Rhanna

by Christine Marion Fraser

  They met Bob, shamefaced because he had overslept. ‘I’m comin’ with you,’ he said in tones that didn’t invite refusal. ‘Mathew and the rest can see to things. If the lass is where you say you might need help to bring her back.’

  The hollow was a trap of warm sun and honey-laden bees. There was no sound but for those of nature and the men stopped to mop sweat from their faces while Biddy went to the trickling stream to wet her handkerchief so that she could wipe her red exerted old face.

  And there in the stillness, they heard a voice singing a Gaelic lullaby, so faint that it could have been the sighing of the wind.

  Old Bob, his grizzled head filled with folklore and tales of ancient myths of the Hebrides, looked round the grey silent ruins of the Abbey with fear in his watery blue eyes. He was one of the best Seanachaidhs on the island and proud of it but cosy hearths were very different from this eerie place where souls from the past wandered forever. He gripped his crook tighter and drew a brown hand over dry lips.

  ‘Weesht,’ warned Biddy. ‘’Tis the fairy folk singin’ to be sure.’

  But Dot, whining and scratching at the gorse of the hill, suddenly disappeared and Fergus and Lachlan ran forward. ‘There’s nothing here.’ Lachlan stared at the huge moss-covered boulder in front of them. ‘I don’t understand.’

  Dot reappeared leaving tufts of hair on the snagging gorse and Fergus ran forward to pull the bushes back.

  Shona showed no surprise to see them. She lay on sheepskin rugs and blankets which were saturated with the blood of childbirth. Her copper hair tumbled over her shoulders, framing a face that was pale and strained. But her blue eyes were brilliant and a soft little smile hovered round her lips. ‘Hello, Father.’ Her voice was low with pride. ‘Look now at your grandson. Isn’t he the bonniest baby in the world? I did it all by myself, just like I did for Tina. I’m calling him Niall Fergus – it’s a grand name I think. I can hardly wait for Niall to see his son.’

  She was holding a tiny bundle wrapped in a tartan plaid. Lachlan ran forward while Biddy made a quick examination of the girl. ‘The lass is fine,’ she murmured thankfully. ‘Just a wee clean up and you’ll feel lovely, my little one.’

  Lachlan had taken the baby over to the light at the door. It was a perfect little boy with downy fair hair. The birth cord was tied as neatly as if Biddy herself had done it and the little waxen body had been wiped clean. Lachlan looked down at the tiny lifeless face and the slow tears burned his eyes. It was the final blow in two nightmare days. The son of his own dear son as dead and cold as a piece of marble.

  Fergus was behind him, his tall strong body stooped like an old man. ‘Was it – because we never got here in time?’

  Lachlan shook his dark head. ‘Stillborn – the mite was dead before it came into the world. We’ll never know why. She’s so young and there was the shock – of – of Niall. Also it was a premature birth – nearly four weeks.’

  ‘But why – why in God’s name!’ The cry was torn from Fergus in an agony of torment. The cruel irony of the devious twists of life was too much for him and the tears of hurt grief, and pity for his daughter, coursed down his face. He went to her and took her into the fold of his strong right arm, his tears falling on to the bright copper hair under his chin.

  She pulled away to look at him with eyes that were unnaturally veiled and dreamy. ‘Och Father,’ she chided gently, ‘don’t cry so. Are you not pleased with your grandson?’

  ‘He’s dead, Shona,’ he sobbed. ‘The baby never drew life.’

  Lachlan came and pulled Fergus away, shaking his head warningly. ‘Don’t – she can’t take it! Not now, man! She’s suffering from shock already. The sooner we get her home and to bed the better.’

  They wrapped her in blankets and between them caried her over the warm summer moors. Behind them trailed Bob, his tough weatherbeaten face gaunt and sad and beside him Biddy carried the pitiful little bundle of Niall’s dead son.

  SIXTEEN

  When Shona finally accepted the fact that her baby son was dead she withdrew into a lonely shell which nothing seemed to penetrate. She moped around looking like a lost child and Fergus could find no way of reaching the sad, bruised caverns of her mind.

  ‘She’ll need time,’ said a weary Lachlan, himself struggling to bear his own sorrow. ‘She’s lost so much – even the very dog she had most of her life. Give her time, Fergus.’

  The days stretched into July and four weeks after the tragedy Erchy came whistling up the dusty road from Portcull. He saw Shona, listlessly sitting by an open window and waved cheerily, then went on to Slochmhor where he propped his bicycle at the gate. He clutched a letter in a hand that shook slightly. They had all speculated about the missive at the post office because it was a War Office communication. If he accepted a glass of Phebie’s blackcurrant wine he might be able to hang around long enough to find out the contents of the letter.

  ‘A letter, Mistress McLachlan,’ he shouted to Phebie who was hanging washing in the sun-drenched garden.

  ‘Leave it on the table, Erchy,’ she answered through a mouthful of pegs.

  Erchy’s heart sank. ‘It’s a thirsty day,’ he said chattily and made exaggerated puffing noises.

  ‘Aye, it is that! Go away ben to the kitchen and take some wine from the larder. I’m too busy to come in now.’

  Erchy pulled in his breath. ‘It’s from the War Office,’ he said and exhaled quickly.

  Phebie turned slowly and looked at him. Her round sweet face remained immobile but a strange mixture of hope and hopelessness shone in her eyes. She came over the fragrant grass slowly and took the letter with a show of calm. Methodically she opened it with a thumbnail. Erchy watched her, his breath held in his lungs. He saw the slow flush creeping over her face and the slight tremor of her head. She looked up and the glimmer of tears shone in her eyes. ‘He’s alive, Erchy,’ she whispered disbelievingly. ‘Niall’s alive – wounded but alive.’

  Erchy let go his breath once more and grabbing Phebie’s plump waist whirled her round and round. The island had mourned with Lachlan and Phebie. The love and respect earned by Lachlan throughout the years went deep. Rhanna loved him and his family and they had wept, the hidden silent tears of the dour, loving Hebridean folk. Phebie was laughing and crying and Erchy whirled and kissed her in an abandonment of spirit.

  ‘Niall’s alive!’ shouted Phebie and ran on to the road. Clutching the letter she sped with Erchy at her heels to Laigmhor. Shona was still at the window, seeing nothing of the lovely day outside, her thoughts turned inward, on Niall, on the little son who had never known the sweetness of breathing life. She didn’t even have the comfort of Tot’s head resting on her feet, giving the silent undemanding love she had grown to accept as part of her life. It seemed to Shona she had nothing very much to live for. Nothing was worthwhile any more and not even the strong quiet love of her father could reach into her hopeless world.

  She didn’t notice Phebie and Erchy wildly gesticulating at her from the garden. Not until they burst into the peaceful dreaming silence of the parlour was she aware of them. Phebie’s breath was squeezing from her lungs in short little gasps and for a moment she couldn’t speak. She collapsed into a chair and, unable to find the breath to explain, motioned Erchy to break the news.

  He ran his hand through his thinning sandy hair and, bursting though he was with emotion, controlled himself enough to say calmly, ‘Your lad’s alive, my bonny lass. Niall’s alive – it’s all in the letter I brought to Mistress McLachlan!’

  Shona slowly turned her head to look at Phebie. Her dull eyes showed no sign of having interpreted the message, but slowly, like a pale rose opening to the sun, her face diffused with a glow that lit the transparency of her skin.

  Phebie nodded and spoke jerkily, the excitement of the past few minutes making her light-headed. ‘It’s true, mo ghaoil, our Niall’s alive.’

  Everything about that time had a dreamlike quality. Shona got up and glided over to Phebie. Sh
e stared trance-like at the letter, then she was on her knees, her head in Phebie’s lap and she cried, all the lonely, tragic tears she had bottled up for so long. Phebie stroked the copper head and let the tears run their course, knowing they would help to wash away some of the agonies endured by such a young heart too many months.

  When Shona finally looked up her eyes were red but they contained something that had been missed so much of late – hope and the small beginnings of the joy for living. ‘Where is he?’ she whispered, drying her eyes on the hem of her dress.

  ‘In a military hospital in England. He was badly wounded in the neck and head and his identity disc got shot off. Just before he was wounded, he’d taken off his jacket to cover another laddie whose clothes had all but been blown off. He was still alive when Niall gave him his jacket with all his papers. But the boy died and they thought he was Niall and Niall couldn’t tell anyone who he was because he’s had concussion and loss of memory until recently.’ Phebie shook her head as if to clear it. ‘He’s on the mend now and will be home soon, but he’ll always be deaf on one side – his ear-drum was damaged very badly.’

  Shona’s face was wet and swollen but she was smiling the first smile for weeks. ‘He’s alive – and because of his deafness he won’t have to go back to war. I’m so happy I could cry all day.’

  ‘You’re happy he’s deaf?’ asked Erchy.

  ‘Och no, of course not! I’d wish that he was the same as he went away.’ Then she paused and continued thoughtfully, ‘No – you’re right, Erchy, I am glad, if not he’d have been home for a wee while before he went back to war and he might never have come out alive. He mightn’t have been so lucky the second time. What’s a deaf ear compared to a chance of life?’

  Phebie shuddered but she knew Shona was right. To other people it might appear foolish and selfish but to her, at that hour of knowing her son was alive, she would have been lying to herself if she’d wanted him whole and well enough to go back to war, perhaps to get killed in the spring of his life. Far better a deaf ear and a live son than a dead son and memories.

  Erchy rubbed his hands together and cocked an eye at Shona. ‘I’m thinkin’ the occasion calls for a wee dram, does it not?’

  Shona nodded. ‘You’re right, Erchy – and I’m going to have one too. I’m needing it I feel so shaky. Then . . .’ She looked at Phebie. ‘We’ll go and find Lachlan and Father and tell them the news.’

  Fergus leaned against the dyke that ran parallel to the road and lit his pipe with the expertise of long practice. He had grown used to only one arm, doing so much with it that he often found himself looking in astonishment at people who could do less with two arms than he could with one.

  It was a mild calm morning with a fine mist of rain from the hills and the smoke from the farmhouse chimneys curled lazily.

  He puffed contentedly and watched Shona in the garden, gathering flowers and humming a gay little tune. She looked very slim and sweet in her youth with her hair gleaming brightly and it was difficult to believe that her childish form had, until recently, carried a child. He’d never given the child much thought until he’d seen the small features and perfect body of the tiny baby. When he’d realized it was the flesh of his flesh he had known the hopeless longing for the little life that might have been. But his compassion for his daughter had overridden all else and he had suffered with her in her darkest hours. Now Niall was alive and he rejoiced with her yet for reasons he could barely understand he felt that she no longer needed him as desperately as before. She was loving and mindful of his every need, yet he knew that the biggest part of her waited longingly for the time of Niall’s return to Rhanna. He was jealous and hated himself for it but was unable to stop from thinking of a future when his house no longer breathed with the life his daughter gave it.

  A chestnut mare came cantering along the road. Riding it was the young laird of Burnbreddie, a man now held with respect on the island.

  He brought the mare to a stop when he saw Fergus.

  ‘Good day to you, McKenzie,’ he nodded. ‘Things are a bit more settled now, I hear.’ He had glanced towards Shona, and Fergus knew what he meant.

  ‘Aye, the lass is to have her lad back soon.’ Fergus didn’t want to talk about any of the events that had happened in the last months and people were talking again, saying that he was, ‘the dour bugger he was before’.

  The young laird dismounted and the mare, her coat polished to the shade of a ripe chestnut, nuzzled delicately at the fragrant clover amongst the long roadside grasses. ‘A fine beast,’ commented Fergus wishing he’d been left in peace. He liked the laird well enough and could talk easily about the weather and the health of his beasts but it was to Lachlan alone he confided his real feelings.

  The laird nodded and brushed a hair from his impeccable tweed jacket. ‘I’ve just come back from the south. Rena was with me and we looked up one or two old friends. We had an invitation from the Campbell-Elliots, people I knew in London years ago. They had gone down to the country for a spell – to get away from all the bombs.’

  Fergus shifted impatiently and the laird idly stripped the heads from the knee-high grasses and looked speculatively at the sky. ‘Dashed strange coincidence,’ he murmured casually. Fergus knocked his pipe on the wall and opened his mouth to make some excuse to escape. ‘Couldn’t believe my eyes when I saw her,’ the laird was continuing absently. ‘She’s the Campbell-Elliot’s governess now. Last time I saw her she was teaching here at Portcull.’ He shook his head. ‘Funny how things go. The Campbell-Elliots think the world of her. A fine young woman she is. Got a little boy, nice as kids go, not like her at all – black hair and eyes. I only saw her once or twice when I came to Rhanna but I remember thinking what a fine girl she was. I got talking to her, she went a queer colour when she found out who I was and where I came from – and . . .’ He looked sideways at Fergus. ‘She was asking about you, McKenzie.’

  Fergus had frozen, the inside of his stomach felt weak and the laird’s voice sounded far away. He stood there, glad of the support of the dyke, unable to speak, yet longing to ask a million questions. Finally he found his voice and looked straight into the laird’s pale blue eyes. ‘You – know, don’t you?’

  ‘Y-es, I knew you were to be married, then you had your accident and I don’t know anything after that. Canny the Rhanna folk may be but they’ve never fathomed what happened between you.’ He paused. ‘The boy’s yours, isn’t he?’

  ‘Yes, Goddammit man, he’s mine and I’ve never seen him. Where is she, Balfour? When did you come back to Rhanna? When did you see her last?’

  ‘Hey, hold on, old chap! She’s not going to disappear! I saw her a fortnight ago – I got back to Rhanna yesterday. As a matter of fact I rode over specially to tell you. I thought you might be pleased.’

  ‘PLEASED!’ Fergus held out his hand and the young laird gripped it.

  ‘Go to her, McKenzie. She still loves you – stupid thing love, isn’t it? We botch it up all the time. Anyway – good luck old man. There’s a mail boat out of Rhanna tomorrow.’

  He mounted and rode away. Fergus felt his innards had turned to jelly. He couldn’t believe it. After all the years of waiting and longing he had found Kirsteen at last. No wonder she hadn’t seen the notices the lawyers had put into the London papers, she was deep in the English countryside and possibly didn’t even know her mother was dead.

  Joy washed over him in waves but after the first excitement came fear, fear that she would slip through his fingers again and he couldn’t let that happen.

  Sweat broke on his brow and his hand felt clammy. He wasn’t aware of anything but the great urgency of finding Kirsteen and bringing her back to Rhanna. In his mind it would be as simple as that – it had to be. The laird had slipped a piece of paper into his hand with the address in England written in neat small letters. Fergus stared at the paper as if it were his most precious possession, then he ran to the kitchen where Shona was arranging roses in a bowl.

&
nbsp; ‘Father,’ she said on the alert immediately. ‘What’s wrong?’

  He was panting and laughing. ‘Everything’s right, mo ghaoil! I have discovered where Kirsteen is – I’m away on the mail boat tomorrow!’

  ‘Father!’ She ran to him and held him close, feeling the trembling of his strong masculine body. ‘Oh, my father, I’m so happy I could cry!’ She buried her face into his warm neck, feeling his pulse beating swiftly. Her hands caressed the crisp curls at the nape of his neck. At last their world was falling into place. Her happiness was complete now – if she married and left Laigmhor, she wouldn’t feel like a betrayer. Her father would have a love of his own and they could stop being so dependent on each other. She sighed deeply and pulled away to look into his deep dark eyes. ‘Do you know what, Father?’

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘I’m looking forward to meeting my wee brother.’

  ‘So am I,’ he said softly and climbed the stairs to his bedroom to pack.

  He went early to bed, hoping to sleep the hours away. Instead he tossed and turned, sleeping fitfully, wakening just as daybreak crept through the curtains. He lay for a time thinking ahead, trying to visualize what the following days would bring. It was very early, too early to get up, in case he disturbed Shona. He slept again briefly then got up to wash his face and bathe his body with the cold water from the pewter basin on his dresser. He dressed and looked from the window. A white blanket of mist covered the fields and the scent of wet earth was nectar to his nostrils.

  He stole down to the kitchen to put kindling on the fire and when Shona came downstairs the kettle was singing and eggs boiling in a big pan. Snap and Ginger had been fed on cream and were washing their faces by the fire.

  ‘You didn’t sleep well,’ she stated simply when she saw his tired drawn face.