Kirsteen, after a year of sharing her own ‘wee hoosie’ with midges and horseflies, had become quite accustomed to it and she didn’t mind bathing in a zinc tub before the fire.
She had bought a clutch of chickens and they were now fine big birds thanks to the ‘hen’s pot’ that Phebie had shown her how to make. She was grateful for the huge eggs with which the hens rewarded her. She liked to hear the hens clucking about and it was not unusual for them to come strutting into the classroom if the door lay open.
Spring had started early and she was looking forward to it. Now, in the second day of April, winter seemed to have come back, with the storm rattling doors and windows. She glanced towards the road and saw the first of the children battling their way to school. Little Shona McKenzie was with Niall as usual. His curls danced in the wind and Shona’s auburn tresses escaped her woollen hat. Kirsteen wondered if Shona resembled her mother. If so, Helen must have been beautiful because her daughter was like a glowing cameo with her peach skin and pointed face, her huge blue eyes and that hair tumbling down her back in thick fiery waves and curls.
Kirsteen had asked Phebie about Helen but had been careful to make the question sound like an afterthought. Phebie had spoken with tenderness, a little smile of wistfulness lurking at the corners of her mouth, but she had seemed reluctant to discuss her personal feelings and Kirsteen understood that the matter was a sore point at Slochmhor and didn’t pursue the subject further.
She sighed and rose to make her way to the schoolroom. If Helen had been beautiful like her daughter, if, as Phebie said, Helen had been vivacious and gay, charming and loving, then Fergus must have loved her deeply, so deeply and devotedly that no one could possibly take her place.
Fergus was alarmed by the force of the wind and hurried through his breakfast. Shona came into the kitchen dressed for school and she came round the table to give her father the usual peck on his cheek. She was growing more restrained in her displays of affection and with a start he tried to remember when last she had thrown her arms round his neck and called him ‘my big boy’.
She was only six, yet in many ways grown up for her years. She was still puckish and gay, moody and bad tempered on occasion, but there was a growing dignity in her, and looking at her pointed little face and deep eyes that withheld her innermost thoughts he suddenly wished she would hurl herself at him and cover him with kisses the way she used to. He studied her for a long moment and tried to fathom the look in her periwinkle gaze. There was a sadness there. He caught a fleeting glimpse of it as she matched his stare with hers and something tore at his heartstrings. It was the way Helen had looked when she was forlorn but with Helen he had been able to discuss the reasons for her sadness and between them they had been able to dispel it.
He knew he couldn’t communicate with his own child. When had he ever spoken to her about her hopes and dreams? Had he ever asked her about her childish pastimes? He couldn’t even remember when, if ever, he had taken her on his knee to cuddle her and let her know she was loved and wanted. He hadn’t loved or wanted her at the beginning. Now that he did he was unable to know how to go about letting her know. How many of her lovely child’s years had he missed because he was so wrapped up in himself? Six! Already six! He had missed all her baby years, they were gone from him and he would never know what they had been like because he had been blind to all but his own sorrow. She had sat on Hamish’s knee hundreds of times and tugged at his red beard because he always hid a penny there for her to find. She had laughed with Hamish, a happy child’s laugh, when he grasped her in his arms and gave her bear hugs, all the things her own father should have done.
Impulsively he put out his arms to hug her to him but she was turning away, kissing Tot goodbye and throwing her arms round Mirabelle before opening the door.
He went to the window and watched her battling against the wind to meet Niall who was waiting impatiently at the gate. He cursed under his breath at the sight of the two of them bending their young bodies into the gale. They were animated. Shona’s laughter was tossed back by the wind, making Fergus scowl harder. That boy, with his sturdy good looks, his strong handsome little face, his openly resentful gaze when he met Fergus, he could make Shona laugh. He could talk to her and play with her and do all the things that her own father couldn’t. They were an intimate pair in their child’s way and Fergus felt shut out and very alone seeing Niall take his daughter’s hand in an effort to hold her upright on windswept Rhanna.
Mirabelle was clattering the things off the breakfast table and he took his resentment out on her.
‘Oh, woman! Stop your rattling!’ His dark eyes snapped with temper and he nodded towards the window. ‘That two! What’s with you that they’re always together? Can’t you speak to Shona and tell her to find another bairn to play with? A wee lass would be better!’
Mirabelle stood with her hands full of dishes.
‘Fergus! Fergus!’ Her voice was weary. ‘If you weren’t so proud you’d make your peace wi’ Lachlan! He’s a fine lad and his son’s a fine bairn. He knows there’s something wrong between you and his own father and he knows it’s you that should put it right. I’ve heard things, Fergus . . . about Lachlan and Phebie . . . things are no’ right wi’ them and I’ve heard tell it’s because you accused poor Lachlan about Helen!’ She shook her grey head wearily and sighed deeply.
He was about to hurl abuse at her but something in the stoop of her shoulders stayed him. He realized that Mirabelle had grown into an old woman under his very eyes and he hadn’t noticed. She had always been in his life. Hers were the arms he had tumbled to for comfort in his troubled boyhood. She had scolded and loved, cared for and comforted people all her life. She was part of Laigmhor, she held it together in a hundred ways that had nothing to do with bricks and mortar. Hers was a life of utter self-denial. Half of it was spent in the kitchen, the other half devoted to bringing up his daughter. In a way Mirabelle was Laigmhor because she had been there even before he was born. The thought was strangely disquieting. She had come to Laigmhor in 1897, two years before he was born. She must have come in young womanhood, now she was old, the hair that escaped her mutch was white, her plump face was still smooth but her kindly eyes were tired. But it was her hands he noticed most of all. Years of washing, cooking, scrubbing had left their mark. The veins were knotted, the skin crêped and dry, the fingers slightly disfigured by rheumatism.
She stood at the table and saw the anger go out of him. Suddenly he crumpled and looked like the lost lonely little boy who had come to her with his troubles long years ago.
‘Belle!’ he whispered. ‘I’m sorry . . . if it wasn’t for you, my dear old friend, none of us would be here. What am I to do, tell me? For God’s sake I don’t even know my own bairn. Och! If only Helen had lived! I loved her, Belle. The very marrow went out of me when she died but I’ve fed on memories too long now and there’s so much I have to put right!’
It was a cry from the heart and tears sprang to Mirabelle’s eyes. She went quickly to take the dark head to her bosom, a thing she hadn’t done for many a year. ‘Fergus! My laddie! I know how you’ve suffered! Bless me, I know only too well!’ She rocked his head gently. ‘There, there, my poor laddie, auld Mirabelle’s here. I know your hert is sair but Helen wouldny want you to grieve so. You’ve held on to memories too long now. You don’t know your own wee bairn because you tried to shut her out. You’ve kept poor Helen a prisoner o’ your hert for too long. Tell the bairn about her lovely mother, you’ll both be the better for it, believe me.’
Fergus felt the gentle old hands stroking his hair and a strange peace stole over him. A feeling of release came to his whole being as the lilting Highland voice soothed him.
‘Make your peace wi’ Lachy,’ she crooned softly. ‘Rid your hert o’ it’s burden o’ guilt . . . och yes, you know it’s true. You’ll not be a happy man till you do as I tell you.’
He raised his head and looked deep into her wise old eyes. ‘Aye, you are rig
ht, Belle . . . about everything. I’ll do as you say, I must or I feel I’ll go mad. I’ve to see to the yowes, I told Bob I’d be up at the field early, but when I’m done I’ll go straight to Slochmhor and hope they’ll want my apology after all this time.’
‘Ach they will, they will,’ beamed Mirabelle. ‘Och, I’m so pleased and this will be a happier place I’m sure.’
A flapping movement in the garden caught her eye and she saw Dodie loping along, his navy raincoat ballooning in the wind. This time he didn’t wait to be invited but came straight to the door and rapped imperiously.
‘I’ll be blessed!’ exclaimed Mirabelle. ‘There must be an emergency or Dodie wouldny be chappin’ the door!’
Dodie opened the door with a quick gesture and the frenzied wind ushered him through without ceremony so that his ungainly wellingtons caught on the doormat and down he went.
‘Ach it’s glad I am just to have caught you, Mr McKenzie!’ he panted, struggling to regain his feet. ‘It’s Ealasaid calving and me not knowing right what I’m doin’. She’s a wheen overdue but she’s been labouring all night and me up with her holding her and rubbing her belly! Now she’s just lyin’ down and bellowin’ and I think she’s dyin’. Och, Mr McKenzie! Will you come and help? I’m feart o’ losin’ my Ealasaid and you’re the only man I’d trust with her!’
Fergus thought about all the work waiting for him but, as always, the simple faith of hardworking guileless Dodie touched his heart. Tears of weariness and anxiety had stained his coarse brown cheeks and his usually faraway dreaming eyes held a frightened urgency. The thought that he might lose his beloved cow had brought him out of the simple innocent world in which he lived and tossed him into one of harsh reality.
Fergus placed a firm hand on his bent shoulder. ‘Don’t worry, man, I’ll come with you! Come with me to the byre, we’ll need one or two things. Belle!’ He raised his voice. ‘I’m away with Dodie to help with the calf! I don’t know when I’ll be back!’
‘Right, laddie!’ Mirabelle’s voice was jubilant. Things were going to be happier soon at Laigmhor. Fergus would apologize to Lachlan and there would be an easier atmosphere all round. Singing an old Highland love lilt she went as usual to halve an onion in the kitchen to dispel the smell of Dodie.
Ealasaid lay in a bed of fresh hay in the little shed behind Dodie’s cottage. Fergus saw immediatey that she was in difficulties. Her breathing was rapid, her bloodshot eyes half-shut with pain and weakness.
He examined her quickly. ‘It’s just as I thought, Dodie, it’s going to be a breech and the cow hasn’t the strength for it. Go and get the ropes. When the back legs come out we’ll have a pull between us. The old beast won’t be able to give much help.’
Half-sobbing, Dodie galloped away for the ropes. The morning passed slowly. Ealasaid was unable to stand. Dodie sat sprawled in the hay beside her and held her huge head tenderly in his lap. He stroked her and whispered in her ears and every so often sobbed out, ‘Ach, my Ealasaid! I shouldny have let this happen. It’s my fault! Dodie’s to blame!’
At one o’clock Fergus was outside smoking his pipe when he saw a distant speck toiling up the track. It came nearer and proved to be Mirabelle wrapped in a thick tweed cloak, a basket over her arm. Her face was red with exertion and she was unable to speak for a few moments. Fergus made her sit down on a rickety wooden bench and scolded her thoroughly for coming so far.
‘Ach weesht, laddie,’ she gasped. ‘I know you wouldny get anything to sup here so I brought a bite for the pair o’ you. There’s cold chicken and ham and a loaf fresh from the oven.’
She nodded towards the shed. ‘What’s doin’? Has the beast calved yet?’
‘No, she’s not got the strength for it and it’s going to be a breech into the bargain.’
She shook her grey head sadly. ‘Ach, poor Dodie. She’s all he has and not for long I’m thinkin’. That old goat Burnbreddie needs his lugs skelped . . . givin’ a poor simple man a cow like that!’
A sudden flash of lightning lit the lowering purple-grey sky followed by a rumbling growl of thunder. Mirabelle rose. ‘I’m away before that blessed sky opens again! What weather – in spring too!’
Fergus watched her flapping tent-like shape till it was out of sight. He felt his hands trembling. He was in the role of the deliverer and the thought made him feel sick because he knew Ealasaid would not survive.
Dodie, tearstained and exhausted, refused to eat and went back to the shed to be with his cow leaving Fergus to peck half-heartedly at the piece of chicken.
‘Mr McKenzie, she’s pushin’! She’s started to push!’
The wind hurled Dodie’s urgent cries to Fergus and he ran to the shed. The cow was straining, using every last ounce of her strength. Fergus knelt and massaged her massive belly. He had delivered many calves in his day and was used to seeing the agony that went with birth but somehow, watching the dying old cow using all the life that remained in her to bring forth her calf, he was filled with admiration.
An hour passed. The world outside the little shed became a raging, wind-battered torrent. Ealasaid had been moaning softly but now her eyes opened wide and she began to struggle to her feet. The men helped to pull her up and she sagged against them as the hind quarters of her calf were expelled.
‘Hold her till I tie the ropes!’ ordered Fergus.
He secured the ropes to the calf and began pulling with all his might. Ealasaid cried softly and Dodie wept into her neck.
‘Help me, man!’ panted Fergus. ‘Grab that other rope!’
Ealasaid sank to her knees and the men pulled and sweated. The calf came surging out in a sudden burst and both men fell on their backs.
Fergus quickly cut the birth cord. It was a lovely black and white calf, amazingly sturdy, and he carried it to where its mother had once again sunk into the hay. She licked the warm wet little face and her long-lashed eyes regarded it lovingly. Her breath was coming very fast and she was moaning quietly at the back of her throat.
‘Will she live, Mr McKenzie!’ asked Dodie, dropping on his knees. He was staring at Fergus, willing with all the might of his simple brain that the man he held in such faith would give him the answer he so desperately wanted.
Fergus stopped in the act of wrapping the calf in a blanket.
‘No, Dodie, she’ll die.’ Pity and a feeling of inadequacy made the words sound blunt and callous. ‘She’s nigh on death now but you have a fine calf in her place.’
Dodie sank his head on to Ealasaid’s heaving flank and broke into a torrent of sobbing.
‘I dinna want the calf! I want my Ealasaid! Ach my poor beastie, I’ve done for you so I have! You canny die, you canny!’
But Ealasaid had drawn her last shuddering breath and Dodie rocked on his knees, his calloused big fingers scrubbing his eyes.
‘Come on, man,’ Fergus said gruffly. ‘Look at the wee calf. She’s a bonny beast – and remember she’s part of Ealasaid. It will be like having the old beast made new again.’
Slowly Dodie raised his tearstained face and a look of childlike wonder gradually diffused his sorrowful countenance.
‘Aye,’ he whispered, ‘like Ealasaid reborn.’ His voice grew eager. ‘A new wee Ealasaid! I’ll call her that! Mr McKenzie . . . it’s yoursel’ I’ve to thank. Without your help both would have died just.’
Fergus felt uncomfortable. ‘Let’s go now, man,’ he said awkwardly. ‘We’ll take the calf down to Laigmhor till she’s weaned. I’ll get some of my men to come up and shift the old cow.’
Fergus hustled Dodie down the track, making him carry the new calf which he had already fallen in love with, whispering into its silky ears the way he had done to its mother. Fergus strode quickly in front. He was tired and hungry but there was something he had to do before he could rest or eat. Years of fretting, of living with his guilt, had finally culminated in an overwhelming desire to make his peace with Lachlan and simple, trusting Dodie had set the final seal in his mind.
School was allowed out early that afternoon because Kirsteen Fraser worried about the children living in farflung corners of the island and she didn’t want them caught in the thunderstorm that was brewing. So it was that Niall and Shona were making their way home an hour earlier than usual.
‘Come home with me for a wee while,’ suggested Niall. ‘Mother will maybe give us a scone in jam.’
But Shona was in a strange mood. Thunder never frightened, but excited her. She lifted her face skywards and Niall could see the tumbling grey clouds mirrored in her sparkling eyes. She laughed in abandonment showing a gap where one baby tooth had come out and been magically taken away in the night by a Fairy Moruach who had left a silver threepenny in its place.
‘Och, it’s lovely so it is!’ she cried spreading her arms as if trying to capture the elusive force.
‘I don’t want to be shut up in a house,’ she said breathlessly. ‘Let’s go somewhere. We’ve an hour to spare.’
‘Where? To the caves at Sgor Creags? I love watching the waves crashing into the caves and it’s grand the way the froth skirls round the Creags!’
Shona shook her bright head. ‘That would take too long. We’ll go to the Kirkyard. It’s creepy there in a storm. I love listening to the elms creaking and groaning. They talk to each other and the wee flurries sough through the bell tower and the bell rings – like a wee fairy bell.’
Niall snorted scornfully. ‘There’s no fairies.’
But the idea of the talking trees appealed to him and he took Shona’s hand and they scampered through the trees to climb the steep brae to the Kirkyard. They opened the rustic wooden gate and made their way through the long grass. The tall elms bowed to them, their branches creaked and groaned, swayed and tossed, in the wind that was much stronger here atop the Hillock.
‘Listen!’ commanded Shona breathlessly. ‘They’re moaning like old Bodachs with the reaumys!’
She stood with her head thrown back looking at the tormented branches that laced overhead, shutting out any light there was to be had from the dark sky.
Rhanna Page 12