Rhanna

by Christine Marion Fraser

  Fergus felt very strange leaving Rhanna. It had been a long time since he’d left the island. There had been cattle sales in Oban but that had been some years ago; he had been inclined to leave such things to Hamish who had enjoyed the buzz of the sales and who had needed little help when it came to choosing good dairy cattle.

  The day was cold with a fresh wind blowing from the east. Fergus shivered slightly with a mixture of cold and nerves. A tight knot of apprehension coiled deep in his belly and he wanted to shout to the boat’s captain to turn round, to head back for Rhanna and security; instead he picked up his small suitcase and went below to the saloon.

  The picture of Shona and Niall waving him off from the harbour was still with him. Shona’s chin had trembled slightly but Niall had placed a firm arm round her shoulders and she was soon smiling. He had watched them till they were tiny specks against the white blur of Portcull. Alick and Mary were staying at Laigmhor for Easter, and Kate McKinnon was coming in to help with the meals. Alick had been aglow at the thought of helping Mathew to run the farm and Fergus had felt strangely superfluous.

  He was awkward and uncomfortable in his suit and he was also very conscious of the loosely pinned left sleeve. In his working clothes it didn’t matter but in the suit he felt conspicuous and very aware of his disability. He lit his pipe awkwardly in a little corner and settled down to the long journey. Only Lachlan and Phebie knew where he was going, everyone else thought it was a holiday, a break after all his sad experiences.

  He thought of Kirsteen. The idea of seeing her again made his heart beat strangely. A quiet elation gripped him but it was tempered with doubts and the terrible fear she would reject him. He didn’t want to think beyond that, he couldn’t think of a life that held no hope of a reconciliation with the woman he loved.

  Oban seemed big and busy after Rhanna. How different the busy harbour was from Portcull. Men shouted and groups of noisy children helped the crew with the ropes, hoping their labours might earn a penny or two.

  The town had changed little since Fergus had last visited, there were more shops but the happy bustling atmosphere was still the same. He booked into a small hotel. It was homely and its unpretentious character suited Fergus. After a wash he felt better and, it being teatime, he went rather nervously into the dining-room. It was almost empty. The season was quiet because of the cold weather and the hotel was peaceful and uncluttered. Nevertheless he was careful not to dunk bread in his soup. Mirabelle had snorted disapprovingly at the habit but in his own kitchen he hadn’t cared; now he was in unfamiliar ground and felt hot and uncomfortable. Though there were only two other people in the room he was aware of every move he made. The stump of his arm grew in proportion till he felt it filled the room and when his pudding came he pushed it away untouched and rose hastily.

  He strode into the cold air and took a deep breath. He looked down at the piece of paper that carried Kirsteen’s address and his hand trembled. A passing fisherman gave him directions and he climbed to the top of a steep hill with legs that felt like jelly. He looked at the house. It was clean and whitewashed with tiny attic windows. It was perched on top of a hillocky garden filled with crocuses and budding daffodils. A light shone in a downstairs window. It looked warm and inviting yet he felt a stranger, an intruder into a scene that held no invitation to him. It was an oddly sad experience. On Rhanna he had been so sure of Kirsteen’s welcome – he had expected it – now he felt he had no right to expect anything.

  He looked again at the house she had grown up in. How often her light, eager step must have trod that path – this road. He pictured her toiling up the hill, the long climb behind her, her face flushed and her breath coming quickly. He wished she were coming up the hill now, it would make his task so much easier. The light of welcome would surely come into her eyes. They would look at each other, not speaking for a moment, then they would laugh, take hands, and he would know that she loved him still.

  For several minutes he waited, his eyes straining downhill. The lights of the town twinkled, a boat tooted, and a crowd of young men laughed in the street far below. His ears listened for the sound of those well-known footsteps uphill but he knew he was waiting in vain.

  Again he looked at the house. The wind whistled up from the sea and, pulling his collar closer, he went slowly towards the little green gate set in the wall. For a long moment he hesitated at the door then he knocked demandingly before his courage left him. Seconds of eternity passed then quick, light steps could be heard within.

  His heart pounded into his throat. Kirsteen! At last, Kirsteen!

  But it wasn’t Kirsteen who answered the door, though for a moment the dim glow of a paraffin lamp gave the illusion that the woman who stood there was the one he had come to find. The likeness was so marked he nearly cried out but in time he saw a woman much older than Kirsteen and her hair was brown instead of fair.

  ‘Yes?’ The voice was softly Highland but it held a note of impatience.

  ‘Can I . . . is Kirsteen here?’

  She held the lamp higher and stared at him. ‘And who might you be?’

  ‘Fergus – Fergus McKenzie. I knew Kirsteen on Rhanna and I was in Oban for a few days . . . and – I thought I’d look her up . . .’

  The hissing sound of her indrawn breath made him falter like a small boy.

  ‘So,’ she breathed, ‘you’ve come at last, McKenzie! Just a wee bit late, I’m thinkin’.’

  ‘You – know of me then?’

  ‘Know of you! My poor lass nigh broke her hert – aye – and her health too because of you!’

  ‘But I wrote – my letters – she never answered!’

  She inclined her head backwards. ‘I never thought I’d be askin’ you over my doorstep but you’d best come inside, for it’s cold standin’ there.’

  The house was warm, with a cosy lived-in atmosphere, but Fergus was barely inside when he sensed that the homeliness was an echo of the past. The shabby furniture had known a lot of use, the polished floors and squares of carpet were well trampled and on the piano top the faces that smiled from photographs were of happy years the house had known. The firelight danced over the shadowy figures. There was Kirsteen, a tiny girl on her father’s knee; Kirsteen, her arm thrown round the shoulder of a friend, happy tomboys with bare feet sinking in the sand; and Kirsteen, lovely in young womanhood, her eyes solemn but a smile curving the corners of her mouth. And pride of place, Kirsteen on her graduation, the sombre gown and cap serving only to heighten the sweet youth of the girl who wore them.

  Fergus felt an indescribable sadness creep over him for he knew, as surely as if he had been told, that photographs and memories were the only things of Kirsteen left in the house. There was no feel of her tangible presence and he wished that he had never made the journey to Oban.

  ‘Sit down, McKenzie! Let me see the man that tore all our lives apart. I’d like to look at you properly!’

  Mrs Fraser’s tone was imperative and Fergus felt angry at being addressed in such a derogatory fashion. She was a match for him, he had sensed the ruthless strength of her instantly, and he resented her for it.

  But he sat down on the edge of a chair. ‘Where’s Kirsteen?’ he asked flatly.

  ‘You may well ask.’ Her tone was so bitter that he looked up quickly. ‘Gone she is, my own daughter. She wouldn’t bide wi’ me and all I wanted was to take care of her, even after all the shame she brought on us! It’s no wonder her poor father died! A broken hert it was. Och, he doted on that girl so he did!’

  ‘Her father . . . dead?’

  ‘Aye, just six months ago. She wouldn’t do as we asked! We wanted her to go away and have the bairn adopted when it came! But no! She got heavier and the whole of Oban seeing it – and her – like a hussy she was! Holding her head high, saying she was proud to be with child!’

  Fergus turned white and stood up to face her. ‘Did you say . . . Kirsteen is having a child?’

  ‘Had a child, McKenzie! Your child, two months
ago! A wee mite of a thing he was and her so ill she nearly died. But she came through, she and the wee laddie! Och, a bonny wee thing – dark, like you, McKenzie. We can only beseech the Lord he doesn’t grow up to have your selfish streak in him!’

  Fergus sat down heavily. He stared at Kirsteen’s mother. ‘Oh, God no,’ he breathed, ‘why didn’t she tell me? I loved her! I wanted to marry her. I didn’t know about the baby. I swear I didn’t know!’

  ‘Hmph! And the pair o’ you livin’ in sin! She said you didn’t know but how could we believe her after all the lies she told us about her nice, clean-livin’ life on Rhanna! We brought up that girl to tell the truth and she was a good God-fearin’ child till you warped her, McKenzie. Proud of her pregnancy she was! She wanted the child to remind her of you! When I think of her poor father! Och, he was a good man, and he’d already forgiven her when he died. It was too much for him . . . the shame, the disgrace of it all! He sacrificed so much for that girl and that was how she repaid us.’

  ‘Where is she?’ Fergus’s voice was tight.

  ‘God knows, I wish I did but I wouldn’t tell you! She walked out taking that poor wee mite with her!’

  Fergus gritted his teeth and stood up again. ‘WHERE IS SHE?’

  Her hands clenched together till the knuckles showed white.

  ‘I tell you I don’t know and it’s the truth. She said she was going to one of the big towns to find work. I begged her to stay but madam was too proud. Didn’t want to be beholden to her own mother. Despite all, I was willing to keep her in my house. I knew all the neighbours were whisperin’ behind my back but she was my lass and I stuck by her and that was my thanks. Gone three weeks now and not a stroke of a pen. I could be dead for all she cares!’

  In a flash Fergus saw it all. The long weary months of pregnancy, Kirsteen, that lovely head of hers held as high as it had been on Rhanna; her father’s death; the recriminations, the hints that it had been all her fault. Her mother’s continued air of martyrdom; the birth of the child. Kirsteen’s lonely soul tortured in a world where it must have seemed everyone had turned against her. He could almost feel her ceaseless torment till finally she had fled from all that was familiar in her life to an uncertain existence in some noisy, frightening city.

  He put his hand to his forehead in an agony of remorse. But something nagged at him, his letters! He had poured out the love in his heart, his pen had written things that he hadn’t felt himself capable of expressing. Surely Kirsteen must have known that he had mourned for her.

  He looked directly into Mrs Fraser’s eyes. ‘Did she not get my letters? I asked her over and over to come back to Rhanna to be my wife.’

  Mrs Fraser could not hold his look. She fidgeted but when she spoke, her voice was coldly defiant. ‘The first came when she was in hospital too ill to be bothered with anything. The others came when she was home but I made sure she never got them! I didn’t want her to go to you! Not after you treating her like a hussy! I wanted her to stay here – with me – her and the wee one, but she went – just like a stranger she walked away from her own mother . . .’

  His hand dug deep into her shoulder and she cowered under the strength of his blazing fury. ‘She never got my letters! You call yourself her mother yet you wanted to rob her of any chance of happiness! I love her! Do you hear me, woman? Now, because of you she’s in some God-forsaken place and we might never find her!’

  She struggled to free herself. ‘Let me be,’ she demanded furiously. ‘Yes! I’m at fault, McKenzie, and I’m sick with the knowing of it, but who put her with child then said he couldn’t wed her! You, McKenzie, live with that on your conscience if you will!’

  All at once he was deflated. ‘We’re all to blame,’ he said softly, ‘but you’re right, I am most of all. I want now to find Kirsteen and I want you to tell me of anyone who might know where she is.’

  Her own fit of indignation had subsided and he got a glimpse of a lonely woman.

  ‘Do you not think I’ve asked? Her friends, everyone she knew – aye, and they were many for she was a popular lass, but not a soul knows of her whereabouts after me burying my pride to ask. Fancy, her own mother not knowing, eh? Aye, the tongues have been wagging here for sure!’

  ‘If you hear, will you let me know?’ he asked abruptly.

  She smiled coldly. ‘If I hear.’

  ‘And the letters, can I have them back? If I find her I’d like to show her those letters.’

  ‘I’ll not be having them any more.’

  ‘You destroyed them?’

  She didn’t answer but was already at the door to usher him out.

  ‘I’ll be bidding you goodnight then, Mrs Fraser.’

  ‘Aye, goodnight.’ Her voice was so distant he got the impression that she had already dismissed him from her thoughts. He took a last look round the room. Kirsteen smiled at him from the piano. A photograph . . . if he could even have a photograph.

  But she had read his mind. ‘I’m sorry but I have none to spare.’

  The door closed behind him. A cold wind whipped round his legs and he felt that what had passed had been a dream. He had imagined it all and in a minute he would knock on Kirsteen’s door and she would answer it. But already he was in the busy part of the town, that little house in the dark hilly street far behind him. His mind was numb. All that he could think of was that, somewhere unknown to him, Kirsteen struggled to keep herself and their little son. Their son! He caught his breath and was only then aware that he was crying, there in the street, where people could see him. The salt breeze whipped him and his legs carried him aimlessly. Light streamed on to the pavement in front of him. He looked up and through a glimmer of tears saw a public house. He didn’t remember opening the door but suddenly he was surrounded by talk and laughter, warm smoke, and the fumes of beer and whisky.

  Two hours later he staggered once more into the cold night air. He was drunk, so drunk that he had to lean against a wall for several minutes. Shadows passed and the disapproving ghost glances of strangers made him laugh, a slurred lunatic laugh, induced by the disposal of nearly a full bottle of whisky. Fergus was used to a good dram. He had always been able to hold his drink but now he careered along the streets in the weaving motion of the drunk. He fumbled and found a cigarette. Standing still to light it was an even greater problem than walking. Over and over the wind blew out the matches.

  ‘Bastard!’ he shouted stupidly. ‘Daft bloody bastard!’

  He staggered on, gulping in smoke and coughing, the inside of his head feeling as if it were stuffed with cotton wool.

  ‘Kirsteen!’ he shouted into the wind. A light rain began to fall but he was unaware of it. Tears of self-pity poured down his face; his nose was running and tears and mucous mingled together. He bounced against a wall and hung there, his shoulders hunched and his eyes staring wildly.

  ‘I’ve a son!’ he told several passersby. They gave him a wide berth and he bawled out his lunatic laugh, over and over, till his ears rang. He was so drunk he felt neither grief nor pain. His cigarette burned into his fingers and he giggled; he unpinned his sleeve and let it flap in the wind from the sea, and all the time his numbed thoughts for Kirsteen and the son he hadn’t known existed were expressed in the hopeless tears that kept trickling from eyes that were swollen and red.

  He lurched and mumbled through the quietening streets. He began to feel sick and the lights in the streets were wobbling alarmingly. He was sweating and shivering and had to urinate. Drunk though he was, he looked round desperately for a toilet. There was none. Deep in the recesses of his mind his human dignity struggled to assert itself. He tried to make for a doorway but had no time. A young couple were courting in a dark little wynd. They were kissing and giggling and the girl was making little noises of protest. They saw Fergus at the exact moment he saw them. He felt the hot liquid coming from his bladder and he was horrified even in his stupor. Quickly he undid his buttons and the stream flowed from him, weaving down through the cobbles in littl
e steaming rivulets.

  The girl stared and giggled. The boy grabbed her hand and tore her away. ‘Dirty drunken pig!’ he hissed at Fergus. ‘You should be locked up, so you should!’

  Even then Fergus was unable to stop. He stood where he was till his bladder emptied itself then he leaned against a wall and was sick. Afterwards he felt better but still dizzy and drunk. He stood in the rain till his head cleared, then he made his way back to his hotel, thankful that it was quiet and he was able to creep up to his room unseen.

  He fell on to the bed, dimly aware that he smelt of alcohol and vomit. His sleep was deep but unsatisfying and he woke early, shuddering when he saw the state of his clothes. He coughed and knew that sleeping in wet clothes had brought on a bout of bronchitis. Lachlan had warned him to guard against damp because his pneumonia had left him with a weak lung.

  He lay back and looked at the ceiling. His head ached and he felt fevered but over-riding all were the hopeless thoughts that crowded into his mind. Dimly he remembered his drunken wanderings of the previous night and bitter shame made him cry out. He felt he had sunk to the very depths of degradation by allowing himself to get into such a condition. He was Fergus McKenzie, strong of mind and body; he wasn’t some poor helpless animal who cared nothing for dignity. He was a man, a man!

  He put his hand over his eyes and tried to will his aching body to move from the bed. He craved for a drink of water but his body wouldn’t obey his mind and he fell back exhausted on the pillows and sank again into the abyss of sleep.

  From a long way off a voice called him. He forced his eyes to open and the plump, good-natured face of his landlady wavered above him.

  ‘Are you ill, Mr McKenzie?’

  ‘A drink . . . just want a drink . . . water . . . that’s all.’

  She touched his brow. ‘Why, it’s fevered you are, sir, and you’re coughing real bad, heard you on the stairs I did! It’s the doctor I’m fetching. Now, now, lie back, I’ll get Maisie to bring you a nice cup of tea and a bit toast. But first we’ll get you into pyjamas . . . in your case are they?’