Storm Over Rhanna

by Christine Marion Fraser

Ignoring the butcher’s indignant denials he turned his seamed brown countenance on Aunt Grace. ‘’Tis yourself, Grace,’ he acknowledged in a breathy whisper. ‘How are you the day?’

  ‘Ach, I’m right enough, Bob, but Joe’s no’ so good this whilie back.’

  ‘No, I was hearing,’ Bob nodded courteously, ‘but he’s had a good innings and canny expect to linger forever. Tell him I will be along to see him whenever I get a minute to spare from the lambing.’

  ‘That I will, Bob.’ Coyly, Grace lowered her eyes. ‘I’ll have some o’ your favourite wee cakes all ready baked for you – that’s if the bodach doesny get wind o’ them first. He might no’ be well but he aye was fond o’ his meat and never could resist my wee fairy cakes.’

  The shop listened avidly to these exchanges between the silvery-haired woman and the gnarled shepherd for it was a well-known fact that Bob was promised to Grace as soon as Old Joe had departed the scene.

  ‘Off wi’ the old and on wi’ the new,’ Kate had commented when the old folks’ plans became common knowledge. ‘Though if Grace finds anything new in that bodach o’ a shepherd I’ll be the first to congratulate her for discovering a miracle.’

  ‘I thought Joe’s teeths were too loose to be able to chew these sticky wee things you bake,’ Kate piped up innocently, her chagrin never diminishing at Old Joe’s offensive remarks about her own attempts at baking. ‘He was after telling me only last week that his teeths are more often steeping in a glass o’ water than they are in his head.’

  ‘Ay, you’re maybe right enough there, Kate,’ answered Grace with equal sweetness, ‘but my wee cakes just melt in the mouth and have no need o’ teeths to get them over. My good man just loves everything I make for him and has never had the need o’ his teeths since the day he came into my home.’

  ‘Ay, ay, you’ve looked after the bodach right well,’ agreed Molly, enjoying the discomfiture of the forceful Kate who had all too often in the past made derogatory remarks regarding Molly’s culinary efforts.

  ‘But surely the bodach needs red meat,’ persisted Kate, somewhat red about the ears with a displeasure that was further heightened when she realized she had played right into Holy Smoke’s grasping hands.

  ‘You are a wise woman, Mistress McKinnon.’ His stained teeth flashed momentarily under the straggle of ginger hairs on his upper lip. ‘No matter how old, a man was never the worse for a good dinner o’ real meat in his belly.’

  ‘Ach well,’ Aunt Grace smiled benignly round, ‘if my Joe has his way he’ll be eating a good plate o’ best steak afore he goes and dies on me. The dentist mannie will be here this coming summer and Joe’s dearest wish is to have a new set o’ teeths fitted for his funeral – and a right bonny bodach he will look too in his white goonie and his new teeths flashin’ a smile at everyone who comes to pay their last respects.’

  The shop was aghast at Aunt Grace’s seeming hardness of heart.

  ‘His mouth will be closed surely,’ Barra said faintly, the whole question of dirty link sausages forgotten in all the talk of the moment, ‘wi’ a Bible screwed tight under his chin to keep it from sagging.’

  ‘Ay,’ put in Isabel, ‘everything is closed in a body that’s dead, Grace, surely you must know that.’

  ‘Ach, you are all behind the times,’ Aunt Grace admonished gently, her eyes growing dreamy as she went on, ‘Joe and myself have talked about it and planned it all. My dear Old Joe will be the first mannie on this island to be smilin’ at his friends on his deathbed – if the Lord spares him of course,’ she added quickly and rather fearfully, for no matter the circumstances it was a belief of the old folks that unless they called on the Lord to spare them for any event – even that of dying, they might bring all sorts of unimagined disasters to fall on them.

  A babble of questions arose at her words but holding up her hand she warded them off, sweetly but firmly. ‘’Tis no use you asking me anything for I’m no’ telling. It’s a secret between Joe and me so you’ll just have to wait and see for yourselves.’

  ‘Well, I doubt Doctor Megan would like to be knowing the trick o’ these things,’ Isabel said thoughtfully, ‘unless of course she’ll be too busy wi’ this playboy chiel you were readin’ about, Elspeth, to bother her head wi’ very much else.’

  Bob turned a furious face on Slochmhor’s housekeeper. ‘So, you wereny for tellin’ anybody the things you told me? Keepin’ it to yourself, eh? Well, I might have kent you couldny keep that gossipin’ mouth shut – and here’s me thinking you were maybe a changed woman wi’ more in your head than venomous talk.’

  ‘Bob, Bob!’ wailed Elspeth, grabbing onto his sleeve and holding on grimly. ‘I kept it to myself all these months and after what happened last night it would have come out anyway.’

  ‘Na, na, it wouldny.’ He spat his rage into the sawdust of the butcher’s shop, making Holy Smoke cringe and rush for a broom. ‘It’s in the past and would have stayed there but for you digging it up like a rotten old bone. Have you no decency, woman! Terrible things happened on this island last night and all you can do is bray your gossip to the world, like an auld nag wi’ the shiver o’ death in its bones and naught else to do but make a noise—’

  Spinning round on his heel he glared his fury on the shamefaced womenfolk. ‘And you listened! Matthew lies yonder in some watery grave and as usual you came cackling and clucking from your homes to pry and listen and fill your empty heads wi’ dirt! You should be ashamed o’ yourselves – the lot o’ you!’

  Shaking Elspeth’s hand from his arm he stalked out, anger in every rheumy bone, forgetting all about his ‘wee beefles’ in his haste to escape the shop.

  Aunt Grace buried her eyes in her hanky. ‘Oh, he’s right, he’s right! I’ve never seen Bob so upset before. He’s aye been a good, quiet, brave mannie, God-fearin’ and strict, and harsh speakin’ betimes but a straighter, more honest soul you couldny meet – and now he’ll be thinkin’ the worst o’ me.’ She dabbed her wet eyes, beside herself with dismay.

  ‘He loved Matthew.’ Barra’s simple statement spoke volumes. Lifting her parcel of meat, she paid for it and left the premises without another word.

  The rest looked guiltily at one another. ‘She’s right,’ Kate was very subdued, ‘he did love Matthew, we all did but Bob worked beside him and knew him better than anybody wi’ the exception o’ his own family.’

  ‘Tina is over at Granda John and Granny Ann’s house,’ Isabel said softly. ‘I saw her walkin’ over there this morning, her poor face all swollen wi’ greetin’. I’ll just get along over and see will they eat a wee bite o’ dinner wi’ me and Jim Jim.’

  Kate nodded. ‘And I’ll see will the minister maybe want a bittie help in the kitchen. He’ll no’ have Tina to see to him for a good whilie to come.’

  ‘It would have come out, it would. There was no call for Bob to speak so harshly to a woman o’ my standing.’ Elspeth, white-faced and shaken though she was, still managed to have the last word. But no one was listening, everyone’s attention and sympathies had been transferred to the plight of Tina and her family, and it was a very crestfallen Elspeth who made her lone way along Glen Fallan to Slochmhor, her empty message bag testimony to her distraught state of mind. Only the treacherous magazine lay in the time-worn folds of the generous bag, and with a little cry of self-loathing she snatched up the offending publication to toss it viciously into the rushing waters of the River Fallan. The shiny pages opened out as if in a last burst of satisfied mockery before whirling away on their journey to the open sea.

  One by one everyone vacated the butcher’s premises. In minutes the shop was empty. Holy Smoke was left staring into thin air; from their hook the untouched string of sausages leered at him fatly, the pile of unsold black puddings mocked him from their marble slab. ‘Forgive me, Lord,’ he said flatly, and going through to his back shop, from there to a fair-sized wooden hut, he sat himself down on an upturned fish box and drew greedily on a freshly lit cigarette.

  Bo
b wasn’t the only person to be angry at Elspeth. When Ruth heard that her name was being bandied about in connection with the infamous magazine, she was outraged.

  ‘The spiteful old bitch,’ she fumed at Lorn. ‘I never gave her that magazine – she took it when my back was turned and no’ until now did I know what happened to it!’

  ‘Och well, it’s typical o’ Elspeth,’ Lorn tried to placate his enraged young wife. ‘No one will believe you gave it to her so don’t get upset.’

  ‘No, but they will believe what it says about Doctor Megan!’ cried Ruth, her violet eyes black with emotion. ‘And she in turn will get to hear that I was supposed to have given Elspeth the magazine. I never even knew what was in it! When Rachel sends them I just skim through the pages for they’re no’ really my type o’ thing. No, Lorn, it’s too much. I’m going to see that old witch this very minute and tell her just what I think!’

  ‘Ruthie, Ruthie.’ He caught hold of her and kissed the tip of her freckled nose, his black eyes snapping with enjoyment for she was never more desirable than when she was angry. ‘Don’t demean yourself by running off to fight with an old woman whose only pleasure is in taking it away from others. She would like nothing more than to think she’s riled you. No, your best defence is to keep a dignified silence. After all, you’re something o’ a celebrity on Rhanna and will be even more so next week when you go to Glasgow to launch your first novel. You’re quite a special young lady, Ruthie, and must hold up your head wi’ pride at all costs.’

  ‘Do you really mean that, Lorn?’ Her rage was evaporating quickly in the soothing circle of his arms.

  ‘Ay, every word. You just canny allow yourself to go around behaving like a wee fishwife. People here look up to you and you mustny let them or yourself down. I love these flashes o’ spirit you have but only when they’re for my benefit – besides,’ his arms tightened round her, ‘I can think o’ better ways to rid you o’ your energy.’

  ‘Is that so?’ Her voice was soft in his ear.

  ‘Ay, that’s so.’ His mouth was warm against hers and she forgot all about Elspeth with the pleasures to be found in loving this passionate young McKenzie who seldom took no for an answer.

  Steven Saunders struggled to lift himself out of a pit of blackness, only to wish that he could return to that empty void of dreamless sleep as waves of pain throbbed through him, intensifying with every conscious second till he felt he must have broken every bone in his body when the mast came crashing down on top of him. He had thought then that he would never waken again from that nightmare time of storm and pain, and panic seized him as he wondered: was he still out there in that pulverizing sea with the scream of the wind all around him and the freezing rain battering his body unmercifully? It was dark, still dark, yet there was warmth, deep and penetrating, the heat of his pain gnawing into his head, radiating out to muscle, bone, sinew. But there was a light out there, somewhere beyond the storm, a blood-red light that wavered in front of his vision in heartbeats of time. And there was sound too, the sound of the sea – it was still there – black, terrifying – but no, this sea was breaking gently to shore – lapping, peaceful, and above it all was the sound of the birds – a thrush? A blackbird? No, it couldn’t be.

  He tried to open his eyes to look. Pain shot through his head, he groaned and cried out, ‘Dan? Danny? Are you there?’

  His throat was parched, the words came out in a croak. Swallowing hard he tried again, ‘Dan – are you there? Are you alright?’

  A cool little hand sent delicious tremors of calm through the raw nerves of his forehead. ‘I’m here, Nurse Babbie Büttger. Lie still and don’t try to move.’

  Slowly, as if afraid something might snap, he opened his eyes. The red curtain dissipated gradually, in its place came pale light and pink flowers, splashes of golden sunshine, myriad pinpricks of dancing rainbow hues; up in some canopied corner there were flashes of blue and white, mere sensations of place and time – and silhouetted against them all was an attractive blob surrounded by a russet cloud, for all the world like the colour of autumn bracken on a Scottish hillside.

  ‘I thought I was in a garden,’ his lips were cracked, his tongue bone-dry, the words came trembling out, ‘in Scotland.’

  Something pink moved inside the blob. ‘Oh, you’re in Scotland alright, by some stroke o’ the gods and the guts o’ the Rhanna lifeboat team.’

  The voice should have been pleasantly warm but harsh chords spoiled the musical tones.

  ‘Rhanna, so we made it after all.’ His vision was clearing rapidly. The voice now had a face, a freckled, attractive face with a wide, generous mouth and unusually beautiful green eyes that were watchful, patient – and something else he didn’t want to acknowledge, as coolly they assessed his face.

  He struggled to place his unruly thoughts into some semblance of order. Questions tumbled to his lips but before he could speak she countered each one, as if she knew exactly what was coming – but of course she would, she was a nurse—

  ‘Your friend is fine, as a matter of fact he’s downstairs now having his dinner.’ Wolfing his dinner more like, she thought dryly, never had she seen anyone eat with such rude enjoyment. ‘Nothing wrong with him but a broken arm. You wereny so lucky. When the men fished you out o’ the storm you were almost dead—’ That sounded too harsh. She pulled herself up. ‘You had severe concussion, one broken leg, a broken wrist, multiple bruises and lacerations over your entire body – otherwise you’re in the best o’ health and will live. You’ve been here three days now. What’s left o’ your boat was towed into harbour, the rest was smashed to pieces on the reefs. One or two bits have come in wi’ the tide and will no doubt be keeping a few home fires burning – we collect flotsam on Rhanna, it’s quite an occupation when the tide is out.’

  ‘No matter, I’m insured – or rather, my father is. The Mermaid is his boat.’

  ‘Ay, money can replace some things,’ Babbie murmured grimly.

  ‘You’re angry, I sensed it from the minute I woke. Why? Have I done something wrong?’

  Babbie studied him. She could see why Megan had lost her heart so completely over him. Despite the bruises and bandages his good looks were very apparent. He was long-limbed and powerfully shouldered with an even tan on his smooth skin that suggested long holidays in exotic places. A rumple of fair hair spilled thick and fine below the head bandages; his regular features were clean cut, the deeply cleft chin strong and determined – but the brilliant blue eyes were too closely set, the shapely mouth a shade on the cruel side. Above all he was possessed of a charm that was completely disarming. In amongst the purpled weals, the torn skin, the bloody marks, his white teeth were flashing, asserting his charm in no uncertain manner. Have I done something wrong? he had asked, puzzled, hurt, as if a foreign word had crossed his tongue, one that had never applied to any aspect of his life.

  ‘Oh, come on, Nurse.’ He was recovering his wits, his blue gaze chiding her along with his teasing nuance of tongue. ‘Don’t look like that, as if I was the big bad wolf in person. I’m glad to be here, I’m grateful to you and to everybody who saved my life. I compliment you on your efficiency in telling me so exactly everything I wanted to know, but you’re behaving far from sympathetically to a sick man. I’m in pain, I’m thirsty, but above all I’m puzzled as to why you seem to dislike me.’

  ‘I’ll get you something to drink.’ Babbie moved away from the bed, angry at herself for discovering that it would be the easiest thing in the world to succumb to that easy charm of his. ‘As for the pain, the doctor will have to see you before I can give you anything.’

  ‘The doctor.’ He lifted his head from the pillow only to fall back with a groan. ‘That was the one thing you didn’t tell me, efficient Nurse-I-Forget-Your-Name. Who it was that patched me up, whose house I’m in . . .’

  Footsteps sounded on the stairs. Eve came in, a pale Eve, quiet, withdrawn, big eyes dazed with the shock of knowing that her beloved father would never again return ho
me, that his grave was the watery bed of the ocean which might or might not give up his body, according to its whim. She had insisted on carrying on working at Tigh na Cladach. ‘I canny bear to stay at home, Doctor,’ she had confided, ‘Granny Ann and Granda John have grown old suddenly and Mother – well, I’ve never seen her so sad in all my days o’ living wi’ her. It’s as if someone has taken and shaken all the peace out o’ her and all that’s left is a woman who stares at the world as if seeing its harshness for the first time. My father was her life, they were both calm and easygoing together, made for one another, they aye said that. Donald has taken time off from Laigmhor and is there to see to all the wee jobs about the place. I want to keep myself busy doing what I’m used to doing – I canny thole it any other way.’

  She stood in the doorway, one hand on the knob, her curtain of fair hair falling over her face for she barely looked up when she said, ‘Will you be coming down now, Babbie? I’ve kept your dinner warm in the oven. The doctor has waited to take hers with you.’

  Glancing up she saw the wakeful man in the bed, coloured and went out again, her steps light on the stairs.

  ‘Who was that little beauty?’ Steven Saunders asked in his deep, cultured voice.

  Babbie swung round to face him and it was then he noticed that her eyes weren’t merely green but were speckled with amber dots that seemed illuminated from behind with a strange intense light. ‘Her name is Eve,’ she explained in a tightly controlled voice, ‘and her family is one o’ the nicest on Rhanna. Tina, the mother, works to the Manse, Eve to the doctor, Donald, the son, to Laigmhor. Matthew, the father, was Grieve there until three days ago – he doesn’t work there any longer, his body lies yonder in the Sound of Rhanna. He was one o’ the lifeboat crew called out on one o’ the worst storms ever to hit this island. Matthew was a farmer, not a seaman, but crofter or fisherman, they’re all willing to help save lives – even if it means losing their own.’

  Babbie delivered all this in a toneless monologue, glad to get it all out, eager to relieve her heart of its bitterness. It wasn’t fair, it wasn’t professional. Steven Saunders was a patient. Both he and his friend were young, adventurous, and so bloody irresponsible she could gladly have taken the two of them and banged their idiotic heads together! And to hell with etiquette! She was a human being first, a nurse second and her hands itched to slap that shocked, handsome face staring at her from the bed.