Call Me Sister Page 3

  ‘And can you speak Gaelic?’ Miss Macleod, with her Edinburgh accent, sounded genuinely interested.

  ‘No. But there was a staff member in the ward who did. I’d put that down to local knowledge and I would imagine that if your nursing sisters don’t know something, they’ll know someone in their district who does.’

  The sound of laughter floated into the room. Miss Macleod got up, I thought to stop it, but she just said, ‘Yes. Hospitals have their place it’s true, but care can’t be bettered if it’s delivered in a home environment by appropriately trained staff who know what else is going on in the patient’s life.’ She smiled, smoothed already smooth hair, checked it in the wall mirror as she passed, then heading for the door, said, ‘Now, I’ll take you to meet Dr Duncan. He’s our Medical Officer of Health. We work closely and I always involve him in staff matters. Come along.’

  Dr Duncan’s office had papers scattered all over the place. The Sellotape fixing some to the walls was curling and yellowing with age. The man himself was smart in a three-piece grey suit. He had the courteous manner of someone accustomed to dealing with the public but with a slightly distracted air, as if waiting for a message.

  I noticed an exchanged nod just as introductions were made. Then, patting his waistcoat, he leant over his desk and extended his hand. His accent told me he came from the east coast. ‘I hear you did your general training in Aberdeen. A good medical school there too.’ He stretched his neck as he adjusted a university tie. ‘And I imagine you’d have seen life doing your midwifery training in Belfast.’

  I nodded, steeling myself for a question that might well decide my future. There was a pause whilst he gazed at a slightly askew health promotion poster. It must have been important; it had each corner pinned to the wall. Then slowly and as if it was the most searching question he could think up, he said, ‘So when do you think you could start?’

  4

  TRAVELLERS’ PROBLEMS

  I told Sister Gall about the job and that I’d be starting at the beginning of January.

  ‘Not a good time. You’ll have trouble on the roads,’ she said, looking out of the window and getting a grim satisfaction from a wintry scene. ‘See, it’s snowing already. You’ll get lost in the first drift.’

  Feeling bound to defend myself, I followed her to the sluice where we were due a stock count. I said, ‘But I’ll be with a Sister Shiach for the first few weeks, and she’s very experienced. They mightn’t miss me but I think they’d notice if she got lost.’

  She was sour. ‘Sister indeed! They used to be happy being just called nurses. Anyway, I can’t think why you’re going to do district. It’s a waste of a good nurse. I’d have thought with me retiring you might have applied for the job.’ She had to go on tiptoe to count the bottles lined up on the sluice shelf.

  ‘We’ll need four more bottles of disinfectant.’ She thrust an order form at me. ‘See to it, will you? I’ve plenty other things to do. Dingwall’s full of tinkers but there’s one less just now and she’s in our ward. Dusty Williamson needs an eye kept on her. She could have a fit at any moment.’ She clicked her teeth. ‘If only she’d taken her epilepsy medication she wouldn’t be in hospital. She could be annoying Sister Shiach instead.’

  I thought it a shame Sister Gall didn’t have the gentle spirit of my aunts whose view on tinkers had been entirely different.

  ‘We look forward to a visit from the travelling people and we always buy their bonny straw baskets,’ Nanny had explained. ‘We don’t really need any but they make such lovely presents. The poor souls need the money and, of course, we’re always needing clothes pegs so we get them too.’

  ‘And that’s theirs,’ Jessie said, pointing to the glass cabinet where a matching cup and saucer decorated with roses sat on a shelf by itself. ‘We keep it’specially for them. They always laugh when they see it. We’d give them another but they insist on sharing that one. We hope they like taking tea out of it. We try to make it a special occasion for them. They can’t get many treats.’

  Both aunts were now gone but I hoped that there was still that sort of kindness in Dingwall, if not immediately apparent in the sluice. ‘Humph!’ said Sister Gall, moving out of it. ‘Tinks!’

  The ward resident also had a view on my move: less judgemental, but no more encouraging. He said, ‘Would you not think of doing intensive care? There’s a job coming up in that department. I think you’d be good at that.’

  ‘I’d take that as a compliment if I didn’t get the feeling you think I’m best at dealing with unconscious folk.’

  He was quick to reply, ‘No, no. It’s just that I think you’d be good at meeting the challenge.’

  ‘And I’ve just got a job I’ve always wanted to do and a house,’ I said, ‘so I can’t think what could be better.’

  ‘You’ve maybe got a point,’ said the recently married doctor suddenly, and in a heart-felt way. ‘Raigmore’s hospital staff quarters are pretty basic. My wife feels she’s sharing her life with every other person in the block.’

  Nurse Black thought that wouldn’t be so bad. ‘Won’t you find it scary living on your own?’ she asked.

  I was confident. ‘District nurses’ houses are usually at the heart of the community, so it’s not as if I’ll be stuck at the back of beyond and on my own.’ I warmed to my theme. ‘And I’ll be in lots of different places if I’m doing holiday relief. It’ll give me a great way to see Ross-shire. Anyway, I was brought up on a hill farm so I’m used to and love open spaces.’

  Life without the Caley dances was plainly an anathema to my young colleague. ‘But what’ll you do for a social life?’

  ‘I’ll get the bright lights in Edinburgh. At some point, and if I’m a good girl, I’ll get to go and do the district nursing course there.’

  ‘Staff Nurse!’ Sister Gall called. ‘Will you stop that gassing and get a spatula? Dusty’s off again.’

  Our patient was having a full-blown epileptic fit. With her rolling eyes and jerking, convulsive movements, she looked like a marionette controlled by some vicious puppeteer. In her screened-off bed, she was at risk of throwing herself beyond its contained space.

  We eased the wooden spatula into her frothing mouth. ‘That’ll stop her biting her tongue,’ said Sister Gall, ‘but these grand mal fits can’t be doing her any good. Keep an eye on her. If this lasts much longer, she’ll need to be seen by the consultant – and get Nurse Black to help you change the bed. I’ll bet Dusty’s been incontinent.’ She bustled off, calling back, ‘And I’ll finish the list. Think we’ll need another bottle of disinfectant.’

  Dusty’s movements slowly relaxed. Recovering consciousness, she spat out the spatula.

  ‘I was away again, then?’ she said in a matter-of-fact way. ‘Och but those fits wear me out!’ She yawned, showing black tusks that were the remnants of her teeth and a blight in a face, with its skin so fine it looked as if it was made of porcelain.

  ‘Sister Gall’s no best pleased I forget to take my pills. Anyway, I canna always afford them or even get to a chemist. And when I’m out on the road, it’s easy to lose time. Sometimes I don’t even notice a day going by. Anyway I hate the damn things.’ She sighed and gazed out of the window. ‘You don’t think I’ll be here long do you?’

  Her brother would occasionally visit. The last time I saw him I heard him say, ‘You’ll no get out if you dinna have an address, and you ken you canna sign yourself out. You canna write an’ neither can I.’ He was as thin as his sister and had the same bright red hair. But whilst Dusty’s flamed round her face, his clung in tight curls on top of his head. He looked ill at ease and out of place with his ragged clothes. His mud-spattered boots were so big he could hardly hide them under his chair. Unlike Dusty, however, his teeth shone even and white in a sunburnt face.

  Awkwardly patting her hand, he smiled and said, ‘Just tell the doctors you’re going to Dingwall. Like you usually do. That seems to suit them. Anyway, that’s where our folk are.’ After he vis
ited, the smell of wood smoke lingered in a ward I was soon to leave.

  When it came to then, Sister Gall, to my surprise, had organised a little tea party. I nearly asked for a bacon sandwich. Instead we had Penguin biscuits and drank strong tea out of the Pyrex cups from the tea set I’d been gifted.

  ‘You tell me you’ll be based in Conon Bridge. That’s near Dingwall and of course it’s where Dusty said she’d be going.’ Sister Gall sounded doubtful. ‘You never know, you might just meet her and then you could ask her to pop in and visit you.’ She swung a cup as if giving a toast, then with just a touch of mischief, she added, ‘And if she does, you might find one of these’ll come in handy. Just don’t bother with the saucer.’

  5

  SISTER SHIACH SHOWS THE WAY

  I never did see Dusty but I was reminded of her brother not long after starting my apprenticeship with Sister Shiach. On a late afternoon in January, she was driving us along a street of Dingwall council houses. One had a chimney puffing out wood smoke that, despite the closed windows, crept in to fill the car with the familiar smell that Dusty’s brother brought with him when visiting her.

  Jomo was in his usual place, riding shotgun in the front of the car, whilst I was crammed into the back. I hoped the Williamsons were, despite their wandering ways, somewhere more comfortable. However, accompanying Sister Shiach had other attractions.

  ‘I feel like the Duke of Edinburgh,’ I joked. ‘We can’t go anywhere but people are waving and smiling at you. Look at that old man. He’s just got off his bike to wave to you.’

  Slowing down to nod and smile back, she said, ‘Oh dear. I’m thinking he can hardly afford to be out, never mind on his bike. At least he got off it. He’s getting so doddery these days, he could easily have fallen under my car wheels.’ She furrowed her brow and glanced at me in her mirror. ‘D’you think he looks a bit peelywally? I’d say he looks a bit anaemic. Maybe I should have a word with the doc.’

  Thinking these car journeys were a bit like a ward round and might explain Sister Shiach’s erratic driving style, I said, ‘You must know everybody.’

  She laughed and shrugged. ‘Well, folk know us by the Morris Minors, they’re such a terrible colour. Miss Macleod seems to think they tone in with the uniform!’ She snorted. ‘Personally, I’d love something of my own choice and bigger. I’m working on her to see if we can get to buy our own.’

  I persevered. ‘Well, I think folk’ll still recognise you, car colour or not.’

  She waved a deprecating hand. ‘If they do, it’s only because I’ve been here such a long time. You know, I sometimes think that if I haven’t seen them at one end of their lives I’ll be around for the other. I’m not sure if I’m seen as all that helpful either.’ She sighed. ‘For instance, I’ve been a right pain in the proverbial to the mum we’re going to see. I’d forgotten she’s gone from living in a van to moving to a house. I’ve had to learn to make allowances for her that I mightn’t consider having for other patients. There’s been a lot of learning for both of us.’

  We’d spent the mornings visiting patients who needed essential nursing care. I was always impressed by my advisor’s kind, warm approach and easy relationship with her patients. If I can copy her, I thought, I’ll be all right. The afternoons, however, were generally spent on post-natal and health visiting, and they were more daunting from my point of view.

  ‘But I haven’t got health visitor qualifications,’ I’d protested at the outset.

  Sister Shiach had been reassuring. ‘Neither have some of the other girls,’ she said. ‘You’ll eventually need to get yours. The course takes a year. But the fact of the matter is that in this neck of the woods, we don’t have that many bairns under school age and it’s not that difficult to spot problems. Anyway, it’s really a matter of common sense and we all work closely with the doctors and you’ll have got to know the family through your ante and postnatal care.’ She’d sounded sanguine.

  Now, sharing the back of the car with an assortment of equipment, I considered her remarks. A card-holding box sat on top of some spare sheets, continence aids and a nursing bag. Added to this was a carrier bag full of children’s clothes with a navy blue duffle coat spread over it. Common sense told me Sister Shiach was in charge.

  She gestured with her thumb towards the clothes bag. ‘Grab that, will you? Then see if you can fish out the card with little Shirley McGlone’s name on it. If it’s kept out it’ll remind me to fill it in afterwards.’ She drummed her fingers on the steering wheel. ‘Paperwork’s a pain. Still, the triple duties of nursing, midwifery and health visiting do give variety even if Bell here gives me a run for my money.’

  She stopped the car outside the house with the smoking chimney, got out and stretched her back. She nodded at the garden which was full of rusting vehicles. ‘You’ll see our family’s taken their old home with them. It seems it’s taking them longer to settle in the house than the garden. Anyway, let’s catch them before they pretend they’re not at home. Come on.’

  She pushed on the garden gate. ‘Blast!’

  The garden gate gave a warning creak. A small anxious face peered round a tattered net curtain and disappeared so quickly I wondered if I had imagined it. Then I heard a door slam.

  ‘Who’s she?’ A voice came through the letterbox.

  Sister Shiach bent down and spoke through it as if talking into a telephone receiver. ‘It’s okay, Bell. She’s new. I’m training her.’ She spoke in a wheedling way. ‘Come on now. Open the door. I’m so proud of the way you’re settling in. I’ve been telling her about you and know she’d like to meet you.’

  A tall girl with jet-black hair inched the door open. She said, ‘Spy on me, more like. Don’t you be giving me that stupid sweet talk.’ Despite the sour tone, she opened the door wider.

  She wore wellingtons, which as she grudgingly stepped back to allow us in left muddy tracks on the linoleum in the hallway. Her cardigan, worn over a washed-out pinafore apron, was full of holes and a dismal grey. Still, it couldn’t dim the sparkle of her brown eyes and her gold earrings. They danced as she shook her head. ‘It’s no worth you coming further, the wee one’s out playing.’

  ‘No, I’m not, Mam. I’m here.’

  The small child whose face I’d seen at the window came and stood beside us. ‘I camed round from the back door,’ she offered. She, too, was wearing wellies, but on the wrong feet, and a coat that even though someone had hacked a bit off, still trailed on the ground. She sneaked behind her mother, who put a protective hand round her shoulder. ‘It’s all right, Shirl. It’s only the nurse and,’ she viewed me with narrowed eyes, ‘some other woman, and I suppose you’d better come on ben.’ In a combative way she added, ‘We’re not tidy.’

  ‘You’re fine. We came to see you, not the house,’ said Sister Shiach.

  We went into the living room where she steered a safe course past piles of Exchange and Mart magazines to car seats cosily arranged by a fire sulking in the grate. Covering it, more or less, was a battered-looking fireguard. To Bell’s evident surprise, her visitor admired it.

  ‘It’s grand you’ve got that,’ she said, nodding towards Shirley. ‘You wouldn’t want the wee one tripping and having an accident, would you?’

  ‘Course not,’ her mother sounded outraged. ‘I know how to look after my bairns.’

  ‘And the others’ll be at school?’ enquired Sister Shiach, looking into the flames.

  ‘Course.’ Bell’s voice carried less conviction.

  ‘It can’t be easy settling down to a school routine. Up till now, you’ve all led a life of freedom.’ Sister Shiach was sympathetic. ‘But if they do nothing else at school other than learn to read, it’ll have been worthwhile.’

  ‘Aye. I suppose.’

  There was half a loaf of white Sliced Pan on a table alongside a tin of syrup with a knife sticking out of it. I put the bag of clothes out of its sticky range but near enough for Shirley to see. Becoming bolder at the lack of attention, she
moved toward it. She’d the rosy cheeks of an outdoor person. Perhaps that’s why the coat particularly fascinated her, or maybe it was its toggles. Her small grubby fingers inched towards, then started to play with them.

  ‘That’s right bonny,’ she said, managing a hop of excitement despite the wellies and trailing coat. A gathering of snot collected under her snub nose.

  ‘Here,’ Bell said, taking a corner of her apron to wipe it away, ‘I hope that’s not all for us. We don’t take charity, you know.’ Her eyes flashed and she folded her arms.

  A large tear rolled down Shirley’s cheek. ‘Aw, Mam! I’ve see-ed a bonny coat. It’s like hers next door has.’

  ‘And she’s a spoilt wee brat.’ Sister Shiach, eyes twinkling, opened her mouth wide then shut it. But Bell ignored the hint for tact and continued, ‘Her mother’s a snobby cow. Says us tinks comin’ here’s lowering the tone o’ the place.’

  She seized the bag and coat and thrust them at me. ‘Here! You take these. Just seeing fancy clothes would fill any bairn’s head with nonsense. They’re no for the like of us.’

  Whilst Shirley gave herself up to soundless sobbing, Bell’s jaw hardened. She’s not going to back down, I thought.

  6

  ON THE ROAD

  ‘And what makes you think you’re getting these for nothing?’ Sister Shiach sounded surprised. Sighing in exasperation, she pointed at a rag-rug in front of the fire. The last time I’d seen one was a generation ago, made by my thrifty grandmother from the remnants of old clothes. ‘Look, Bell, you’re good at making these. I could use one for Jomo in the car.’

  ‘Yon wee mongrel? You’re wanting a rug for your dog!’ Bell gave a disbelieving cry. ‘Next thing you’ll be telling me to knit him a waistcoat!’

  ‘He’s purebred, and don’t you let him hear you say otherwise.’ Sister Shiach wagged a finger and continued, ‘And no, his own coat does him fine. But a rug would help to keep my car clean. Sometimes I’ve to bath the wee blighter before he gets near it.’ She sighed and clapped her hands to her side. ‘Dogs!’