Call Me Sister (22 page)

She gestured at the window through which the sun streamed as if it would forever. ‘On days like this, I find it especially hard dealing with something so tragic. And if that’s not bad enough, she’s got family. Teenagers, a boy and a girl. Now the thing is, she doesn’t want them to know – yet.’ She bit her lip. ‘Wants things to go on as normal, but the trouble is that I don’t think she knows how ill she is and it’s beginning to be obvious to me, at least, that she’s running out of time.’

‘D’you see much of the family?’ someone enquired.

‘Not really. The kids are at school and when they’re at home they kinda hide away. I only know when they’re around when I hear them playing pop music in their bedrooms.’ She spoke without resentment. ‘I suppose that’s how teenagers are these days but with the mum not wanting them to know anything I can hardly flush them out of their rooms. To tell you the truth, I’m feeling a bit stumped as to what to do.’

‘What about the doctor?’

‘She doesn’t want him around. Says it will just worry everybody. Of course, I’ve spoken to him and we’ve discussed it, but my lady’s left it too long for any sort of treatment other than me going in and helping as best I can. You know, the usual. Skin care, plumbing matters, dressing a breast that should have been removed ages ago.’

‘And the husband?’

Sister Shiach shook her head, almost in despair. ‘He’s at work and I’m pretty sure he’s not aware of the situation either. You’d think he’d be bound to know but she’s cute about keeping things secret. She’s moved into the spare bedroom ’cos she says his snoring keeps her awake.’ She shrugged. ‘And maybe he does, but the trouble is that his wife’s kept her cancer a secret for so long that that’s now a normal pattern.’ She looked round the room. ‘So my question is, how I can prepare a family for a sad outcome when my patient isn’t ready for it?’

‘How long have you known the family?’ asked Ailsa.

‘Since the bairns were little.’ The memory seemed to momentarily cheer the sister.

Daisy’s kind voice broke in. ‘So, knowing you, they’ll trust you and that’s a great bonus. I’ve had a few cases a bit like that and they are heartbreaking. Looking back, I’ve never been sure that I was doing or saying the right thing.’ She sounded rueful. ‘But I do know, certain times came when it was easier to say particular things and, of course, you will be there for afterwards. That’s really important.’

Sister Shiach nodded her head slowly. ‘Thanks, Daisy. Yes I suppose I should know that already. It’s easy to forget that the right moment will probably come, I’ve just to remember to look for it.’ Looking round the room, she smiled and dropped her shoulders. ‘You’re right, Miss Macleod. It sometimes does help to talk ourselves.’ Looking thoughtful, she sat down.

Miss Macleod nodded approvingly. ‘Well, we are human and I’m sure as
Sister
Mackay says, you will have the right answer ready. I’m always aware that amongst my staff someone is likely to be dealing with a tragedy unfolding in a patient’s house, and that is hard. I’ve just been on a management course and one of the points that I thought was particularly relevant was that talking out problems is important.’

She turned to me, ‘Now, I don’t imagine you’ll have had Sister Shiach’s particular one during your training, but what about giving us a resumé? Any patient that you’ll always remember, for example.’

I didn’t have to think hard to say it was Mrs Henderson, but before I could go much further, Ailsa cried, ‘I got to know her when I was doing my training, and Hilda, her amazing home help. She couldn’t have managed to stay at home without her.’

I hadn’t thought of Ann from Muir of Ord as being particularly vocal but now she too spoke. ‘Home helps are, to my mind, unsung heroines. My Miss Forbes has had her life transformed by one. The Munros, who are her neighbours, have become involved too. Mr Munro’s actually managed to turn her old ratty dog into a nice wee animal. Getting out and about and making him feel useful’s given him a new lease of life and he’s going to love these disposable syringe-things.’

‘So after your Edinburgh adventures, where now?’ asked Ailsa. ‘Is it back to Conon Bridge doing relief work?’ The question was casual.

‘I’m not sure,’ I hedged.

Miss Macleod looked surprised. ‘But surely you’re going to Fortrose. I’m sure we talked about it before you went to Edinburgh.’

I was certain that we hadn’t, but it would be hard to argue the point, especially with Miss Macleod. There was a short silence before Sister Shiach put in a smooth, ‘Yes, talking has its place, but listening’s just as important.’

I loved the view from my parents’ upland Morayshire farm. It extended over the Moray Firth to the Black Isle, and behind that to Ben Wyvis, a huge sprawling mountain further to the north. It dominated the landscape but only if it was a clear day, whilst the Rosemarkie transmitter, even if it was less attractive, was a constant landmark. ‘If you keep your eye on that, you might just manage to see me.’ I said, getting ready to leave after a few days visiting my folks. ‘Pity I can’t fly. I’d get to Fortrose in half an hour.’

My father didn’t think much of my sense of direction. ‘Ach, you’d miss by a mile,’ he said, not entirely joking, ‘then you’d have to walk at least that distance to get back to your new home town. Better stick to road and ferry.’

Recalling the conversation, I drove to Inverness’s Kessock ferry terminal. I saw Munlochy, Daisy’s fiefdom just across the water, and wondered if she was on duty or on this side, enjoying newfound mobility in her Mini.

A tall man, with hands like paddles, stood at the ferry ramp, beckoning to the line of waiting cars. The twenty-mile road journey from Inverness to the Black Isle was long compared to the ferry taking the strait between the Beauly and Moray Firths. However, I was about to realise that motorists might have to pay for the shortcut in more ways than just the ferry tariff.

The attendant, a permanent scowl stamped on his craggy features, was signalling to cars with such an impatient gesture I wondered if the firths were running out of water. It was impossible to make eye contact with the man on account of his sea-sprayed spectacles. Still, he must have seen the cars, and even if the drivers couldn’t hear him, his gape-mouthed words were plain enough. ‘Come on!’

‘Come
on
!’ His hands picked up speed, which is pretty much what he wanted the drivers to do.

He glared as the queue inched forward. His exasperation grew. Caution seemed to be holding back motorists unwilling to follow his directions. He seemed anxious to cram in as many vehicles as he could whilst the drivers showed a similar concern for not driving over the edge. Eventually the first couple of cars were parked to his specifications but when the drivers came out of their vehicles, they hung, ashen-faced, over the boat side. Maybe, like me, it was their first time on the ferry.

‘Come on!’

As I started to crawl forward, something large leapt out of the water. Distracted, I jammed on the brakes to the consternation of the driver behind me and the annoyance of my navigator. He yelled, ‘Watch! No! Mind! No! Just forget that bloody porpoise!’

At least it made a change from his ‘Come on’ cry. I’d soon learn that those beautiful creatures leaping in the firth were everyday sights, but, right now, I had to ignore them. Flustered by a car horn tooting behind and the attendant’s gesticulations, I shot forward, making contact with the car’s bumper in front.

The attendant nodded approvingly. ‘Fine.’ He turned to the driver behind me, who’d stalled her engine and couldn’t start it again.

His signalling technique didn’t work so he stomped to the old grey Hillman Minx, giving its rusting bodywork a sour look. The driver wound down her window. So did I.

I could have sat listening to the slap of water on the boat side, the mewing cry of gulls as they wheeled above the ever-changing colour of sea water and admired the rich green of a peninsula called The Black Isle. I’m ashamed to admit that eavesdropping on what sounded like a lively conversation was far more interesting.

‘If you get out, I’ll give you a hand to push your old rust-bucket to a parking place,’ he said.

She was adamant. ‘No! If we do that we could do more damage than it’s worth.’

I thought she had a point. A gull landed nearby, adding its squeaking-gate squabble cry to the continuing argument.

Eventually the car door opened and she got out, shouting, ‘Well, do it yourself then!’

She was dressed for a Scottish summer in a sensible brown coat, a scarf and a green tartan head square. A sea breeze made the back of it flap behind her like a small windsock as she strode off to join the other travellers at the boat’s side. Fascinated, the rest of us watched as the attendant got into the car, slammed the door shut, turned on the engine and moved the car. He did it effortlessly. Unimpressed, the car owner continued to inhale on her cigarette whilst gazing seaward.

I was curious about the woman and wondered if she was a local or someone heading north. But this was my first day in Fortrose, and with other things on my mind, I was keen for the ferry to get going. So too, it seemed, was the attendant, meantime scanning the waiting area and checking his watch. He glanced up at the captain, who was looking out from a control room resembling a turreted telephone kiosk. Both men shrugged, a lever was pushed and slowly the metal-boarding ramp began to rise. Then it stopped as a blue Mini came down the slipway with the roaring sound of a gear stuck in third. With a huge echoing clang, the ramp returned to ground level.

The attendant’s face relaxed into a beam. His signalling hand was expansive and transformed into a welcoming gesture as he guided the Mini into a space big enough for an ambulance. As the driver wound down her window, he cried in the cheeriest manner, ‘Hello, hello, Sister Mackay. We were thinking you were about to miss the ferry. Dougie-Dog would have had something to say if we hadn’t waited, wouldn’t he?’ He fished in his pocket and handed something in. ‘And he’ll be looking for his usual, I suppose.’

I was sure Daisy’s car would be the first one off and, reluctant to disturb her royal treatment, didn’t let her know I was on the ferry. Anyway, it was a very short journey, with most of her time taken up chatting to the attendant. When we reached the other side and she’d been safely seen off, he resumed normal service. Now, forgetting anything other than my own destination, I headed for Fortrose.

My new home was on a road just off the High Street and tucked between two stone-built houses. Mine was white-washed, had small-paned windows and the quaint charm of a gingerbread house. I wasn’t expecting visitors but a young couple were waiting in the small garden at the front door. I should have sussed problems but was too excited at arriving to pay much attention to the girl’s haunted eyes or his anxious sidelong glances at her. She wore a short-sleeved dress and held up her arm so I could see that it was bandaged.

She spoke apologetically, ‘We were on the High Street looking for something for this, but the chemist’s closed. Then we came down here and saw the Nursing Sister sign outside your door and thought that you could maybe help.’ Fresh blood marked the outside of the bandage, which went from her wrist to her elbow. ‘I seem to have hurt myself, haven’t I, Johnny?’ She looked up at him as if she needed his assurance.

‘That’s for sure.’ He spoke very softly. ‘You’re always doing that, darling.’ He had the bright-eyed, fresh-faced outdoor look that would have earned him a Curly McLain part in
Oklahoma
. She, on the other hand, had the frail look of a piece of thistledown. Her eyes were dark pools sunk in a pinched white face with her mini-dress, its vivid turquoise colour making it even more of a contrast. A small smile flickered across her thin lips, then she grimaced and clutched her arm.

‘I’m new. Only just arrived,’ I explained, searching for the house key, ‘but come in. There’s been a relief nurse covering here and Rosemarkie and she’s been working from the wee office.’ I pointed to a window on the right-hand side of the house. ‘I’m sure we’ll find something for your arm there. You didn’t think to go to the doctor?’

The girl began to pull on some strands of her long lank hair as she said, ‘No, we were just passing through. Johnny’s the one who’s anxious. Not me. Not really.’

She followed me into the house, calling over her shoulder, ‘You should stay outside, Johnny. You’re that big I don’t think there’ll be room for you. Anyway, you don’t like the sight of blood.’

Johnny seemed relieved. ‘Good idea, Lorn, but maybe as the lassie says, we should take you to a doc. You can see she’s just moving in.’

Lorn came back sharp. ‘No! I’m sure that I’ll be fine. The nurse here’ll sort me. It’s just a wee thing.’

‘Oh well, if you’re sure. You’re so brave you make me feel a right Jessie.’ He sounded forlorn.

Lorn took a seat in the office. ‘Men!’ she shrugged, then started to look about the small room with a lively interest.

‘I think he’s just concerned about you, Lorn. Now let’s have a look at this arm. What have you done to it?

It was a general question but her answer was almost defensive. ‘A careless mistake with broken glass.’ She patted her hair. As she sat back, she looked about her again.

The office wasn’t designed as a casualty outlet but it had a small instrument steriliser, wash hand basin and enough room to set out the wound-cleaning equipment I found stored in a cupboard. I unwound the bandage, aware of her eyes trained on my reaction.

‘Did you nick your finger?’ I asked, puzzled by fresh blood on the outside of the crepe bandage when the actual wound looked as it was an old, if neglected, one.

‘No.’ Lorn shook her head violently. She sucked her finger and casually slipped that hand into her dress’s deep pockets. ‘I don’t know how that got there. But look, it’s fine. Really.’ She jumped up.

I put out a soothing hand. ‘No it’s not. Just you sit down. You’ve got a nasty sore there and it does need looking at but, you know, I think it would be better without such bulky dressing.’ My finger traced an irritated area of skin round a straight gash on her forearm. ‘Sometimes too much bandaging can encourage infection.’