A Book of Death and Fish (13 page)

I had rounds, like the consultant, but I delivered supplies to the different wards and I collected rubbish. There was an incinerator so you could get rid of a lot of waste on site. Other bags would be marked as sharps and you’d take special care to put these in their allotted place. Then there was the laundry collection and that was good for an extra cup of tea and a yarn.

A sample conversation: ‘Maternity’s busy.’

‘Sure is.’

‘You’d think that cold spell we had last March these men would be keeping it in their trousers.’

‘So you’d think.

‘But no, the zips must have been up and down like President Kennedy’s.’

‘Aye.’

One of the jobs you had to do was to help take a body out to the mortuary. You could go months without a death happening on your shift. When it did, you’d get a call from the ward. Then you’d go and fetch a different trolley. This one was long enough and it had a hinged metal lid so everything was discreet. If it was during the day porter’s hours, you’d go and get him to help. If it was at night, the ward sister would lend you one of her nurses and see if she could get a male nurse from one of the men’s wards.

The guys were good about swapping shifts but this day I was keen to get off an hour early to get to a meeting. I forget which brand of religion I was exploring at the time. Of course we were changing the world. History was on our side.

A new day porter had just got a start but he seemed OK for the crack. Glaswegian but he spoke slower than most so you could sometimes get at least two words in three.

So I asked him, any chance you could stay on an extra two hours and I’ll be owing you? ‘No bother,’ he says, ‘but just cover me for an hour. I’ll get down the road. Get some dinner in me first.’

‘Fine.’

But he’s just out the door when the phone goes in the canteen – I’ve got the chairs up on the tables and the mop’s out – but I get to it OK. ‘There’s been a death in female medical. You’ll need to get the day porter. We’ll have everything ready for you in about fifteen minutes.’

It needs two people to lift a body out of the trolley on to the slab.

Now I can’t tell her I’ve just made a deal with said porter which means he’s not where he should be right now. So I have to come up with a contingency plan. I happen to know that a guy who used to be a day porter is in the hospital pharmacy now. So I go and whisper a word in his shell-like and he says sorry, he’d like to help but the back’s been a real bastard – that’s why he got the move in the first place so he just can’t risk it.

Plan B has to kick in. Accept the help of the nurse to get the trolley out to the mortuary and wait till the Glasgow cove gets back on scene. Then we can lift the body out together.

So it’s a student nurse and she’s not done this before. Everything is very discreet. The body is always sewn up in a crisp shroud so you don’t see the features or anything. These nurses have the techniques for lifting, you wouldn’t believe it. Slight wee things joining hands under a hefty patient and easing her where she needs to go. Impressive. So the ward sister, the student and me, got the body in the trolley with some dignity. I swung the lid over and we were on out way. When I say ‘we’, I mean the two of us, the nurse and me. Or the three of us if you count the deceased.

We’ve got to keep some flicking decorum. No fancy swerves at the corners.

The student was so relieved when I said, that was the job done for now. ‘The other porter and me can see to the rest of it at the change-over.’ So she doesn’t ask any further and she’s gone back out that door before you can say cheerio.

Fine, so far, except your man is a bit on the late side and I’m in that mind-set. We’re talking religious investigation here – mission mode. And I’m that relieved at staying out of trouble so far. Trouble with a plan is once you’ve formulated it you think the thing is done already. So I just forget to say we’ve a wee job to do first. And of course when God’s on your side too, it’s possible to get a shade complacent.

I got to the meeting, more or less on time. I was oblivious to the fact that a law of the universe was kicking in. In the next hour, before the night porter came on shift, the new day porter took a phone call. Male medical ward. Another death. But no-one’s done the full induction for the new man so he hasn’t done a death before. So the sister – that red-haired, striking one – she talked him through it. Sure enough, the key worked. He was in the mortuary and the trolley was there.

But remember, he’d never pushed it before and the lid was down. So he was wheeling the body I’d not long moved out of the hospital back where it came from. With a bit of difficulty, he negotiated the bends. The sister and the nurse were holding the swing doors for him in the side ward.

Fine.

But when the nurse lifted the lid she jumped three feet into the air. As you know, but they didn’t, that trolley was already occupied.

Like I said, they’re all sewn up but when you’re expecting an empty void in a covered trolley, the outline of a body in a shroud must be a bit shocking.

‘Oh well, they’ll be company for each other,’ the day porter said. And of course, with a fair number of chess-moves, everything got sorted.

Meanwhile, our group was finished doing its bit to save the rest of the planet by prayer and were tackling the cakes and savouries.

The state of mild euphoria lasted till I came in to start my rounds next day. I got called to Female Medical.

‘What were you thinking of?’

Some of the other sisters in that hospital would have gone straight to my boss. I might have been out the door and down the road that day. The red-haired one told me I’d nearly given her poor nurse her own heart attack but after that she had to say they’d all made a full recovery. Except for the two who were dead already.

After a bit of a blow there’s lobsters too dizzy to sell. Alive but crippled. Not a commercial proposition. Bootlace conger, rockling and wrasse – they’re only a by-catch.

Put them all in the stock. The bony fish will hold together. Don’t flood them with too much liquid of any kind. Let it be intense. Bay leaves, a big onion, sticks of celery.

Let the pan tick over long enough. Drain and salvage white meat from the debris. Save it to put it back in, right at the end.

If you’ve tomatoes gone soft or not quite ripened, chop them small. Shallots, garlic, leeks, chives – whatever’s in season, sweat them gently in oil or butter. Pour in a half glass of fino. (A return trade for most of our shellfish.)

Add something fresh, maybe some well-scrubbed mussels. Adjust the seasoning but if you add any tomato puree, take it easy. You want it to taste of fish.

Some fine-chopped parsley can go in with the white shellfish meat.

Don’t leave any of the soup or you might get bad weather tomorrow.

Kirsty was something else at the funeral. She really looked after the olaid. They used to chafe a lot. Fathers and daughters. Mothers and sons. I think the olaid was a bit jealous of the way they’d stand and gab. I remember he’d walk out to the back door with Kirsty when there was a very clear night. He’d point out the belt of Orion and his dog, Sirius, following behind. Then they’d turn to the handle of the pan that led you up to bright Polaris. I was eavesdropping. The names stayed with me though I didn’t know what to look for.

All the arrangements were made for us. Ruaraidh was the go-between. Talking to the undertaker. We didn’t care which coffin or if there were to be flowers or anything like that.

But I heard the voices raised in the kitchen. It was Kirsty’s, quite strong, quite loud. Quite firm. Ruaraidh was talking about the done thing and offending people.

Kirsty said she wasn’t going to go back home and stir the soup for the men and neither was her mother.

They might have been the first women who went to the graveside at a Lewis funeral. Maybe they didn’t count because one was an East Coaster and the other half and half. But Ruaraidh’s wife, Sheena – she went along with them. She was the bravest one of the three.

I was that proud of them. At the time I still had a faith of a kind but it was out of step with the majority verdict. I could say a short prayer but only to myself. It didn’t help that much.

The service never said much about the olman. That was the usual then. I think they might have mentioned his name. They didn’t always do that. ‘We are here to bury our father and brother, husband, friend. This is the fate that awaits us all and none of us know the hour or the day.’

And that’s about it but it takes a bit longer.

The undertaker and his helper take the coffin from the church to the bier. It’s difficult, standing up in front, with the coffin. You get a cord to hold and later that’s what you’ll use to take your share of lowering it into the ground.

Ruaraidh and the rest of the male relations had the other cords. I nodded to the men I’d seen in their overalls at fanks. They all had black ties and white shirts so I had to look a few times to remember who was who.

The rest of the men lined up behind the bier which was chocked up ready, outside the church. Sometimes it’s outside a house, but that’s usually when the funeral is out of town.

So there were two lines forming, men who worked with the olman in the Mill, more distant relations, folk who knew him in the town. Guys I was at school with, showing solidarity. I didn’t catch Kenny F’s eye any time. But he might have been there. You don’t see the guys in the line
when you’re holding the cord. Except at the hearse. They don’t come up to shake your hand then. That’s at the graveside. They don’t all come to the graveside. If they do, they share cars or take the bus that’s always laid on.

Before all that, the weight has to be shared between the two lines. It’s like two queues, walking slowly and slightly separate as the procession moves. When you come to the front, you nod to the guy you’re taking over from. Then your right or left hand goes to the front handle. The other guy moves back to the middle handle. And so on. They try to park the hearse according to the length of the lines so everyone gets a share of carrying the coffin.

Most guys have done their bit then. A lot of the guys in the lines won’t have gone to the service, in the house or at the church. They’ll just have arrived outside, to take their share of ‘the lift’. The undertaker says, ‘We’ll take a lift now, boys.’

At the cemetery, there’s another lift to the graveside. And this time there were three women standing, waiting. The olaid flanked by Kirsty and Sheena. Since then it’s been done quite a bit. It’s not the usual thing now but it’s done sometimes.

Kirsty had to go back to Canada to sort a few things out. I was holding the fort at home. No bother. In a couple of months she had things arranged – a temporary job on the District to come home to – a maternity-leave post. And she’d be staying with an old pal out of town. This was partly practical – a rural District. And partly because she knew it would be too much, the women nagging each other in the same house.

I wouldn’t say we got close exactly but there was one evening, after the olaid went to bed. Kirsty would stay the night now and again. She told me a story. Something that happened on the District. Something like this.

I’ve always wanted to be on the District and that’s what I’m doing. How many can say that? I’ve a neat red car, Essential Users Allowance and I see a fair bit of life and death as well as drinking too many cups of tea. I’ll probably go back at the end of the job, pick up my life in Canada. But this is fine for now.

So at home, I usually get my feet up by the box. But I always make sure and do a baking once a week. Sometimes I get a few visitors when they see
my car outside. I was quite pleased at the company the first time Kenny F showed up on the doorstep.

I’ve seen your old mate a few times, lately. I know you’re out of touch, with you going to meetings and not drinking. At first I thought he was a relation, on the olman’s side of course. Then I remembered him from Westview.

His face is the sort that a photographer would find interesting. Quite a good-looking man in his way if you were looking for that. Weatherbeaten, I thought. Something quite kind in him. Just a year or two younger than myself. I remember us being only a year or two apart at school. I tried to make it clear I had no interest that way. My life was full but I was glad of the company. But Westview meant a lot to all of us.

I don’t suppose I’d seen him for five years or more. He said it all in a breath that he’d had a bit of luck with his job on a boat and there was a bit of fish going spare. How was the brother doing? He was sorry about the olman.

Hadn’t he heard, Peter was working in the hospital for a while. But on shiftwork. Out of step.

He said working on a boat was a bit like that too. But Peter would be going back to Uni. That was for sure.

Kenny wasn’t going to come in but then he did. It was a job to get him to sit down. He was soon coming out with his yarn though and I felt his laugh was the sort you could trust. So I said he was to be sure and come back any time, fish or no fish. He left a good feeling behind him.

Well of course I went to see what was in the poly-bag then. It was one from the Mainland, Markies, I remember. The things you notice. How that was in circulation in the village.

It wasn’t white fish he’d brought but prawns, the quality you usually only see in the big hotels. Not tailed but still whole. I know all this because I used to clear up the leavings of ones like that for a couple of years before I went nursing. But of course Kenny’s offering would have meant the same supposing it was only a whiting or two.

It was more difficult with him next time. He sat for a while though he didn’t say much and I don’t believe we had a laugh once. That made
me feel as if he was taking up more of the house. I didn’t really mind for myself, only I was worried for his own sake. You notice more in the quiet.

He said thanks for the tea, though he didn’t eat anything. The bag he left was cold. It was prawns again and as big as the last lot but they’d been in the freezer. Not that I minded, they taste the same and I could still take a few next door when they were thawed and boiled.

It was afterwards I heard he’d lost the job a week or two before that visit but he was keeping up appearances. I was annoyed he felt he had to put on an act where he was welcome anyway.

I asked him straight when he came again and he said yes, it was true, but he wasn’t bothered. He was out on his own now and here was the catch in the bag. He didn’t need any flashy boats bought with a big grant and a big loan hanging over them. He could fire up the old engine in the old boat and get out far enough to set a few creels.

So it was a lobster this time and still alive. That didn’t shock me. I’ve handled them before, in big stainless-steel kitchens. But the black berries disturbed everything. That’s what the lobster’s eggs look like. The fishermen are supposed to return ones like that to the water but some of them scrape the stuff off the shell and sell the lobster as good. That’s a waste of future stock. It would have been better that Kenny was honest at least and hadn’t bothered to disguise things. But he hadn’t even noticed the berries.

That seems strange, as if everything about him was numb. Of course it was obvious to me then and I wondered how someone in my job could have missed it for so long. You wouldn’t believe how good some people are at disguising that problem. They often drink vodka rather than whisky so you don’t notice it on the breath.

He wasn’t excited or staggering or anything like that but I was left feeling sick when he went. The waste of the black spawn didn’t help. I couldn’t scrape the lobster or boil it. I hadn’t even had a glass of wine so I ended up driving down to the jetty. The tide was out so I had to stagger over the rocks in the dark till I found the water. I don’t know if the creature survived.

I found out afterwards that this was all on the day that Kenny went missing. In the village I heard the word ‘disappeared’ as if they were
making a meal of it. Even next door they were talking about dragging the harbour, in these hushed tones as if drowning was a judgment from above. Inevitable for a big alky like that, always near water. He was crazy for the fishing. The lochs too. Freshwater. Pity he didn’t drink more fresh water when he was alive, I heard someone say.

I lost patience at that and let go. I told them I’d seen a few recovered from the harbour when I was working in the Lewis hospital, before the midwifery. I’d to help wheel the breathing equipment and keep the manual cardiac massage going till they got all the electronic gear ready. Then I’d to keep the other fellow occupied, the one who’d dived in after his shipmate. You usually know if they’ve a chance of coming round. But sometimes you’re wrong. This casualty had been down for a while. He was swollen and blue. He wasn’t going to revive.

One night the consultant got called in to do the full resuscitation bit. Then had a cup of tea with me and told me, wherever else you die, stay clear of a hospital. Keep some dignity.

Anyway, it turned out that Kenny hadn’t ended up in the harbour. He turned up at my doorstep a couple of weeks after. He’d been coming off the drink. Away on his own in a hut out on the moor. Not that I’m saying he’s cured now. That’s the wrong way of looking at that problem. But he’d have a better chance if people hadn’t wanted to say so quickly that he must have fallen in the harbour.