11

Guilty or Not Guilty

DOCTOR MAC HAD been visiting an old patient in Dhubaig and had dropped in for a cup of tea. He drank more tea than anyone I have ever known and often turned up at our house looking hopeful.

We were chatting quietly when there was a rap on the door followed by a shout.

‘Are ye there then, Nurse?’

Although it was about 6pm, I knew it would be Postie. This was our usual time for the mails to be delivered. One of the contradictions on the island was that the postman was termed the ‘postie’ but the actual post was called the ‘mails’. So we had the ‘postie’ delivering the ‘mails’, but no-one, other than myself, thought this at all odd! On Fridays, he delivered the local newspaper as well.

I called, ‘Come in.’ And into the kitchen marched Postie.

‘You’ll be wantin’ to see this, Nurse – Doctor too, I wouldn’t wonder.’

He slapped the paper down on the table and stood back with the air of a magician who has successfully pulled off a difficult trick.

The headline read, ‘Island Nurse Charged with Murder.’ Doctor and I read on with mounting horror and disbelief.

‘Angela Robertson, who has served as a district nurse on several of the Western Isles was today (that was two days ago, of course) charged with the murder of her estranged husband who was found in his car outside her house with a fatal stab wound to his chest. The nurse…’ and so the article went on.

Briefly, it seemed that the husband had returned to what had been the family home that Angela now owned and lived in. It appeared that he had not attacked her in any way, but his blood was discovered on her coat and a blood-stained knife was found in the kitchen. She denied the charges.

Doctor Mac and I had been involved with Angela when she did duty as my relief nurse on Papavray the year before. Her husband had discovered her whereabouts, came demanding money and abused her badly. It then transpired that she also had epilepsy and Doctor Mac had recommended that she be allocated a nursing post where her health could be monitored regularly. We had heard nothing further. Life and duties had taken over and we had all but forgotten the incident. Now this!

‘I don’t understand this at all,’ muttered the doctor. ‘She was more like a frightened mouse than a vengeful wife when we knew her. And now they are saying that it was an unprovoked attack! Surely, we know better. I remember him as having a dangerous temper. But, if they are estranged, what was he doing at her house, anyway? I am not inclined to believe a word of this.’

Postie spoke up. ‘She looked after the caillach when she had pumony and she was a gey shy, quiet sort of person then. No like you, Nurse.’

I was not sure how to take this.

‘Aye, well. We’ll doubtless hear some more rubbish soon. I’m no’ sure they know what they are talkin’ about, at all.’ And with this didactic pronouncement, Postie departed in some triumph.

I was worried. Angela had seemed very vulnerable. ‘I wish there were something that we could do.’

‘No,’ said Doctor Mac. ‘We will have to wait and see what happens, I suppose.’ He finished his tea and left for his home at Dalhavaig.

I sat thinking about Angela and how unsuited she was to the life of a district nurse in the harsh and often difficult environs of the Western Isles. Epileptic, shy, nervous? No. We needed to be tough and resilient in bad weather, on bad roads and sometimes with little or no back-up in emergencies. But I knew that it was not easy to find nurses willing to come to these islands and the Nursing Services were none too fussy about their recruitment methods. I remembered with amusement my own appointment.

*  *  *

It was only three weeks after we had arrived on the island and we were still living in a large, residential caravan while we waited for a builder to renovate the croft house.

One day, I was in the old house clearing out some of the filthy, mouldy rubbish that had been left there, when I heard a voice.

‘Hallo-ow! Anyone there?’

I was wearing the oldest trousers that I possessed and had donned several old pullovers as the house was cold and damp. Cobwebs adhered to my hair and my hands were black. I did not relish visitors!

However, ‘I’m here,’ I shouted to the invisible owner of the voice.

Some puffing and wheezing came nearer and through the door came a very round, very breathless and very smart lady. The badge on her ample bosom identified her as some sort of health official. I wondered why she was here. Something to do with the insanitary state of the old croft, maybe? Did they think we were going to live in it in this state, perhaps?

‘Ahh,’ she said uncertainly as she extended her hand. I looked pointedly at my filthy one. She changed her mind and put her hand in her pocket. She looked me up and down and hesitated.

‘Might we have a chat?’ She peered about the dirty, empty room.

‘We’ll go down to the caravan,’ I said.

I led the way, pausing to swill my hands in the stream and remove the topmost and dirtiest pullover. The caravan was bright, warm and clean and while I scrubbed the filth from my hands I could see relief on her face as she realised that I was possibly civilised after all. Over a cup of coffee, Miss MacFarlane, as she was called, relaxed a little. It transpired that she was from the south and had never been to any of the islands before, so she was well out of her comfort zone.

‘You’ll be knowing that Nurse Andrews is retiring,’ she began.

‘No. Neither do I know Nurse Andrews,’ I replied.

Surprised, she said, ‘But Nurse Andrews has been here for twenty-five years.’

Maybe, but I had been here for about twenty-five days. But light was dawning as she rambled on about the great job that the redoubtable Nurse Andrews had done during these twenty-five years.

Finally, she said, ‘I hear you are a qualified nurse.’ I nodded.

‘Health visitor?’

More nods.

‘Would you consider taking the post? We can’t find anyone willing to come to the islands.’

Not very flattering, I thought. A last resort! ‘Would I fit in? Would the islanders accept an English woman after having a native of Papavray for so many years?’

‘Well, it might take a while, I suppose…’ She trailed off. ‘But you see, we are rather desperate.’

‘Would I be working with the GP?’ I had already met Doctor Mac.

‘Oh yes! And once a week, a relief nurse would cover your day off.’

‘And she lives here, I suppose?’

‘Oh no! She would come over from the mainland.’

‘Hmm.’ I was doubtful about this. Even in the short time that I had been here, I had begun to realise that ‘coming over from the mainland’ on a regular basis was not a certainty. Storms, fog, sailing schedules and frequent engine failures were the reality.

‘Well, we are rather desperate, you see.’

A thought occurred to me. ‘How did you know, away down in Head Office, that I was a qualified nurse? Or that I was here at all?’

‘Ah, well, you see, I have an aunt who lives in Kirkanbearah, just over on the mainland, and her nephew’s friend’s daughter lives in Coiravaig and she knows…’

‘Archie and Mary,’ I finished for her. It had to be! I already knew that Archie and Mary had their fingers very much on the pulse of everything that happened on the island.

‘Yes.’

‘And what now?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, if you are offering me the job here and now – and I gather you are, because you are desperate – don’t you want some proof that I am a qualified nurse? You see, all my papers are in storage until we get the house restored.’

‘Oh, well, maybe. But you would be able to supply all those details for your first month’s salary, I expect.’

‘But I would already have been let loose on the patients by then!’

‘Ah, yes. But… umm.’ Yes, I knew – she was desperate!

I began to doubt the woman’s sanity. Here was I, cobwebbed and filthy, only just arrived on Papavray and English to boot. She had heard third- or fourth-hand that I was a trained nurse and she wanted me to replace one who was a native of the island and had nursed here for twenty-five years! She was desperate indeed!

I told Miss Macfarlane that I would think about it and let her know. She looked quite affronted. Perhaps she felt that I should show more gratitude, and indeed, I was not ungrateful but everything was moving so fast. This was supposed to be a ‘get away from it all’ venture but, suddenly, it all seemed to be coming with me. I had been a health visitor in England before the move.

A rather put-out lady departed, teetered across Roddy’s croft in smart shoes and drove off in an equally smart car.

Later the same day, Andy and I took Duchess for a walk on the shore. On the way back, Morag Macdonald hailed me from her doorway.

‘I’m hearin’ that you are to be our new nurse, then, Mrs Macleod.’

I suppose I should have realised that the arrival of a smart stranger in a smart car would not have gone unnoticed and the aunt’s nephew’s sister or whoever it was, had supplied the details which would have been faithfully broadcast by Mary. I didn’t have the heart to tell Morag that I was only thinking about it.

But within a week I was kitted out in a uniform, allocated a ‘Crown’ car and was, once more, a working woman.

*  *  *

In the case of Angela Robertson, we had to be content with snippets of news in the local paper for, although grisly, the murder was not high profile enough to warrant dynamic reporting. On one occasion, however, we read that she had changed her plea to Guilty.

‘Ridiculous!’ Doctor Mac was incensed. ‘She can’t be guilty. She is just not the type to take a knife to anyone. She must be protecting someone.’

Archie was present. ‘Aye. I’m no sure the polis down in England know what they are about. As if she would use a knife from her ain kitchen to make away wi’ him!’

‘And she didna even wash it after,’ chimed Mary, who seemed more concerned with the apparent lack of hygiene than the incriminating evidence.

Doctor Mac sighed. ‘We will have to wait and see what happens. I just hope she has a good lawyer.’

‘Huh. Lawyers! They are no better than the polis!’ Archie delivered this opinion in heavy tones and departed to milk the cow.

Months went by and the papers forgot the case – for the time being, anyway…