Storm Over Rhanna

by Christine Marion Fraser

  Mutt, a large, loose-limbed, floppy-eared cross between a spaniel and a labrador, stretched himself lazily before coming to greet his master, while three cats bestirred sleepily on top of the warm range to survey him with green, hopeful orbs as he removed his dinner from the oven.

  Before drawing his chair into the table he poured milk into a large dish marked ‘dog’, and fetched a meaty bone for Mutt from the larder. It was very quiet in the room except for the busy lapping of the cats and the scrunching of Mutt’s teeth. Blatterings of hail gusted against the window panes, the wind tore through the elms at the side of the house, making the branches creak and groan.

  The violence of the day served to make the kitchen all the more cosy and Mark James looked about him as he ate. He loved the old Manse. It sat here, atop the Hillock, sturdy, aloof, almost arrogant in its seeming contempt of wind and storm. It was true that the roof could be doing with a good overhaul. Depending on wind direction it could leak quite badly, a fact borne out by the buckets placed at strategic points in the loft and one which made Tam McKinnon scratch his head in bemusement as he had no sooner fixed one section of slates before a new leak had sprung somewhere else. It could be a draughty house too, with wind sneaking through chinks in windows and doors and somehow finding its way round the draught screens placed about.

  Yet, despite its inadequacies, it was a house of great dignity and reassuring comfort and Mark James had never felt anything but contentment from the day he moved in. In summer he found great solace tending to the walled-off garden surrounding the house, in winter he was quite happy reading by the fire in the evenings or having friends in for a strupak and a chat – yet, always there was the empty chair opposite him at the fire, the lonely table with himself sitting there eating rather self-consciously surrounded by all that bare table space, the unoccupied chairs facing the uncluttered table with what seemed to him a rather reproachful air.

  ‘Will it always be like this? Will it?’ In sudden anguish he spoke aloud to the empty room. Mutt stopped crunching to look up at him enquiringly, one ear comically alert, the other crumpled about his wrinkled muzzle. Getting up, he padded over to rest his soft nose on his master’s knee and whine gently in sympathy. Mark pushed his long fingers into the animal’s silky fur, fondled the ungainly ears, then abruptly he pushed his plate away, and rising from his chair he began to pace, up and down, up and down, pausing every so often to gaze morosely towards the window and the sea lying grey-bellied in the distance. The old floorboards squeaked, squeak, squeak. Mutt’s sensitive ears twitched and he threw his master an indignant look. It was the time of day he looked forward to most – the dinner hour and the meaty bone, the anticipation of glorious freedom roaming machair and seashore with that big, beloved man figure walking along at his back, each of them delighting in the silent companionship of the other.

  But today something was wrong. A sense of unrest pervaded the normally peaceful kitchen. Finally Mutt could bear it no longer. A worried whine rose up in his throat, he ran to the door to stare at it expectantly, his ridiculously floppy tail twitching in a signal of hope.

  The minister stopped pacing and laughed. ‘Alright, you daft Mutt, I’ve got the message. Come on then, we’ll go down and see Megan for a wee while then you’ll get your walk.’

  Throwing on an ancient tweed jacket, he let himself out of the house. Mutt running along in front, busy nose close to the ground. The wind caught at the minister’s tall figure, buffeted him so that it took all his strength to steer a straight course over the machair to the winding sheep path that ran down to Tigh na Cladach. Bending his dark head into the wind he tried to keep his thoughts calm. He was only paying Megan a visit, that was all – and why not, for heaven’s sake! That wasn’t so unusual on an island where strupaks and ceilidhs were part of the everyday scene of things. A lot of people popped in and out of Tigh na Cladach – he had every right to do the same. He reached the gate and opened it resolutely. Mutt didn’t follow. Instead he ran a little way forward before turning his melting brown gaze to the man at the gate.

  ‘Go on, then,’ grinned Mark, ‘you play around for a while, I’ll only be a few minutes, I promise.’

  Megan was just finishing her meal when Mark James strode into the kitchen. At sight of him her cup clattered clumsily down onto the saucer, she half rose, a startled expression in her hazel eyes.

  ‘Don’t get up,’ Mark James spoke calmly, ‘I only popped in for a minute to ask if you might come over to the church bazaar with me this afternoon. I’m doing the book stall but I have plenty of helpers and could easily get away after a wee while . . .’ He lowered his head and, looking as abashed as a small boy, went on quickly, ‘I thought we could go for a walk – perhaps talk – it seems a long time since we exchanged two words together.’

  His eyes were on her, smokey blue-grey eyes ringed round with dark navy. They were the most disconcerting pair of eyes she had ever encountered, with an expression in them that was so fathomless she felt herself drowning every time she looked into them. Down, down she was drawn, into dizzy depths without end . . . Her heart bumped inside her breast. She tore her gaze away from him and started to speak, too fast, ‘Would you like some tea? I’ve had mine but there’s plenty left in the pot . . .’ Without waiting for an answer she began pouring, slopping some into the saucer – damn her shaking hands, his presence always did this to her and she wouldn’t have it – she couldn’t . . .

  ‘Megan – Meggie, I didn’t come for tea. I think it’s time we talked—’ The use of his pet name for her was too much for her to bear. ‘I’m sorry.’ Getting up she almost ran to get her coat from the stand in the hall. ‘I have to go out. I have several calls to make and then I must visit Shona McLachlan. Her baby’s due at Christmas but I want her over in a mainland hospital before the winter storms really hit the island. She’s healthy and strong but I can’t take the risk of her having the baby here—’

  ‘Megan!’ Catching her wrist he spun her round to face him. She was very slender and quite tall but even so her head didn’t quite reach his shoulders. His abrupt manoeuvre had caused a few strands of glossy brown hair to swing round and brush her cheek, a sudden rush of colour burned her pale skin, her thickly lashed eyes had grown very wide and so bright with surprise they were a luminous shade of warm gold in the rosy flush of her face. Her breath caught in her throat as she stared up at him in a heady mixture of apprehension and expectancy.

  Without another word he cupped her face in his hand and sought her mouth. It wasn’t a gentle kiss. His lips were warm and hard, the bruising pressure of them taking her completely unawares. Abruptly he released her. She reeled away from him, blood pulsing, heart pounding. Gripping a chair back to steady herself she gulped in great breaths of air and glared at him through the thick curtain of hair that had fallen across her face. ‘How dare you take such liberties?’ she threw at him hoarsely. ‘You a minister behaving no better than a heathen! You wear the wedding ring of your dead wife round your throat, yet you barge in here like some jungle animal with scant regard for the common laws of decency and respect for any woman, be they alive or dead. What would your wife think of her precious husband if she could see his behaviour now?’

  It was cruel, deliberately and hurtfully cruel. She knew it and would have bitten back every word if she could. But it was too late. He had recoiled as every vicious barb fell upon his ears, yet his voice when he spoke was as steady as his unwavering gaze on her face. ‘Margaret is always with me, wherever I go, whatever I do, yet she never stands in my way – just props me up a little bit now and then . . .’

  Megan realized then that his voice wasn’t so much steady as tight with hurt, so much so that he had difficulty getting the words to come out as he went on, ‘She was a fair and compassionate woman and she would never have wished me to be as lonely – to be as alone as I am now.’

  She couldn’t bring herself to look into those searching dark orbs of his a moment longer. Yet she knew she had to send him out of h
er life. She must never allow herself to get to like him too much, her heart was still bruised and sore from the hurt of that other love which she still hadn’t gotten over – and dear God! Here was this other man, this tall, dark man of God, so good to her since her arrival on Rhanna, so dear and kind, gentle and considerate . . . so warm and passionate and very, very powerful . . . She lowered her head, deliberately forced hardness into her voice, ‘Then find yourself another woman, Mark James, it’s as simple as that. Forget all about me, I – I’m not available.’

  ‘You make it sound so cheap,’ his voice was angry now. ‘It isn’t like that, Megan, and fine you know it! What’s wrong between you and me anyway? We seemed to get along fine for a while and now you’ve grown so cold and hard I’m afraid to come near you. Is there someone else? Is that why you fled to a remote Hebridean island? To get away from whoever it was? Well, I tell you this, it hasn’t worked. Whoever he is, he’s as much on your mind as ever he was – perhaps more now that you’re apart from one another.’

  She turned away. She wasn’t going to tell him about Steven Saunders. The trauma of that short, passionate affair was still very much with her, she felt the hurt of it would never leave her – and now this man, who so disturbed her senses – his very nearness threatened to shatter the fragile defensive shell she had built round her emotions . . .

  ‘I’m sorry, Mark, I can’t talk to you about it. It’s too near and I’m not yet ready to open myself up to anyone, least of all you. I need time – oh God, don’t push me. Who do you think you are anyway? Asking questions about my life. It’s none of your business and never will be.’

  His face tightened. A dark flush spread over his rugged features. His eyes seemed to reflect the grey stormclouds piling up over the great mountain of Sgurr nan Ruadh, which shouldered its sullen way into the sky beyond the shore house windows. ‘I know who I am, Megan, I hope in time so too will you. You’re not as hard as you try to make out. These are frail barriers you have built round your heart. One day I hope you will shake yourself free of them and will know again the joy of giving as well as taking.’ He spread his hands in a gesture of appeal. ‘At least – can we be friends? I feel so shut out from your life yet you seem to bend over backwards to please everyone else – or is that just an act you feel you have to put on to make your life on the island tolerable?’

  ‘Go away, Mark.’ She sounded remote, in full control of herself again. ‘I don’t need you or any other man lecturing me on my motives.’ She glanced towards the window. ‘Your dog is getting restless, stick with him, he’ll not let you down, nor shall he desert you as a human companion might. Animals are a lot safer than humans, they give so much and demand so little in return. I’m getting one myself for Christmas. Fergus McKenzie’s Sheil had pups a few weeks back, I’m collecting mine in a few days’ time – she’ll be all the company I’ll need or want for a long time to come.’

  He went, abruptly and quickly out into the stormy day, his strong face livid with hurt and anger. If he had turned back, if he had witnessed Megan sinking into a chair to put a trembling hand up to her eyes, and heard his name come out in a long drawn-out sigh, his heart might have filled with a hope that would have allowed him better to thole the dark days of despair that stretched before him like a grey road filled with shadows.

  Chapter Two

  Mo Dhachaidh was fragrant with the tantalizing smells of baking when Megan called in, and found Shona in the kitchen wrapping scones and cakes which she packed into a wicker basket sitting on the table. Ellie Dawn, an attractive, fair-haired child of three, was ensconced on the rug by the fire, contentedly eating a buttery scone, watched attentively by Woody the cat who was ready to pounce on any crumbs that came his way.

  Shona looked up at Megan’s entry, her face lighting to smiles. ‘Oh, it’s yourself, Megan.’ She was one of the few who had, from the beginning, used the doctor’s Christian name. ‘Sit you down and I’ll get us both a cuppy, though mind, I’ll have to be quick with mine. I promised Mark weeks ago that I’d help out with the baking table at the bazaar, but kept putting it off with the result that I’m at the cow’s tail as usual.’

  Megan sat down on the old rocking chair that had once been Biddy’s, the nurse who had tended the population of Rhanna for most of her life and who had never been forgotten by anyone. Her picture smiled out from Memory Corner, a rather crooked smile to be sure, for on the day it was taken her cat had chewed her denture and the effort of keeping the misshapen teeth in place and trying to smile at the same time had proved almost too much.

  Memory Corner had been the idea of Helen, better known as Ellie, Shona’s eldest daughter. It was nothing grand, just a small neuk on the broad, white window-ledge, scattered with photos of those who had been special in Shona’s life, adorned by a vase of red holly berries nestling amongst glossy green foliage.

  In pride of place was a picture of Ellie herself, a child whose sweet youth seemed to capture the very essence of summer itself. Her arms were full of buttercups, her radiant smile poured laughter into the room. She had been just thirteen when she died, and in the trauma of losing her Shona had nearly lost her reason and with it the precious things and people that had made her life the sweet thing it was. Now there was Ellie Dawn, the baby whose arrival had been like a miracle. Never never would she take the place of Shona’s firstborn daughter. She was a delightful little human being in her own right and she had given her parents so much joy they both felt it could never be surpassed. But soon there was to be another, and Shona was brimming with so much happiness it seemed to spill over like sunshine and cast its light on everyone with whom she came in contact. Megan felt the warmth of it touching her. Ever since the interlude with Mark James she had been aware of a deep sense of misery tugging at her heart, but now, in the presence of Shona, with Ellie Dawn grinning at her and everyone in Memory Corner smiling out at her, she felt uplifted and suddenly very aware of her surroundings; the purple-black clouds scudding over the dour face of Sgurr na Gill beyond the window, the stooped figure of Dodie, the island eccentric, loping along the winding glen road towards the huddled white houses of Portcull lying in the distance, the indignant mutterings of the hungry hens gathering outside Mo Dhachaidh’s walled garden, the rushing of the burn over the stones, the bleating of the sheep from the slopes of Ben Machrie . . . and on the rain-washed horizon, the barely discernible tall chimneys of the Manse poking into the clouds . . . Hastily she pulled her eyes away from the window, drew her attention back to Mo Dhachaidh’s warmly bright kitchen.

  Shona had noticed the doctor’s interest in the window, and going over she touched her daughter’s photo with a tender finger. ‘Did I ever tell you about her?’ she asked softly, a little faraway smile hovering on her lips.

  Megan shook her head. ‘No, you didn’t. I’ve heard, of course, how she died but—’

  ‘No, no, not that,’ interposed Shona, coming back to sit at the fire and gaze into it as if she was seeing pictures in the darting flames. ‘I want to tell you how she lived. She was such a happy wee lass. When I think of her I always seem to see her smiling.’

  She went on, talking in a quiet voice about Ellie, and as she talked Megan could almost hear the child’s laughter chuckling out from every corner of the room. Shona’s face was glowing. At almost forty-three she looked like a girl with her shining auburn hair rippling about her shoulders and her golden skin smooth and unlined. Although in her ninth month of pregnancy she was very fit for a woman so close to her time, but Megan had been quick to notice a weariness in the deep-blue eyes Shona had turned on her when she had first entered the room.

  ‘When she died I thought I would too – I wanted to. I think I did everything I could to make myself ill,’ Shona’s voice was low, ashamed, ‘I thought only of my own grief, of what my darling child’s death had done to me. I was too selfish and full of my own misery to notice anybody else’s – most of all Niall’s. His heart was broken yet I turned away from him when most he needed me –’ she
threw the doctor a sidelong glance – ‘sometimes we do that when our hearts are sore and heavy. We tend to think we’re the only ones to have suffered at the loss of a loved one. When Mark James came to try and talk some sense into me I ranted and raved at him for interfering, and when he told me he had not long lost his wife and daughter I could have curled up and died with my shame. But by confiding in me he helped me take the first steps towards life again. I’ll never forget him for what he did for me. I like to think that in some small way I helped him too, but deep down I know that’s just wishful thinking. I have a very special affection for our minister, Megan. He’s strong and good and considerate to everyone he meets yet I often think – how lonely he must get sometimes. Not just because he lost his family but because he has to shoulder so much responsibility. I suppose in a way a minister’s job is much like a doctor’s. Everybody rushes to tell you their ails but no one stops to think you might have your worries too – they forget ministers and doctors are human beings with the same troubles and sorrows as the rest of us.’

  Megan’s face was burning. As Shona talked she wondered wildly if Fergus McKenzie’s daughter could see into her very soul, and she was the first to pull her eyes away from the other’s keen assessment.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Shona shook her head. ‘I didn’t mean the talk to turn in Mark’s direction – it’s just, well, I don’t like to see him getting hurt but what’s between you and him is really none of my business.’

  A sharp retort sprung to Megan’s lips but she controlled her anger and said in a tight voice, ‘Shona, I didn’t come here this afternoon just to drink tea and talk about the minister. It’s you I want to talk about. You certainly look well enough and I know you say you feel fine but—’