Call Me Sister (3 page)

What she actually meant was that puking into a paper bag was one thing, but holding on to allow a timely sprint to the bus stop toilet showed fortitude – and a paper bag saved for the second half of the journey. Break or not, the journey seemed to last forever. When we did eventually arrive at our aunts’ house, we were queasy. We smelt of petrol and cigarette smoke, but their welcome was absolute, if dangerous.

‘Come in, come in!’ They’d cry, throwing open their thin little arms. Then Nanny, the eldest, would shepherd us towards, then make us sit down at a small, round and very unstable table. Covered in an exquisitely hand-embroidered linen tablecloth, it would be groaning with food. ‘You must all be starving. Look! We’ve had a lovely morning preparing this. We’ve even made sausage rolls ’cos we know what wee lassies like, don’t we, Jessie?’

‘Yes. Lemonade too, and after everything’s been scoffed, we’ll have a wee concert. Your granny tells us you’re wonderful dancers.’

With a sly look at this unexpected promoter of our talents, Nanny put in, ‘Singers too.’

She was so enthusiastic we could only oblige. Well into her spinsterhood, perhaps Nanny was looking for some recognisable genetic imprint in us. It certainly wasn’t in looks, for neither aunt had my red hair and freckles nor Elizabeth’s dark curly hair. Instead, tortoiseshell-backed hair clasps held back faded blonde hair from their pale serene faces.

The aunts scratched a living teaching country dancing and were good teachers, accustomed to the space of the halls where they taught. Bothered by stage fright and shyness, my sister pointed out the limitations of their minute sitting room.

‘Och don’t be shy,’ encouraged Nanny. ‘Look, you. We’ll move the table. You’re not big girls. We’re sure you’ll manage. Just don’t dance too near the glass cabinet.’

With Jessie playing the piano and Nanny providing illustrative footwork on the neatest and lightest of pins, we were inspired to dance and warble. Under praise heaped on by two gentle souls, schooled in tact, we grew cocky. We leapt imaginatively and ever higher until the glass cabinet ornaments put in a protest.

Catching the aunts’ anxiety, Granny rose. ‘Time to go,’ she said. ‘Come along, girls. Getting back to Inverness itself, never mind Nairn, takes time.’

She was right then, but now as I drove my Hillman Imp out of Inverness, the way seemed familiar but shorter. The road still wound its way along the Beauly Firth with the railway track making the occasional snaking companion alongside, whilst the sea waves still left old lace frills on the shore. In the distance seabirds floated in a line on the water, looking like a musical score.

The Rosemarkie transmitter was clearly visible on the skyline. When we were growing up on an upland Morayshire farm, we had a clear view of the Moray Firth. The sudden appearance in 1957 of an eye like a Cyclops on it astonished us, particularly as it turned out to belong to a transmitter clearing snow from our telly screens. As it was responsible for such a miraculous effect, I hoped that without the sophistication of a car radio, it would also help my tranny to work. I switched it on, hoping it would take my mind off interview anxiety.

“You can’t always get what you want,” sang The Rolling Stones. It was a bit different from “How much is that doggy in the window?”, a song my aunts swore was their favourite tune.

‘We could sing it again,’ I’d volunteered, eager for even more praise.

‘No, don’t! It was so good the first time, you couldn’t better it,’ said Granny, fumbling with her hearing aid.

I bet she’d have been surprised that I’d actually found such a doggie in Dingwall. And in a window! Driving into the county headquarters car park, I glimpsed a small black one sitting in the front of a Morris Minor already there. It watched with cocked ears as the driver climbed out. She wore a district nurse’s uniform and had the competent look of someone who if you asked for directions would give them clearly and concisely. The pillbox hat worn at a jaunty angle and the fish net stockings suggested, however, that there was more to her than map reading.

‘You mind the car now, Jomo,’ she said, shutting the car door. Right away, the little dog jumped into her seat and, putting paws on the steering wheel, looked out of the window with the enquiring eye of a professor. The car horn sounded once. Looking round and evidently satisfied with what he saw, he settled down.

She’d such a friendly, open way. I felt I could ask the question.

‘Jomo?’

‘Kenyatta, of course,’ she replied. ‘It had to be, with his colour and wee beard.’ She took in my suit, chosen because of its restrained colour and hem length, and smiled. Tightening her blue gabardine coat against the chilly November wind snarling about us, she said, ‘And I suppose you’re here for your interview? Come on, I’ll take you to Miss Macleod. She said you’d be coming.’

The everyday sounds of a council department were very different from those of a hospital, and whilst the corridor floor had the same gleam (proving the industry of dedicated polishers), the place felt warm, relaxed and welcoming.

I glimpsed staff through half-open doors and heard their easy chat. Amongst the notices on the doors, one said ‘Sanitary Inspectors’ and ‘Architects’. It looked an unusual combination but the chaps lolling over their desks seemed to be sharing banter in an atmosphere conducive to a stress-free day.

The proximity of Medical Officer of Health to Superintendent of Nursing made more sense. My companion tapped on a nameplate, then opened the door.

‘Morning, Miss Macleod. I’ve someone here I know you’re expecting,’ she said.

‘Come in, come in.’ Miss Macleod got up a from behind a mighty desk she shared with a Bakelite telephone and a black Conway Stewart fountain pen lying beside a rocking blotter. She was tall and her straight skirt was shorter than mine, her shoes a lot less sensible. She was elegant, friendly even. She stretched out a lily-white hand, so smooth it would have scandalised Sister Gall.

‘You’ve met Sister Shiach, I see.’ She gave my companion an approving nod. ‘She takes all our new members of staff for a few weeks. Shows them the ropes and, I have to say, she’s also Dingwall’s finest asset.’

Sister Shiach waved a dismissive hand. ‘Ach, away with you. There’s a few mums’ll no be saying that when I tell them their bairns have lice. I’m here to get some orange juice and hair shampoo for them. See if that stops them showing me the door.’ She tapped her hat as if to illustrate a thinking moment, then with a flash of strong-looking teeth, reversed out.

Miss Macleod sat down again. She leant against the navy-blue suit jacket slung across the back of her chair. She stretched her arms out so that she could spread her fingers on the desk.

‘You’re young to want to be a district nursing
sister
.’

Remembering the eighteen-year-old Nurse Black’s view that the next step for a twenty-three-year-old was hospitalisation in a geriatric ward, I was pleased about the youth bit but a little surprised at the sister emphasis. Eliminating ‘nurse’ from my vocabulary, I went for a cautious, ‘I’ve always wanted to be one.’

‘I’ve read your application. It’s come at a good time. We’ve actually got a vacancy for a relief sister.’ She tapped her fingers together in an approving sort of way. ‘And your qualifications seem suitable. I’m anxious to give the district nursing service a more youthful profile. You’ll have to go for the district nurse training, of course, but we’ll send you on the course if we take you on and when I see how you do.’

She frowned, straightened her shoulders then fixed me with a stern look. ‘Of course, too many people don’t think of us as highly trained professionals. They have a problem thinking of us as anything else but nurses when we have every right to be addressed as “Sisters.”’ She rapped the desk. ‘“Sisters!”’

Behind the classy spectacles her eyes were shrewd as she asked, ‘But always wanting to be a district nursing sister isn’t quite enough, so, could you expand on your reason for wanting to be one?’

I thought about my mother’s friend, Nurse Dallas. Her opinions and homespun philosophies were given great respect. She had a house, a hat that could hide bad hair days, a car, a dog, and people, including my strong and independently minded mother, took her advice. Who wouldn’t want that? She was simply named after the parish she served. I never knew her real name. But maybe the Dallas bit as much as the Nurse title would off end Miss Macleod. It’d be safer telling her about Miss Caird.

‘We need hospitals,’ I began, stating the obvious, but I had to start somewhere, ‘and by the time one lady came to the ward I work in, she couldn’t have been left at home. The trouble was, she was such a hermit, the hospital environment with all its staff must have been a nightmare to her. She was really ill before she was admitted and by the time she got to us she was past being able to make any decisions.’

I paused for a moment, hoping I was getting the right pitch. ‘But had she a choice, I imagine she’d have wanted to die at home. As it was, she was dressed in starched hospital gowns, surrounded by strange sounds and people who didn’t speak her language. It would have been so much kinder if somebody had been able to care for her, much earlier and at home.’ I bent my head, remembering that lost chance. ‘And I’d like to be part of a service that helps that to happen. Really worthwhile work.’

‘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?’

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.'