Rhanna

by Christine Marion Fraser

  Bob placed the fragile warm body in her arms and she turned to go.

  ‘I’ll take care, Father,’ she promised. ‘The wee lamb will be safe for I’ll keep her warm with my jacket.’

  Her feet barely touched the turf. She had two fields to cross going the shortest way but it meant crossing the burn and climbing over a stile.

  The stepping stones were slippery and she held her breath when her boots slithered on slimy moss. The stile was more difficult because she couldn’t use her hands to cling to the fence. Her heart jumped when she almost fell from her precarious perch but she steadied herself with an elbow and flew over the last field. The lamb bleated weakly from her jacket. The sound made her afraid, it was so faint, and her whole being urged her legs to go faster. If the lamb died, she would blame herself and her father would never ask her to do anything important again. The cobbles in the yard threatened to trip her tiring feet but in seconds she was in the kitchen, her heart light with the knowledge that the burden of saving the lamb would now rest with someone else.

  She stood in the warmth looking expectantly round the room but it was empty but for a wildly ecstatic Tot, and Ben in his usual place by the range.

  ‘Mirabelle!’ The cry was torn from her in a torment of anxiety. She ran to the parlour, then to the hall where the ticking of the grandfather clock echoed in her ears. She had often noticed that the tick of a clock was so much louder in an empty house and it was then she remembered that Mirabelle had mentioned going to Portcull to visit Morag the spinner and wouldn’t be back till teatime.

  Shona’s mind raced. Nancy! She would get Nancy to help! She was an expert at dealing with the newborn, both animal and human. But it was Nancy’s day off and she and her mother were going to start work on the wedding dress, a grand ensemble which Mirabelle had promised to finish with embroidered white flowers on the bodice.

  Shona suddenly felt small and very young, not at all like the big girl she had felt on her birthday. The lamb bleated again and the sound stung her into frantic action. The lamb was very weak and its small body, still wet with amniotic fluid, was cold and trembling. She ran to the linen cupboard and found a blanket and a rough towel then holding the lamb on her knee she rubbed briskly with the towel till the soft wool curled and the small body grew warm. She wrapped it in the blanket and laid it on the rug beside Ben who began licking the small white face with his warm tongue.

  Food was the next thing and Shona rummaged in the pantry till she found the feeding bottle kept specially for weak lambs. She mixed cream with water and poured it into the bottle.

  ‘But it’s got to be warm!’ she said in despair because all Mirabelle’s pans were on a shelf out of her reach. But she spotted Tot’s tin ashet in a corner and hurriedly washed it and poured the mixture into it and with the aid of the clothes tongs held it over the glow of the range. Panic made her try to pour it directly from ashet to bottle but it spilled and she uttered a frustrated curse and rushed once more for the jug.

  A moment later the lamb was on her knee sucking slowly but firmly from the bottle. She held her breath in delight and felt like a mother with a new little baby. Milk dribbled from the small inexperienced mouth and she wiped it gently with the towel, helped by Tot who was entranced by the whole proceeding.

  When Mirabelle came home she found Shona fast asleep in the cosy inglenook, the lamb clasped firmly in her arms, contented burping pops coming from its milky lips.

  ‘Well! I’m blessed!’ Mirabelle folded her arms over her stomach and chuckled. ‘Two wee lambs snoring like thunder!’

  Shona opened her eyes and her smile was triumphant. ‘I saved the wee cratur, Mirabelle, all by myself. Look, it’s warm and fed.’

  Mirabelle removed her voluminous coat and bent to take both lamb and child into her arms. ‘I’m proud o’ you, so I am, and your father will be too. So proud he’ll feel like burstin’ the way l am!’

  At teatime Fergus was greeted by his excited daughter.

  ‘Look at the wee lamb, Father! Mirabelle wasn’t here but I warmed and fed it. It’s going to live!’

  He looked at the fluffy lamb, now on wobbly legs, its tail wagging with pleasure as Ben licked it and Tot jumped around with the unrestrained antics of the very young, and a feeling of pride glowed in him.

  ‘You’re a daughter of the farm right enough,’ he said briefly but it was enough for Shona.

  ‘It’s what I want to be, Father. I’m glad I can help you now. It’s a lovely feeling to save a wee thing’s life. It was a shame about its mother but at least her baby is alive.’

  He looked at her, a long considering look, the strangeness back in him again.

  Tears sprang to her eyes. ‘Och Father, what is it that bothers you so? Did I say something wrong?’

  ‘Shona!’ He knelt beside her and looked into her blue eyes. ‘You haven’t said anything wrong. You just have a queer wee way of hitting at the truth. And I do like . . . love you but don’t expect me to fuss about it. There’s so much you don’t know and so much I can’t talk about.’

  She folded her arms around his neck and nuzzled his rugged weatherbeaten skin. ‘My poor father! Talk to me about the things that bother you. I’ll understand.’

  He unclasped her arms and stood up, a look of weariness in his eyes.

  ‘Go and wash your hands, tea will be ready in a while.’

  She turned dejectedly but his voice stayed her. ‘You’re a clever wee lass – I’m – proud of you.’

  She didn’t look at him but ran to her room, her heart singing. Living with her father was like sailing the sea forever. One minute it was calm and the next so stormy that each of her senses reeled till she didn’t know where she was. But the squalls made the times of calm like lovely bounties of treasure, precious jewels that she could hoard in the caskets of her memory.

  Saturday came and Mirabelle bustled about in Shona’s room, laying out her best clothes because the next day she was going to church for the first time. She had mixed feelings about it. She had heard so much about the Reverend John Grey’s sermons. Nancy had told her that he could see into a person’s soul and Shona wasn’t sure she would enjoy that. This soul that people spoke about must be a very important part of a person and she felt that it ought to be a strictly private piece of property.

  ‘There we are!’ Mirabelle laid the black knitted sockings over the back of a chair.

  The child stared aghast. ‘Och no, Mirabelle! I can’t go to kirk in these!’

  ‘These you are wearin’ and no’ another word. There’s a bite in the wind still!’

  ‘But . . .’ Shona searched desperately for an excuse. ‘What if I rip them and won’t have them for school next week?’

  ‘Rip them and your bum will be warmer than a hot toddy. What’s the matter wi’ them anyway? Are they not fine enough for madam?’

  Shona didn’t reply. She had put the ‘liquorice tubes’ to the very back of her drawer hoping that Mirabelle would forget about them till she had outgrown them. The thought of everyone looking at her ‘liquorice’ legs filled her with horror and when she got into bed she racked her brains for a way to escape wearing them but could think of none.

  The Sabbath was a very pious day on Rhanna. Saturday evening was spent in preparation. Zinc tubs were brought to the fire and filled with hot water for the weekly bath. The less fussy ‘steeped’ their feet in a basin. All over the island people bathed and steeped. The latter was favoured by solitary old men who, safe from watchful eyes, kept their socks on and thus accomplished two tasks at one time all the while alleviating any twinges of guilt with the thought that economy was a saving grace and they were saving both soap and water. Old Bob, safe in his lonely biggin on Ben Machrie, simply bared his feet to Kerrie who, with ecstatic expertise, slapped his tongue in and around toes while his master lay back blissfully by his cosy peat fire. The women busied themselves preparing meals so that there was nothing to do but heat them and lay them on the Sunday table. Clothes must never be seen hangin
g to dry on the Sabbath though many of the womenfolk cursed the fact and surreptitiously hung sheets in the big airy hay sheds consoling themselves that ‘cleanliness was next to godliness’.

  The bell was pealing its rather mournful notes when Mirabelle patted her best hat and took Shona firmly by the hand. The little girl wriggled.

  ‘Mirabelle, these stockings itch something terrible. I’ll scratch all the time in kirk. Can’t I wear my brown ones?’

  ‘I’ll skelp your lugs if you don’t be quiet. Now – have you got your collection?’

  ‘Yes, Father gave me threepence.’

  ‘Come on then. Carry your bible like a real wee lady and put this nice clean hanky in your pouch. Remember, you mustny cough too loudly in kirk and don’t keep squirming like an eel or folks will think you’ve worms.’

  They met Hamish on the road, his beard smooth and tidy and his kilt flying proudly in the breeze. No one mentioned Fergus. He hadn’t attended church since Helen’s death though the Reverend Grey visited him regularly and never gave up trying to persuade the young farmer that his soul would find no rest till he came back to the Lord’s house. But Fergus was not easily dissuaded and told the minister, ‘God and myself understand each other all right. I’ll be no better going to kirk just to listen to old wifies sucking mints and criticizing each other’s hats.’

  The trio wandered past the cold green waters of Loch Tenee but known better to everyone as Loch Wee. Scurrying figures were coming from all directions, something in their bearing suggesting the discomfiture they felt being rigged in stiff Sunday best.

  Shona skipped between Hamish and Mirabelle till she earned a sharp rebuke from the latter. ‘Bide still ye wee weasel! You’re like a hen on a hot girdle!’

  Hamish grinned indulgently. ‘Ach the bairn’s excited. It’s no’ every day we get goin’ to kirk . . . thanks be to the Lord!’

  Mirabelle pursed her lips. ‘The de’il will get you, Hamish Cameron! You’re a blasphemer and should know better than to say such things in front o’ the bairn!’

  Voices hailed them and they were joined by the McLachlans and Biddy, her best hat slightly askew.

  ‘It’s a queer way the Lord has o’ givin’ us a day o’ rest,’ she said with slight regret. ‘Every other day I’m called to a confinement but no one seems to have bairns on Sundays. The very day I could put my feet up I’ve to drag myself to kirk!’

  ‘You don’t have to go, Biddy!’ twinkled Phebie.

  ‘What! And have that blessed meenister comin’ to my door threatenin’ my soul wi’ a’ sorts o’ things! No thanks! I’d rather hae a snooze in kirk than risk that!’

  Lachlan smiled at Shona. ‘Our little lass is looking very smart today. Going to meet the minister in all her Sunday best, is it?’

  Shona wriggled and tried to hide behind Mirabelle, her whole being concentrating on hiding the awful black stockings from Niall who was eyeing her with covert amusement.

  A black speck was coming towards them from the hill track to Nigg. In front of the speck was a larger one with four legs that turned out to be Ealasaid mooing protestingly with every step because Dodie was driving her at a pace which didn’t suit her in the least.

  ‘Bless me!’ exclaimed Mirabelle. ‘It’s Dodie wi’ thon queer cow!’

  ‘He’s no’ bringin’ it to kirk, surely!’

  Dodie came nearer and his mouth cracked into a mournful grimace which was the nearest he ever got to a smile.

  ‘He breeah!’ he cried with something akin to elation in his tone. ‘I’m just drivin’ Ealasaid over to Croynachan!’

  ‘Bless me, what for?’ asked Mirabelle, eyeing the cow who had seized the chance to nibble heather shoots at the roadside.

  ‘She has just come on real strong and I’m wantin’ to get her to the bull while she’s in the mood.’

  He nodded his head enthusiastically causing his carbuncle to wobble alarmingly.

  Mirabelle was shocked. ‘Not on the Sabbath, Dodie! She can’t go to the bull on the Sabbath. Anyways, the Johnstons passed in the trap a whily back. They’ll be in kirk now. You’ll get no help wi’ the beast!’

  ‘Ach, Angus will be there. If Ealasaid’s ready we’ll get the bull on her between us.’

  ‘I’m sure the Lord won’t mind this once,’ twinkled Lachlan.

  Dodie nodded earnestly. ‘Aye, you’re right, doctor. I had a wee word wi’ Him last night and I got the feelin’ He was not annoyed at all.’

  Biddy smiled dourly. ‘I’m sure there’s not just the beasts that go matin’ on a Sunday. I’ve a funny wee feelin’ half the bairns on Rhanna are started on the Lord’s day.’ Her smile changed to one of mischief. ‘Folks have got to pass the time some way and there’s not a lot to keep the hands occupied on the Sabbath, is there now?’

  Mirabelle gave her friend a prim glance and pulled Shona hastily up the Hillock to kirk leaving Dodie to shout abuse at the cow who had wandered to a small green patch and now stubbornly refused to move.

  Inside the kirk it was dim and musty. Light filtered through the ruby glass of the window above the pulpit and the colour splashed on to the floor. Shona stared at the rows of bowed heads all round her and was amazed that they were the same warm-hearted lively creatures who peopled the crofts and cottages in Portcull. Elspeth was near the front, almost unrecognizable in a black coat and bowler type hat, her sharp nose sticking out resolutely in the direction of the pulpit as if she expected to see her salvation at any moment. Hector was by her side, his hair plastered down with oil, his red nose tamed to a duller hue in the dim mists of the kirk.

  Near them was old Joe who had spent all his life at sea, retired now and beloved by the village children whom he entertained with amazing stories hoarded from his many voyages. His white hair curled over his dark collar and his sea-green eyes were closed in prayer. Shona wondered if he was really praying because a smile hovered at the corners of his large mouth and she wondered if he was reliving his past adventures. Idly she asked herself if some of his stories were really true. That one about the mermaid sitting on the rocks near Mingulay was lovely. He had described her as having long golden tresses, a fish tail and ‘never a stitch to cover her birthday suit’.

  The Taylors of Croft na Beinn sat in a neat row. Little Fiona, small for ten, thirteen-year-old Donald awkwardly trying to arrange his gangling form on the hard pew, and strong thickset Archie meekly staring at his shoes but every so often sneaking a glance at Nancy who sat with her family in an opposite pew.

  Behag Beag sat with her brother, her headscarf exchanged for a blue felt hat with a discreet feather sticking out at one side. It looked like a grouse feather and Shona grinned to herself.

  Merry Mary was staring trance-like at the window, her wart outlined in the ruby glow. Beside her sat deaf old Shelagh McKinnon, Mr McKinnon’s aunt and old Joe’s cousin. She too wore a long black coat and a round black hat trimmed with faded green felt daisies. Old Joe had described the hat as looking like ‘an upturned chanty wi’ the bile’ but Shelagh, deafly oblivious, was very proud of her hat. She was a quaint figure altogether with a small inquisitive face, sloping shoulders and broad hips giving her the appearance of a walking pear. At seventy-two she was surprisingly agile yet it was a practice of hers to haunt Dr McLachlan in a never ending quest for a magical cure for ‘the winds that make my belly rumble and causes me to fart all the time’. She sucked Pan Drops continually, her deafness making her sweetly oblivious to the loud satisfying belches she emitted at regular intervals. At the age of sixty-five she had acquired a set of false teeth, and had, for the first time in her life, taken a trip to the mainland to have them fitted, but after months of half-hearted effort she gave up trying to eat with them saying, ‘They’re nothin’ but a damt nuisance and I’m chewin’ the buggers wi’ my dinner half the time!’ Nevertheless the teeth were carefully wrapped and placed in a drawer to be brought out and worn on the Sabbath so that she could sing to the Lord with proper ‘prenounshun.’

  She was humm
ing untunefully, singularly content and oblivious to the frowns thrown at her by red-haired Morag Ruadh, the nimble-fingered spinner who was very proud that she was also the church organist. It took a lot of patient persuasion to get any sort of tune from the ancient harmonium and she had to pedal furiously to get the bellows inflated before the instrument wheezed into life. Prior to the minister’s appearance she liked to play quietly to get the congregation in a properly sober mood and Shelagh, humming an entirely different tune to the one being played, was an annoying diversion.

  The McLachlans sat in the pew opposite Mirabelle and Shona. Niall’s golden head was bowed in his clasped hands but one eye was open and he was grinning over to Shona. Hastily she tucked her legs under the hard seat and peeped at him over the generous swell of Mirabelle’s bosom. She smiled back and brown eyes met blue in a shared moment of suppressed mischief.

  A door opened and the minister came in. Morag pedalled harder and managed to coax some enthusiasm from the harmonium. The coughing and rustling died down and the Reverend John Grey climbed to the pulpit, pausing for a moment to bow his head in prayer.

  He raised his hand and everyone rose to sing Rock of Ages while Shelagh remained seated and sang one of her favourite Gaelic hymns. A small girl from Nigg shuffled to the front and read a passage from the bible and the old Gaels, not understanding a word, rustled in their pockets for a mint or a handkerchief, and wished it was dinner-time. But when the minister started his sermon, everyone paid attention, whether they understood or not. The church reverberated with his booming voice and Shona sat with her mouth agape, her expression of wonder a copy of every other child there.

  Shelagh, conditioned to years of church-going, kept dropping off to sleep, only to be brought back by a sharp nudge from Merry Mary. Each time she woke she muttered, ‘Eh? Ach leave me be! I canny understand a word he’s sayin’ anyways!’

  Psalms were sung and another passage from the bible read by Lachlan. He returned to his seat and the minister held up his hand again. It was his habit to divide his sermon so that he could begin by gaining the attention of his parishioners and end by giving them something that would keep them going for the rest of the week. Today he excelled himself and extolled about the virtues of clean and sinless living.