CHAPTER FOUR
The Old Hydro Residential Home stood on a rise above Kyleshiffin, reached by taking the first right on Lady Wynd and following a zigzag road up the hill. It had been a hydropathic hotel back in Edwardian times before the Great War, when hydrotherapy and the water cure were all the rage. Nowadays, like so many such establishments it had been transformed into a residential home catering for the senior citizens for West Uist.
Norma Ferguson was the assistant manager, a position she was extremely proud to have reached at the age of twenty-three. A homely young woman, she loved her job caring for the older folk, many of whom she had known all of her life. She felt part of living history watching them be admitted, nurturing their ailments and listening to whatever baggage they brought with them.
The trouble was she had to work such long and arduous hours, because getting staff and retaining them was never easy. The fact that several of the residents had mild cognitive impairment, or even Alzheimer’s disease or one of the other types of dementia, made it exhausting, because one had to be continually vigilant to keep them safe.
Breakfast was a demanding time and Norma was always relieved when the part-time girls called in to help her. There were currently three of them, all pupils at Kyleshiffin Community Academy studying for their Highers. Unfortunately, she knew that soon there was a good chance that they would all be off to university and then they’d have to start recruiting all over again.
‘Where’s the man himself?’ asked Doreen McGuire, one of the older care assistants, referring to Norma’s manager, Robbie Ochterlonie. ‘I know he’s had his two days off, but he’s always put in a show by now when he’s back on duty. I’m struggling a bit with breakfasts as it is. I hope his diabetes isn’t playing up.’
Norma shrugged. ‘He’s not been in touch with me.’ She glanced at the grandfather clock, its face being an old advert for a homeopathic chemist based in Oban. Doreen was right, Robbie was always on time. And she knew that they were also two care assistants down. Neither Catriona McDonald nor Vicky Spiers had shown up or even called in.
Millie McKendrick, another of the older care assistants, sidled past with a large teapot in each hand. She snorted derisively and whispered from the side of her mouth: ‘Or maybes he’s had a bit too much of that peatreek of his. You know, the stuff he peddles to old Stuart and his pals.’ She nodded in the direction of a table of four occupied by three elderly men and a refined looking lady with snow white hair.
Norma scowled at the older care assistant. ‘That’s enough of that, Millie. We don’t want any gossip of that sort.’
‘Please yourself,’ retorted Millie. ‘It’s just another possibility to think of. The boss knows what I think of strong liquor, for I’ve told him often enough.’
Norma felt a strange shiver run up and down her spine as she picked up a tray with four helpings of bacon and eggs.
‘I’ll need to check up on them all once we’ve got the breakfasts done and everyone sorted,’ she said pensively. ‘Maybe there’s just a bug or something going round.’
In his role as Cora’s mentor, Calum always emphasised that a good local journalist had to regard every conversation as a potential lead to a story. Which was why after leaving Nathan Westwood they had ambled up Harbour Street, engaging the various business and shop owners in conversation wherever the opportunity arose. However, Calum was not insightful enough to realise that sometimes a quick reversal of direction by folk upon seeing him could be due to avoidance behaviour.
Tam MacOnachie, the harbour master and proprietor of MacOnachie Chandlery, had no such opportunity to beat a retreat as the mist was particularly thick at the top of Harbour Street, and they approached him under its cover, appearing only when they were twenty yards distant from him.
MacOnachie Chandlery was an establishment that sold everything pertaining to fishing and sailing, as well as having a good supply of groceries. At the back was Tam’s workshop where he performed repairs on all manner of gear relating to the sea. He himself was a man of about seventy with weather-beaten skin and a ring of hair around his head that gave the bald dome above it the look of a boiled egg. Indeed, it was for that reason that some years before the Drummond twins had nicknamed him ‘Eggy’ MacOnachie, much to his annoyance and their glee. The name had stuck locally and everyone knew him as such when they were out of his hearing.
Tam was putting out a rack of assorted beach toys, junior fishing rods and crabbing nets in front of the chandlery. As usual he was wearing his brown shop-coat with an oiled apron on top and with his trousers tucked into his aged Wellington boots. About his neck hung a pair of binoculars.
‘Not much to see today, Tam,’ said Calum. ‘Not with all this mist.’
‘It’ll clear in an hour or so,’ replied Tam, phlegmatically. ‘The ferry will have come and gone by then. Let’s hope there are plenty of holiday makers coming.’
‘It’s a pretty dismal welcome to them though,’ Cora chipped in. ‘All this mist and fog.’
‘Aye well, it may be dreich, but at least it’s not chucking down.’
Cora laughed. ‘We were talking to Nathan Westwood earlier and he was sketching the mist. He was telling us that he finds it mysterious, not dreich.’
Tam snorted. ‘Anything that reduces visibility near water is just a hazard in my view, so I’m no fan of it. But its nature and we canna change it so we have to just live with it. As for mysteries, I prefer mine in paperbacks.’
They chatted for a few moments until with a glance at his watch, Tam removed his apron and went inside to deposit it on the counter. A moment later he returned wearing his white peaked harbourmaster’s hat and carrying a battered leather briefcase. ‘Right then, as I said, it’ll soon be time for the ferry so I’d better get down to do my duties.’
Suddenly, from the other end of the street came the sound of a vehicle. A red Royal Mail van came out of the mist with its headlights on full, its hazard warning lights flashing and its horn peeping.
‘Creideamh!’ exclaimed Calum. ‘That’s Stan Wilkinson, moving a bit fast for these conditions. It’s lucky for him Ewan McPhee isn’t here.’
The van came along Harbour Street towards them, its windscreen wipers moving furiously back and forth.
‘There’s a girl with him. I think its Catriona McDonald,’ said Cora. ‘Looks like she’s crying.’
‘I bet he’s heading for the hospital,’ said Tam. ‘That’s the only reason for the horn and the hazard lights, I think.’
The van whizzed past, accelerating as it went.
‘Aye, you are right, Tam,’ Calum cried with more than a hint of enthusiasm. ‘And that means we are needed, too. Come on, Cora. To the Lambretta!’
Eggy MacOnachie watched as the two journalists dashed across the street towards Calum’s yellow scooter parked outside Allardyce the Baker’s.
‘Now I’ve seen everything,’ he mused to himself. ‘The press chasing the post.’ Adjusting his binocular strap and setting his cap straight, he descended the steps to the quay.
The Macbeth roll-on, roll-off ferry, Laird o’ the Isles loomed out of the morning mist and manoeuvred into the crescent-shaped harbour of Kyleshiffin. Then followed a bustle of practiced efficiency as the vessel was secured and the great landing doors slowly descended to allow the walking passengers to disembark before the cavalcade of traffic tumbled down the ramps onto the quayside.