Return To Rhanna

by Christine Marion Fraser

  ‘You’re alive again, Shona, don’t you feel it?’

  She nodded, ‘Ay, it’s coming back, I feel sad and happy at the same time. I want to cry but I can’t – the tears won’t come—’ Her voice rose. ‘I think there must be something wrong with me!’

  ‘They’ll come – in time they’ll come – meantime, haven’t you forgotten something?’

  ‘Forgotten something?’

  ‘Your most important and precious memory of all – Ellie wouldn’t want to be left out of Memory Corner – after all, it was her idea.’

  Wordlessly she left the room and went upstairs. She was gone for quite some time but when she returned she carried a picture of Ellie – Ellie laughing in a summer field, her arms full of buttercups, her golden hair glinting red in the sun, her eyes crinkled with all the joy and laughter that had been hers in her short life.

  ‘Put it here,’ Mark James directed gently. ‘Facing into the room where you can see her bright young face and feel her joy when you’re sad or depressed.’

  A sprig of red-berried holly and a spray of bronze beech leaves had been hastily arranged in a jar and placed on the ledge. ‘It was all I could find,’ he explained apologetically. ‘The leaves I picked from the hedge in the garden.’

  Too overcome to speak she turned away and in a blinding flash Ellie came to her, long golden limbs carrying her swiftly through the fields, her brown arms outstretched as if to embrace the world, her face uplifted to the sky as if in adoration of the vast open spaces that had been hers from babyhood. ‘Ellie,’ she whispered in wonder, ‘you’re so happy.’

  ‘Ay, Mother, happiness is like the measles – it’s infectious.’ An echo of Ellie’s voice seemed to beat into the room, bringing with it all the frank, unquestioning hope of youth.

  ‘I’m not – going funny in the head again – am I?’ Shona voiced her fears in panic.

  ‘You’re accepting what is,’ Mark James reassured her. ‘And that can only be good.’ He moved towards the door. ‘I must go – I want to see how old Meggie is coping with living in a blackhouse.’

  ‘Och, she’ll be fine, she’s a self-sufficient old soul and enjoys an excuse to get into her blackhoosie.’ She thought about the day she had gone with Mark James on his visits. It had been a good day, a day of summer, of sun, of old people who faced the problems of daily living with dignity. But she had only accompanied Mark James for selfish reasons, and the same had applied when she had gone with Babbie on her rounds. Her friend had more or less implied this but she hadn’t liked such home truths. She was suddenly filled with a compelling urge to right this and she said quietly, ‘Let me come with you sometime, I – I feel I want to do something to help people like Meggie and Jack.’

  He nodded, ‘Ay, the old folk would like that. They have all been asking after you, wondering how you were.’

  ‘Mark – I want you to know – there will always be a special place in my heart for you.’

  His frank, assessive gaze swept over her and it was as if he was imprinting a picture of her in his mind that would remain forever. ‘It is enough for me to know that – in some small way I have helped you to find God again. I will never forget these precious minutes spent in your company – and remember, God works in mysterious ways, Shona. Miracles do happen if you believe in them enough. You have so much of life left and plenty of time for wonderful things to happen to you. Just promise me one thing, only you and I need know of the thing that happened here today. You must never hurt your husband by telling him.’

  ‘I won’t say anything, you can be sure of that,’ she said huskily.

  His broad back was to her now and already he was becoming a memory. ‘Think of me now and then.’ His voice was low, his dark head angled slightly backwards but he didn’t turn again. She listened as his footsteps went up the hall, watched as he walked past the window. His coat collar was turned up against the wind, his hair ruffling over his brow. He didn’t look towards the window but walked quickly away till he was just a dark blob in the distance, a lone figure who carried God in his soul.

  With his departure the house was empty again, empty and sad, as if in some way it had been badly let down. She went over to the mantelpiece and blew away the dust. ‘I’ve let you down, Biddy,’ she said to the silent room. ‘I said you would never regret our coming to live in your house and I’ve neglected it sorely.’

  She pulled herself up to her full height, a new determination on her face. Tomorrow she would come back to light fires and clean the house till it was shining. After all, this was her home, hers and Niall’s – and he deserved to come back to a welcoming place, a fire to warm him, his meals ready on the table . . . Suddenly she couldn’t wait to get started, could hardly bear to see the house as it was – and most of all she couldn’t wait to see Niall again – to let him know that everything was going to be all right.

  On the way back to Laigmhor she encountered Dodie trundling bits of corrugated iron in a wheelbarrow. She guessed that his cottage had suffered storm damage and he wasn’t waiting for the laird to send someone round to repair it. She raised her hand in greeting but the familiar ‘He breeah’ wasn’t forthcoming and though he was some way off she saw plainly the look of reproach he cast in her direction before he turned up the hill track and hurried away, his big misshapen frame thrown forward to take the weight of the barrow.

  She stood dismayed, wondering what she had done to him. Never in all her years of knowing him had this happened. To lose the trust of Dodie was somehow earth-shattering. He was just an old man, smelly, eccentric, inarticulate, yet he was something more, much more than any of these. He represented everything that was steadfast and true, attributes she had rarely encountered in the more sophisticated around her. In his oneness of body and soul he portrayed the spirit of the island, in the simple faith he placed in his fellow creatures, he signified hope in everyone who knew him. To gain the trust of such a shy and humble man was something rare, accorded only to a few. She had been one of them and somehow she had hurt him badly enough for him to want to avoid meeting her.

  She would have to ask Niall about it, he had been her most constant companion in the week after Ellie’s death, a time of which she could recall very little, even the funeral was just a dim blur in her mind. Her footsteps quickened as she approached the cobbled yard, all at once unable to wait to see her father. It was as if a veil had been lifted from her whole outlook and she was seeing clearly again.

  ‘I’m back, Father!’ Her voice rang out. Fergus swung round from the sink where he was washing off the afternoon’s grime; Kirsteen looked up from the newspaper, her newly acquired spectacles sitting selfconsciously but attractively on her neat nose; Ruth who had been to the village with Kirsteen and who had come back for a strupak, stopped in the act of bundling little Lorna into her fluffy pink sleeping suit. Ruth had been to visit many times since Shona’s return from hospital but had received an even cooler reception than anyone, Shona barely acknowledging her existence after an initial brusque word of apology for what had happened.

  Everyone stared at her intrusion into the kitchen and Fergus burst out, ‘Shona, what in heaven’s name have you done?’

  She had forgotten the surprise her changed appearance would create and for a few uncomprehending seconds she stared back at them all then her hand flew to her hair and she coloured.

  ‘Ach, I felt like a change so I lopped it off,’ she explained but still her father continued to gaze at her as if she wasn’t quite real, a deep hope shining in his eyes.

  ‘Shona,’ he said and his voice was low. ‘What happened?’

  She looked at him steadily. ‘I went to Mo Dhachaidh and had a visit from the minister.’

  That was all but it was enough. Fergus nodded. ‘He’s a fine man.’

  ‘Ay,’ she agreed briefly then added somewhat impatiently, ‘Has anyone heard from Niall at all?’

  ‘Nary a word – but he should be home for Christmas.’

  ‘Shona, I was wondering—
’ Ruth began hesitantly then rushed on. ‘There’s a dance at Portvoynachan next week and Lorn said he would take me if I could get someone to come over and sit with Lorna. Would you—?’ She left the question unfinished, her fair skin flooding with colour at the amazed silence which hit the room. Shona’s gaze strayed to the baby. At nine months she was a rosy bundle of mischief already attempting to pull herself to her feet. Her hair had darkened to a rich honey, her eyes were an intense purple-blue, a combination that was entrancing.

  ‘You would trust me to do a thing like that?’ Shona’s tones were incredulous.

  ‘Ay, Shona, I would,’ Ruth said firmly, thinking about Lorn’s face when she had put the suggestion to him and her argument that it would take something drastic to bring Shona to her senses.

  ‘If – you’re sure, Ruthie,’ he had said doubtfully yet with a wonder in him that this young wife of his could be so caring towards the woman who had caused her such heartache.

  ‘It might be just the thing she needs – to be trusted once again,’ she had told him and he had taken her in his arms to hold her close, his concern for his sister silencing the fears that sprang to his tongue.

  Shona could only nod her acceptance before going quickly out of the kitchen, saying over her shoulder, ‘I’m away upstairs to wash my hair, I’m anything but a bonny sight at the moment.’

  Her footsteps died away and Fergus breathed a heartfelt sigh of relief. ‘Thank God! She’s herself again. Now all we need is for Niall to come home.’

  ‘Ay, thank God!’ echoed Kirsteen while Ruth lifted Lorna high in the air and laughed aloud for joy.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Captain Mac looked restlessly from the window to the grey sea heaving and pounding to the shore just yards from the croft. It had been a week since Niall’s departure and in that time Mac had looked anxiously for the postman, hoping for a postcard assuring him all was well. But the storms had caused delays with everything, a backlog of mail had come on yesterday’s steamer though nothing from Niall had arrived at the croft.

  ‘I was thinkin’ to take a walk down to the boxie and give Niall a wee talk,’ he informed his sister who, enveloped in an apron made from a mailbag washed up on the beach, was at the table wielding a rolling pin with vigour.

  Rubbing her nose with the back of a floury hand she nodded her approval of his suggestion. When her brother spoke of having ‘a wee talk at the boxie’ it was his way of saying he was going to make use of the telephone, a recent innovation on the tiny island and one regarded with suspicion by the old. Few of the houses boasted a private phone, most folks making use of the ‘red boxies’ scattered at vantage points on Hanaay’s wild landscape.

  ‘Ay, it would be a good idea,’ said Nellie. ‘Forbye finding out about Niall it will also get you from under my feets. You’ve been like a hen on a hot girdle since the lad went away.’

  Mac pushed his arms into a navy blue seaman’s jacket and went outside, his stocky frame bent into the wind which blew over the island for ‘five months of bad weather and seven months of winter’. The red boxie was perched on the edge of the windswept moors, favoured by the sheep who liked to huddle against it for shelter, or, if they could get inside, to lick the windows and demolish the telephone directories. There was a constant demand for directories on Hanaay and continuous complaints from the GPO about the carelessness of the islanders who indignantly informed them it ‘wasny them who ate the damt books’.

  There had been trouble all week with the lines and when Mac arrived at the box it was to see the green Morris GPO van parked alongside. The sheep had seized the chance to use the van as a scratching post while one of the more adventurous was testing the wing mirror with inquisitive lips to find out if it was edible.

  ‘Is the damt thing no’ workin’ again, Tom?’ Mac greeted the GPO repair man who was a native of Uist and a cousin of his. Tom the Box, a title recently bestowed on him after years of being known as College Tom on Uist, shook his head dismally and scratched a large hairy ear with his screwdriver. ‘It is no’ the wind this time,’ he said balefully. ‘The mean buggers hereabouts have been stickin’ buttons into it and jammed the works.’

  ‘Terrible, terrible just,’ sympathized Mac solicitously, his big fingers jingling his change inside his pocket to prove that he was not one of the mean buggers, though on his last sojourn to the boxie he had used a carefully filed metal button and had succeeded in getting through to Uist for a lengthy conversation before the pips went. Tom the Box had become adept at freeing jammed boxes and in a few minutes his van was hurtling away over the moor road, leaving Mac free to enter the sharn-spattered interior, thankfully banging the door shut against the wind.

  Gingerly he picked up the receiver and dialled the operator who, like Behag, ran the Post Office as well as manning the switchboard installed conveniently in a handy corner of the counter which meant she didn’t have to leave the premises. The only drawback to this arrangement was the lack of privacy afforded callers but, as everyone knew everyone else’s business anyway, no one minded and enjoyed the diversion the switchboard afforded a routine visit to the shop.

  Mac had no need to give the Rhanna exchange number to Bella as she already had most of the island numbers off by heart and in a short time Behag’s querulous voice came over the line. She and Bella had struck up quite a friendship via their respective switchboards and there now followed a lengthy conversation in Gaelic while Mac stood fuming inside the draughty phone box.

  ‘Will you get off the damt wire you pair o’ bleatin’ yowes!’ he bawled eventually. ‘Some o’ us have better things to do wi’ our time than stand listening to recipes for cloutie dumplin’s!’

  Behag’s mutterings assailed his reddening ears all the while she was ringing Slochmhor but Lachlan’s deep voice drowned her out and Mac blew down his nose with relief. With his fingers blocking one ear, the receiver clamped to the other, he went through the usual polite salutations before getting to the point of his call which was to ask how Niall was faring.

  ‘Niall?’ Lachlan sounded puzzled. ‘Niall isn’t here. We thought he was with you on Hanaay.’

  Mac cleared his throat, composing himself to speak calmly. ‘Well, no, he left our place – well now, let me see – a week ago it was – before the start o’ the storms.’

  There was a silence then Lachlan, his voice frayed with growing anxiety. ‘A week ago you say?’

  ‘Ay, it would be that.’

  ‘But – if you weren’t with him – who was?’

  ‘Ach well, he insisted on going back alone.’

  ‘Alone!’ Mac held the receiver back from his ear as Lachlan blasted the word down the line. ‘Surely you didn’t let him do that, Mac! He doesn’t know the sea like you.’

  Mac’s kindly big blustering face had collapsed into lines of worry. ‘I know that and I told Niall that but he wouldn’t listen. He was anxious to go, in fact I got the notion he couldny get away fast enough and here was me and Nell worrying because it was us who suggested he ought to go home for Christmas in the first place.’

  ‘How – was he while he was there?’

  ‘Well, now that you mention it he wasny good, just sort o’ loafin’ about day in day out, no’ doin’ himself the least bit good at all, forbye he would hardly let a bite go over his throat.’

  ‘Mac, this is serious,’ Lachlan said flatly. ‘A whole week and never a word from him! Something must have happened – anything could have happened – and if he got caught in the storms . . .’ The words hung ominously in the air.

  Mac said nothing for it seemed there was nothing he could say. He heard Phebie’s voice in the background, asking Lachlan what was wrong, heard Lachlan making placating remarks. Then she obviously left the room and Lachlan was telling Mac that they mustn’t waste a minute more and that he was ringing off to call the coastguard immediately.

  Mac put the phone slowly down and then it was only the bleating of the sheep and the wind soughing through the chinks. Dejectedly he
let the door swing behind him and seating himself on the verge lit his pipe with an unsteady hand, heedless of the biting cold which seeped into his clothing and reddened the big fingers clasped tightly round the warm bowl of the pipe.

  Righ nan Dul had led a quiet life since the lighthouse at the head of Port Rum Point had been automated. His job now consisted of checking and maintenance, all of which, to a man who had hitherto carried a key position, was all rather boring and repetitive. Despite his advancing years he still maintained his position as the island’s coastguard, though weeks could pass before he might be called upon. Therefore, when the coastguard station at Oban received the report of a missing Rhanna boat it was to Righ they turned and, glad of the chance for some action, he set about his arrangements briskly. The fishing boats, lying at anchor in the harbour for a week because of the weather, were dispatched to search the seaboard between Rhanna and Hanaay while he himself got his crew together and set off in the wake of the trawlers.

  The weather was on their side with a light sou’westerly blowing over a quiet sea but despite the good conditions it was a well nigh hopeless task. According to reports Niall had set off from Hanaay a week ago and there had been no distress calls from him in that time. Righ knew that the fierce gales and heavy seas would have smashed a small craft like The Sea Urchin to matchwood in no time but there was the remote possibility she might have been able to seek safe anchorage at any one of the small islands dotting the western seas.

  It was a short search and at the end of the day a fruitless one. The weather closed in early blotting out visibility and the men returned to Rhanna, their faces showing the futility of the search. A dispirited Righ wired the results to the Oban coastguard. The possibility of resuming the search next day was discussed with perhaps a light aircraft being deployed if the owner of a private plane could be found and proved willing to undertake the task. Rather wearily, Righ phoned Slochmhor with the news and when he put the phone down his heart was as heavy as his leaden limbs.