Rhanna

by Christine Marion Fraser

  Carbolic fumes and tobacco smoke filled the stuffy atmosphere and Lachlan’s head reeled. He knew why he was delaying. Fergus had accused him once before of letting go of something he should have saved; when he woke, and found his arm gone, would he accuse Lachlan of removing something he could have saved? Lachlan knew he couldn’t bear such an accusation again. From someone else yes, from Fergus no, because after all these years he wanted to know McKenzie again, he couldn’t waive the chance of a reconciliation by removing that arm.

  Biddy had sterilized the instruments and laid them on a small table by his side. Everyone was motionless, the silence only broken by old Bob wiping his nose on his sleeve. He was at the head of the table ready to hold Fergus still if he should move during the operation.

  Kate McKinnon was presiding over pots of water, keeping them at boiling point. Kirsteen had come forward, ready to help if needed, though she looked so pale Biddy ordered her to sit down.

  ‘No, Biddy,’ she said with quiet determination, ‘I must help.’

  They all turned as Alick came through the door. He had gone back to Laigmhor to change from the baggy trousers loaned by Tam McKinnon. The memory of the quiet house, with Mirabelle dead in her room, was with him still and his face was gaunt and grey. He was exhausted but unable to rest.

  ‘Is . . . it done?’ he croaked painfully.

  Lachlan shook his head. ‘No . . . no I can’t! It’s a job for a hospital.’

  A general murmur or horror filled the air and Biddy looked at him sharply. ‘Havers, laddie! There’s no way of gettin’ him to a hospital in time!’

  ‘I can’t save that arm,’ groaned Lachlan. ‘Bone, flesh, nerves, they’re all mangled together! It’s not humanly possible!’

  ‘We know that, lad!’ cried Bob gruffly. ‘Just tak’ the bloody thing off! If you leave it it will just poison the rest o’ him! McKenzie’s not a god, man! He’s flesh and blood like the rest o’ us and can die the same!’

  Sweat ran into Lachlan’s eyes making them smart. His hands trembled. ‘He’ll never know how bad the arm was! He’ll say I could have saved it! He’ll blame me if I cut it off, damn him!’

  It was a cry from the soul and Kirsteen knew what his thoughts were.

  ‘Lachlan, listen to me,’ she said quietly. He looked at her and she saw the naked doubts in his brown eyes. ‘Bob’s right – Fergus is no different from any of us. You’re a fine doctor, everyone on Rhanna trusts you.’ There was a murmur of assent. ‘Take off the arm, he’ll die if you don’t. Fergus will thank you, not blame you. I love him, Lachlan! Och, please give him a chance to live! Take off the arm!’

  Another murmur of agreement rippled gently but still Lachlan hesitated. Alick whispered to Kirsteen, then went to a cupboard and uncorked a bottle of whisky. He took it to Lachlan and held it to his lips.

  ‘It will steady you, doctor,’ he assured gently. ‘Take a good swig, we all know what it’s like to have a bit of the shakes!’

  Lachlan drank. The bottle was passed from man to man and Kate McKinnon took a generous mouthful.

  ‘I’ll have a sip,’ said Biddy with dignity and gulped so much old Joe had to thump her on the back. The incident relaxed the tenseness of the atmosphere and Lachlan scrubbed his hands once more. ‘Ready, Biddy!’ he said evenly.

  ‘Ready, lad,’ she said and passed him the scalpel.

  Kirsteen never knew how she managed to stay on her feet but every pair of hands was needed. Blood ran under the knife and she swabbed it away. In a sick dream she heard the saw rasping on bone. Her legs wobbled but she mopped the life blood of Fergus with one hand and wiped sweat from Lachlan’s brow with the other. Biddy was busy with instruments and Bob, stolid and calm, held Fergus’s dark head in his gnarled brown hands.

  Fergus groaned but Bob cradled him as if he were a baby and spoke in his lilting voice though he knew Fergus couldn’t hear a word.

  The operation was finished by the dubious light of paraffin lamps and it was Alick who carried away the bucket containing the grisly remains of his brother’s arm. He stumbled to the shore, barely able to see for the tears coursing down his face. It was a night of fresh salt wind and racing green waves. He waded into the sea and disturbed a flock of gulls resting on a sand bank. They rose and screamed at him. He swung the bucket, throwing the contents far into the water, the gulls wheeled and cried, then descended in a cloud of flapping wings and tearing beaks.

  ‘Eat it, you filthy scavengers!’ cried Alick, his voice choking with sobs. ‘It’s no use to him now! Eat it, damn the lot of you!’

  Fergus was in bed when he got back, the thickly wrapped stump of his arm resting on pillows to stop the blood flow.

  ‘He’s needing blood badly,’ said Lachlan. ‘I must take samples from everyone to find his group. Will you go and ask Biddy to round up as many volunteers as she can, Alick? I’ve still a lot to do here.’

  In the end it was Alick who was the donor. He watched his blood being drawn and felt strangely satisfied. The act was a salve for his conscience and he even managed to pull Biddy’s leg, telling her she was the most glamorous vampire he had ever met.

  Elspeth came in to relieve Kate McKinnon from tea-making and she reported that Shona was in bed and had cried herself to sleep.

  Alick started up. ‘That poor wee bairn! I’d nearly forgotten her and her heart bursting with grief. The devil take this hellish day! None of it will ever be the same again!’ He took a few steps forward and collapsed in a dead faint.

  Elspeth looked at him with contempt and her sharp nose went up in the air.

  ‘A weakling if ever I saw one.’ She inclined her head upwards. ‘And the other, too proud for his own good. It’s no wonder poor Mirabelle has gone to the grave. The McKenzies spell nothing but trouble. The Lord knows how the wee one will turn out! A wildcat like her father, I havny a doubt!’

  Kirsteen went forward and deliberately slapped Elspeth on both cheeks. ‘One for Alick and one for Fergus,’ she said with a venom she hadn’t known she possessed. ‘Pity you only have one face, Elspeth, because I should have liked to have slapped you for Mirabelle who loved her family, and for Shona who’s a lovely sweet child! Now please get out from under my roof! I’ll make the tea.’

  Elspeth held her red cheeks and backed away.

  ‘You deserve Fergus McKenzie, you wee spitfire,’ she spat. ‘He might make an honest woman o’ you yet!’

  She flounced out and Lachlan put his hand over Kirsteen’s.

  ‘We’ll have nothing but outrageous tempers and tight lips for a week now. Phebie will have a hell of a time and I’ll be regaled with it all when I come in weary from my rounds.’

  Kirsteen’s chin trembled. ‘Och, I’m sorry, Lachlan but I couldn’t help myself.’

  He grinned. ‘Don’t be sorry, she had it coming. Now, young lady, it’s bed and rest for you. We’ll dump Alick on the couch and let him sleep it off. He’s just exhausted like the rest of us.’

  The whole of Rhanna seemed to be gathered in the yard at Laigmhor for the double funeral. The two coffins lay side by side, set on chairs brought from the kitchen.

  Hamish’s body had been recovered the day after he had been smashed to death on the Sgor Creags. The men had found him washed up on the white sands of Port Rum Point. He looked crumpled and small in death, so unlike the splendid figure that had graced Rhanna for nearly sixty years. His red beard was tangled with seaweed and his clothes were in tatters. The tide had tossed him uncaringly so that he lay face downwards, exposing the terrible gaping hole in his skull. Brain and tissue were gone, picked by sea birds, and the remaining shell had been cleaned out by the sea.

  The men were sick at the sight. They were tough men, hardened by years of reaping the harvests of sea and land. They were used to grim sights and were not easily sickened but it was hard for them to look upon the pathetic sea-sodden man who had been beloved by all who knew him. One or two of his closer friends turned away quickly and young Mathew cried openly.

  They
wrapped him hastily and took him to shore. Maggie was there, old-looking, a black shawl thrown over her shoulders as she waited for the men to bring Hamish. They hadn’t been sure of finding him. If the Sgor Creags held on to him no one would get near enough to bring in his body; if they released him the tides and cross currents of the Sound could take his body far away.

  She gave a little cry when the shapeless bundle was lifted from the boat. She ran to it but the men wouldn’t let her look. ‘Remember him as last you seen him, Maggie,’ said old Joe kindly. ‘He was a fine proud big chiel and these must be your memories.’

  She stood now at the front of the huge crowd that filled the cobbled yard. It was a warm blue day, bees droned, and the scent of roses from Mirabelle’s garden hung heavy in the air.

  Two minutes before, the crowd had been astonished at the arrival of Mr and Madam Balfour of Burnbreddie. The carriage turned into the yard and the islanders parted to make way. They looked suspiciously at Mrs Balfour. Was she simply being nosy? She had never come to an island funeral before. It wasn’t unknown for the laird to make an appearance when the older inhabitants of Rhanna departed life. He had played with many of them in his boyhood and got quite sentimental over their respective deaths, but his wife attend an island funeral . . . never.

  She stepped down from the carriage and her diminutive figure crossed the yard. The laird followed, splendid figure in lovat tweed jacket and swinging kilt. At his side walked Scott Balfour younger of Burnbreddie, not so spotty as in adolescence, but still weak of chin and pinched at the nose, his full, drooping mouth almost hidden by a large drooping moustache. His mother laid a posy of red roses on Mirabelle’s coffin. For a long moment she stood looking down at the coffin lid. Wullie the carpenter had done a fine job. The wood of each coffin was as smooth as silk and a small metal plaque was affixed to each. Not all the islanders could afford such grand caskets – some were buried in no more than plywood boxes – but no matter the style the departed were always given a good send-off.

  The laird’s wife suddenly burst into tears and went quickly back to the carriage. She had genuinely liked Mirabelle. There had been a quality about her, a devotion to those she loved that went far beyond the call of duty. She also had dignity and a spirited defence for anything she thought unfair. She had given ‘my leddy’ the rough side of her tongue once or twice but that hadn’t detracted from her character; in a way it enhanced it and all she stood for. Oh yes, she liked Mirabelle and she would miss – oh how she would miss the exquisite needlework that had enhanced Burnbreddie over the years. She would never get anyone else to do such lovely work. Madam Balfour of Burnbreddie sniffed into a lace handkerchief.

  The laird stood, with his son, beside the coffins. The laird thought of Hamish. They’d had many a dram together, and sometimes a game of cards in the long winter evenings. Often they’d gone shooting on the moors and fished the rivers. He’d regaled Hamish with stories of his female conquests and the big man had laughed, his deep, full-chested laugh, that red hair and beard of his matching the fire of autumn’s splendour. The laird did not know that Hamish laughed because the pictures presented in his mind were hilarious. The laird thought the laughter was sheer admiration for his wiles with women and he had puffed with pride. He hadn’t seen so much of Hamish since his marriage to that Edinburgh woman. The laird glanced quickly at the unhappy widow and his watery eyes gleamed. He would have to see what he could do to take her mind off things.

  Young Burnbreddie stared at the coffins with no feeling but resentment that his mother had coaxed him to come. He felt foolish and knew that many eyes were on him. One day he would be laird. He didn’t fancy the idea much, but at least he could do a better job than the old idiot who was his father. He had caught the old boy too many times fooling around, his hands up the skirts of those giggling middle-aged frumps who were never away from Burnbreddie.

  He knew Hamish of course, but Mirabelle – she was that old woman who, according to his mother, had licked the boots of McKenzies most of her life. Mirabelle . . . a thought came to mind . . . a sunny day on Rhanna, himself a small boy tripping and falling into bramble thorns his screams bringing a nice motherly, looking woman from a nearby farm. She had taken him in, bathed his wounds, then plied him with freshly baked scones and strawberry jam. He had gone back several times and played with Fergus and Alick, who was about his age. But he had been sent to boarding school and had learned social refinements that had taken away his natural ability to make friends from all walks of life. School taught him to speak in a rather nasal way, certain things just weren’t done, but it was considered smart to laugh at nothing and to browbeat those weaker than oneself.

  A pang went through young Balfour’s heart. He looked again at Mirabelle’s coffin. The sun was hot and the scent of roses strong. The impulse that took him to the rose garden was entirely unpremeditated. He took a penknife from his pocket and cut a single pure white rose which he took back to place on the old housekeeper’s coffin. ‘Goodbye, Mirabelle,’ he said softly and went quickly back to the carriage.

  A few of the men were drowning their sorrows. One of them held up the bottle and shouted, ‘Will you drink to our departed friends, laddie?’ It was a jeer more than an invitation because few liked the ‘college cissy’ who would one day be laird.

  Young Balfour hesitated, then he turned into the crowd and took a hearty swig from the bottle. His back was slapped by several crofters. ‘Guid on you, lad,’ said one. ‘Share our bottle and our spit. You’re no’ so proud after all.’

  A smile touched Scott’s lips. ‘I’d sup whisky from a chanty,’ he commented cheekily and the crofters smiled dourly, recognizing a wit to match their own.

  It was time for the coffins to be taken to the Kirkyard. The pony and cart were brought into the yard. Maggie watched dry-eyed. She hadn’t cried yet, her grief was too deep for tears. Whisky was whimpering at her feet, a small puppy-like sound of utter misery.

  Shona watched Mirabelle’s coffin laid next to that of Hamish and she clutched Phebie’s hand tightly. She had lived at Slochmhor for the past three days, though she slept at the schoolhouse. Occasionally she was allowed to see her father but the sight of him made her want to cry. She could hardly believe he had lost one of those lovely strong brown arms. She wanted to hold his dark head in her own arms, to touch him and tell him she loved him but he didn’t know her, he didn’t know anyone and tossed in his own world of dark fantasies. It was awful to hear him cry out. She wanted to comfort him yet she herself so badly needed comfort. At night there was Kirsteen’s warm arms and soothing words but during the day Kirsteen was so busy nursing her father and had little time for much else. Slochmhor became a haven with its smells of baking and medicines, baby powder and wet washing. She played with little Fiona but for some reason couldn’t talk to Niall. He comforted her in his awkward boyish way and she wanted to feel safe in his arms but he wasn’t mature enough and she was too young to put her feelings into words. She mourned for Mirabelle yet didn’t really believe she was dead. Tomorrow or the next day she would go back to Laigmhor and the familiar smells of baking and lavender would greet her.

  She felt the same about Hamish. It was all a bad dream. He was still in his homely cottage with Maggie fussing and the animals weaving in and out of his legs. Soon things would be back to normal and Mirabelle and Hamish would be back where they belonged. Her father would get well – he had to get well. Nothing could take away the tower of physical strength that was her father. So she set up the pathetic barriers of self-deception.

  The cart trundled on to the road with the line of mourners, stretching behind like a curving caterpillar. Hamish had relatives from as far as England, but Mirabelle had no blood relations to weep for her. Her sisters were long dead, nieces and nephews scattered afar. Nevertheless there was many a wet eye as she was laid to rest.

  Elspeth stood apart and tears cascaded down her thin cheeks. She felt she had lost her last friend. Mirabelle had been the only one who had been
kind enough to give her comfort or advice. Now she was gone and she felt very alone. She didn’t even have the stimulation of an argument with Hector to sharpen her life. He had died the year before. The manner of his death had surprised everyone and dumbfounded Elspeth. He had gone to bed one night, very intoxicated, and was found dead the next morning choked by his own vomit. Elspeth couldn’t believe that, after all the years of wishing a dreadful fate on him, he should die so suddenly and uneventfully in his own bed.

  In a strange way she missed him. Life had held a certain uncertainty when he was alive. She had something to anticipate even if it were only a verbal battle during which they poured out venomous words and malicious jibes. He taunted her for not being woman enough to bear children and she goaded him to fury by pointing out that their childless marriage was caused by his impotency through drink. ‘Your very seeds are burnt dry, you drunken pig!’ she would rage and in a blind anger he would throw her on the bed and forcibly take possession of her angular body. Secretly she had loved those times, the feel of him ripping into her rousing her in a way that none of his ordinary attempts at love-making had ever done. The brute force of him inside her, his animal cries of satisfaction, thrilled her every fibre and she had pressed her hands to her mouth to stop from crying out in pleasure. Guilt at such heathen feelings took her hastily to kirk on the Sabbath where she prayed half-heartedly for a deliverance from her barbaric desires.

  Without Hector she was lost, without Mirabelle she was alone, and she cried sorely as the minister’s sombre words boomed into the hush of the Kirkyard. Biddy bustled over. ‘Here,’ she hissed, passing Elspeth a small hip flask. ‘Take a droppy, it will do you good.’