Storm Over Rhanna

by Christine Marion Fraser

  He turned away quickly, relieved that Mutt followed and didn’t go diving down to the sands to pursue Muff’s scent. The cuckoo was calling from the elms in the kirkyard, calling, calling, triumphantly and gladly, as if to say, ‘I’m here, summer has really begun now, cuckoo, cuckoo.’

  Something tore at Mark’s senses, the realization that the most notorious harbinger of summer wrought no answering echo of gladness in his heart, and with dark head bowed he went on into the Manse to go straight to the parlour where he just sat staring at the bottle of whisky kept on top of the sideboard especially for visitors. For a very long time he stared at it, then roughly he uncorked the bottle and poured himself a good measure.

  Yet he didn’t touch it straightaway. With shaking hands he carried both the glass and the bottle through to the kitchen to set one on the mantelshelf, the other on the hearth, before seating himself by the fire and from that position looking with haunted eyes at the amber liquid reposing so innocently in the glass.

  It had been many years since a single drop had passed his lips, yet there had been a dark and terrible time in his life when he hadn’t been able to get through a single day without it. Margaret’s coming into his life had cured him of the accursed habit. The climb out of the pit into which he had sunk had been a long and painful one. More than once he had slipped back into it but always she had been there with her love, her patient strength, and finally he had conquered it. After that he had achieved so many objectives, the greatest being his youthful ambition to become a minister. For him it had been a momentous achievement, and from there he had gone from strength to strength till he had believed himself the master of his own destiny – then Margaret had been taken from him, both she and Sharon wiped out as if they had never been. Devastated though he had been he had somehow kept going, sustained by the memories of Margaret’s love through all the dark days, the endless nights following his loss. It had been a hard and bitter struggle during which he had fought a constant battle against the temptation of the bottle. But he had won, somehow he had won. Leaving the city to come to Rhanna had been the wisest decision he could have made. He had found a beautiful kind of peace on this lovely island and had thought his inner contentment would always last – but now it was gone, all gone, misery and loneliness were engulfing him once more. Seeing Megan with Steven had been the last straw and a pain like a knife twisted in his heart.

  With a little sobbing cry he snatched up the glass and held on to it with two trembling hands. The raw liquor made him choke and gasp but after a few glasses he was beyond feeling anything. An anaesthetizing numbness washed over his mind, dulled his senses – Mutt whimpered at his knee, licked the beloved hand lying so inert and helpless over the side of the chair.

  Mark stirred, made an attempt to lift his hand so that he could stroke that faithful golden head on his lap. But his limbs were weighted, held down by leaden muscles that refused to obey the weak signals from his brain. Funny that – a faint smile touched his slackening mouth, he was heavy all over yet he felt himself floating – floating . . . The glass slipped away from his nerveless fingers . . . Mark James was asleep, there at his empty hearth, with his animals all around him and lark song pouring in through the open sash. It was only ten o’clock, they would sing for hours yet. It would never grow truly dark that short and wondrous Hebridean night.

  It was the first night in many that Mark hadn’t lain awake listening to the curlews and the larks. He needed to sleep, God knew, but not like this, a dew of perspiration on his brow, his sensitive mouth twisted as if the numbing effects of the whisky couldn’t quite free him from the phantoms that flitted in his own private little hell.

  Mutt never strayed from his master’s side all through that strange, sad, lonely night. The cats came and went from the open window but the dog paid no heed. They were only cats after all, and while they loved the master of the house they weren’t so attuned to his swings of mood. But Mutt knew, alright. He sensed the sadness in this beloved human and somehow he knew that things were going to get a lot worse before they started to get better – if they ever did . . .

  The kirk was quieter than usual that sunlit Sabbath morning, and for that Mark James sent up a silent prayer of thanks. Behag had accosted him on his way down from the Manse, eager to know what the police had to say, twin spots of colour flaring on her gaunt cheekbones when he told her they would be arriving to investigate if Holy Smoke failed to turn up soon.

  ‘Well, he hasny come back yet,’ she said rather nervously, ‘and there’s no sign o’ him coming up the brae to kirk – fancy that now, Mr James, he that hasny missed a kirk service since coming to Rhanna. There’s something gey strange going on and though I dinna like the idea o’ the police snooping around the place we will at least have done our Christian duty by bringing them here.’

  She was in her place now, at the front of the kirk, sitting very upright, a self-righteous air about her that was no deterrent to the sly little innuendoes cast at her from those cronies who had got wind of her concern over Holy Smoke’s whereabouts.

  ‘He’s maybe away posting the banns,’ Kate had suggested with a snigger of pure enjoyment during the walk up the brae to kirk, ‘wi’ him being such a secretive mannie it’s just the sort o’ thing he would do so don’t you be surprised, Behag, if he shows up complete wi’ a wedding ring and his head burstin’ wi’ all sorts o’ marriage plans.’

  ‘You’ll be very sorry you spoke in such poor taste, Mistress McKinnon, if the poor cratur’ really has gone and done himself a mischief,’ Behag had imparted with prim dignity and had thereafter ignored all the teasing comments she had to endure before reaching the safety of the kirk doors.

  Shona was in her place in one of the front pews. Since the event of her twins she had rarely managed to get to kirk, but today Niall was looking after the whole family and now she sat gazing up at the pulpit where Mark James stood. He looked drawn and ill, the light from the windows fell on him, showing up the dark shadows on his pale face, a pallor that was emphasized by the blue-black richness of his thick cap of hair. His voice had always reverberated deeply and sweetly round the old kirk but today it lacked impact, he seemed unsure of what he was going to say next, and once he passed his hand over his head as if trying to soothe away some nagging, secret pain.

  The congregation coughed and rustled, glanced at one another furtively and somehow knowingly.

  ‘The man o’ God is no’ himself the day,’ Jim Jim hissed at Isabel in Gaelic.

  She poked him in the ribs. ‘Wheest, you daft bodach, he is a human mannie first and foremost and must have his wee off days like the rest o’ us.’

  But Jim Jim was right. The man o’ God was ill and Shona found herself paying more attention as to the reasons why than she did to the service, so that once or twice she remained seated when the rest of the congregation got up on its feet to sing the Lord’s praises.

  Mark James would always hold a very special place in Shona’s heart. She had never forgotten how he had helped her in her time of terrible need, and had hoped that one day she would be able to repay him for all his kindness.

  ‘He’s such a dear man, isn’t he?’ Mrs Dolly Hosheit murmured in Shona’s ear. ‘I so love listening to that wonderful, sincere voice of his but today he seems a tiny bit off colour, wouldn’t you say, my dear?’

  Shona had of course heard how Babbie had taken Mrs Hosheit to Tigh na Cladach and she had smiled to herself at her friend’s determination to save Doctor Megan’s reputation. The pleasant and enthusiastic little Englishwoman had enjoyed every minute of her stay on Rhanna. She had visited ceilidhs, been invited into people’s homes for cracks and strupaks, and had made herself altogether so agreeable to everyone that she had soon earned their affection and respect. She had been further delighted to find so many McKinnons on the island since her husband’s family was of that line, but of them all she seemed to like Kate best and had struck up quite a friendship with her, much to old Sorcha’s disgust.

 
‘That Kate! That Kate!’ she fumed. ‘The island is full o’ McKinnons but she is the one to get picked out as if there was a message written all over her saying, “Come and get me, I’m the genuine article”. Oh ay, she aye lands on her feets and ’tis just no’ fair for I am after hearin’ she is cheatin’ that poor wee Englishwoman out o’ good sillar by sellin’ her thon mealy puddings she makes – and here’s me, bakin’ and cookin’ from the cradle and never so much as a farthing did I ever take for any o’ it.’

  ‘Ay, and it isny for the want o’ tryin’,’ smirked Jim Jim and sprachled quickly away before Sorcha could deafen him with her whistling hearing aid.

  ‘The minister was out late last night helping Behag Beag to find Mr McKnight,’ Shona told the Englishwoman with a pleasant nod. ‘And he was probably burning the midnight oil preparing his sermon for today.’

  ‘That will explain his weary look,’ nodded Mrs Hosheit. ‘It is just a pity a fine man like that hasn’t got a wife to look after him. He must get very lonely in that big house and I just wonder if he feeds himself properly. I myself have never tasted such good food as since I came to Rhanna. Eve is such a marvellous cook and makes me all the things I like. Today however I have been invited round to Kate McKinnon’s house for dinner. She is such a fine woman, so full of character and a very interesting person. I believe she has something to tell me about her roots and I’m very much looking forward to hearing all about it.’

  When the service was over Shona sought out Mark James, laying her hand on his arm and saying persuasively, ‘Come home and have some dinner at Mo Dhachaidh. You – seem troubled and shouldn’t be so alone as you are now.’

  He sighed, ‘That sounds wonderful. Tina always leaves me something cold for my Sunday dinner and it would be nice, just for once, to eat at a family table.’

  ‘Right,’ she squeezed his arm sympathetically, ‘come as soon as you can and bring Mutt with you. One more dog won’t make much difference in a house full of animals and children.’

  ‘Sounds just the tonic I need.’ He smiled at her and her heart turned over for it was a smile which didn’t reach his eyes, and when he turned to walk away from her there was a defeated little droop about his strong shoulders that was oddly disquieting.

  Mrs Dolly Hosheit was thoroughly enjoying herself at Kate’s house. Tam had been well warned to be on his best behaviour and though he squirmed uncomfortably in his stiff Sunday best, he was most mannerly and polite to the visitor and very attentive to all her little needs.

  Daniel Smylie Smith was there at the table with the rest of them. Dolly already knew him by sight, and as they got talking over the meal she was enthralled to discover that his grandparents had been married by her father in his church in the very village in which she had been born and brought up.

  ‘And fancy you being a McKinnon,’ she beamed on Kate as if she had just discovered the fact.

  ‘Ay, and as my maiden name was also McKinnon there wasny much to change when I wed my Tam – except maybe a few o’ his wee habits.’

  Tam wriggled and threw Kate a dirty look but the visitor didn’t notice, she was talking about her husband who had come from the island of Mull.

  ‘Mull?’ interposed Kate. ‘Well, well, there’s a coincidence and no mistake, that is where my forebears came from.’

  Dolly had grown quite red in the face with excitement. ‘Really? Oh, but this is wonderful!’ Her face fell, ‘Emmit’s people actually came from Ulva which was so devastated by the Clearances. With the islands being so close he was inclined just to refer to it as Mull.’

  ‘Ach! This is just too much!’ Kate pointedly ignored the dark looks cast at her by Tam. ‘My people thought like your Emmit – they came from Ulva but it was easier just to call the whole area Mull when in conversation.’

  After that there was no stopping either Kate or Dolly. They talked and talked till the latter lay back exhausted. ‘What a wonderful time I’ve had here in your house, Kate. Not only do I find myself on common ground with this young man here, I also find that there is an undeniable possibility that you and my dear Emmit might have been blood kin. Oh, if only he was alive to hear all this for himself, how thrilled he would have been to meet you, Kate – and Tam too, of course. Before I leave the island you must tell me all about your ancestors and where they came from. I’m sure I’ll discover even more of my dear husband’s background.’

  Finally she went, proudly bearing a huge parcel of Kate’s homemade mealy puddings for which she had insisted on paying a ridiculously large sum of money.

  ‘You went just a wee bittie too far that time, Kate,’ Tam told his wife when at last they had the house to themselves. ‘The wifie could have bought a Rolls-Royce wi’ the money she paid for your puddings. I thought Ranald was bad but you’re a hundred times worse.’

  ‘Ach, Tam, she is a rich woman and is dying to spend some o’ her sillar. She has already bought enough souvenirs to start a shop o’ her own and she’ll no’ go wrong wi’ my good home cooking.’

  Tam sat back to regard his wife with a twinkle. ‘Well, ’tis glad I am to have the house to myself for a whilie. You have been entertaining some very peculiar people here, Kate, the whole house reeks wi’ the smell o’ them.’

  ‘You are talking nonsense, Tam,’ Kate scolded with unusual primness. ‘If Danny is no’ steepin’ himself in the ocean he is over at the doctor’s house steepin’ himself there. As for Dolly, she smelt that nice I commented on it and as generous as you like she gave me a wee bottle o’ scent straight out o’ her handbag.’

  ‘’Tis no’ them, ’tis their names that reek. Just you try sayin’ her name over and over, quick as you can. It sounds as if you are askin’ a very rude sort o’ question.’

  Kate repeated the name and skirled with laughter, ‘Ay, I see what you mean but trust you to think o’ a thing like that. Rude name or no’ she’s a nice, friendly wee body and I like her fine.’

  ‘Why were you after tellin’ her you came from Ulva?’ Tam probed, a frown on his honest, round face. ‘If I’m mindin’ right I met you on North Uist where you told me generations of your family went back into history.’

  ‘Ach, it was what the wifie wanted to hear – and Ulva is only a stone’s throw from Uist as the crow flies.’

  ‘Ay, if you were maybe some kind o’ giant who could hurl chukkies eighty miles over the ocean.’

  ‘I have done no harm,’ returned Kate with dignity. ‘Dolly will go from this island thinkin’ that she has found some o’ her man’s roots on Rhanna and she will be a happier wee woman still when she visits her next island and the next. You see, Tam,’ she explained with a great show of calculated patience, ‘the McKinnons are everywhere and Dolly is bound to find others wi’ the same connections as myself for it is a fact o’ life and one that you canny seem to get into that thick head o’ yours – people believe what they want to believe and if they are the happier for doing so then who am I to deny them their simple wee pleasures?’

  On Tuesday morning, four days after his ‘disappearance’, Holy Smoke stepped off a fishing boat at Portcull Harbour, looking mighty pleased with himself and genuinely surprised when he was immediately surrounded by a knot of villagers.

  ‘For why have you come back?’ asked Tam, casting a curious eye at the heavy-looking satchel the butcher was carrying.

  ‘And why should I no’? I live here, remember.’

  ‘Behag thought you were away to kill yourself. She’s been driving us all daft since Saturday and has made the minister ill wi’ her greetin’ and worrying. The police have been here looking for you and broke into your crofthouse on Sunday night to see had you done yourself an injury, and they had to break into your shop too, to find out if you were maybe lyin’ hanged somewhere . . .’

  Ranald delivered all this in a swift monologue which came to an abrupt halt when the butcher’s yell of anguish rent the air.

  ‘My shop! What for why did they do that? My freezer room! They maybe left the door open! Everything
will be ruined!’

  With that he was off, breaking into a demented run, half the village at his heels on the short journey to the butcher’s shop. A great sigh of relief broke from Holy Smoke when he discovered everything to be in order but when his eye fell on a pile of packages lying at his door, he let out a fresh bellow of outrage.

  ‘What’s these?’ he demanded, swivelling bulging eyes from the doorway to the surrounding array of faces.

  ‘It will be your order of meat from Oban,’ supplied Robbie. ‘It came on last night’s steamer as usual.’

  ‘But, my tellygram! I got Miss Beag to send a tellygram from the Post Office first thing on Saturday morning, telling Mr Porteous to send no more meat. It will be ruined lying there in this heat and I will have to pay for it! I canny believe this! I just canny believe it!’

  Everyone looked at everyone else. Behag had done it again! Somehow managed to get her wires crossed by misconstruing an important message. Once before, during the war, she had transmitted a misleading call for help with the result that the Commandoes had arrived on Rhanna to hunt down an imaginary invasion of German soldiers.

  ‘Mr McKnight! ’Tis yourself! Thank the good Lord you are safe and well.’ Behag puffed into the scene, red-faced and hot after her rush along the road from her cottage out of whose windows she had spied the commotion at the butcher’s shop. If she had expected anything on her arrival there it certainly wasn’t the stream of abuse hurled at her from Holy Smoke’s rage-whitened lips.