Rhanna

by Christine Marion Fraser

  ‘Not very.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Father. Och, I know you must feel all queer and excited. I feel the same about Niall and he’s only been gone ten months. You haven’t seen Kirsteen in six years. The wee boy will be – what – about five?’

  ‘Aye, he would have been that around January, funny, the same month as yourself, mo ghaoil.’

  Her blue eyes were gentle. ‘It will be funny having a wee brother here. I wonder what he’s like . . . if he’s like you at all, Father.’

  ‘Balfour says he’s dark so the colouring anyway he’s inherited from me. I hope not the temper.’

  She laughed. ‘He wouldn’t be a McKenzie without one. Sit down now and I’ll get the eggs. You mustny be late for this boat. Oh, it will be lovely to see you happy, Father, you haven’t been in years – not really.’

  He squeezed her hand and sitting down forced himself to eat an egg. His belly was tight with nerves and the food tasted repulsive. He was glad to see Lachlan striding past the window and into the kitchen. It was an excuse to leave the table.

  ‘Good luck,’ said Lachlan simply. ‘I’m going to Croynachan but wanted to see you first.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Fergus. ‘You’ll see this lass of mine gets up to no mischief while I’m gone.’

  ‘Father!’ chided Shona laughingly. ‘How can I with all the work of a farmer’s wife to be done. Anyway . . .’ she coloured. ‘I think I’ve learned my lesson about mischief-making.’

  Lachlan held out his hand and Fergus gripped it briefly. ‘Take a good dram before you set out,’ recommended Lachlan. ‘Doctor’s orders.’

  He went away quickly and Fergus busied himself with any task that would take his mind from himself. Mathew had been given his instructions but Bob came in with Murdy to go over a few details.

  Shona didn’t come down to the harbour. She was very emotional these days and didn’t want to weep before her father. She hated his going and, though overwhelmed with happiness at the turn of events, felt naturally apprehensive about the great changes there would be at Laigmhor with another woman to run things and a small boy who was her half-brother and a total stranger. But she had always admired Kirsteen and felt excited at the thought of seeing her again, though she couldn’t help but retain most of her excitement for Niall.

  He had written a letter full of sadness and remorse for all that she had gone through, blaming himself bitterly for everything, even the loss of their son. She had written him letters of reassurance but couldn’t wait to see him to prove that her love for him burned even more brightly. They had both known tragedy, each apart from the other, both had grown up and had still to see the changes in each other but she was confident that all they had survived would bring them even closer in the end. She had made up her mind that they wouldn’t marry for a while. She would let Niall get over the shock of war and she herself now felt she needed time to let her own scars heal.

  She watched the boat leaving the harbour and hoped fervently that her father’s journey would be fruitful.

  Fergus hadn’t left the island in five years and the journey passed in a dream. Glasgow frightened him and he jostled with people in the streets, suddenly conscious that his best suit was drastically out of date. In Rhanna no one bothered about clothes. Suits hung in wardrobes for years, only brought out for funerals or weddings. They never went out of fashion because each man’s garb was much the same as the other.

  In the city it was different and Fergus felt himself sticking out like a sore thumb, easily picked out as a country farmer. His heart bumped with dismay as he wondered if Kirsteen would see him as such, perhaps be ashamed of him.

  On impulse he went into a big store and stared at racks of clothes without seeing them. A sales assistant hovered and he sweated. She came over to offer her help but he muttered something about just looking and she took the dismissal with the smiling mask of a good public servant. He drifted aimlessly and she hovered again. ‘Is it a suit or casual wear, sir?’

  ‘Casual – I think.’

  ‘Then might I suggest a nice tweed jacket, a green check would go nicely with your hair and eyes . . . and flannels in a natural shade, plain to offset the jacket.’

  He acceded gruffly and was hustled into a cubicle to try the things for size. ‘Just right for you, sir,’ she enthused when after five minutes of indecisive sweating he finally stepped out of the cubicle. ‘Do you want to change back or will you wear them now?’

  ‘I’ll keep them on.’

  ‘Right, I’ll just put your – er – old things in a bag and we’ll go along to the desk.’ She smiled and fluttered her eyes at his greatly changed appearance and made polite sounds of approval. ‘Now you’re more like the thing.’ She nodded and he fumed, his black eyes snapping while he waited for change.

  Fergus stood in Argyll Street and felt like a tailor’s dummy, surely more conspicuous than ever. But no one gave him a second glance.

  He ate in the station restaurant and was aware of the uniforms of the armed forces all round him. In Rhanna one was lulled into a sense that the same peace that existed there must surely be in the rest of the world but the cities were full of young uniformed men.

  Fergus drifted in and out of slumber while the train rushed him through the night to London.

  Before Euston, Fergus splashed his face with cold water but he still felt bleary-eyed and conscious of the dark shadow of stubble on his face. He breakfasted on a greasy egg roll and a watery cup of tea and felt sick on the train to the home counties.

  But in a homely country inn at his destination he found solace at last. The innkeeper was unhurried and friendly and guided him to a room with oak beams and a sloping floor. The window looked on to rolling fields and for the first time since leaving Rhanna he felt some of the tension uncoil from his stomach.

  ‘Bathroom’s right along the passage,’ said Mr Trout showing two aged front teeth. ‘We’re none fancy here you know, sir. No ’ot water except on Fridays and Mondays for baths but I’ll get the missus to bring a pan of ’ot water for you to shave if you want. You look a bit of a gentleman to be stopping ’ere. We’re for travellers mostly and locals.’

  ‘I couldn’t have wished for a better place,’ said Fergus gratefully. ‘It suits me fine.’

  Mr Trout folded his arms. ‘Ah! It’s a nice tongue you ’ave there. Where in Scotland do you hail from, sir? Went for a holiday there once and it snowed in May! Would you believe it?’

  Fergus smiled. ‘It’s colder in the north. I’m from the Hebrides, an island called Rhanna.’

  ‘Is that so, is that so? The ’ebrides, eh? Sounds lovely – nice names they ’ave these islands but far, too far they be for the likes of myself. At first I thought you were one of these posh gentlemen from Edinburgh or the like – the clothes you know, I like to dress casual-like myself.’

  He looked at his baggy trousers and voluminous cardigan and gave a small apologetic grin. ‘Can’t be bothered being stuffed up with a tie, the bloody things choke me. Now come down when you’re ready, sir. The missus made some nice soup and there’s a bit of roast beef if you’ve a mind. Apple pie for afters – can never resist it myself.’

  He went out and Fergus fell on to the big feather bed and laughed with joy. He loved Mr Trout already – Trout, he’d thought that was merely the name of the inn.

  Mrs Trout could have been her husband’s twin so alike were they in shape and manner. She plied Fergus with platefuls of food and her round face grew quite sad when he refused a second helping of apple pie and cream.

  ‘You’re a fine big lad but you need feeding,’ she scolded severely. ‘Now Mr Trout will eat it and ’im with pounds of blubber already. Ah well, I like ’im that way – we’re two of a kind Mr Trout and I.’

  ‘I believe Teesdale House is quite near here?’ said Fergus tenatively.

  ‘Bless your ’eart, yes. ’Alf a mile back near Farradale Farm. You know the Campbell-Elliots then?’ Her voice was slightly overawed.

  ‘Just som
eone who is employed there.’

  ‘Nice people they are for the gentry,’ Mrs Trout murmured, her voice changed to an unnatural politeness at the very idea of her guest being even remotely connected with Teesdale House. ‘Comes in ’ere sometimes, does Mr Leonard. Seems to enjoy an occasional beer with the locals. It’s the way he talks, can never understand ’im myself but we’re all alike in the eyes of God I say.’

  It was a warm evening and the scent of honeysuckle filled the air. The rolling countryside stretched green for miles. It was so different from the wild beauty of Rhanna. There was a gentleness about the fields and hedgerows and the peacefully grazing, orderly looking cows, so unlike the shaggy self-willed beasts that freely roamed the island. But Fergus felt he would fall off the world at any moment. He needed the strong shoulders of mountains to keep him in place, he was lost without the thunder of the sea and the wild cry of gulls. England was pretty but too fashioned by man, there was none of the sense of freedom of lonely open spaces where one could lose oneself and be alone to think.

  He passed Farradale Farm and drew the familiar scent of dung into his lungs. A farmhand nodded at him. ‘Nice evenin’. You goin’ up to the big ’ouse?’

  ‘How did you know?’

  ‘Gentry clothes you’re wearin’.’

  Fergus realized how he must appear to a farm worker whose trousers were splattered with mud and whose shirt was patched in sweat. He shook his head, anxious to dispel the illusion his appearance created. ‘Forget the clothes. I’m more used to wearing duddies like yourself. It would never do to work a farm wearing tweeds.’

  ‘Wh-at? Duddies?’ beamed the farmhand.

  ‘Work clothes.’

  ‘Ah! Isn’t that quaint now? You a farmer dressed like a lord?’

  ‘I am going to Teesdale though.’

  ‘Well, just you come with me and I’ll show you a short cut. Not for the likes of everybody mind but seein’ as you’re a farmer an’ all . . .’

  He led Fergus through a cobbled yard and opened a gate into an overgrown path. ‘Follow it till you come to a copse,’ he instructed. ‘The ’ouse is on the other side of the copse. Save you a half mile or more goin’ this way. Biddin’ you goodnight, then.’

  The copse was cool with sunlight dappling the grass. Fergus heard the laughter before he saw anyone. His heart hammered into his throat. How many times that same laugh had rung out for him – it was unmistakable, melodious and high.

  He stepped into a sunlit clearing and there was Kirsteen standing by a huge oak tree, her hair shining like pale gold in the sun. She didn’t see him, she appeared to be hiding from someone and a small peal of laughter was smothered quickly.

  He was able to drink in every detail of her, the slim figure in a dress that matched her hair and long brown legs with feet in open sandals. He could hardly believe it, the dream of Kirsteen was now a reality, her living flesh there before him and fate, the force that weaved lives into a pattern, had stepped in once more to fashion a strange twist to their meeting. With woods again as the setting he was about to surprise her as he had done in another time. His heart pumped madly but this time it wasn’t desire that made his legs tremble; it was love, pure and naked, the emotions of years culminating in this final moment of nerve-shattering triumph.

  A small boy burst into the clearing, a child with crisp dark curls and sturdy limbs. A shout of laughter died in his throat and he stared past Kirsteen to Fergus at the edge of the trees.

  Kirsteen turned slowly to look at Fergus, their eyes meeting in a moment when the world held its breath. He saw that she had changed but only by reason that she was more beautiful than he ever remembered. The years had honed the girlish features of his memory to the delicately boned structure of mature young womanhood. Her eyes were very blue in her smooth tanned face and reminded him of the blue of the Atlantic on a summer day. He heard the quick intake of her breath and saw her hands clenching at her sides but her voice when she spoke was calm and held a trace of an English accent.

  ‘I knew you’d come,’ she said without emotion.

  He stepped forward feeling that such a moment should have been without words. He wanted to gather her to him, declare his love, but their years apart had robbed them of youthful impulses and it was no longer his right to take her intimate responses for granted.

  There was so much to say yet he could think of nothing, only the small talk that meant little. ‘Balfour told me,’ he said, his voice rough with longing.

  ‘I knew he would.’

  ‘And – you didn’t run away?’

  Her head went up defiantly. ‘Why should I? I ran once, now I have no reason to.’

  He couldn’t believe that the cold toneless words were coming from her lips. Surely, if she’d loved him in the way he’d always believed, she must feel something. The years did not take away the kind of love they had known.

  He spread his hand in a gesture of despair and she bit her lip to stop from crying out. The sight of him, bronzed and handsome in his new clothes, despite them, with every lilting word, so endearingly a son of the Hebrides, made her want to run to him, to tell him of the years of her lonely exile away from a love that would not let spirit rest.

  Her heart fluttered so fast she was afraid she would faint. She’d counted the days since the laird’s departure, waiting and praying for the moment that was now here. She had wondered how she would feel seeing him and had thought that perhaps her mind had magnified her loving memories out of all proportion to what was real in her heart. But it wasn’t so; he was here, real and near, and she knew if she touched him that all the resolution and pride she had built round herself would vanish in a puff, leaving her with nothing, no will to deny him anything he asked of her.

  ‘Mother, I found you!’ The child’s voice broke the silence. ‘It’s my turn to hide now.’

  She looked at Fergus. ‘We were playing – it’s my day off. I don’t get much time to spend with him.’

  Fergus bent down to his son. ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Grant Fergus Fraser,’ said the boy shyly but with pride. ‘It’s a real Scottish name because although I live in England I’m a Scot really. My father belongs there and he’s been living on an island all his life but some day we’ll go to Scotland and find him. Who are you, sir?’

  Fergus dropped on one knee so that his face was level with that of the little boy. He saw dark, deep eyes with a touch of defiance in them, and a small tanned face with a dimple set in the chin and he felt he was looking at a picture of himself at five years old.

  ‘My name is McKenzie,’ he said quietly. ‘I come from an island, an island called Rhanna in the Outer Hebrides.’

  The boy gasped. ‘My father lives there! Do you know him? He’s big and strong. Mother told me, didn’t you, Mother?’

  Fergus looked towards Kirsteen. ‘You told him the truth. Dear God! Thank you for that!’

  Kirsteen struggled to maintain her calm. ‘I told him the truth yes, to a certain extent. I saw no point in lying because these things have a habit of rebounding. Ever since he could start asking questions he asked about his father and I told him that you were alive but that was all. He makes things up, that he’s going to live some day on Rhanna beside his father. I didn’t put the idea in his mind.’

  ‘You’re my father!’ the boy yelled and a flock of crows rose from the trees in alarm. He held on to Fergus’s sleeve and his dark eyes were pleading. ‘Have you come to take us back to Scotland? It’s terrible not having a father. Other boys are always telling me the things they do with their fathers and – and they call me funny names.’

  ‘That’s enough, Grant! Come over here!’ Kirsteen held out her hand and the boy went reluctantly. ‘You mustn’t say a word to anyone,’ she said severely. ‘Promise you won’t, please, sweetheart.’

  The child scowled. ‘Oh all right, but I think it’s nasty of you. I’ve waited a long time for a father and now he’s here you won’t let me tell anyone!’

  ‘He needs
a father’s hand,’ said Fergus with a faint smile.

  ‘He’s needed it for years.’

  ‘Kirsteen, och my Kirsteen, you left me, remember? Please let me talk to you. Could we go somewhere?’

  ‘I’ll ask Beatrice to put Grant to bed. She’s the housemaid and has been very good to young Grant. Wait . . . here for me.’

  Fergus was left in a haze of doubts about everything. His golden dream of carrying Kirsteen and his son back to Rhanna belonged to a fool’s paradise. She hadn’t even been friendly towards him. He watched her walk towards the big Tudor mansion set in velvet lawns. She had made a good life for herself, she might not want to live on a farm on a wild lonely island. They were worlds apart. She had changed, everything had changed, even his son had grown from a baby to a boy with a mind of his own. They were all strangers to each other and he’d been living in a world of dreams for so long he’d been unable to separate dreams from reality till he’d come face to face with reality and found that it didn’t make any sense of his dreams at all.

  He felt deflated and uneasy and wanted to walk away from the sun-drenched woods. Instead he sat down on a tree stump and was surprised to find the taste of salt on his lips. He was crying like a lost child, the tears of frustration and sadness, once begun, flowing down his face helplessly. He hid his face in his hand and the sound of his harsh dry sobs made him hate his weakness but he couldn’t stop.

  Kirsteen’s heart was torn in two when she came back and saw him there, strong, proud Fergus crying like a baby. A sob caught in her own throat and she knew she was going to run to him, to rock him in her arms and tell him how much she loved him. But he looked up and mistaking her look for pity he cried out in anger, ‘That’s right, look at me damn you! Look at me! It’s not the first time, Kirsteen! I’ve cried for you for years. I cried when I knew you’d left me and I cried when I went to Oban and your mother told me you had gone.’

  ‘She never told me. She wrote – I wrote her – but she never told me you had been to see her, Fergus!’