Return To Rhanna

by Christine Marion Fraser

  Rachel obviously thought so too. An odd expression had crept into her dark eyes. The full, beautiful mouth that had never uttered a single word, trembled and half-formed a name. Her hand curved upwards, as if she was about to raise it in greeting, then slowly it fell back to her side. She had loved Lewis. Oh, how she had loved the handsome, roguish young McKenzie. Part of her had died when she had made the final break from him, never dreaming that death was soon to carry him over the Great Divide which no mortal could reach, no love could span. The break was forever but Rachel knew that she would never love another as she had loved Lewis McKenzie.

  Lorn’s straight youthful figure wavered till he was like a mirage, never coming nearer, never going away. A tremor passed through her and she felt as if she was the only person left in the world – alone – so alone . . . Jon’s fingers tightened on hers and she straightened – she had Jon, dear, kind, gentle Jon who was always there when she needed him. She could never be alone as long as she had Jon.

  She made her smile ready for Lorn so that by the time he reached them she was able to face him and look steadily into his blue unwavering stare.

  ‘You look well, Rachel, you too, Jon.’ His greeting to her was brusque and she knew why. She had hurt Lewis, had hurt him very badly when she turned away from him and it would be a long time before Lorn could forgive her for that. ‘What do you think of my daughter? She’s beautiful, isn’t she? Maybe one day you’ll have one like her – if you’re lucky.’ The questions were harsh, voiced in such a way they weren’t meant to be acknowledged. Ruth flushed and threw him a look of appeal, but he wasn’t seeing her, he was too intent on getting it through to Rachel that he wasn’t glad to see her, didn’t approve of the fact that his wife had asked her to be the baby’s godmother. But Rachel sensed something else in his words, overtones of accusation that had nothing to do with Lewis – or rather nothing to do with her having left him – or was she wrong – perhaps it had everything to do with her desertion of Lewis . . . a shiver went through her . . . she had heard about Lewis and Ruth – he had turned to her for comfort and . . . She studied the baby’s face for the first time and something clutched at her heart. The child’s eyes were blue a very dark, intense blue and she remembered eyes that had gazed at her with passion, lips that had carried her into rapture . . . Lewis looked out of the baby’s eyes – but so too did Lorn, each of them vying for a place in those beautiful orbs – then Lorna broke through and pierced the bubble containing Lorn and Lewis – but Rachel knew – she knew who had fathered Ruth’s baby – she looked directly into Lorn’s eyes and saw resentment smouldering in their depths – and she wondered if he was happy having married so young with a ready-made family . . .

  Lorn hated Rachel in those moments of meeting her after so much lapsing of time, of so many happenings. He blamed her for the thing that had happened to Ruth, for the trauma of events succeeding the death of Lewis. It all came flooding back, the grief, the uncertainty, the doubts, the fears that sometimes beset him when he sat back and saw in retrospect the magnitude of the responsibilities he had shouldered – yet he had wanted it that way, it had been the only way to keep Ruthie. Perhaps it was natural to have doubts, they were young, still inexperienced about life, still getting to know one another, he couldn’t imagine an existence without her . . . if only . . . the muscles of his jaw tensed . . . if only she was more assertive, if only she didn’t try to please him all the time. After a while it could be very trying – yet – he loved her.

  He glanced at his sister and saw that she was watching him. Telepathy passed between them. She knew, Shona always knew what was going on in his mind. She had done it with Lewis and now she was doing it with him. He smiled, a brilliant smile that lit his eyes and took away the darkness from his brow.

  ‘Shona, ’tis nice to see you, are you coming up to Laigmhor for a bite? I have strict instructions from Mother to invite you and Ellie over, so you’d better not refuse.’ With an oddly deliberate gesture he took the baby from Ruth and dumped her into Shona’s arms. ‘You have a shot at holding her, she’s getting spoilt and girns when anyone but Ruthie lifts her.’

  Ruth’s cheeks grew brighter still. ‘I don’t like her disturbing you, that’s why I pick her up so much, especially at night knowing you have to get up so early.’

  ‘I told you I would take turns with her and if she disturbs me it’s too bad. Babies are like that, Ruthie, it’s in their nature to disturb people when they least want to be disturbed.’

  Ruth’s face showed her hurt and she turned away so that he wouldn’t see the tears glimmering in her eyes. She was feeling depressed a lot these days. It had come on after Lorna’s birth and her mother’s illness wasn’t helping matters. She and Lorn seemed to be snapping at each other a lot of late – an old doubt wormed its way into her consciousness – should she have married Lorn to give the baby a name? She loved him, more than ever she loved him – but had she done right by him?

  The warmth of Lorna’s chubby little body seeped into Shona till it seemed her very skin glowed with it. She stared down at the small, contented face. The baby was watching her, a frown creasing the smoothness of its brow, then it chuckled and regarded her with wide-eyed expectancy. Shona smiled and pressed her lips to the softness of the rounded cheeks. A few strands of silken hair tickled her nose and the faces she made were received with delight. Shona felt a sense of personal triumph. Despite what Lorn had said the baby hadn’t cried, rather she had received the attentions of her aunt with gurgles and smiles that bordered on the rapturous.

  Rachel and Jon stood a little way apart, feeling shut out. Rachel’s eyes scanned the harbour once more. The gulls were settling back to favourite perching places, ruffling their feathers and muttering indignantly about the disturbance that the arrival of the steamer brought to their lives. The visitors were drifting towards the hotel, a few breaking away to gaze into the window of the Craft Shop; Tam and his cronies had temporarily abandoned the loading of the carts and were sitting along the harbour wall, companionably sharing tobacco and cigarettes with the skipper of the cargo boat. A tall Nordic figure with a sheaf of blond hair was striding past the cottages, skirting the War Memorial by Murdy’s house. Rachel’s fingers tightened compulsively on Jon’s and she stood on tiptoe, as if trying to see beyond the unmistakable figure of her stepfather, Torquil Andrew. But he came alone, walking down to pick up the cases and the musical instruments which Jon had left standing against the wall of a nearby cottage.

  Torquil’s blue eyes didn’t give much away as they alighted on Rachel. ‘Your mother is sorry she couldny come down to meet you. She is busy wi’ the babby but knew you wouldny mind if I came along. Dinner is nearly ready so you are to come along at once – you and Mr Yodel.’

  A black mask fell over the bright expectancy in Rachel’s eyes, dulling them into lethargy. It was almost a year since she had last seen her mother, yet she was too busy to come to the harbour to meet her and welcome her home . . . Why did she remember her father so clearly at times like these? Big, grizzled Dokie Joe, with his rough tongue and his heart of gold – lifting her up, his black eyes snapping with pride, always slightly puzzled because his beautiful clever child could never communicate with him when there was so much they needed to talk about . . . Rachel’s head went up and the tempestuous look was back again in her eyes. Torquil felt uneasy in her presence. She had never accepted him, and always he was aware of her resentment. She and Jon would be here for a month and Torquil wasn’t looking forward to it a bit though he liked Jon and got on well with him even though he was always on guard, always ready to defend Rachel if the need arose.

  Ruth went over to Rachel and took her hands; all the misunderstandings that had been present between them at Lewis’s funeral, forgotten.

  ‘I’ll come over to see you tomorrow, Rachel,’ she said eagerly. Beside her friend she looked small and vulnerable yet for all her delicate appearance hers was not a lesser strength than Rachel’s. They had different levels of physical
endurance, different ways of looking at the world and it might have been because they were such opposites that theirs had been a rare and enduring friendship. ‘We could go for one of our wanders over the moors and you can tell me all your news.’

  Rachel’s eyes glowed and she nodded. Ruth was talking about the Rhanna she loved, the moors, the glens, the wide clean shores where on barefoot days she had embossed her footprints in the sand and swum in the bays with Squint, her little spaniel, paddling at her side. The tension oozed from her limbs and she glanced up at Jon who smiled. ‘Of course you can go with Ruth, I won’t intrude, never fear. I have a lot I want to do myself and a visit to Anton and Babbie is the first thing on my agenda.’

  Keeping her eyes averted from Lorn, Rachel nodded her goodbyes to the others and moved away along the pier, her tall, arresting figure causing several male heads to turn in undisguised appreciation.

  Lorn threw his arm round Ellie’s shoulder and they began to move towards Glen Fallen, Ruth deliberately lagging behind, a glint of anger replacing the joy in her eyes. Lorn had been positively rude to her friend and she had no intention of behaving as if nothing had happened.

  ‘I must get some things at the Post Office.’ Shona stopped outside that establishment and checked her bag to make sure she had her purse ready. ‘Ruth, can I keep Lorna with me a wee while longer? She seems quite happy with me.’

  ‘Ay, of course you can.’ Ruth’s voice was unusually gruff.

  ‘Tell the others to go on. I’ll catch them up.’ She withdrew the crushed posy of wildflowers and handed them to Ruth. ‘Tell Ellie to put these in water, I forgot about them but they’ll live with a bit of care.’

  The interior of the Post Office was as dim and musty as it had always been. The strong odour of ink and apples vied with the fusty smell from the bags of broken biscuits which Behag sold to the village youngsters, eager to spend their pennies on something substantial enough to keep them going between meals.

  Behag was sitting on a hard-backed chair behind the high counter, her needles clicking rhythmically, unintelligible murmurings coming from her throat as she counted the stitches. Only the top of her checked woollen headscarf showed, bobbing back and forth, back and forth of its own volition, a palsy which had begun some time ago and which had worsened with encroaching years. The needles came to rest and as she stretched the furrows of her neck to see who had entered her premises, her facial features became evident, the little beady eyes darting suspicious looks in Shona’s direction, her down-turned mouth twisting into something that was meant to be a smile.

  ‘It’s yourself, Shona McKenzie, complete wi’ a bairnie.’ She never conferred on Shona her married title and Shona had put it down to mere forgetfulness though she suspected Behag as merely acting true to form and being insulting.

  ‘Ay, it’s me, Behag,’ Shona nodded. ‘And I’m in a hurry.’

  Immediately she knew she had said the wrong thing. If she had indicated that she was in the shop with plenty of time to spare Behag would have scuttled about with energy, and would have made sure she was seen off the premises in a hurry. As it was she rose to her feet stiffly, muttering something about being riddled wi’ the rheumatism and no’ able to hurry for anybody. She fumbled with the ties of her scarf, tightening them round wizened jowls which plunged into the scrawny layers of her neck. With a disdainful sniff she scrunched her bony fingers through a wad of forms lying on top of an ink-splodged blotter. ‘Damty forms, sometimes I’m thinkin’ I should take down my Post Office sign and put The Bureaucracy in its place – but, ach –’ a smile startled the grim contours of her countenance, ‘– we have to move wi’ the times – that we have. I was never a body to shirk work – and there’s been a lot o’ it ower the years – a damty lot but no one can ever accuse me o’ laziness.’

  Behag was retiring soon and Shona knew she had her reasons for her quick change of face. Since Biddy had acquired her MBE it had been a burning ambition of Behag’s to have a similar honour thrust upon her and knowing that she would have to be recommended for it she had become unnaturally agreeable of late and it was even rumoured that she was making life bearable for her brother Robbie who had hitherto lived a miserable existence.

  ‘There is no dog I know would put up wi’ the kind o’ life Robbie has led,’ Tam asserted to Kate on several occasions. ‘I have come upon him on the moors wi’ his face in his hands and the tears croakin’ out o’ him something sore.’

  ‘It’s the Uisge Beatha does that to Robbie,’ Kate said bluntly. ‘But you’re right, Tam, the poor sowel would be better livin’ in a kennel than wi’ thon dried-up old crone. But she’ll get her come-uppance, you wait. One o’ these days Robbie will do something that will scare the shat out o’ Behag.’

  Shona made her purchases and searched through her bag for her purse, her movements restricted by the baby in her arms.

  ‘A fine healthy bairnie you have there,’ nodded Behag. ‘She sits well in your arms and wi’ her havin’ the stamp o’ the McKenzies on her she might well be yours – of course –’ she sniffed again, ‘– she could be anybody’s from what I’ve been hearin’. Ruth is her mither all over again and history has a habit o’ repeatin’ itself. That good brither o’ yours took on a handful there – oh ay. The bairnie has the look o’ Lorn to her right enough – and of course – she is like Lewis too. A wild wild laddie was that brither o’ yours – a typical McKenzie if ever there was one – he and Ruth were more than a mite friendly. I saw them wi’ my very own eyes, caperin’ about behind Lorn’s back. Poor wee babe, she wasny long comin’ into the world after the wedding, my, have you ever known such a rush – and all within a month or two of Lewis havin’ his accident. No’ that I’m one to pass judgement – oh no – it’s just things a body hears and wi’ me in my position I canny help hearin’ what other folks are sayin’ . . .’

  Shona’s brow had darkened dangerously and her eyes were blue glittering ice pools. Before Behag came to the end of her monologue she leaned over, grabbed the rubber date stamp, and in a flash had imprinted several tattoos all over the crêped skin of Behag’s bare arms. The postmistress was rendered speechless, her mouth falling loosely into the sagging layers of her jowls. Shona banged her money on the counter and made for the door. ‘There you are, Behag,’ she imparted triumphantly. ‘All stamped and ready for the post. I’ll tell Erchy to bring over an extra big sack and to be sure and put you on the next cargo boat – preferably one that’s heading for the Antarctic – you’ll soon melt the ice with that peppery tongue of yours.’

  A screech of outrage followed her as she rushed outside and banged the door. Shona was helpless with laughter. Oh God! If only Niall was here, how he would have enjoyed her descriptions of Behag’s astounded face. She dashed away from the door to almost collide with a tall dark man rounding the corner of the Post Office. Shona recoiled and in doing so glimpsed Behag’s scowling countenance peering from behind her twitching blind and on a surge of mischievous impulse Shona lifted her fingers to her nose in a positively rude gesture. Behag’s eyes bulged, her lips pursed and the blind fell back immediately. Lorna was gurgling, as if she too had enjoyed the joke, but Shona’s high spirits were receding, making way for the dull steadying influence of sobriety and her cheeks were pink as she said breathlessly, ‘You must think me mad, I just couldn’t stop myself doing that – to be honest . . .’ Her dimples came irrepressibly, ‘I enjoyed every second, I felt like a child again, not caring what anybody thought, but I’m not a child and you must think I’m – I’m crazy . . .’ Her voice tailed off. The stranger was grinning, an engaging grin that lifted the corners of his wide, beautiful mouth, and he was introducing himself though there was no need. Her view of him on the glen road had been brief, yet she would have recognized his broad-shouldered masculine figure anywhere. There was something about the way he held himself, a pride of bearing, that singled him out as an extremely individual man. She was horrified at herself, what a way to meet the new minister, he must not only th
ink her mad, but bad into the bargain. Yet he was still smiling, as if he too had enjoyed the interlude, and he was speaking again, in that cool deep voice that impinged so acceptably on her senses.

  ‘You mustn’t look so embarrassed,’ he told her with a laugh. ‘Ministers can see the funny side of life too, you know, and I don’t doubt for a minute that your urge to express yourself in such a manner came about from sheer frustration.’

  ‘Och, I can’t excuse myself that easily – it was just – well, to be frank, our postmistress has a knack of goading people into doing things they – they wouldn’t normally dream of.’

  He nodded sympathetically. ‘I know, I had heard about Miss Beag, so don’t worry yourself any longer.’

  She studied him through her long eyelashes. He was dressed in fawn slacks and a tweed jacket and his white shirt was open at the neck. The thick black cap of his hair was laced with white at the temples but nowhere else; his face was too lean, bordering on thinness yet there was an unexpected attractiveness in the angular cheekbones. It was a face of character, enhanced by a deep cleft in the strong chin and the far-seeing expression in eyes of a smoky blue-grey circled by a ring of dark navy. Her proffered hand was seized in a firm clasp and as she introduced herself and explained where she lived his face lit up.

  ‘That house? I almost reached it the other day but instead accepted a lift from the district nurse. She assured me that I would have been invited in for a cup of tea if I’d been brave enough to carry on.’

  She had allowed her hand to stay in his longer than she intended and somewhat awkwardly she pulled it away, fighting down the bubble of awareness that had arisen in her breast. ‘How do you like the island so far?’ she asked politely.