly white huckaback towel. He spoke with a soft Isle of Lewis accent, and whilst his outstretched hand felt work-rough in mine, he had the grave manner of a thinker. He said, ‘Aye, Sister Ann’s so organised I’m thinking we could maybe do surgical operations here as well. That would give us a bit of excitement. Sometimes it can get a wee bit monotonous round here.’

He sat down, straight-backed, and gazed at the tray with such a serious look that for a moment I thought he was going to say grace.

A pan made a clattering sound from the stove. ‘Would you be hearing that?’ he said. ‘We’re boiling a syringe and a needle!
Smaoinich
(imagine)! I’m thinking I’m no needing all of this. Sister’s maybe a bit too organised. It was never like this when I was injecting the sheep, and I never heard any of them complaining.’