Call Me Sister (8 page)

‘Ha ha! Halving work, eh? I could do with more than a half hand myself, and that’s just for work. Dads helping? Crikey! Not always easy when you’re already a working man, and self-employed at that.’

She might have the delicate look of a Christmas fairy but there was a note of steel in Marion’s voice as, bending down to pick a thread off the carpet, she said, ‘Well, but I do help you, Neil. Who keeps the house as well as doing your typing?’

Ignoring this, Mr Ogg bared his teeth and looked at his watch. ‘Time’s the thing, eh, Sister? Look at me. Already I’ve given up some of the valuable stuff just to meet up with you.’

Immune to his piercing blue eyes and chiselled jaw, Sister Shiach was forceful. ‘Well, you’re just lucky
we
’ve the time. Now I’d like a wee word with your wife. Sister here,’ she said, nodding towards me, ‘is going to help build up your confidence handling Andrew. He’s old enough to cope with
you
bathing him now.’ Taking Marion’s arm, she steered her away from us. ‘You go on, Neil. Take Sister Macpherson to see your son. I know you’re both going to enjoy the training session.’

He threw his hands open and sighed in exasperation. ‘Oh well, if you insist. But I hope this isn’t going to take long.’ Opening the previously closed door he waved me into the room as if he were a traffic policeman.

We were in a nursery with a military-looking Donald Duck marching across one of its lemon walls.

‘Who's the artist?' I asked, wondering if I should step on or around the natural-coloured shag pile rug beside Andrew's cot. I looked down at the baby and saw an identical version of that boy in the Boots picture, except this one was asleep and had no tears.

‘Marion. She knitted that too.' Mr Ogg nodded at a white and lemon crocheted cot blanket covering the baby. His laugh was bitter. ‘She did it before he was born. Kept her options open as to the sex, but not for the fact it mightn't be normal.'

Usually mothers were shown how to bath their baby, either at their ante-natal classes or in the post-natal wards. Very few Sixties dads were offered the chance to get this experience and child rearing, in Dingwall at least, was still considered women's prerogative. Judging by his combative stance, Mr Ogg saw no reason to change the status quo.

Still, he was a captive audience and I couldn't have asked for a better-equipped place to give a demonstration. There was even a sink in the room. Next to it was a stand, holding a baby basin with enough towels and talcum powder in it to start a chemist's shop.

‘Right,' I said, readying for work, ‘let's waken our wee pal and see what he's to say for himself.'

Folding his arms and leaning against the door, Mr Ogg watched as I stroked Andrew's face and spoke to him, ‘Morning, Wee Andrew. We've a special treat for you today. Your daddy's going to bath you. You'll need to be patient with him, mind. He's not very experienced.'

‘I don't know why you're talking to him. You'll not get any response.' Mr Ogg spoke irritably.

‘Oh, I dunno. Look.' I lifted Andrew out, and rubbing my cheek against his, heard his quiet breathing change. He gave a small cry. He had a shock of black hair, a perfect skin and until he opened his eyes, it would have been difficult to see he was different from any other baby.

His father backed away when I tried to hand him over. ‘Oh, no – he just feels so floppy. I'm scared I'll drop him.'

‘It's just because he hasn't the greatest of muscle tone. But that'll develop come time. You'll see. Go on.' I tried my most encouraging voice. ‘Take him. I need to fill his bath. Show you what the right temperature is.'

‘You're even bossier than Sister Shiach,' Mr Ogg complained, nevertheless taking off his jacket, draping it over a nursing chair then putting out his arms. ‘Oh well, then!'

‘Now chat to him, or sing,' I instructed. ‘Babies like that.'

There was a lot of huffing and puffing until Mr Ogg realised he could use this heaven-sent opportunity to deliver a complaining message about interfering district nursing sisters without interruption. ‘D'you know I think Andrew's listening,' he said with a note of wonder, then mischief. ‘It must be because I'm talking such a lot of sense.'

‘No. You're filling his head with nonsense. Now unless you were thinking of putting him in the bath with all his clothes on, you'll need to take them off,' I said, and threw a towel over the rug. ‘Do it on this. It'll be safer.'

‘It'll spoil my suit,' complained Mr Ogg, nevertheless getting down on his knees. ‘Och, Andrew, she might have dimples, but underneath she's a hard woman.'

Andrew, released from his nappy, kicked as if in delight, but his father was morose.

‘With legs like that you'll never be a sportsman.'

‘I don't know about that,' I said, remembering someone I'd known who had a smile that embraced the world. ‘We'd a boy like Andrew whose mum was our primary school's cleaner. She took him everywhere and he used to come to our school picnics. He won every race, fair and square. But nobody minded,' I thought back and smiled, ‘probably because he always shared the sweetie prizes.

‘What's more, he's still a lovely, happy chap,' I continued and swished the bath water. ‘But come on, chaps, before this gets cold and, Andrew, who knows, one day you might become a top swimmer.'

‘Not if I drown him first.' My pupil said as he advanced, holding his son with the tight control of a sumo wrestler. As Andrew squealed in protest, his father paled. ‘See! I'm not the man for the job.'

‘Och! That's just rubbish.' I said in exasperation. ‘Hold him gently and look at him. Tell him what you're going to do. It's a well-known trick not doing something well so you can avoid doing it in future, but honestly, if you only do it the once you'll miss out on a whole lot of fun.'

He sighed. ‘“Fun,” she says? All right. Whatever you say, Sister.'

‘Put your hand under his furthest arm and keep a grip. That way you'll support his back and head and he won't slide under the water.' I spoke slowly.

A plainly nervous Mr Ogg snapped, ‘I'm not stupid, you know.'

He held Andrew so that he was facing him. ‘Well, son, are you ready for the big dip?' With immense care, he lowered him into the bath.

Our charge relaxed under the feel of the water and his fretful cries stopped. He looked thoughtful as his father gently splashed him, then gazing up at him he gave a gummy smile.

‘Oh, my goodness! He likes that,' cried Mr Ogg, whilst a rogue tear sneaked down his face.

‘Mission accomsplashed!' proclaimed my pupil. Leaving the nursery in a fine dusting of powder, we'd moved to the kitchen. It was a spotless chrome affair where both women were sitting at an island workstation.

‘Which one of you had the bath?' Marion slid down from her high stool and in a fussy way tried to dust off the fine layer of Johnson's powder covering her husband's trousers. ‘Just as well you took your jacket off.' She looked at him in disbelief as he jigged the baby.

‘Andrew likes company in the water and Sister Macpherson says he probably likes it on dry land too. Ha ha!' he replied, now surely, genuinely smiling.

‘That's true,' declared Sister Shiach. ‘Nobody likes to be stuck on their own all the time. I think babies need to be where the action is. That's how they develop best.' She fished out her car keys and swung them before Andrew. ‘And see how he's watching these? We might take everyday objects for granted, but this is his first time to see these, and look, already he's trying to grab them.'

‘The consultant said he was a poor specimen.' Marion spoke in a wobbly voice. ‘And not to expect too much of him.'

Sister Shiach's mouth tightened. ‘I don't know how he could say that. We'll just have to prove him wrong. Wait till the pair of you get him out in his pram. You'll find nobody can resist this wee fellow!' She patted his thatch of black hair. ‘But you'll need a bit more practice combing this lot before you go anywhere.'

‘I forgot to do that,' said her husband, and pointing his finger at me, added, ‘and so did somebody else.'

Marion wasn't ready for banter. She bit her lip and looked doubtful. ‘Anyway, Neil, we wouldn't be going out in this weather.'

‘But at least we could take in the pram – we could use it to walk Andrew around, but inside.'

‘Inside?' Marion looked horrified. ‘The pram'll take mud in on its wheels.'

‘No it won't. I'll make sure they're clean. Anyway, it's never been used and the kitchen's easily big enough to take it,' Mr Ogg said, handing her the baby, ‘but would you look at the time? I need to get to
proper
work now.' He nudged Sister Shiach in a teasing way. ‘But before I do and to save you lot nagging, I'll get out the pram.'

‘That's a good idea.' Sister Shiach was full of enthusiasm. ‘And as your office is so near the toy shop you could pop in and buy pram beads. They're great entertainment for babies. Stimulating too. Sounds and colours make a great combination.'

She put a hand on Marion's arm. ‘And having an occupied bairn will give you a bit of peace and allow you some time to do your typing for Neil. No reason why you can't do it at home, is there?'

‘I suppose not,' Marion said, tapping her chin with a perfectly manicured fingernail. ‘Sometimes I find it can be a long day, and housework's pretty boring after a while.'

‘Trust me, you won't find it like that soon. Before long your son's going to get you both very busy, but happy. Don't forget that bit.' Sister Shiach climbed down from her stool and turned to me.

‘Talking of work, we can't sit here all day. We've lots to get through before this afternoon's staff meeting.' She added with a touch of mischief, ‘We'll be in the big meeting room at Council Headquarters and I hear the agenda includes a little drama. I'm looking forward to it and it should appeal to you, Sister Macpherson. Since you've arrived, there's been no shortage of it.'

‘Well in the end, the head had to be cut off.’

This surely couldn’t be the little drama Sister Shiach had promised.

She’d just introduced me to a roomful of women, stout-clad in gabardine, sturdy shoes and all with the windblown, slightly weathered look of outdoor people. Their soft Highland-voiced welcome sounded genuine. I couldn’t think that this group of kindly women wanted anything to do with violence. Settling back in their chairs they’d returned to everyday chat. Maybe they weren’t aware of the more fascinating one going on in the row behind me. I stole a glance.

‘Well, of course he was upset but it had to be done.’ The tall grey-haired woman with a saint-like face spoke with authority. ‘But I’ll tell you about it later. Look, here comes Miss Macleod and fancy! Our Dr Duncan’s here as well. Wonder what he’s got to say.’

Her voice had turned frosty. It couldn’t be for his lack of manners. Noticing that there was only one chair at the desk facing us, he escorted Miss Macleod to it in a courtly way. Once he’d made sure she was comfortably seated, he scurried off to get one for himself.

Team complete, Miss Macleod steepled her fingers, then, viewing us with the approval of a benign headmistress, put her elbows on the desk and leant forward. ‘We’re so pleased that so many of you have managed to get here. I know it’s not always easy what with your workload and having to cope with the bad weather and icy roads.’

She smoothed her hair (which hadn’t a strand out of place) and took a deep empathising breath. It made the silver brooch on her jacket sparkle as if sending out a cheerful message, then she continued, ‘But of course, we all need to keep up with our skills and medical knowledge. I’m sure you’ll agree, Sister Mackay?’ Miss Macleod arched her perfect eyebrows at my neighbour, who looked like a happy version of Sister Gall, except her hair was white, not grey, her cheeks pinker and her shoes an even shinier black.

‘Well – yes, Miss Macleod, but I have to say that since our last meeting I’m
still
not happy about giving injections.’ Her voice had a slight quaver whilst her hands twiddled with her coat buttons. ‘You must understand, it wasn’t part of our training in my day.’

Dr Duncan scraped back his chair and spoke irritably, ‘Well you must appreciate by now times are changing, and fast. Medicine doesn’t stand still and we all have to move with it.’

‘I know you wanted me to practise, but putting a needle into the outer quadrant of an orange isn’t the same thing at all at all. I’m running out of oranges and apples are out of season,’ Sister Mackay protested, then, producing her killer line, she added, ‘Anyway, I didn’t become a nurse to inflict pain.’

‘Nursing
Sister!
’ Miss Macleod rapped her Conway Stewart pen on the desk. ‘How many times have I to remind you?’

Sister Mackay ignored this but made an emphatic response. ‘I was asked to give iron injections the other week. I couldn’t sleep thinking about them. They’re just horrible things to do.’

I thought about the big syringe full of black stuff injected into Willie’s flank, how it could stain the surrounding flesh if the original needle direction wasn’t changed after insertion, and imagined he’d agree on the immediate unpleasantness. It was sometimes hard to convince a patient that, after all that, there would be an ultimate benefit.

The girl sitting on my other side now shot her hand up. ‘I’m happy to help Sister Mackay with any injections she doesn’t feel able to give. Her Munlochy patch is so close to mine in Avoch it’d be easy.’ She smiled, and checked that her hat was still in place despite the exploding curls under it. ‘And giving iron injections is hard.’ She slapped her hip and grimaced. ‘I certainly wouldn’t fancy getting one.’

It was an unlikely possibility. She exuded health, energy and fun. When I first met her she collapsed in laughter when I called her Sister.