Storm Over Rhanna

by Christine Marion Fraser

  He was well rewarded: Dodie was staring at him, speechless with joy, then he put his face in his big, calloused hands and began to cry, softly, brokenly, all the sadness and tension of the last long year spewing out in the tears that coursed freely down his face to squeeze themselves between his stubby fingers.

  The other two men looked at one another, each of them experiencing a quiet, sweet happiness as they witnessed one old man’s sorrows draining away in the tears he had bottled inside his lonely heart for so long.

  ‘Just explain one thing to me, old boy,’ said the laird, when Dodie was mopping his wet face with a sparkling white hanky that Mairi had thoughtfully tucked into his pocket earlier, ‘what’s all this about a stolen cup?’

  Dodie explained breathlessly, ending, ‘Maybe it wasny stolen from you, Mr Balfour, I never asked the tink where he got it but you had better have it anyway just in case.’

  Scott Balfour grinned. ‘You hang on to it, Dodie, I’ll have a dram from it when I come to see that you’re settling in at Croft Beag, we’ll both have one.’

  ‘Ach, you’re a good man just, Mr Balfour, I’ll never be able to thank you for all your kindness to me – and you’ll no’ forget what you said a wee while ago about a cow – will you now?’

  ‘Dodie liked a cow he saw on the moor this morning.’ A conspiratorial smile passed between the laird of Burnbreddie and the eldest son of McKenzie o’ the Glen. ‘She was a bonny young shorthorn complete with calf. I wasny sure if she was yours or Croynachan’s.’

  ‘She will be one of Croynachan’s breeding beasts but I’m sure something can be arranged, I’ll have a word with Tom as soon as I can.’

  But Dodie would not be satisfied until the laird had seen the ‘bonny beast’ for himself, so into the estate Land-Rover they piled, after the laird had instructed old Angus the groom to take his horse back to the stables.

  ‘But she’s champing at the bit, Mr Balfour,’ grumbled Angus, who hated change of routine.

  ‘She isn’t the only one,’ replied the laird rather sourly, though he went willingly enough to where Dodie was waiting impatiently.

  They found the cow easily enough, browsing among the sweet grasses at the edge of the moor where wild flowers grew in profusion and pollen dusted the men’s footwear as they swished along.

  The cow looked up at their approach, a large white daisy sticking comicaly out of her pollen-covered lips from which a soft snort of warning issued forth, telling them not to get too close to her week-old calf who was peacefully asleep nearby.

  Only Dodie advanced forward, his great clumsy feet as stealthy as a cat’s, his tongue forming soothing Gaelic words.

  ‘Does he always speak to the beasts in Gaelic?’ the laird hissed in Grant’s ear.

  ‘Oh ay,’ Grant took the question seriously, ‘most o’ the older folks do, it’s the tongue the beasts know best. Tom himself likely does it – it’s the native language o’ both man and beast you see, Mr Balfour,’ he explained with only the faintest hint of admonishment in his tone.

  Dodie had reached the cow. As before she allowed him to pat and stroke her and finally entwine his arms round her hairy neck. Her green-coated tongue flicked out to lick his hand, releasing a sweet smell of clover; her enormously long, curly eyelashes tickled the coarse, weather-beaten skin of his face. His devotion and love were instant, tenderly sealed with a big, blubbery, smacking kiss placed plunk on the white star between the beast’s ears. She didn’t seem to mind any of it in the least, rather she gave every indication of enjoyment by rolling back her eyes along with her lips and uttering a soft little moo which was spoken directly into the hairy depths of Dodie’s left lug. A great sigh shuddered out of him, his wet face was as content as it would ever be, and he knew that this was a rare day in his life, one that he would never, never forget.

  ‘Ealasaid, my bonny Ealasaid, you’ve come back,’ he said simply, and smiled.

  Within a fortnight he was settled into his new home, Wullie McKinnon having driven up to Dodie’s cottage to heave his meagre possessions into the back of the truck. The hens clucked in their crates among the jumble of furniture, Wullie started the engine, the truck began to rattle away on its journey down to Croft Beag, Gaelic for Little Croft, leaving behind the tiny cottage that had been Dodie’s home for as long as he could remember. In days to come other people would live in it, for the laird had it in mind to gut it and make it suitable for visitors to rent in the summer months. Dodie took a last long lingering look at it, the peaceful glade, the purling burn, the wee hoosie shorn of its Swastika-patterned roof, his eyes beginning to swim. ‘You’ve made sure you put my bonny sign in a safe place, Wullie?’ he asked for the umpteenth time.

  Wullie nodded, drawing his sleeve across his nose to rid it of its perpetual and famous drip. ‘Ay, ay, ’tis down at Croft Beag along wi’ the rest o’ the stuff you salvaged from the Jerry plane so don’t you worry about a thing. Mairi has been at the croft all morning getting it ready and will have a nice hot dinner waitin’ for you.’

  Mairi did indeed have a nice hot dinner waiting, but on arrival at Croft Beag Dodie was so astounded at the sight that met his eyes he was too excited to sit down and eat immediately. For the house was completely furnished from top to bottom, not new things by any means but good, solid, well-preserved furniture that had seen much service and would see much more before it was finished.

  ‘The laird had it all brought down from Burnbreddie,’ smiled Mairi, as she twitched a snow-white net curtain into place.

  ‘And the clock! The bonny, talkin’ clock!’ Dodie was staring at the mantelpiece whereon reposed the cuckoo clock that had so captivated him.

  ‘Ay, that too,’ nodded Mairi. ‘It was good o’ the man right enough though I’m thinkin’ he was maybe pleased to be rid o’ it for it’s fair deeved my own lugs all mornin’ wi’ its shoutin’.’

  ‘I’ll just unload these other things from the truck and put a match to them,’ grinned Wullie, and went outside to begin heaving Dodie’s goods and chattels into a large, ungainly pile.

  But Dodie wasn’t listening to anybody, he was over beside the clock, fondling its ornate carvings, waiting with bated breath for the hour to strike. When at last the cheeky little cuckoo shot vigorously against his nose, he clutched that appendage in his fingers and let out such a nasal screech of joy that Wullie stopped in his labours and was pecked on his nose by one of the hens who had managed to wriggle her head out between the spars of her crate.

  After that there was no stopping Dodie. He pelted through the house like an express train, his boots squelching on the polished lino and wrinkling up the gaily coloured rugs that were scattered everywhere. He exclaimed over everything, touched, rubbed, familiarized himself with all the strange furniture, and when he was finished with that he galloped outside to stare with delight at his green acre and babble with pleasure at the sight of his ‘bonny Hun sign’ decorating the byre roof, having been nailed there by Wullie and Tam the day before.

  ‘Everything is lovely just and will be even better when Ealasaid and her bairn are safely home wi’ me,’ he enthused, as he came back inside to turn on taps and exclaim at the sight of fresh water gushing out. All his life he had carted pails of water from the burn, and he was so taken with the novelty of piped water he would have stayed at the sink for the rest of the morning turning the taps on and off had not Mairi pulled him away to lead him to the porch where she opened a door leading into a water closet.

  ‘There is no bath,’ she explained a trifle regretfully, for she was itching to deposit the old eccentric into one as soon as possible, ‘but there is a fine big zinc tub hangin’ on a nail here and at least you’ll no’ have to go out to a wee hoosie anymore.’

  Dodie’s relief at the lack of a properly plumbed bath was tremendous, and he wasn’t too taken with the water closet either.

  ‘I liked my wee hoosie fine,’ he mourned, ‘I had all thon airyplane levers in there wi’ me and could play wi’ them when I was waitin’
for my rhubarb to work.’

  ‘Ach, Dodie,’ scolded Mairi, ‘you didny think Wullie would throw these away surely? He has them safe and will fix them in here when he has the time and then you’ll feel really at home.’

  ‘Ach, ’tis good you are, Mairi,’ he told her shyly. ‘It will be fine havin’ you for a neighbour, that it will, though I’ll no’ torment you for anything I wouldny like tormented for myself. It was private up there on the hill, you see,’ he explained with dignity, ‘and it will take me a whilie to get used to folk keekin’ at me out o’ their curtains . . .’

  The cuckoo rushed out to proclaim the half-hour, enchanting Dodie afresh and leaving Mairi free to take the old man’s belated dinner from the oven and set it on the table.

  Scott Balfour was in the garden, helping Rena to tie up some gigantic sunflowers, when Mark came cycling along the driveway. Seeing them in the walled-off garden at the side of the house, he dismounted and left his bike propped against the wall before going slowly through the ornate iron gate.

  ‘Mark, how nice to see you, old boy,’ greeted the laird. ‘A bit hot for biking, I would have thought. Just let me finish here and I’ll come and join you under the trees at the back. It’s cool there and we can talk in comfort.’

  Rena glanced at the visitor’s hot face. ‘I’ll go and get you something cool to drink, unless –’ she turned back – ‘you would like some iced whisky – or a long, cold glass of beer.’

  ‘No, no, nothing like that,’ Mark refused quickly.

  ‘Oh, come on, Mark.’ The laird finished tying the flowers and came forward to throw his arm round the other man’s shoulder. ‘I’m having one, just about time for a spot of the old mountain dew – it will help to revive you after the journey.’

  ‘No!’ Mark spoke too vehemently. ‘No,’ he repeated in a softer tone, ‘a soft drink will be much more refreshing.’

  Rena went off to the house, leaving her husband to lead the visitor to a huge oak tree around whose vast trunk had been built a circular bench which was shaded by the green, spreading canopy above.

  It was very beautiful sitting there in the dappled shadows with the daisy-strewn grass smelling hot and sweet and the gladed woodlands rising behind, filled with birdsong and the chatter of red squirrels. In front of them, lush lawns sloped down to the sea where sandy coves and sheltered inlets abounded. The laird’s motor cruiser could just be seen through the thick windbreak of rhododendrons, bobbing gently on its mooring in a calm little bay.

  From the walled garden the scent of roses mingled with those of honeysuckle and sweet peas, and in the sylvan fields beyond, two gleaming chestnut mares browsed in the clover while in a small nearby paddock a tiny, shaggy donkey called Woolly stood near the fence, blinking sleepily in the sun, looking not in the least disposed to utter its ear-splitting brays which so attracted the children of Nigg that they often stopped on the road just to listen, and to wonder if it would be alright to go up to the big house and ask the laird if Woolly could come out to play. For out to play he did go whenever it was suitable, accompanied by the local youngsters who led him down to the sandy coves, where he paddled his hairy hooves in the water and gave the children bareback rides when he was in the mood to do so.

  The delights of the place seemed to breathe life into Mark’s soul. He allowed his heart to drink it in, to enjoy it while the sun shone and the birds sang – for already the days were shortening ever so subtly – before he knew it autumn would be here, with the first storms lashing those wondrously peaceful shores down there . . .

  ‘You must come out in Rena with me sometime,’ the laird had caught his visitor’s wistful look and misinterpreted it. ‘On a day like this there’s nothing finer than a spin over the waves. I say, how about now? No time like the present, old man, and you look as though you could do with cooling down.’

  ‘Thanks, Scott, but perhaps another time. I promised I would look in on Jack the Light and I’ve got some books I said I would hand in to old Meggie.’

  ‘You work far too hard, Mark – ah, here’s Rena with the drinks.’ Jumping up, he took the tray from her hands and placed it on the bench.

  ‘I’ll leave this.’ Smiling, Rena took a bottle of whisky from the generous depths of her gardening apron. ‘I know my husband, after one he wants another and if Peggy sees him at the drinks cabinet she’ll fold her lips into a thin line and later tell me, “The maister drinks too much. He leaves white rings on the sideboard I just canny seem to polish off and me wi’ the rheumatics in my wrists.”’ She was an expert at mimicking the crotchety but utterly devoted kitchen maid, and went off to resume her gardening leaving the men laughing though, in Mark’s case, it was mirth tinged with a terrible guilt.

  ‘At least you don’t commit your wee sins in private,’ he murmured quietly.

  ‘What was that, old man?’

  ‘Oh, just something Captain Mac once said.’

  ‘I know, he’s always coming away with some quaint observation – are you sure you won’t have a dram to keep me company?’

  ‘Positive, you go ahead and enjoy it, I’m perfectly happy with this.’ He sipped the long, ice-cold orange drink slowly, forcing his eyes away from the glass of whisky in Scott Balfour’s hand. ‘I only came over to thank you for all you did for Dodie,’ he concentrated his mind on the old eccentric, ‘he’s absolutely thrilled with the croft and everything in the house and of course the cow and her calf. Old habits die hard though,’ he smiled at the remembrance of his last visit to Croft Beag, ‘I came upon him carrying his chamber pot out to his new rhubarb patch, and though he wasn’t too pleased to be caught in the act he quite haughtily informed me he found the chamber more convenient than the water closet, since all the good of that went to waste in the sea.’

  The laird chuckled. ‘I’ve tasted that rhubarb. Damned good it was too if you can overlook its origins.’

  ‘I was granted that honour as well, with Shona McLachlan, one warm day sitting out in the sun, complete with polks of sugar.’

  The laird slapped his knee. ‘I felt like a small boy again, dipping sticks of rhubarb into a paper bag. An old servant of ours made them just as Dodie does. Polky hats she called them – those were the days, eh, Mark?’

  They reminisced, the laird growing quite sentimental as he talked about his boyhood. Mark was caught off-guard when suddenly the other man held up the whisky bottle and urged him to have one, ‘to boyhood’.

  The amber liquor glinted in the bottle. It was like a magnet, hypnotizing him, capturing his whole attention so that his entire being seemed riveted to that deceptively innocent-looking liquid – his tongue came out to moisten his lips and from somewhere a voice spoke, out of his command, a perfectly calm voice saying, ‘Och well, what’s the harm – but just a wee one, mind.’

  Half an hour later both he and the laird were in a most amiable and companionable frame of mind, with Scott Balfour speaking into his beard as he was wont to do whilst imbibing.

  ‘I’ve seen him at it,’ Peggy had voiced her disapproval to a few of her cronies. ‘Kissin’ and slaverin’ into his very own whiskers and betimes lookin’ mighty surprised when they didny kiss him back. He’s that glaikit in drink he thinks anything that tickles must be a woman, though Mistress Balfour is far too sensible to let him paw her when he’s in that state.’

  ‘Ach, Peggy,’ reproved old Meggie acidly, whilst praying that Burnbreddie’s nosy maid would never discover her own tipple hidden under the crinoline skirt of a doll she kept on the mantelpiece, ‘the man deserves his wee dram, for he’s a good, kind soul and only takes a drop to be sociable.’

  ‘That’s as may be,’ sniffed Peggy, ‘but he’s the laird after all and should show an example – even if it’s only to these rough-speakin’ crofters who visit him cap in hand and come away steppin’ out as high as kings, brimful o’ drink and cheek.’

  But Scott Balfour paid little heed to Peggy’s opinions. His own father had pickled himself in alcohol and his son had no intention of
ending up like that. He simply enjoyed a dram in his own home and that’s where it ended, and it was he who decided that enough was enough when he noticed Mark’s reflexes were growing clumsy.

  ‘Strange, old boy,’ he mused, ‘now that I come to think of it you’ve never once taken a dram from me – hey, steady on, old son—’

  He jumped up to go after the minister, who had risen to his feet and was making his unsteady way over the grass.

  ‘I must go, Jack the Light – old Meggie—’ Mark tried to make his tongue obey the commands from his brain by speaking slowly and in monosyllables.

  ‘I know, Mark, but wait and have some coffee first—’

  ‘Must go.’ Mark reached his bike, mounted and rode away, forgetting all about his promised visits to the old people of Nigg. The road twisted, turned, swooped downwards, upwards. His head spun, he concentrated grimly on the dusty grey ribbon in front, keeping his eyes strictly averted from the cliffs, the sea.

  Something blurred his vision. Not that! Surely not that! He was a man. Men didn’t cry. Oh God, he thought, how low have I sunk? Is this me? Really me? The Reverend Mark James crying? For what? For whom? Himself? Megan—?

  The road wavered, a grey-white blob suddenly rushed across his path, followed by a smaller, whiter blob – a ewe and her lamb . . . He swerved, his bike skidded from under him and he was falling down, down. His head thudded against a rock, and then there was only blackness – and no more pain . . .

  ‘Mark, Mark, wake up. I know you can hear me, wake up.’

  He groaned and moved slightly. His mouth was so dry his tongue stuck to the roof of it, his head throbbed with bands of red-hot pain. He tried to speak but couldn’t – something icy-cold was suddenly there on his brow, soothing it, numbing the pain.

  ‘You’re alright, Mark, it’s only me, lie still.’

  Dazedly, he looked around him. He was home in his own bed and Babbie was somehow there, applying cold cloths to his forehead from a bowl of water beside the bed. Raising his head gently, she put a cup to his lips and he drank gratefully, gulping a little in his eagerness to get the fresh water down. It awoke his mouth, freed his tongue, allowing him to speak. ‘Babbie, tell me, how did I get here?’ he said urgently, taking her hand and holding on to it as if it was a lifeline.