Meet Francine Pt. 5
Watching Brannon and Brian move the piano, making sure they don’t trip over anything, Francine slips off the path, hurting herself. Brannon drives her to the Community hospital on the island and hears something odd.
I haven’t looked at my ankle here, only when Brannon lifts me from the car.
“My ankle is as big as a football, Brannon.”
“Don’t look at it, I’ll have you inside in a jiffy.”
As we enter the hospital, which doesn’t resemble anything of the sort but is more resembling an elderly folk’s home, several of whom happen to be sitting around, Brannon calls for a wheelchair.
I don’t think the woman pushing a wheelchair toward us is a nurse—more like a care worker. Maybe she works as a back-and-forth shuttle between the front door and the triage or the doctor’s surgery.
“How did ye being doing this to yeself, wee lassie?”
Brannon lowers me carefully into the chair. “I slipped sideways off a path; I think I turned my ankle.”
“Ye poor thing. I’ll take her through, ye can come along until she sees the doctor,” she says to Brannon. An automatic door opens as we approach and walk through.
“And who is this Galahad walking with us? Tell me now.”
“I’m sorry, this is Brannon. He’s a friend,” I say, looking up at him, his head brushing the low false ceiling tiles.
“Aye, I thought that is ye. Ye’ll be Brannon Fergusson; I know your father. My, ye’ve grown like Jack in the Beanstalk, laddie, so ye have.”
“Oh really? How long have you known Brannon’s father?” I stupidly ask, knowing I’m wrong while the words still come out of my mouth.
Brannon immediately interjects, “I’ll wait outside, Francine.” He says suddenly, and turning, he walks back the way we came.
I look over my shoulder to see the back of Brannon disappearing through the doors. The shuttle lady shows no concern.
“I’ve known Angus Fergusson many a year, long before he married Rachel. She was a beautiful woman, perfect for him. Such a shame what happened, evil. There’s no other word for it.”
Evil? What is she talking about?
“Hello, May. Who do we have here?” A balding, grey-haired, spectacle-wearing man in a white coat greets us.
“We have an ankle injury, Dr. Docherty, the wee lassie tripped off a path,” says May.
“Wheel her in. Can you let Xray know we will likely have a patient for them.”
“I will. Ye are in good hands, lassie,” May says while patting the flats of both hands on my shoulders.
I feel desperate; what does she mean? evil? What was she going to say? Rachel died of cancer; that’s not evil, though I suppose people might regard cancer as such. Evil, cancer, okay, that makes sense.
“I’m sorry, every patient I see is called lassie or laddie. May never fills out the necessary paperwork. I’ve given up on her ever doing so. Bless her she’s lovely, but hopeless administrator. Can you give me your name and address, Francine. We’re a Community Hospital, most of my patients have long term illnesses or they’ve fallen off their walking sticks.”
“Of course, I’m Francine Murray, and live at Warren Cottage, PA 75, near Tobermory.”
“That’s Angus Fergusson’s old place, if I recall.”
“Yes, I’m renting.”
“Okay, let’s be having a look. Can you raise your foot at all?”
I raise it and feel it throbbing. He gently presses all around the swelling.
“Okay, I’m not sure its broken but let’s get you down to Xray.”
The doctor walks to his desk and presses a button on the intercom. “Send Archie, will you? Great.”
“Two minutes and Archie will give you a ride to Xray. It will only take five minutes and then he will bring you back here with a large envelope holding the films. Ah, there you are, Archie. This is Francine, she is ready to go.”
“Okay, doc,” Archie says, pulling me backwards from the doctor’s office.
“Do you need a blanket? These corridors can be quite cool,” he says. “In fact, let me do this, can you lean forward an inch?” I do so. “Great, let me throw this over your legs.”
“Thank you.”
“That looks a beauty. Do you play soccer?”
“No, I slipped.”
“Oh, bad news. I’m a Glasgow Celtic supporter,” he says.
“Yes, my ex was a Rangers supporter.”
“Lucky we didn’t meet, eh? I’d have probably killed him.”
“I daresay.”
“Still, if he is your ex, it wouldn’t have worried ye.”
What is it with soccer fans fighting and drinking? It’s a game!
“Here we are, I’ll leave you here a wee moment and let them know you’re ready.”
Archie looks about eighteen. He is wearing glued-on jeans, a hooped shirt—I presume a Celtic shirt—and a scarf, though it is not especially cold. That, too, is a soccer scarf.
“Okay, they are ready for you. Here we go.” Archie pushes me into the X-ray room. Finally, someone who looks like a nurse!
“Hello Francine, you won’t have to get out of the chair if you can raise your leg, she says.
A pretty woman, middle-aged, and a warm smile.
“I can raise it,” I say.
Archie is wheeling me back to the Doctor's office five minutes later. I have a brown envelope in my lap.
“Thank you, Archie. Okay, Francine let’s take a look,” says the doctor.
First, Dr Docherty reaches to take the envelope from me and walks to a wall where a screen is; he turns on the lights and slips a film into the clips at the top.
There are three films to watch, after which he gives me good news.
“There’s no sign of a break, Francine. I’d say you have a nasty sprain, that’s the good news. Of course, you’ll need to rest. We refer to it as the RICE protocol: Rest, Ice, Compression, and Elevation. I’ll have my assistant strap you up, and you’ll be good to go, but keep off it for two or three days, and keep it elevated and iced, okay? I’ll prescribe you something for pain. You can collect it from the pharmacy when leaving.”
I nod simultaneously; I think, bloody hell, this is all I need right now.
There’s a sharp knock, and the door opens.
“This is Averil, Francine. She will take you to the surgery and get you strapped up,” the doctor says. “Come back and see me if you feel you’re not making progress, but I think in a couple of weeks you’ll be fine.”
“Thank you, doctor.”
“Hello Francine, hold on, I’m about to move you backwards through the door.”
The surgery is next door to the doctor’s office. Averil wheels me in.
“I’m going to help you up onto the bed, Francine.”
It’s not a difficult transition. Once I'm on the bed, Averil begins to strap up my ankle. “Do you have someone here to get you home?” she asks.
“I think so, he’s waiting in the front foyer,” I say, fingers crossed.
It feels better once I'm strapped in, and Averil wheels me back up the corridor to the front of the building, where I can call in at the pharmacy for my prescription.
Brannon is waiting. I feel relieved.
“Brannon, this is Averil,” I say, smiling at seeing him.
“Hello, Averil, how are John and Toby?”
“This is a surprise, Brannon, I haven’t seen you around in weeks,” Averil says.
“Aye, we’ve been busy on the farm.”
“Not too busy,” she says. I hear the innuendo.
Oh God, Averil thinks there’s something between us. Brannon believes the same.
“Francine had an accident at dad’s place. I brought her here. She is renting Warren Cottage.”
“How is your dad, Brannon. Taking it easy, I hope,” Averil asks.
You know, Dad, Averil, it’s not easy. He thinks he’s a block-busting tank,” he says and looks down at me. Okay, Francine, I’ll lift you into the truck.”
Again, being swept up into a man’s arms is like nothing I ever felt. I wasn’t lifted over the doorstep after getting married. Clive was always worried about his back.
On the drive up the A 849, Brannon was silent.
“This is so kind of you, Brannon. Ever since I came to the island, I seem to be someone who always needs rescuing.”
“Accidents happen. Don’t think anything of it, I’d do the same for anyone,” he says.
I’m not sure why these words hurt me, but he would. Somehow, I feel it is him distancing himself. I know I cannot ask what happened last evening or what May, the shuttle woman, thought was evil.
“Averil was very nice, Brannon. Obviously, you know the family well.”
“Aye, I went to school with John. Toby is their six-year-old son.”
“They live close by?”
“Nay, they live in Knock.”
We turn into the lane, and I can see Warren Cottage standing on its own beyond the farm. I can also see a truck in the drive. It’s the one Brian was driving. As we turn into the drive, Brian and Bunny are standing waiting by the side of the truck to greet us.
Brannon leaps out.
“How is she, lad?” Bunny asks.
“I’m not concerned about Francine, dad. What are you doing here?”
Ouch! Of course, he’s right.
“I gave Brian a hand,” he tells Brannon, stepping around him and approaching me.
“And where’s the piano, as if I don’t know!” Brannon calls out in something akin to anger.
I’m winding down the window as Bunny comes up.
“How are ye, lass?”
“It’s a sprain, Bunny. I’ll be fine,” I say, watching Brannon enter the cottage.
“Brian and I have put the piano under the window, I figure that is where you’ll be wanting it.”
“Brannon is going to be angry, Bunny. He’s so concerned about you.”
“Aye, that he is. But my boy has been angry for since the day he was born.”
Why is it that whenever I have a chance to ask a question, something or someone interrupts that opportunity?
“Dad, what is wrong with you? That damn piano was heavy for Brian and me. I swear you do these things just to piss me off.”
“Aye, sometimes, laddie. But sometimes you’re pissed off for no reason. Anyway, here’s the plan,” he says to Brannon. “I’m going to take the truck and Francine back to my place. She can stay with me a few days until her ankle is fine. Once you and Brian have finished up milking this evening you can come over for dinner, and we can discuss plans in a civilized fashion,” he says, turning back to me. “Is this alright with ye, Francine?”
“Bunny, I don’t want to be a bother.”
“It’s nay bother, lass; it’s being neighbourly,” he says, echoing the exact words I heard from Brannon.
“She needs lifting out of the truck, dad,” Brannon says seriously. “Are you going to do that, too!” It isn’t a question.
“Brannon, lad, she weighs no more than when ye were six and wanted to be on my shoulders,” Bunny says.
Brannon is done. He is so done with it that he calls Brian to get into the bigger truck and backs out of the drive.
“Now, Francine. I’ve been married, seen everything, bought everything, know everything that a woman needs to spend a few days away from home. Can ye allow me to go and bring a few of the things I can’t supply you with at home?”
“I’m sure I could limp into the cottage, Bunny.”
“And up those steep stairs? I don’t think so, Francine.”
He’s right, of course. I could not.
“There’s a couple of dresses in the wardrobe, Bunny, and I have underwear in the top drawer. My PJs are on the bed.”
“That’s all ye’ll need. I’ll be two minutes.”
Oh God, I’m a thirty-three-year-old woman, and a man in his seventies is rifling through my underwear drawer.
True to his word, he’s on his way out in two minutes.
“I saw this bag hanging on the back of a kitchen chair, Francine. Everything is in there except for your dresses.” Bunny has left the dresses on the hangers and is folding them onto the back seat. What a sweet, sweet man. “Oh, and here is this.” he says. It’s my make-up bag.
He jumps in beside me. “Don’t worry about Brannon. He’ll come around. On the way down I’ll explain to you, his issues.”
Bunny backs the truck out of the drive.
