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Most of the patients weren’t awake as they followed their attending through early morning rounds but Davie Boyd was grumbling before they’d completely assembled at the foot of his bed. He was the quintessential grumpy, old man—tufts of white hair protruding at odd angles from his balding head, an almost bulldog set to his mouth, and a frame meant to support a slightly larger man than he currently was.
“Mr. Boyd presented with extreme abdominal cramping when he was admitted yesterday afternoon,” the attending began to drone.
Joe’s attention drifted to the patient who was muttering in a low guttural tone but he couldn’t understand what the man was saying. He listened for the attending to get to the portion of Mr. Boyd’s medical history that would explain what seemed to be some sort of aphasia—a stroke, perhaps?
Claire Randall began to shake quietly next to him as she struggled to suppress her laughter. Joe gave her a subtle nudge and caught her pressing her lips together as she took a deep breath through her nose. But a moment later she lost her control again and the attending as well as Mr. Boyd went quiet. Joe took an unconscious step away from Claire.
“Dr. Randall,” the attending’s stern voice rang out. “Do you find this patient’s condition humorous?”
She cleared her throat and tried to set her face but the amusement remained visible around her eyes. “No, sir.” Her gaze darted to Mr. Boyd who was busy scrutinizing her.
“A bheil seo a ghalad a ‘Ghádhlig?” he asked.
To everyone’s surprise Claire responded haltingly. “Tha ach chan eil air éisteachd ris.”
“Do you mean you understand what he says?” The attending asked, his suspicion rising.
“Mr. Boyd, what part of Scotland are you from?” Claire asked, turning and taking a step towards the patient. His demeanor had shifted considerably after hearing her response, a momentarily ruddy vigor creeping into his normally pale face.
“Ach, the Highlands to be sure,” he responded in English. “Dornoch to be precise. Are ye familiar wi’ the Highlands?”
“Thank you,” the attending interrupted, trying to bring the attention back to himself and rounds. “That’ll be enough for now. Dr. Randall, why don’t you take Mr. Boyd’s case for the day—according to his chart he’s under observation for a suspected ulcer.” He handed the chart to Claire who tucked it under her arm. “As soon as we’re done rounds you’ll need to do an evaluative examination and make a recommendation, which I will then check.”
They moved through the rest of the patients on rounds before they were dismissed to follow through on the attending’s instructions. Joe’s patient—an older woman who was scheduled for a hysterectomy—was in the same stretch of beds as Mr. Boyd.
It didn’t surprise him that Claire had been able to charm Mr. Boyd—that she spoke or at least understood a bit of Scots Gaelic, did.
“Where’d you pick that up, LJ?” he’d asked quietly as they headed back to the ward.
“A long time ago,” she said with a quick but sad smile. Mr. Boyd’s chart was still tucked under her left arm but she seemed to be suffering from cramps or something in her right hand—she was flexing it and rubbing at her wrist and thumb, stretching it by touching the silver ring on her third finger.
It was quiet in the ward when they returned. Several of the patients were out of bed using the facilities as nurses laid out their breakfast trays.
“Ye’re back a nighean,” Mr. Boyd crooned as Claire circled to his bed once more. Joe kept an ear out for their conversation, curious to see if he might learn more about his friend. “Ye didna tell that pompous windbag what it was I called him, did ye?”
There was a laugh in Claire’s response. “No, I’ll keep that colorful image between us. Now, Mr. Boyd. I know you’re suffering from stomach ailments—”
“Costive is all,” Mr. Boyd tried to downplay his discomfort. “Canna get a decent bowl of parritch since my wife passed and without it I’m the one has trouble passing,” he scramble to make it into a joke. “This slop has nae business passing for biadh. Can ye make a decent bowl of parritch, Sassenach that ye are?”
Joe heard Claire’s sharp intake of breath as well as Mr. Boyd’s murmured apologies.
“I shouldna have been sae rude—ye understand the Ghádhlig, so I should ha’ kent ye’d know that word…”
“It’s quite all right,” Claire assured him. Joe heard the bed creak as she sat on the edge of the mattress. “It’s just something that… I haven’t been called in a long time. And I know you didn’t mean it in a disrespectful way. I… My husband used to call me Sassenach... that and mo nighean donn.”
“Ye marrit a Scot,” Mr. Boyd stated with clear satisfaction. “Ach chaill sibh e?”
“Yes… I lost him,” she confirmed.
“Thug an Cogadh mòran bho mhòran.”
“The war took much from many. True… and beautifully put,” Claire agreed with evident sorrow. “Now, shall we get back to the subject of your diet and its impact on the pain in your stomach and bowels?”
“Are you just going to stand there all day or are you going to do your job?” the old woman in the bed in front of Joe asked sharply. She’d been asleep when he arrived and he’d been too distracted by Claire’s chat with Mr. Boyd to notice she’d woken and was trying to swing out of bed.
“My apologies, ma’am,” he said with a glance over her chart.
“Before you get to any of that, why don’t you walk me to the bathroom. I’ve no intention of using that ridiculous bedpan while I’ve got two legs to stand on.”