Storm Over Rhanna

by Christine Marion Fraser

  Very erect and stiff, she walked away over to where Captain Mac was standing rather sheepishly by the War Memorial. Gallantly he crooked his arm, she took it, throwing such a look of triumph over her shoulder that the knot of watching women gasped aloud at her ‘brazen cheek’.

  ‘The man’s taken leave o’ his senses,’ snorted an aghast Behag, ‘and wi’ Elspeth Morrison of all people. I canny right believe my een.’

  ‘Ach well, never mind,’ consoled Kate wickedly, ‘you’ll aye hae Holy Smoke to slaver over and admire. There he is now, keekin’ at you from between his black puddings. I doubt this hot weather is going for him too. Romance is in the air right enough, Behag, you had better keep a tight hold o’ your breeks for if I’m a judge that mannie is planning to have them off you before this summer has had time to get started.’

  ‘Kate McKinnon! Wash your mouth out wi’ soap!’ expostulated an outraged Behag. She scurried away, to the accompaniment of much mirth, only to be accosted by Totie Donaldson who was standing at the door of the Post Office, arms folded, a carefully controlled smile on her strong, handsome features as the sounds of merriment reached her ears.

  ‘You are just the woman I wanted to see,’ she greeted the crimson-faced ex-post mistress affably.

  ‘Oh ay,’ Behag said warily, looking over her shoulder as if she was expecting to see Holy Smoke bearing down on her.

  ‘Doug and myself are going over to Oban for the weekend,’ explained Totie, ‘and I was wondering if you would mind looking after the Post Office. It would only be Saturday and Monday, we’ll be back for Tuesday.’

  Behag hummed and hawed for a few minutes, for never would she, by word or deed, allow Totie to see how much she enjoyed these little spells behind the counter of ‘her premises’.

  In the end she permitted herself a reluctant acceptance of Totie’s proposal and hurried home to look out her ‘business’ overalls and her stoutest shoes, the last she claimed as being a necessary requisite in a job that required ‘being on her feets all day’ even though she changed them for slippers the minute she was safely behind the counter.

  The next morning, complete with knitting bag, shopping bag, and purse, she arrived at the Post Office to settle herself in, after which she started prowling about, looking for dust, re-arranging forms, ink pads, and blotters. When all was placed to her liking, she sat back to await the first customer, knitting needles clacking busily, palsied head nodding back and forth, back and forth . . .

  ‘’Tis yourself, Miss Beag, I never thought you would be here but what a nice surprise, ay, a nice surprise indeed.’

  Somehow Holy Smoke had crept in without Behag hearing a single thing. Not even the bells above the door had jangled out a warning and the old woman leapt off her stool like a scalded cat, her slippered feet landing with a soft thump on the floorboards, her head working so frantically her very teeth clattered noisily together.

  ‘Mr McKnight!’ She was recovering already though she screamed his name in a breathless protest. ‘Just what do you mean by skulking in here like – like some sort o’ deranged cat burglar? You scared me near to death wi’ your creepin’ and shufflin’!’

  ‘Och, I’m right sorry, Miss Beag.’ Holy Smoke looked sorry, his jowls sagged in uncontrolled layers over his collar, his dark, mournful eyes seemed suspiciously wet, as if the sight of Behag’s fear was too much for him to bear. ‘Are you alright?’ he beseeched worriedly. ‘You look pale, even your very teeths are shivering inside your head. Have you no’ got your wee cough bottle with you? Maybe a swallock . . .’

  Behag realized his concern was genuine and she snapped her lips shut on the stream of vitriol she was about to hurl into his large, purple ears. ‘What is your business here, Mr McKnight?’ she queried instead, her only intention being to get him off the premises as speedily as possible just in case her cronies arrived to tease and torment her with their insinuations.

  The butcher shuffled. ‘I was wondering, I came in to ask would it cost an awful lot to send a tellygram to Oban?’

  Nervously he jingled the coppers in his pocket, as if the very feel of money could bolster him against the shock of having to part with it.

  ‘It would be dear enough,’ barked Behag, ‘but you’ll no’ be minding surely? You must be making a fair deal o’ sillar now that your shop is on its feets.’

  He sighed heavily. ‘’Tis never easy running your own business, Miss Beag. I have been finding it hard going this whilie back. No one really likes me here and I am at a loss to know the reason why. Betimes I get so tired and depressed I could just give it all up and go back to being a simple crofter.’

  She peered at him more closely. He certainly looked depressed, but then that was nothing unusual for him, all he ever did was moan about money – but he was tired-looking, she had to admit that, his eyes were sunk right into the back of his head, as if he had spent nights and nights without sleep.

  ‘Ach well, it is the Sabbath tomorrow, you can rest then all you want.’ There was a hint of uncustomary sympathy in her querulous tones. Holy Smoke picked on it immediately.

  ‘Ay, you are right there, Miss Beag, indeed I will dwell on the Lord’s mercy and sleep the good sleep of the righteous.’

  ‘What was it you wanted me to put in the tellygram?’ Behag’s sympathy evaporated as quickly as it had come. Kirkgoer she might be, but she simply could not abide this man’s whining religious quotations.

  ‘Ay, the tellygram.’ Behag waited, pencil poised ready. ‘Well, it is to Mr Porteous at the slaughterhouse, just put, “Send no more meat, killing myself next week. Alexander McKnight”.’

  He paid up quickly, for that was the only way to make parting with money bearable, and sprachled out of the shop, the bells jangling noisily behind him, the draught from the shutting door raising a little cloud of dust from the mat. But Behag didn’t notice. She was standing stock-still, staring after him, her rheumy fingers fluttering to her mouth.

  ‘He canny mean it, the mannie canny mean it!’ Her thoughts whirled frantically. Killing himself next week! What had driven him even to think of taking such a drastic step? He had mentioned being depressed, that nobody liked him and that he could give it all up – and never had she seen a cratur’ so bone-weary as he looked – as if his depression had kept him from sleep for weeks . . .

  The bells clanged again, a crowd of village youngsters came in clutching Saturday pocket money, followed by a group of tourists looking for postcards and stamps. Behag spent a busy day, one of the busiest she had ever known. Damt towrists! Rhanna was becoming far too popular – it was that Ruth and her sensual books, no’ to mention Rachel Jodl and her music. The fact that she had a holiday home on the island had somehow leaked out. People were forever asking directions so that they could just ogle at the place, occupied or not, it didn’t matter. For all they saw anyway, a bare crofthouse overlooking the sea – and soon they wouldn’t even see that, Jon had left instructions for a wall to be built, trees and bushes to be planted . . .

  It was no use! Behag simply could not enjoy her customary musings. Her mind was in a ferment, and for once she was glad when she could put the closed sign on the door and was free to pick up the phone without fear of being overheard.

  She dialled the Manse. The minister’s voice came over the line, slow and blessedly calm.

  Despite her agitation she went through all her usual preamble. The phone did strange things to her way of thinking. When the instrument had first been installed she had placed GPO notices everywhere on the walls, and these she followed to the letter whenever she had reason to clamp the earpiece against her long ears. To her the phone was not so much an inanimate object as some outlandish creature that had to be handled with all due care and respect – and not a little trepidation. So, though she knew perfectly well that it was Mark James speaking at the other end of the line, she had to go through the written rigmarole, step by step, black and white, gingerly clutching the instrument as if it might bite her at any moment.

&n
bsp; ‘Hallo, hallo,’ she whispered carefully, ‘is that the minister speaking?’

  The affirmative reply seemed to bring her great relief which came out in a long, drawn-out sigh. ‘Mr James, ’tis me, Behag Beag,’ she breathed the words so close to the mouthpiece he jerked his head away from the receiver at the other end, ‘can I come over and see you right away, if it is no’ too great an inconvenience? ’Tis a matter o’ life and death.’

  ‘Of course, Behag, I’ll look out for you.’ His voice gave no indication of his surprise at the content of her conversation, and he was there as promised, smoking his pipe at the Manse door, watching her scuttling along the road to the gate atop the Hillock. Tapping out his pipe, he went down the driveway to place his hand under her elbow and help her along. She was panting and puffing, more agitated than he had ever seen her.

  ‘Catch your breath,’ he directed kindly, though she was the last person he wanted to see that perfumed evening with lark song bursting in the sky and peat smoke hanging lazily in the air.

  The old post mistress had always infuriated him with her dangerously vindictive tongue and petty insinuations. Often he could gladly have brained her if only to keep her quiet for a spell, but he was the minister, a being to be sought in times of need and he saw very plainly that she needed him now.

  ‘Lean on me,’ he instructed as her stout brogues caused her to stumble on a stone. From the corner of his eye he saw Megan and Steven walking away from Tigh na Cladach down to the wide white stretches of lonely Burg Bay.

  Behag saw them also, but for once she was too taken up with her own worries to make comment. The heart of Mark James went with the slender young woman down to the calm turquoise shallows beyond the sands, the rest of him walked with an old woman, into the imprisoning shadows of the Manse, there to give Behag tea and listen while she poured her story into his ears. It was long and involved. How patiently his ear listened, how restlessly his being longed to break free from the shackles that bound it to duty . . .

  ‘Are you quite sure of these things, Behag? Sandy was fine the last time I spoke to him.’

  ‘As sure as daith,’ Behag’s tones were wounded, ‘but look you – I have the tellygram here to prove it – the very words he dictated are written down in my very own hand. I just couldny sent it to Mr Porteous at Oban – no’ till I showed it to you first.’

  He studied the epistle, frowning, trying to read some sense into the long, spidery handwriting. ‘Was Sandy in his shop today?’ he hedged, unwilling to believe that a man so recently set up in business would want to throw it all up so hastily, especially a man like Sandy McKnight who must have sunk a good bit of capital into his shop and wouldn’t rest till his investment had begun to show profit.

  ‘I couldny see, I was in the Post Office all day and that busy I only had time for a cuppy and a sandwich in the back shop at dinnertime. Oh, but wait you, he couldny have been. Mamie Johnston came in complaining that she couldny get a bittie hough to make soup. At the time I wasny thinkin’ straight and never even thought to ask about it—’ Behag paused, astounded at her own laxity.

  ‘That certainly doesn’t sound like Sandy, he has that shop open till the very last minute every day, on a Saturday in particular. It’s all a bit of a mystery but I’m sure there’s a simple enough explanation. Sandy has been working very hard lately, I’ve heard a lot of hammering and banging going on in that hut near the shop and he had those men over from the mainland doing some work, though what it is no one seems to have been able to find out.’

  ‘Ay, you’re right there, Minister,’ Behag forgot for a moment how concerned she was over the butcher’s welfare and her eyes glinted disdainfully, ‘Mr McKnight is aye doing things in a very secretive, and if you’ll excuse me for sayin’ so, an underhand manner. He was no’ for tellin’ anybody what he was getting up to in that hut o’ his and must have paid the men no’ to say anything either for they just acted as queer as himself when asked civil and innocent questions, though what he gave them to keep them quiet is anybody’s guess for he’ll no’ part wi’ a halfpenny unless he thinks he’s gettin’ a penny back in its place.’

  ‘Och well, what he does to his property is his business, I suppose,’ said Mark reasonably, ‘but I’ll get along there and see what I can do. You had best go home, you must be tired after such a worrying day.’

  But Behag was having none of that. Into Thunder she climbed beside the minister and to the shop they went first. When they got no answer there they walked along the track to thump, bang, and shout at all the windows and doors of Holy Smoke’s crofthouse, but it was as silent as the grave. Only the hens clucked about, pouncing on the woodlice stirred up by the visitors’ feet.

  ‘The Lord forgive me,’ Behag wrung her hands in an agony of self-reproach. ‘That poor, poor man! I was never kind to him, from the start I said things to him I should never, never have said and now he’s at the end o’ his tether and has maybe no’ waited till next week to kill himself! May the good Lord forgive him for it is a sin and no mistake – but,’ her currant-like eyes stared into the startled smoke-blue orbs of the minister, ‘maybe it was me who drove him to it. He said he was depressed – that there wasny a soul on the island who had a kindly word for him and I was the worst – ay, I admit it!’

  If it had been Todd the Shod standing there listening to such rantings he would have told her in no mean terms that she was enough to nag any man into his grave, and if Robbie hadn’t escaped when he did he would most likely be dead and buried by now, but though Mark James thought as much, he was too well disciplined to say so. Instead he led Behag back down the track to bundle her into Thunder and drive to Murdy’s croft to ask if Holy Smoke had left instructions for the feeding of his hens.

  ‘Ay indeed,’ nodded Murdy cheerfully, ‘he was in a queer mood and wouldny say where he was going or why – but of course, that is nothing new for a dour cratur’ like himself.’

  ‘But how could he go?’ whispered Behag in dread. ‘The steamer left early this morning and I saw him in the Post Office at nine o’clock.’

  ‘Maybe he flew,’ suggested Murdy with a grin, and disappeared inside when a voice beckoned him in for his tea.

  Mark was just leading a very chastened Behag away when Murdy popped his head out of a window to shout, ‘There is just one thing I thought was gey funny, he asked would I be good enough to put a wee notice in the Post Office window come Monday morning.’

  ‘And what was it to say?’ asked Behag in trembling anticipation.

  ‘That he apologized to his customers for his shop being shut, and thanking everyone for all their past custom.’

  ‘And why would he no’ put such a notice up in his own window?’ Behag asked through dry lips.

  Murdy scratched his head. ‘Ach well, I wasny right listening to his ramblings for he’s like an old woman once he gets going but I think he said there was more o’ a crowd queuing at the Post Office on a Monday morning and he didny want anybody to miss the message.’

  ‘But why would he no’ have given me the notice himself? I was in the Post Office all day and fine he knew it too for he was in there to see me this very mornin’.’

  ‘Ach well, I think he’s a bittie feart o’ you, Behag,’ smirked Murdy. ‘He mentioned something about giving you a fright earlier and you near bit his head off wi’ your rantings and ravings.’

  ‘MURDY!’

  Murdy banged his head on the sash in his hurry to answer the teatime battle cry but Behag didn’t wait to listen to his muffled curses. She was away down the road, scurrying in front of the minister who, despite his long legs, had quite a job catching her up.

  ‘Oh, Mr James, Mr James,’ she sniffed in an excess of self-pity, ‘what am I to do, I ask you? You heard Murdy, this is all my fault and I am going to the Post Office right now to phone the police and tell them Mr McKnight is missing – and – and maybe lying dead somewhere.’ She twisted her hands together and began to cry, the tears running in little rivulets down the wrinkle
s on her cheeks.

  ‘Oh, come now, Behag, I’m sure it isn’t as bad as all that,’ Mark James spoke a trifle wearily. Every minute spent in the old woman’s company was stretching his nerves but he forced himself to stay calm, to speak soothingly and reassuringly. ‘If it will help at all I’ll phone the police and explain what’s happened but meanwhile you get along home and get yourself a bite to eat. You look exhausted and I’m sure you must be needing your tea.’

  ‘Ach, ’tis kind you are, Mr James, indeed, indeed.’ Drawing out a large red flannel square she buried her face in its generous folds and blew her nose with gusto, then she reddened and hastily stuffed the piece of cloth back into her overall pocket, shocked at her own negligence in allowing a man – a minister at that – to cast his eyes upon a section of her very own, cast-off winter knickers. ‘I’ll do as you suggest, Minister,’ she conceded with a flustered nod of her palsied grey head. ‘I am, as you so rightly say, weary to the bone and so sore on my feets all I want to do is sit down at my own fireside and have a wee quiet think to myself. I’ll leave the matter in your good hands and will see you in kirk tomorrow where we will both pray that Mr McKnight hasny come to any harm.’

  With that she was off, her sore ‘feets’ fairly sending up little clouds of stour on the dusty road, leaving the minister to get into Thunder, drive home, and make the promised call to the police at Oban. The desk sergeant took down all the relevant details and promised to send somebody over to investigate if Alexander McKnight didn’t turn up in the next twenty-four hours.

  Mutt was waiting at the study door, his brown eyes conveying to his master that it was high time he was taken for his evening walk, and so Mark walked with him, down towards the cliffs that overlooked Burg Bay. It was a perfect summer’s evening, calm, warm, and tranquil. Gleefully Mutt dug into rabbit burrows, watered every tussock of grass along the way, before getting wind of Muff’s scent which he followed intently, nose snuffled to the ground. Mark followed, lost in thought, a dark depression settling over him despite the beauty of the evening. When he finally caught up with his dog and stood looking down at the Well o’ Weeping foaming away at the foot of the cliffs, he was poorly prepared for the sight of Megan and Steven sitting close together on the rocks. At that moment Megan glanced up and seeing Mark she half rose, her arm upraised in acknowledgement. Eagerly his own hand came up, but Steven had grabbed Megan and was pulling her back down beside him – Mark didn’t wait to see more. His depression turned to something more, a despair and a longing that seemed to pluck the very heart from his body, leaving only an empty, aching void.