Call Me Sister (5 page)

‘Here!’ She went to help with the toggle buttons, but Shirley had already fastened them.

‘I see she’s got your clever fingers,’ said Sister Shiach. ‘She’ll be the one to help you make that rug and, look, you can use her old coat for material now. It’s the same colour as Jomo.’ She laughed. ‘He’ll think it’s his mother!’

The coat had given Shirley enough confidence to approach her benefactress. ‘Can I see your wee doggy?’

‘Of course – if you change your wellies to the right feet. I don’t want you falling in the mud and spoiling your bonny new coat. Look, put back your hood for a minute so you can see what you’re doing.’

I caught Sister Shiach giving a quick glance at Shirley’s mop head as she bent over her boots. Then, taking her small hand in hers, she said, ‘Are you readeeee? Jomo loves a visitor.’

Bell, arms akimbo, watched us from her door. She’d have seen the big welcome the dog gave Shirley. On the other hand, she might not have noticed the bottles of orange juice and shampoo handed to her daughter, nor given it much thought when Shirley, in turn and with her feet properly aligned, went skipping back to the house and gave them to her.

‘Sometimes, and this is an awful thing to say, it’s an advantage that some of our patients can’t read,’ Sister Shiach mused. ‘With a bit of luck, Bell won’t know that that shampoo’s for hair infestation. Come on, let’s go in case she does and throws a brick at us.’ As she started the car, she said, ‘I wish the next visit was as easy.’

It had begun to snow. The one wiper worked hard to clear the windscreen but the flakes sliding down the glass were huge. Outwith the wiper’s sweep, they collected in small drifts, gradually confining our vision to a sort of tunnel view.

Maybe that’s why we didn’t see the cat running across the road until the last minute. Sister Shiach touched the brakes and the car skidded. Jomo sat up and whined, but whether it was through fright or because he’d seen the animal and been unable to chase it wasn’t clear. Still, he put himself back into sentry position, his small body quivering with tension.

As we resumed our progress, Sister Shiach patted the dog in a reassuring way. Peering out from under a meantime surplus but pulled-down sun visor, she said, ‘I think you should maybe head home to Conon Bridge and, whilst on your way, could you pop in and check on the Duthie boys? You know, the ones we visited a few days ago. Sometimes they’re not very clever about keeping warm and Willie’s iron injections mightn’t have started to kick in yet. He’ll still be vulnerable to the cold.’ She seemed completely unfazed by the increasing whiteout and the fact that the car’s indicator remained in the turn-right position.

As for me, I was beginning to feel squeamish. Travel sickness, that legacy from childhood, still bothered me. Getting out of the car would, I knew, be a help, still I felt I had to ask, ‘You were saying you’d a difficult patient. Won’t you need a hand?’

Casually holding the steering wheel as the car momentarily mounted the pavement, my mentor was matter-of-fact. ‘No. What I meant was my patient’s
life
was difficult. You see, she’s actually living in a tent and with her bairn.’

Despite the companionable fug in the car, I shivered and instinctively rubbed my arms. ‘A tent? You’re joking!’

‘I wish I was.’

The car went into another skid. Jomo whimpered and I held back a scream. With no other traffic on the road, the single wiper labouring and snow covering the other windows, the inside of the car was dark and like a little world on its own. If we got stuck or lost, I wondered who’d know. Who’d be daft enough to be out in weather like this?

‘I’ve a shovel and rug in the boot,’ Sister Shiach said, as if reading my thoughts, ‘but the weather forecast said it should be clear by early evening. Och, we’ll be all right.’ She put the pedal down hard. ‘But I’ll need to get on if I want to see her today.’

‘Why’s she where she is?’ I wondered.

‘She’s fallen out with her family and is now staying in a bell tent. It’s just on the outskirts of town.’

‘But she’ll be frozen! Is there a man around?’

Sister Shiach was matter-of-fact again. ‘I’m not sure. I don’t ask. I think he’s probably like Bell’s husband. Comes and goes. But my tent lady’s a wee coper and she’s near a wood so she’s plenty fuel. Believe it or not, there’s a wood-burning stove in that tent.’ She blew out her cheeks in a monumental sigh. ‘In weather like this, I don’t know whether to think that’s a good or a bad thing. Not so long ago, her daughter fell against that stove. It’s taken ages for her burns to heal.’

She rubbed her forehead in despair. ‘She’d have grown into a beautiful woman if half of her face hadn’t been completely disfigured. It’s a tragedy. Now I just need to check they’re at least alive. The mother’s torn apart with guilt and I bet she’s not been eating either. I’ll nip to my house and get her some soup just in case, and when we’re there you can pick up your car.’

*  *  *

Like the sign announcing that we were at the home of the District Nursing Sister, my car also wore a mantle of snow. It was a Morris Minor as well. It seemed that the county council had chosen our cars to match our uniforms. In Sister Shiach’s view, no discriminating motorist could possibly have chosen such a dismal blue. Still, in this weather, my white Imp would be hard to see so, glad of any distinguishing colour, I cleared the snow off the Morris’s bonnet.

Sister Shiach banged on it in a hearty fashion. ‘That’s fine. Now we’ll easily find you if you land in a drift and you don’t appear tomorrow. Drive slowly and you’ll be fine. Look, it’s even stopped snowing. Good luck with the Duthies and I’ll see you tomorrow morning after you do that home visit to the captain. Just remember, when you’re bathing him he can get a bit fruity.’ Her eyes brimmed with mischief then, calling into her car to tell Jomo she’d be back in a minute, she turned towards the house.

I knew where the Duthies lived. I’d met them on my first day, which coincided with the last one of Willie’s iron-injection course treating his anaemia.

Jock, his brother, had been a roadman. He’d worked in different parts of Ross-shire, but latterly worked singly on the one on which his house stood. Had it received the same meticulous attention it would not now have ferns that were growing out of its drain ipes or a door which was short of a latch.

On our way there, Sister Shiach had explained, ‘Jock and Willie are old bachelors. Now, Willie’s the shy one. Actually, if he was ever at school they might have called him slow, but he’s no daft.’

She shook her head then continued, ‘I’ve had to use all my powers of persuasion to let me give him those iron injections, especially as they need to go into his hip. It was only when I told him he hadn’t enough flesh on his arm to soak up the iron he allowed me enough space for the needle to go in. Thank goodness he did. I didn’t fancy grappling with him to get his long johns off.’

I’d noticed them dancing on the washing line a week later, on my way to work. ‘Well, at least the boys have taken your advice about washing them,’ I’d said, then gradually grew more concerned seeing them still there a couple of days after that.

‘It’s probably Willie’s idea of laundering,’ Sister Shiach said. ‘He’s the housekeeper and even though Jock’s retired, that’s still the case.’ She cast her eyes heavenward. ‘It wouldn’t occur to Jock to take them in. I’m not even sure if Willie would have washed them. He’ll probably think the stuff falling from Heaven will do as good a laundry job as him.’

Observation had been one of the key skills our nursing tutors had gone on and on about when we were training. They hadn’t mentioned clothes on washing lines but in this case they could prove to be a barometer for health. It could be just laziness but the length of time Willie’s long johns were hanging outside might be a matter of concern.

I drove out of Dingwall at a crawling pace, getting more confident as the winter tread-tyres bit on the road surface. I gradually picked up speed, hoping to reach the brothers before dark, but then suddenly I let my foot slip off the accelerator. When I put it back down, I was too heavy with it. The car roared and jerked forward. Not a good time to hit ice.

As if bent on its own destination, the car glided out of control. Braking, I was quick to learn, made it worse. Now facing in the wrong direction, perilously close to a ditch and in a gathering gloom, I prayed for a return of nerve, a lighter foot and a biddable car. A traffic-free road would be an added blessing.

At least I was lucky in that respect. The road stayed empty as, slowly and fearfully, I managed to get the car back on course. As for nerve, anxiety made me grip the steering wheel so hard I’d to practically unlock my hands from it when at last I arrived at the brothers’ house.

It was just before dark and the long johns were still on the line. Freeze-framed, they looked as if to be worn they’d need to be jumped into.

On that first visit, hens had been scratching in a netted-off area, complete with a snug-looking little house Jock said he’d made for them. Now they were, sensibly, inside it. I could hear them clucking and imagined they’d be a lot warmer under their felt roof than the Duthies with their corrugated iron one.

I knew Jock was kind to animals. I remembered him talking fondly about them whilst Willie was getting his injection. He’d said, ‘When I was working I’d see lots of injured beasties and I’d take them home on this.’ He banged on the saddle of a classy-looking Raleigh propped inside the house’s lobby. ‘Then I’d try to mend them, mend them.’

Remembering our conversation, I knocked on the door, and fearful I might stand on some ill animal, stepped with care inside.

Jock met me with a pleased, ‘It’s the wee nursie. Come away. Come away!’ He had a habit of repeating the last words twice, then whistling to fill any conversational gaps. Maybe with him latterly working on his own it made him want to communicate for a bit of company, even if it was just with himself. Or maybe he was compensating for Willie. Not a man for either long speeches or much eye contact, he did manage a few ‘ayes,’ and lots of ‘uh-huhs’. The one word he did seem to enjoy saying was ‘cheerio’.

Now I asked where he was, wondering if he’d fled at the sound of my voice.

‘He’s in bed, in bed, yes-yes,’ Jock nodded at a sagging chair beside the unlit fire. ‘He feels the cold, terrible, yes, terrible.’ Jock’s outdoor life having clearly inured him to a sub-zero temperature must have made him immune to an atmosphere where you could see your breath.

I was sure Willie would be horrified, but I persevered. ‘Would he mind if I said hello to him?’

‘He’s asleep, asleep.’ Jock took off his woolly cap, scratched his bald head then, replacing it, continued, ‘Jee whiz – what a man to sleep, to sleep.’ He nodded at an ornate clock on the mantelpiece. Presented to Jock on his retirement, it had
Tempus Fugit
inscribed on it. As if flying-time didn’t apply to his brother, he declared, ‘He’s been like that for ages, ages!’

‘I’ll not disturb him, but maybe I’ll have a wee peek.’ I headed for a room adjoining the living room. ‘Where’s the light?’

‘Wait you! Wait you!’ Jock stepped before me and with infinite care switched it on. It flickered into a dismal light provided by a naked bulb. I shivered as the room temperature stopped me in my tracks. It was even colder than in the living room. A set of orange false teeth grinned up at me from the floor just as I saw a shape in the bed. It was under some flimsy-looking bedclothes and lay as still as the grave.

There’s one thing about an emergency. It removes the insignificant. My chilled feet were nothing compared to the cold lumps sticking out from the bottom of the bed. I quickly established that the cold extended to the rest of Willie’s body. His face was pale as a ghost, his skin had the clammy feel of a corpse, and he was only wearing a vest. I didn’t need a thermometer to diagnose hypothermia. Willie’s condition was serious but at least I could tell on taking his pulse and feeling its sluggish flicker that he was still alive.

I prodded him gently, unsurprised when nothing happened. Knowing Willie’s reluctance to speak, I didn’t expect floods of eloquence. Still, it’d have been lovely to have heard a grunt.

‘See what a grand sleeper he is, he is.’ Jock stood in the doorway and spoke in admiration.

I ran over to him, grabbed his hat and stuck it on Willie’s head. ‘Look, Jock, if he was any colder, he’d be frozen stiff. That’s a fine enough vest he’s got on but have you any scarves, more blankets and have you a phone?’

Jock patted his head as if to check his hat had really gone. ‘Yes-yes and no. What would we be doing with a telyphone? A telyphone?’ He looked at me in astonishment.

‘Making a 999 call,’ I could’ve said, only I didn’t want to alarm a perfectly healthy man whose rosy complexion had just faded to a worrying grey. One patient was enough.

I glanced through a grimy window across which a tattered lace curtain was stretched. The night was far darker now but the sky had cleared, leaving some deeply red-tinged clouds, suggesting that tomorrow might bring more settled weather. Standing close to the house was a tree. It was leafless, showing still and black against the skyline, whilst the fallen snow made everywhere else sparkle. It could have been a magical scene had there not been someone so completely lost to it.

In hospital, doctors were around to take ultimate responsibility. I hadn’t anticipated this level of drama on district but now, after such a short time, I was in the thick of it. Willie’s life depended on me taking the right action.

‘Always remember us girls are guests in people’s houses and sometimes not very welcome ones at that,’ Sister Shiach had advised, ‘so it’s important you don’t act as if you owned the place.’

I considered this for half a second, then in a steely mode that would have appealed far more to Sister Gall, I drilled out the words, ‘Look here, Jock. We’ve got to get Willie’s temperature back up. He’s ill, you know. We must get that fire on and you’ll need to find more bedclothes. Quickly now!’ Then belatedly, ‘Please.’

But Jock had lost the place thanks either to my tone or to being deprived of his hat. Lost to despair, he just clutched his egg-like head and softly moaned. At length he managed, ‘Oh, Nursie, Nursie, my brother!’ He hadn’t even repeated himself. He was ashen-faced. This could be serious. So much for people taking instruction.