Fergus looked at her and saw her vanity. He looked at Mrs McDonald, fragile like Helen, but with none of her daughter’s vivacity or zest for life. She was prim and prudish, with a hypocrisy that belied her religious beliefs. He couldn’t imagine her bringing up a child, its spirit would be stifled from the beginning. He couldn’t even begin to consider Mary. He could find no desirable quality in her that would render her fit to bring up Helen’s child.
His thoughts were a surprise to him because he hadn’t till then cared very much about his daughter’s future. He had barely looked at her since her birth but he hadn’t been able to avoid thinking about one picture that repeated itself continually in his mind. It was of Mirabelle feeding the child from a bottle that looked enormous beside a tiny elfin face. Wide blue eyes were open, gazing unseeingly at the ceiling, yet they held a world of wisdom as yet out of reach, undeveloped beneath the smooth bloom of the high forehead, waiting for time to ripen each impression till the miracle of memory and learning blossomed from each living cell. And there was something else, something so poignant that a needle of pain pierced the shell round his heart and hurt deeply. Helen stared out of those eyes. A glimmer of life-loving mischief lurked in the periwinkle depths and the mouth was Helen’s, full and soft with upturned corners giving the impression of a permanent smile.
His voice lanced the expectant silence in the room. ‘I think the child will stay at Laigmhor, it’s her home after all. It’s good of you to offer, Alick, I know you really mean what you say but Mary doesn’t . . . do you, Mary?’
He looked her full in the eyes and she turned away guiltily. Then he swivelled to face Mrs McDonald. ‘I thank you too – for wanting to do your duty by Helen but as you say yourself you’re not really able to care for a young child. She will be far happier on Rhanna where she belongs.’
‘How dare you!’ She trembled and the hanky was in evidence once more.
‘I dare because the child is mine.’
‘But a child needs a woman to care for it! How can you, a man . . .’
She was interrupted by Mirabelle who appeared from the kitchen, the baby snugly asleep in her arms. Mirabelle was feeling harassed. The house had been in a turmoil all day and even with Nancy’s help she was hot and tired. They had cleaned from top to bottom and aired and fired the spare rooms because several people were staying till the return of the ferry. It all meant a lot of extra work for her and some of the guests she didn’t care for, in particular Mrs McDonald who had complained too much. On top of everything she had the baby to see to, but already she loved the tiny mite with all her kindly heart and enjoyed the wonderful trusting feel of the downy head against her bosom. She’d been having a rest in the kitchen when the heated voices drifted through from the parlour. She knew it wasn’t her place to interfere but she hadn’t been able to stop herself and she stood in the doorway and stuck out her chin proudly.
‘And am I not a woman? I’ll look after the little one and see she gets all the love that is her due. So long as there is life in me she’ll get all the care it is possible for a bairn to get!’
Mrs McDonald blew her nose indignantly. ‘Even the servants don’t know their place in this house, it would seem. I can see I don’t have a say about my grandchild at all. I’ll be glad to get away from this place I can tell you!’
‘Serves you right, you auld Cailleach,’ said Jock under his breath and Fergus looked at Mirabelle with gratitude.
‘Thank you, Belle,’ he said quietly. ‘The matter’s settled.’
When dinner was over he made an excuse and went outside. Lass and Ben padded at his heels, sniffing the frosty air with silent joy.
Fergus found his steps taking him away from the farm over the road in the direction of the Kirkyard. He climbed the frost-rimed Hillock and saw a figure coming out of the rustic wooden gate, a plump familiar figure wrapped up tightly against the cold. It stopped and looked towards him and he saw clearly Phebie’s bonny face, her skin whipped to a deep rose by the frost. For a long moment she looked at him then turned away, wrapping her shawl closer round her shoulders before hurrying down the hill.
Something tightened round his heart and he sighed, a sigh that told of all the sorrow in his heart and the regret he felt at having lost the friendship of two of the finest people on Rhanna. He knew that he was too proud to go cap in hand and admit his sorrow for his hasty words on the morning of Helen’s death. He also knew that he would want to apologize a thousand times in the months to come but that he wouldn’t do so because of his pride, the terrible pride that bound him in a lonely prison of body and soul.
Slowly he went to Helen’s grave and saw on the fresh earth a bunch of snowdrops, the petals tightly shut, lying on the hard ground like drops of exquisite purity.
‘Phebie!’ he murmured. The wrong that he had done tore afresh the caverns of his mind. He had denied the McLachlans the right to see Helen laid to her rest and the enormity of his feelings forced him to his knees. The setting sun had turned the Sound of Rhanna into a sheet of flame and Portcull thrust its peacefully smoking chimneys into the fiery sky. Sheep bleated mournfully on the moor and the shouts of children from the village were borne over the Glen to be lost in the corries of Sgurr na Gill.
Lass made little whining noises and buried her nose in his arm. He caressed her ears gently.
‘You feel it too don’t you, lass?’ he whispered. ‘The loneliness. It’s all so lost . . . or is it just me?’
He shut his eyes and Helen came to him, laughing, her mane of hair blowing in the wind, her blue eyes crinkled with the joy of living and of gazing into a thousand suns of happiness. They had known it together, that happiness, but each memory was a locked door in his mind. Later – later, he would remember the happy times but just now he was too numb, too tired to think very much about anything.
‘Goodnight, Helen, my lamb,’ he whispered, so low it was like a sigh of the wind.
PART TWO
1928
THREE
Shona opened her eyes and lay very still under the warm blankets. The curtains of sleep still lay heavy over her eyes and she blinked long lashes in an effort to get them to stay open.
She liked to lie still when she woke, letting her eyes travel over her neat little room with its sloping ceiling. Her bed was in an alcove and there she felt safe. Sometimes she imagined it was a cosy cave, or that her bed was a boat tied in a hollow on the shore. The rag doll made by Mirabelle lay beside her. The floor was polished and shiny with a mat near her bed. A family of dolls and woolly dogs flopped lazily on a shelf and on the dressing-table was the china bowl in which she washed each morning.
The light of the January morning filtered through the gold curtains and she wondered what sort of day it was. There was something special about today but she couldn’t quite remember what it was. Then it came to her – it was her birthday. Today she was five years old and grown up because being five meant that she would soon be going to school and would enter a new phase of her life.
Excitement churned in her at the prospect. Birthdays were exciting things altogether but today’s birthday would have a special flavour because she was going to feel grown up and very proud. But somewhere at the back of her mind a cloud hovered. It had something to do with her father because while all the people she loved celebrated their birthdays he withdrew into himself and became very strange and short-tempered.
She sighed at the thought of her father. He was so big and strong and she loved him with all her heart even though he was often brusque and impatient with her. Every day she longed to throw her arms round his neck and smother him with her love. Sometimes he let her kiss him and call him pet names. Sometimes he even swept her up in his big arms and crushed her till it hurt but she didn’t mind because the feel of his strength made the hurt worth it because it meant that deep inside he loved her too.
She pursed her small mouth and said out loud, ‘Today I am five! I am five years old today!’
The feeling of wanting to
snuggle in bed left her and she padded over the cold floor to open the curtains. The wind whistled in from the sea making the rusty grasses cringe against the earth. The ocean was grey in the distance and white horses leapt and pranced to the shore. It was the kind of day she loved because inside everything was warm and cosy but outdoors the breeze would ruffle her hair and make her face tingle. On the breath of the wind would be all the smells she loved, the tang of the sea and peat smoke, the clean smell of tossing heather and the rich warm odour of the dung midden mixed with the scent of hay from the two big sheds.
She heard Mirabelle plodding upstairs with the jug of hot water for her face and hands and she raced back to her bed and pulled the blankets over her head pretending to be asleep. Her heart beat faster and she waited, smothering her giggles. The door opened and the hot water gurgled into the basin.
‘Ach mo ghaoil,’ said Mirabelle slightly breathless. ‘I know you’re pretendin’. It’s up wi’ you this meenit. Your father will be in from the fields and wantin’ his breakfast and you keepin’ us all back wi’ your mischief.’
Shona slowly peeped from the blankets and Mirabelle looked at her with an exaggerated frown on her round face. She had changed little in five years. The hair that escaped her mutch was a shade whiter and her shoulders stooped slightly, but otherwise she was the same Mirabelle who had undertaken the upbringing of Fergus’s child. It had not been easy. Shona had been a lively, demanding infant, crawling at seven months, walking at a year and speaking fluently at two. Mirabelle often felt more tired than she would ever admit but the little girl’s affection and love made up for everything, even the determination of will that had earned her many a spanking on her plump little bottom. But she never sulked and took the spankings and scoldings in her stride knowing she had earned them.
‘Mirabelle?’
‘Yes, my wee lamb?’
‘You’ve forgotten what day it is so you have!’
‘Indeed you might be right. I am always so busy I never know if it’s Monday or Friday.’
‘Mirabelle! You really have forgotten.’
A glimmer of tears shone in the big blue eyes and laughing, Mirabelle rushed forward to fold the child to her bosom.
‘Ach, you’re too quick by far to take offence. You’re like your father in that queer wee way of yours. Happy birthday, my lamb. You’re a big girl today and you must learn to behave like one. Now get your face washed, take your goonie off and put on your blue dress. We’ll go down to Portcull after breakfast.’
‘Truly, Mirabelle? Can we go to Merry Mary’s and buy sweeties? I have a penny that Hamish gave me.’
‘We’ll see, but weesht now. Stop your blethers and get dressed.’
Shona hurried through her toilet and flew downstairs to the kitchen. Fergus was already at the table supping his porridge.
‘Good morning, Father. Good morning, Ben.’ She stooped to hug the old spaniel which rose stiffly from the hearth to greet her. Lass was gone now – she had died in her basket one night at the ripe age of fourteen. Mirabelle had cried for days and vowed no other would take her place but sheepdogs were a necessity on the farm. There was too much work for Peg and Molly who were now growing past their best so Kerrie came, a fine young dog who had learned fast but was a man’s dog and preferred to stay with Bob the shepherd in his steading half a mile up Ben Machrie.
‘Good morning, Father.’ Shona repeated her greeting quietly but with a hint of stubbornness in her voice.
Fergus looked up slowly, reluctant to speak on a day that held so much joy for his daughter but none at all for him. He seldom looked properly at his little girl because the sight of her turned his heart to jelly. When he looked at her he saw Helen in every smile and glance, the way she turned her head, the glimmer of mischief always bubbling just under the surface.
But now he did look and saw his growing child, the blue dress matching her eyes, the deep auburn hair tied with a big blue ribbon to keep it from tumbling over the small pointed face. Something caught at his throat and he tried to turn away but her glance, powerful and compelling in such a small being, held his and unable to stop himself he rose and swept her into his arms.
Shona held her breath in delight, the hurt of his crushing arms only serving to heighten her happiness and she buried her face deep in his hair.
‘Happy birthday, my wee chookie!’ he breathed. ‘Oh, God help me! You’re so like her!’
Her happiness suddenly fled. The pain was there again in his voice and she didn’t understand. It puzzled her and frightened her. There was so much depth in his voice, such a force of longing that she felt him tremble. Something caught in his throat that sounded like a tear but which couldn’t possibly be because he was so big and strong and never cried. For a moment she didn’t want to be five. She wanted to be a baby again and to cry on his shoulder because she felt so sad. But he was putting her down and her sadness turned to hurt when he ordered her curtly to eat her breakfast.
She went to her place despondently but smiled when she saw the small pile of parcels by her plate.
‘Oh Father, look! Please can I open them before I eat my porridge? I don’t care if it gets cold. And please, Father, will you read the writing for me so’s I’ll know who they’re from!’
He smiled despite himself and helped her open her gifts, losing himself for precious moments in her child’s world.
‘Look, Father – a whirligiggy . . . from Mirabelle! Och, look at this bonny wee purse . . . with a whole shilling inside! Who is it from?’
‘It’s from me,’ said Fergus gruffly.
‘Och Father!’ She flew round the table and kissed him on the end of his nose. Another parcel was opened and proved to be a roughly sewn pink apron from Nancy. The last parcel was a puzzle. It was large and soft and she enjoyed guessing what it was before opening it. Out fell a long black pair of woollen stockings and a pair of navy blue knickers. She held up the stockings, her face a study.
‘Father! Who are they from?’
‘Mirabelle!’ he supplied.
‘Och Father, look at them! They’re like long tubes of liquorice. You don’t think she expects me to wear them do you?’
She stared at him in consternation and he burst out laughing.
Mirabelle stood amazed at the kitchen door. ‘What’s a’ the skirlin’ for? Mercy child, have ye not started breakfast yet? And what’s so funny I’d like fine to know? Fergus! Have ye taken leave o’ yer senses?’
Shona held up the stockings. ‘It’s these, Mirabelle! They’re so funny!’
‘Funny!’ exploded Mirabelle. ‘I’ll have ye know I near blinded myself knittin’ the damt things. My een havny been the same since! They’re for school, madam, that’s what and I’ll have none o’ yer cheek. Would ye rather have frostbite than wear these lovely warm stockings I’ve sweated over for weeks?’
‘Yes, Mirabelle, I would rather have frostbite,’ giggled Shona, her heart aglow with joy because she had made her father laugh.
Hamish put his head round the door. ‘Can I come in and wish my wee lass a happy birthday?’
Shona clapped with happiness. She adored the big red-bearded man. He was always spoiling her with sweets and pennies but more than these she loved his hearty laugh and unstinted affection, and a visit to his cottage was a highlight of her life.
‘I’ve a wee surprise,’ he said, his eyes twinkling. ‘Shut yer eyes a minute.’
She screwed her eyes up tightly. There was a murmur and a scuffle then something soft and warm was placed on her lap.
‘Och, it’s a wee puppy,’ she said softly, tears springing quickly at sight of a tiny golden spaniel. She lifted the furry bundle to her face and a pink tongue licked her nose and snuffled into her ears. Animals were the delight of her life. The big ones held no fear for her and she sat on Heather or Thistle while they stood quietly in the stable. She was already an expert at driving the cows and it was a laughable sight to see her small figure wielding a stick at a large stubborn bull.
She ran to Hamish and hugged him. ‘Och Hamish, I’ll love you all my life so I will. What a dear wee puppy!’
‘See you look after her well,’ he ordered, his voice muffled in her hair. ‘You’ve to walk her and train her. Remember she’s just a wee baby and needs a lot o’ care.’
‘I’ll do everything for her, I love her so much already. I think you’re the most wonderful man on earth.’
Fergus watched the scene and a strange feeling came over him. He didn’t recognize it at once, then he knew it was jealousy. He was jealous that another man had given his daughter a present that pleased her enough to single him out as her most favoured person. The violence of his feelings swamped him and he couldn’t think clearly. He’d had the feeling before but it had been vague and he hadn’t been able to place it. He’d kept thinking of her as a baby, an infant who toddled about asking tiresome questions. At times he had felt like striking her, so much did she disturb him with thoughts of what might have been if she had never been born. Lately she disturbed him even more because a real person was emerging, one who could form her own ideas and opinions with a determination that he knew she’d inherited from him. Also there were these other feelings, the ones he experienced on holding her close, when love for her swamped him so that he had to push her away, drive the love back into his heart because it claimed too much of him and he never wanted to belong to anyone again.
Now this other feeling annoyed him so much that he stood up and spoke sharply to Hamish. ‘C’mon, man, there’s work to do. We’ve got to drive the bull over to Croynachan. Johnston has some cows coming on!’
Hamish raised a bushy eyebrow but said nothing. Shona was too busy playing with her new puppy to notice her father’s displeasure. She screamed with laughter when Ben rose with a grunt and waddled over to examine the newcomer. They snuffled for a while then the pup made a lunge and caught one of Ben’s long ears, holding on with sharp little teeth till the old dog groaned protestingly.
Rhanna Page 5