She hadn’t wanted to go at first. She’d only just started to settle in at the nursing school; they were attached to the surgical hospital and she’d become quite accustomed to its discrete ways of cutting folk up and stitching them back together again. There would be none of that at the new place. Nothing surgical in the slightest. A whole new set of rules and faces, and the thought of leaving Sister Tutor was appalling.

Marina had tried to gee her up that first morning.

“Honestly Pat, I’m sure it’ll be fine.” She set a brisk pace, though it was Pat who had the longer legs. “Six weeks, Sister MacDonald said – and that’s not long really is it…when you think about it?”

Pat didn’t want to think about it though. The words had every echo of her mother’s bargaining. 

“At least we got the spring stint. Imagine skiteing down the hill here in the dark every day.” She could tell without looking that Marina was putting on her best smile, could almost hear the dimples – perfectly round and sweet, about the size of a mint imperial.

Pat sighed. “That’s true I suppose.” The mornings were chill enough as it was, when the light was still only a thin clear blue. She folded her arms under her cape as her legs adjusted to the steepness of the path. Even the birds seemed quieter at that hour, though they spoke amongst themselves, on the tops of trees, always just out of view. It wasn’t until they got to the dairy that the working day began to assert itself.  Pat both liked and didn’t like passing the dairy.  The sounds and smells of the long squat building were just familiar enough to give a hint of home, but not enough alike for it to be much comfort.  She remembered the pale cream of her grandmother’s face, and her red swollen knuckles taking the weight of the bucket. She’d always loved being around Granny Dhubh. It wasn’t the old folk that she objected to. 

She felt her grip tightening around each elbow – rough fingers caressing cool points. Some of the girls were horrified at how chafed and ruddy their hands were now, but Pat hadn’t really noticed that much of a difference. As she pressed into the bone she tried to recall the parts of the ulna. Its notches and ridges. Ulna: it sounded like the name of an island, one that would be quite at home amongst theirs, not too far out into the Atlantic. She could remember radial notch, and the coronoid process. But maybe she wouldn’t need to know about that where she was going. Where there was no accident, or great emergency, just time and inevitable decline.      

She’d heard stories about the geriatric hospital long before she’d ever set eyes on it. Something about it being the old poorhouse, which rang all the truer when she met its iron gates and the long plain face of the place. She imagined it’d perhaps functioned along the lines of a prison. Somewhere you sent folk who had no other use.  No other place.  Hell of a thought, but that wasn’t her – surely.      

It wasn’t much like a prison these days, though most of the patients, of course, never left. They were bed-ridden, or just about – but there were also the men from Part 3.

She’d been helping Miss Matheson into her chair when the old lady looked past her and smiled.

“Lovely day, isn’t it, I always like this time of year best.”

Pat had turned to follow her gaze out the window. “Yes.”  The sun cutting right through it. “Me too.” She could see the short perfectly pruned trees against the side wall, and then a figure in loose fitting clothes; he strode past at pace without looking up, and carried right on out the front gate.  Pat wondered if she should perhaps be doing something about that. Raising the alarm, or at least making some sort of report.

“There’s Donnie away for his shift.” Miss Matheson gave a light laugh. “No rest for the wicked, eh. And here’s me getting my morning tea."  

Pat turned back to her, still puzzled, taking the strain as the old lady lowered herself down. Her small frame was wrapped in layers of thick wool – like a delicate ornament about to be boxed. Pat bent over to adjust her cushions and caught again the scent of bottled rose. There were lovely gardens on the other side that would have made a nicer view for Miss Matheson. Not that from her low chair she could even see the path now. Just the bright square of blue – until it got dark again. Pat would rather not think about that though. It was alright for the man, wandering at will. And where exactly had he been off to, with Miss Matheson thinking it quite the thing? The way he skulked along the side wall, moving so swiftly, Pat had half expected a guard with a whistle to appear and give chase.  

Marina had noticed the comings and goings too. They compared notes as they stood folding cloths on the third floor.

“Nurse Evans told me they’re men of the road.”

“What road?” Pat was already picturing the snake that had brought her to the town.

“Not any particular road, you know, just sort of…wanderers, I suppose.” Marina put another white square on her neat pile, but Pat paused.

“Tramps?”

Marina raised an eyebrow, smiling. “Well, she didn’t put it quite like that…”

“No,” Pat blushed. “But with no home to go to?”

“Aye.”

“There’s nothing…wrong with them though?” She twisted a length of the towelling in her hand.

“Well I did see one of them’s only got the one arm.”

“Oh, from the war then?” That somehow made it better. Explained.  

“Maybe,” Marina tilted her head to one side, “maybe the first war.”

“Aye, that would be more like it. They do look quite old.”

“But not quite old enough for sitting about in here.”

So they were mostly up at Part 3, where they made things like baskets, or frames for the gardener. Some of them even went out to work other places. Like Donnie, with his strange gait and the old coat he wore with just the top button done. It floated about him more like a cape, and made his sudden apparitions and disappearances that bit more disconcerting. 

At least he seemed to keep himself to himself, and wasn’t like the gardener who watched her like a hawk. Not that she would have dared touch anything, she only wanted to see what it was they were growing. Neat rows of lettuces slowly unfurling themselves. There were lovely flowers too, though some of the smells were a bit acrid for her liking.

“He’s won prizes for them you know,” one of the nurses had seen her eyeing them on her way in. “When you’ve finished with the trolley Sister’s got another job for you.” 

“Me, Sister?”

“Yes you.”

“With that?” She gestured to the blade on the tray.

“Of course,” Sister scoffed and rolled her eyes. “We’re hardly likely to let you loose with a cutthroat. You’re not on a surgical ward now you know!” She was still sort of smiling, so Pat wasn’t sure whether she was being properly told off or it was all part of some joke. The staff there seemed always to be laughing about something – though surely not the Sister? 

She was still looking at Pat. “Quick as you like, we can’t have Mr McQuaid sitting like that all morning.”

“Yes Sister.” She turned back to the patient, who was looking rather sheepish himself. And not just because of the fluffy white face she’d already given him.  She tried to think of something to say – something comforting so that he might have confidence in her. But it wasn’t until she heard the sister’s step fading off down the ward that she managed a, “right. Well. Here we are,” that was more for her own benefit than anyone else’s. She supposed it could be worse though. At the surgical hospital she’d once seen an orderly shaving all down a man’s chest. He was being prepared for theatre, his skin exposed in fresh pink strips as the safety razor ran in lines over the rise and fall of his ribcage. A youngish man but without much muscle, so that she was reminded all at once of the tin roof on the new barn; and she’d started to wonder how the blade coped between the corrugated cavities, when the orderly glanced up and saw her. Winked. She thought she might die from the shame of it. At least Mr McQuaid was old – she didn’t have to worry about young men here.  When she’d painted the foam onto his face it was over a rough dusting of white, like the first snow. He was more like a summer pudding now, with a clean pine smell that was really quite pleasant. She concentrated on that, breathing steadily, as she picked up the razor and leaned towards him.

“Oh!” he cried out, making her jump – but then he just grinned and lifted his hands up. “Don’t hurt me!”

She tried to smile, hoping to god that he wouldn’t make any more sudden movements.

As she leaned closer though, he quickly crossed himself. She paused again, almost wanting to laugh this time, but still somewhat horrified at the task ahead. Without saying anything else she held his chin with her left hand – steady now – and found that when she brought the blade down on his cheek it slid across his skin quite the thing. Not too hard, just a fuzzy sort of scraping sound that took the foam clean off and left him only a little raw looking. She worked at it slowly, and kept noticing that her mouth was open, though she would quickly close it again and tried her best to keep it that way. It was awkward not wanting to breathe the same air. All used and warm and not exactly nice for him either.  His hollow cheeks were easier than the flesh about the jowls. That sagged, in deep folds, though he obliged her as best he could by pursing his lips and moving the jaw round. Positively pouting at one point.

“Mind and leave my beauty spot in tact now.”

She met his glinting eye and managed to smile this time. It wasn’t always clear when the patients were joking either. Some of them came out with some awful strange stuff. But this chap seemed the full shilling and more – so why then, she wondered, was he not shaving himself? She glanced down at his hands, folded neatly on the top sheet. Well it wasn’t for her to say. He probably didn’t want her shaving him either. And these weren’t the sorts of thoughts someone with a vocation would have.

When she’d finished it all and towelled him off, he ran his hands across his chin and murmured.

“Mmmhhhm.” Thick fingers travelling up the side of his face. “That’s not a bad shave at all lass.”  

“Thank you,” she smiled. “That was my first ever attempt.”

“Aye?”  She noticed the tremor in his hand as he lowered it again. “Well, if the nursing doesn’t work out for you, you can always try Tommy the barber’s.”  

She had laughed when he said that, though of course the thought was appalling. It had to work out, didn’t it? She didn’t have much choice.

“You never know,” her mother had said to her, “you might meet a young man on the mainland. And anyway, there’s not as if there was any work for you here.”

Pat had sighed and didn’t reply, but after that whenever it was brought up she fought against the idea less and less. It wasn’t as if her mother wasn’t right. There was no point at all in arguing with that.  It didn’t matter how much she helped out around the house, with dinner on the table every night like clockwork.

The staff ate their meals in a room on the first floor. They were very familiar at table, everyone together, so it ended up that she was almost enjoying herself. The food was every bit as good as at home, and here she didn’t have to worry so much about eating more than her fair share.

“She likes her tatties this one.” The gardener nodded towards her and she felt herself blush.

“They’re very nice.” She lifted her napkin to buttery slick lips.

He winked at her. “All in the soil.”

She gave a small smile.

“Too salty where you’re from I suppose?”

“Yes – though we still try.”

“God loves a trier,” she heard someone else say. “I love a bit of salt on my potatoes anyway.”  

Every morning, she looked at the roses and wished she could take one in to Miss Matheson. It seemed a shame that she was having to make do with her bottle of scent, and the real thing almost under her nose. If she asked him, the gardener might even have given her one, but she was still that bit too shy of them all. Maybe that would just always be the way.  

As she walked up the path she noticed something purple between the trees and the sidewall. Wild bluebells – she’d surely be allowed to take them. She’d be doing the gardener a favour if anything; they weren’t supposed to be there, though she thought they were nicer than any of the cultivated blooms. When she bent down to them she saw that they weren’t bluebells at all. They didn’t have the thick curls. These, that she took all the same, seemed paler, with a thin delicate point to them. She was still knelt examining them when a voice spoke next to her.

“They’re harebells.”

“Is that what they are,” she squinted up into the sun, expecting the outline of the gardener, or one of the orderlies, but seeing the distinct shape of the man Donnie from Part 3. “Thank you.”  She hoped she wasn’t blushing, though she supposed the sun in her face would have been justification enough for that.  She clambered to her feet and raised her free hand to shade her eyes. “I don’t think I’ve seen one before.” She saw his face, straight on, for the first time. Noticing how deep the lines were, but also the brightness of his look.  

When he moved as if to go she felt the sudden urge to detain him.

“They maybe only have them on the mainland.”

He paused and met her eye again.  

“Do you know why they grow?” she asked.

His brow furrowed.  

“I mean – here, in particular?”

“Och,”he gave a long low sigh. “Same way anything ends up here.”  

She didn’t know what else to say then, except – “yes.” She looked at the posy gathered in her hands. The dainty heads huddled together. “At least I know now it’s a harebell. I can call it by its right name.”

He stayed standing next to her and she wondered if he would say anything else. She’d been struck by the strength of his accent – the rise and fall of his ‘here’. Though she wasn’t sure why she should find it odd; it wasn’t as if she’d heard a man of the road before. She was almost pleased when he spoke again.

“You’re an islander then?”

She nodded.

“Same as myself.”

She must have given him a strange look, because his face suddenly changed; hardened, though he made out too as if he was maybe going to laugh. She closed her mouth tight, feeling the burn in her cheeks, desperately grasping for something to say, anything other than the thought birling round her head – but most islands don’t even have proper roads! He was still looking at her.

“Oh,” she eventually said. “That’s nice.” Which wasn’t really enough, but how could she ask him anything…without asking him – how?  How… 

He put his hands in his pockets, elbows out at a tangent.  

“And did you ever see a harebell there?”

He looked away. “I did, aye.” He touched the peak of his bunnet and went to move off again.

“Would you like one?”  

“No… not for me.”

She hadn’t had time to separate one from the bunch before he was off again, past her now, the sweep of his coat disappearing round the corner. She didn’t quite know what to make of it, as she stood there, moving the weightless spindles of stems from one hand to the other – she mustn’t clutch too tightly and bend them all out of shape. Of course he would know it was a harebell. A wildflower, springing up anywhere. On the verge even. By the side of the road.  Though they didn’t have them back home. She was sure. Yes. She was quite sure of that as she hurried inside. And here it was Nurse Evans she was on with, who might know something more about the man. Pat was tempted to ask her, but too embarrassed to let on about the way she’d tried to talk to him. She didn’t know why, nor what had possessed her in the first place. There was something about his person, or the look of his dark blue eyes – a deep far away blue. Too deep. Too far. It gave her a funny pain to think about it, though she couldn’t have said where. Below the neck, but above the diaphragm. Then as soon as she was on the ward the thought left her again.  

“Miss Matheson’s gone downhill very quickly. The doctor thinks she’ll leave us any minute now.”

Pat felt her eyes widen, though she managed to keep her mouth from gaping open. Sister had already likened her to a fish more than once, and she didn’t want to conjure that image at a time like this. This wasn’t how it was supposed to work here though – all at once with not much warning. You expected anything up the road at the other place, but they’d tricked her here with their routines; the careful washing and feeding, and putting to bed – you expected some sort of return. It didn’t seem fair. Miss Matheson wasn’t the oldest or most ill. Pat tried to concentrate on what Sister was saying in case she supplied a reason. Some sort of diagnosis. But she finished with:

“I’m afraid it’s just her time.”

Which didn’t really explain anything at all.

Her time turned out to be just after half past three. At least that was when Sister sent for Pat and told her she would need to help with the laying out.  For once she didn’t feel the urge to blush or gape. She just copied Nurse Evans’ slow precise movements and did exactly as she was told. For the most part they didn’t speak at all. The light fell softly at an angle through the curtain, and she was reminded all at once of her room back home. The way she smoothed Miss Matheson’s crisp white sheets and straightened her books that would not now be read; she couldn’t help thinking of the morning she’d left.  Everything clean, sparse, finished – just the dried flowers hanging above the bed. She wondered if anyone had even been in the room since. Her mother perhaps, with a duster or a brush.  

She pressed her lips together.

“Are you alright pet?” Nurse Evans was looking at her. “It’s never easy but it’s always worse at first.”

Pat nodded. “I’m fine. Thank you.” She looked at Miss Matheson again, trying to think about the woman, but remembering instead the man. His blue eyes and the blue flowers, and his simple resignation. They were pretty little flowers really, though he hadn’t wanted one.

The stems were so thin she had bound them with a single blade of grass; not much, but it just about held everything together. She thought, lifting them again, of the fine lengths of horsehair they used for surgical stitches. Barely visible, but it could take a whole body’s worth of strain; bodies being things that never stayed quite still. She reached down and touched the cool hands she had neatly clasped together. Miss Matheson’s grip was firmer now.  Heavier. Pat slipped the posy into them when nobody was looking. Not that the nurse would have minded, or the sister. And even if they did, she was going on to another hospital next week anyway.       

[Dealbh/image: Rhona NicDhùghaill]