Rhanna

by Christine Marion Fraser

  After such terrible utterances she would sit in her cottage with her bible on her lap and folk looking in could not tell if she was using the good book to strengthen her evil wishes or if she was in fear of her salvation because of them and was relying on the bible to resolve her difficulties.

  She came out to the door and glared at Fergus before stretching out her arms for Niall. ‘I’ll take the bairn inside – poor wee mite’s blue with cold. I’ll be off in ten minutes so I’ll just finish in the kitchen.’ She glowered malevolently at the snow. ‘What a night! There’ll be a blizzard come midnight. I’d better hurry. He’ll be home waitin’ for his supper! Drifts a dozen feet high there could be but he’d sit with his feet up waitin’ for me to fetch and carry for him!’

  She went off muttering, bearing Niall into the warmth of the kitchen.

  Phebie turned again to Fergus who was stamping with impatience. ‘I’ll send Lachy the minute he comes home, there’s nothing else I can do . . . except . . . could I perhaps come over and help out? I’d love to be with Helen, she was so good to me.’

  Her eyes were appealing but Fergus turned on his heel.

  ‘There’s nothing you can do! I’ve enough women cluttering my house! I’ll be waiting for Lachlan. If anything happens to Helen and he’s not there, he’ll surely be to blame!’

  The wind carried away his muttered words so that Phebie did not hear them. She watched his hulking figure till it was lost in the whirling snowflakes, then she turned gladly into the warmth of the house, her thoughts centred on Helen and on her husband out in lonely Glen Fallan.

  She shut the door and stood leaning against it.

  ‘Oh God,’ she whispered. ‘Please bring Lachy safely through the storm – and – Helen . . . give her the strength for what’s ahead. Please God!’

  TWO

  By nine o’clock the wind had risen to a howling shriek and drifts were piling everywhere. Mirabelle and Biddy huddled over the fire and gave voice to their worries.

  ‘Ach, poor lass,’ sympathized Mirabelle glancing at the small figure in the bed. ‘She’s havin’ a struggle and no mistake! I wonder will the doctor manage. What if he doesny, Biddy?’

  ‘Ach well, I’m no’ a midwife for nothing, Belle. It’s the girl’s first born. The wee buggers have had a cosy nine months o’ it and are in no hurry to come out. As for Lachlan, he’s as much chance as a fart in a constipated cow gettin’ through the Glen in a night like this. I’m sure the de’il himself bides yonder at Downie’s Pass.’

  Mirabelle’s frown deepened. ‘Pray God he’ll make it! Fergus is rampin’ like a bairn wi’ the skitters! Everything will have to be done proper for Helen or we’ll never hear the end of it! I’m afeard for Lachlan roamin’ aboot in weather like this. Hamish was down at Portcull and he came by to tell me the waves are washin’ over the harbour wall. Some of Ranald’s boats have been smashed to smithereens and them lyin’ on the scaup too!’

  Biddy took off her glasses and wiped her weary eyes. ‘Ach well, we can only wait. I’m thankful the lass has fallen asleep. Restless it may be but it will give her strength for the rest of the battle.’ She sighed and spread her legs wide to the heat. ‘My, it’s been a long day so it has. I’d love a wee nap and I’ve got heartburn again . . . no fault of your lovely broth, Belle, but my belly hasny given me peace since all the rushin’ this mornin’. I’m all blown up like there was a wheen o’ wind caught in my bowel. You wouldny have a wee touch o’ bakin’ soda, Belle?’

  Mirabelle sighed too. All day long she had been on her feet tending to the needs of the household. She longed to put her feet up and sleep for hours. She’d missed her usual nap that evening. The kitchen was her kingdom at the day’s end. With a long day behind her she could nap in the peaceful warmth with Lass the old sheepdog on her ample knee and Ben the spaniel making cosy little grunts of contentment on the rug. Three cats usually occupied the warm depths of the inglenook and Mirabelle drifted dreamily, enjoying the drone of talk and laughter from the parlour where Helen and Fergus sat together before a glowing peat fire.

  But tonight was not like any other night and wearily she rose to fetch Biddy’s soda.

  Fergus, unable to settle himself in the house, was in the byre with Hamish who had come over from his little cottage to see if there was anything he could do. He knew only too well the havoc created by gale-force winds. Laigmhor, though well protected by trees, was nonetheless vulnerable. The winter before, a gust of wind had brought down one of the trees, crashing straight through the byre roof, killing three cows and injuring one of the horses so badly he had to be shot. A new roof had been built but door and windows could be blown in by the terrible winter storms that swept Rhanna, so Hamish was busy piling bales of hay against the windows and Fergus was nailing planks of wood over the doors in the milking shed.

  The two worked well together for Hamish was as silent and purposeful as his young employer. He had been grieve at Laigmhor when Fergus and Alick were infants and knew every trick there was to know about farming on an island lashed by Atlantic gales. He was a big man with powerful shoulders. A shock of red hair matched a bushy beard and fair eyebrows beetled thickly over pale blue eyes. Dressed in a hairy tweed jacket and plus fours he was a fine figure of a man. Clad in a glengarry, lovat tweed jacket and the Cameron kilt he was not to be missed in a crowd. In his younger days he had carried off numerous honours at Highland gatherings all over Scotland and for years had tossed the caber as if it were a piece of driftwood. Women gazed at his tall sturdy figure and wondered why he never married, and his attentions were still sought by eager young maidens who could well picture themselves in his cosy cottage by the tumbling burn that flowed from Ben Machrie. It was a comfortable, homely place with an ever open door, but Hamish seemed quite content to retain the freedom of his bachelorhood. Animals seemed to bring him more satisfaction than humans and he shared his home with two sheepdogs, three cats and several wild rabbits he had rescued from predators.

  He worked quickly and efficiently at the windows and talked in soothing tones to the beasts who moved uneasily in their stalls as the sough of the wind whined round corners and rattled at doors. He finished tying ropes and went through to the stable to caress and calm Heather and Thistle, the two huge Clydesdales used for the plough. Mac snorted and Hamish pushed a piece of carrot into his mouth and whispered into ears that were twitching nervously.

  Fergus came in, stamping snow from his wellingtons. Hamish saw that he was in a sorry state. Worry, impatience and nerves had made his face drawn and grey and it came as no surprise when he said thickly, ‘We’ve done all we can here, Hamish. You get along home before the drifts get worse. I’m going up the Glen for the doctor!’

  Hamish stared at him. ‘I’m not one for interfering, man, but you’d be a fool to venture out tonight. Mac would never make the drifts at Downie’s Pass!’

  A small muscle in Fergus’s jaw worked furiously. ‘I’m walking!’ he stated shortly.

  Hamish bit back an angry retort – he knew his argument would be lost. Both men moved into the bitter night. Footsteps crunched somewhere in the dark and Hamish held up the lamp. Lachlan came into view, his greatcoat plastered in snow and his steps dragging.

  ‘Lachlan!’ The cry broke from Fergus in a great wave of sound that defied the wind. ‘Thank God, man!’

  ‘I just got back from Croft na Beinn,’ said Lachlan through frozen lips. ‘Phebie gave me the message and I came straight over.’

  ‘Good God, man!’ bellowed Hamish. ‘How did ye get through the Glen? No pony and trap could have managed the Pass on such a night!’

  ‘I left Benjie at Croynachan and came the rest of the way on foot. The Taylors wanted me to stop with them but I didn’t want Phebie and the bairn to be alone and I knew Phebie would worry if I didn’t come home.’

  Lachlan’s voice was breathless with exhaustion and his shoulders sagged. The struggle over the Glen had been a nightmare of whirling white spicules that stung his face till it felt raw
. He had got stuck several times and bitter air froze in his lungs and numbed his hands and feet. He had cursed himself for not taking the Taylors’ offer but he hadn’t realized the severity of the weather. His administrations to little Fiona Taylor had made him oblivious to all else. The struggle to break the child’s fever had been a hard one but he had won the battle, and, triumph making him jubilant, he had taken no need of Donald Taylor’s pleas to wait till morning. It was only when he was going through the Glen with the great masses of Sgurr na Gill and Ben Machrie looming on either side did he realize how stupid he’d been. The mountains channelled the howling winds till it seemed all the forces of the terrible night were against him, and the blizzard hurled curtains of snow with such an intensity that Benjie reared and whinnied with fear.

  Croynachan loomed out of the darkness and Tom Johnston, astonished at the sight of Lachlan, ushered him into the wonderful warmth of his kitchen and led Benjie to the stable where he had a meal of hay and a brisk rub-down. Mamie Johnston had wanted him to stay, her round kindly face dismayed at the idea of him going out again but Slochmhor was but a mile from Downie’s Pass and stopping only for a cup of tea he’d ventured out again, little dreaming that the last part of the journey would be the worst of all, with drifts ten feet high at the Pass. Frozen to the marrow and at the end of his strength he’d decided to stop and rest awhile at Biddy’s cottage but her house was in darkness and he’d battled on, his mouth covered by his scarf in an effort to keep out the icy snow-filled winds. After what seemed an eternity Slochmhor appeared like a beacon, a little haven sitting in the middle of a smothering world. Thoughts of a hot meal and bed hurried his steps and he almost fell into Phebie’s arms at the door. She cried with thankfulness into his snow-caked collar and rumpled his wet hair with hands that trembled.

  ‘Lachy! Oh, my Lachy! I’m so glad! I was nearly coming out to look for you but then I thought you might spend the night at Croft na Beinn! One half of me hoped you would and the other half wanted you home so badly. Come inside quickly. There’s a pot of broth, salt mutton and boiled potatoes and . . .’ she giggled with relief ‘. . . if you’re good I’ll make you a hot toddy to warm you while I get the meal.’

  He collapsed into a chair by the fire and stretched every aching limb. ‘Ach, it’s good to be at my ain fireside,’ he said shutting his eyes. ‘I feel I’ve been away for years. Any calls while I was gone?’

  ‘Y-es – but you must rest and eat first.’

  ‘Are they that important?’

  She knew it was wrong but she was reluctant to tell him about Helen. Her love for him was strong and she knew his body was crying out for rest but the doctor in him would not let him do so if a patient needed him.

  ‘Helen’s been in labour since morning, but Biddy’s with her, Lachy! You must stop in for a while! Please, Lachy! You’re exhausted!’

  But he was already in the hall struggling back into his wet coat. ‘I must go to her, Phebie, I’ll get a bite to eat there. Don’t wait up for me, it might be a long night.’ He gave a wry smile. ‘To think I battled through the Pass so that I could be here with you and you will be on your own after all.’

  ‘Och Lachy,’ she whispered tenderly, ‘I’ll be fine but you – how weary you must be, my darling.’

  He took her face in his hands and kissed her mouth gently, then turned into the bite of the storm once more.

  Mirabelle gave a cry of consternation when he was ushered through the kitchen door. She stood with Biddy’s soda in her plump hand but laid it on the table to rush over to help him out of his sopping coat.

  She looked at his thin tired face and her kind heart turned over. ‘My poor laddie! You’re frozen and done in by the look o’ you! Will you take a sup of hot broth? It won’t take a minute.’

  ‘Later!’ interrupted Fergus. He looked at his friend with something near to pleading. ‘Please, Lachlan,’ he added with unusual humility.

  Lachlan put his hand on Fergus’s shoulder. ‘I’ll go up at once. Don’t worry, man, she’ll be fine.’

  Biddy jumped up at sight of him. ‘Gracious laddie! You’re like a spook but thank heaven you’re here. I’ve just had a wee look and think the waters haven’t broken just right.’

  Lachlan strode quickly to the bed and touched Helen’s hot brow. She looked at him with a smile lighting her tired eyes.

  ‘Lachlan, how tired you look. I’m sorry I couldn’t wait for better weather. I can hear the storm, whining and wailing like myself.’ A flash of humour touched her mouth but another pain made her bite her lip and she reached for her husband’s hand. ‘Fergus, how are you managing . . . and poor Mirabelle? She must be scunnered running after us all.’

  ‘Nonsense, lass,’ said Mirabelle and turned away to hide a glimmer of tears. Helen looked so young in the big bed and delicate with the pallor of her skin showing the blue veins at her temples.

  Fergus crushed her hand and she winced at the strength of him. It was as if he was trying to convey some of his power to her by his very touch.

  ‘Sorry, my lamb,’ he apologized. It was his pet name for her but he never used it unless they were alone. Now he was uncaring of the others in the room. ‘You’re going to be safe now, Lachlan will see to it.’

  Lachlan looked up and a strange look of uncertainty shadowed his brown eyes. Fergus was laying so much store on him that the burden of his responsibility felt like a weight on his back.

  ‘I’ll do everything I can, but go now. I want to examine Helen.’

  Without a backward glance Fergus left the room and the doctor washed his hands and rolled up his sleeves. He checked his patient quickly, then went to Biddy and said, ‘You were right, Biddy, the membranes haven’t ruptured properly. Bring a bowl over, we can speed things up a little.’

  At a little past six Hamish arrived with young Mathew. Fergus could hear them in the byre but he sat on in the rocking chair by the dying fire in the parlour. An immobility had gripped him so that his muscles, tense and stiff, were unable to obey the commands of his brain. The cold of the bitter morning stole through the cracks in doors and windows, seeping into his bones. Sounds came to him as from a great distance. The soft lowing of the cows, a gentle snicker from a horse, the clucking of hens, Peg and Molly barking happily at Hamish, the desolated bleat of sheep in the fields. Later he would have to go with his men and dig out the ewes on the high ground. In such conditions they could be lost in snow-filled corries and trapped in drifts. The bleak baa’ing came to him again and he thought how much it sounded like a baby’s cry. A baby’s cry! He leapt to his feet. A thin threading wail came from upstairs and his heart pounded into his throat.

  ‘Helen!’

  His body surged with life and he bounded upstairs, exploding into the room. In a split moment he saw Lachlan holding a red scrawny infant. It was fresh from the womb, its body glistening, a shock of jet hair plastered thickly over a tiny head. It was upside down, and Lachlan was slapping it, forcing it to cry that it might gulp the air of life into its lungs. Mirabelle was bustling with a tray containing cotton wool and olive oil. Biddy was bending over the bed working with Helen. In the dim light from the lamp Fergus saw her removing sheets that were red with blood, so much blood that Fergus felt his own draining from his face.

  ‘Helen!’

  He strode over to her but her eyes were closed, her head turned sideways on the pillow with her lovely red-gold hair spread out like a fiery halo round her white face.

  ‘Helen.’ His voice was a dull whisper. ‘Helen, my lamb.’

  Her eyes opened slowly and even in the dim light were a deep gentian blue. A smile of quiet radiance lit her pointed face. ‘Fergus, we have a baby . . . is it a boy?’

  Fergus looked at Lachlan who was washing his hands in a bowl, the baby now transferred to Mirabelle.

  ‘A girl,’ said Lachlan briefly.

  Fergus took Helen’s hands and gathered them to his lips. ‘We have a daughter, Helen. A wee lass who’s going to look like you.’

 
She smiled. ‘A girl, och I’m so happy. A wee girl can be dressed in such bonny clothes . . .’ Her voice trailed away and lids of softest purple closed over her eyes.

  A hand fell on Fergus’s shoulder. ‘Leave us now, Fergus,’ said Lachlan. ‘There’s a lot yet to be done. Helen’s bleeding badly, complications with the placenta. We’ll call you the minute we can.’

  Fergus began to protest, but Lachlan and Biddy were already busy and he went from the room, his feelings of joy already fading, leaving a new dread in his heart.

  He paced the hall, the tick of the grandmother clock keeping time with his footsteps.

  Hamish came stamping in. ‘We’re off now, Fergus. I don’t know how far we’ll get but we’ll do our best. I thought it best I should go with Mathew. Murdy and Johnnie are away with Bob to the sheep. You take it easy, man . . . any news yet? Has the babe arrived safely?’

  Fergus swallowed hard. ‘It’s here – a girl.’

  ‘Och man, that’s grand! A wee lass, eh? We’ll have a dram later to celebrate. How’s the new mother? Proud as a piebroch I’ll ken.’

  Fergus merely nodded and went into the kitchen on some pretext. Hamish shook his head sadly. He knew that something was far wrong. A man newly made a father didn’t behave the way Fergus was doing. Above him a door opened and Mirabelle stood looking down. Her plump face looked thin and old and her voice, low and shaky, barely reached down to Hamish.

  ‘Bring Fergus,’ she said dully, ‘the lass has but a few minutes.’

  Hamish took a deep breath. ‘No! It can’t be!’

  ‘Hurry!’ urged Mirabelle and turned away.