Song of Rhanna (The Rhanna series)

by Christine Marion Fraser

  Lorn’s arm had tightened on Ruth’s shoulder, his dark head had touched her dazzling hair and some of the buoyancy had transferred itself to her. They had giggled together at Lorna standing in the creamy shallows, her dress tucked into her knickers, her face alight as she threw handfuls of water into the air and stood transfixed while the sparkling sea-diamonds cascaded above, below and all around her. And then she had found a huge pink conch shell which she held to the perfect shell that was her own little ear and her violet eyes had grown big with wonder for these were the homes of the sea fairies, whose rushing laughter you heard if you stayed very still and listened. Her Grandpa Donaldson had told her many stories concerning fairies and mermaids. She knew every cave where the wee folk lived and the safe calm bays where the mermaids came to sit on the rocks in the sunshine to comb their long silken locks while they sang their songs of the oceans in their clear, bell-like voices. Yes, Lorna knew all this and much much more and so she listened intently to the fairies singing inside the shell, her breath firmly held, one chubby hand held to her mouth in ecstasy.

  Lorn had suddenly, and almost sadly, buried his face in Ruth’s neck to whisper fiercely, ‘Oh, Ruthie, we’re so lucky – to have each other – to have been blessed with such bonny and enchanting bairns.’

  Her heart filled with so much love for him she had wanted to cry and laugh at the same time and in these moments she knew that he loved her too, that a man who so adored his wife and children could never be guilty of the thing that she had suspected him of.

  After the picnic they had gone out in one of Ranald’s boats and though she had felt sick she had hung on to her happiness, unwilling to relinquish the joys of such a rare and precious interlude. Rachel had enjoyed herself too, talking to Ruth with her animated hands, pulling faces for the benefit of the children, being amiable and friendly towards Lorn. Ruth had allowed herself to relax, to enjoy Rachel’s company, even to look forward to other happy days like it. After all, when Jon came back his wife would go with him to Croft na Ard and it wouldn’t be such an easy matter to see her every day, so Ruth determined to enjoy her friend’s vital and stimulating companionship while she could.

  And now Ruth sat in her kitchen, trying to ignore the dull throb of pain which had moved from her middle to her right side, to concentrate instead on the little watercolour she was painting of the caves by Mara Oran Bay. The children, having exhausted themselves, were having a nap and the house was quiet and peaceful. Outside the sun still shone and the bright, clear light that belonged peculiarly to the Hebrides, embraced the island. Mark James had arrived just after three o’clock, bearing sheafs of paper on which he had written the words for Rachel’s song. He and Rachel had gone over the music at the Manse the previous evening, she playing it over and over on the fine old Cremonese violin gifted to her by old Mo, the tinker who had come every year to Rhanna until his death.

  Lorn, Rachel, and the minister had taken chairs outside and now they were playing the tune on their fiddles while Mark James sang the words in his rich baritone voice. Ruth had opted to stay indoors. It was cooler there away from the sun, she was already too warm and uncomfortable, her brow was hot and moist to touch. She sat listening, looking up every so often from her painting to the open door through which she could see the others grouped together, beyond them the green foliage of the trees surrounding Sliach, the blue backdrop of the sky. The beat of the music was pleasant, soothing; the words echoed inside her head, instilling in her such a sense of sadness she felt transported into another dimension. It was as if she was far, far away, an outsider looking in on the friendly scene outwith the walls of Fàilte. Everything was strangely mixed up, yet she saw plainly enough Rachel’s black curls touching the minister’s equally dark hair as she leaned over to study the words he had written. Lorn’s face lay against the polished wood of his new fiddle, serious, intent, the expression in his blue eyes faraway, as if the music had carried him also into another world. Ruth stared in fascination at his hands moving so sensitively on the strings. They weren’t typical farmer’s hands; though strong, they were finely shaped, the fingers long and supple. The gleam of sunlight lay over his earth-brown hair, his tanned skin was warm looking, his mouth in repose looked so boyishly innocent she wanted to get up and go outside to touch his lips with her finger. The haunting sounds he was extracting from his fiddle blended with the more professional ones made by Rachel. It was lovely to hear such instruments being played in the open air, echoing the sounds which Rachel had captured in music.

  Mark James’ rugged, good-looking face was solemn as he sang. He was wearing only a shirt and light trousers that day and didn’t look in the least bit like the Mark James of the Sabbath in his flowing cloth.

  The words spilled out, thythmically, poignantly:

  Take me back where I belong,

  Where the skylark sings his song,

  And the peace of island life is all around.

  Where the people raise a hand,

  And there’s a welcome in the land,

  And honest, friendly faces can be found . . .

  Take me home, oh take me home,

  For I no longer want to roam,

  My heart is yearning for the hills, the glens,

  For the sea’s tumultuous roar,

  For the spume upon the shore,

  For the mist that veils the corries on the bens.

  The song went on, pounding into Ruth’s head in an oddly distorted fashion. Pain and sadness mingled and merged. Her eyes went out of focus, filled with tears, though she didn’t know if she was crying for the beauty of Rachel’s song or for the insistent notion that in a very short while all things dear and wonderful were about to be lost to her. Nausea swept over her, pain bit into her side, she couldn’t stop a little gasp escaping her lips. The music ebbed and throbbed, closing in on her, stifling her, bringing a trembling feeling to her limbs. She felt so weak she could no longer hold her brush. Carefully and deliberately she laid it down, lay back, closed her eyes and clutched her side.

  ‘Lorn, Lorn, I think you’ll have to call Lachlan.’ The words came out on a sigh. Lorn couldn’t hear them, but glancing through the door he saw in the dimness Ruth stretched out on her chair, her hands over her stomach. Jumping up he went inside to gaze down at her and demand anxiously, ‘Ruthie! Are you ill? You look terrible.’

  A ghost of a smile hovered at her lips. ‘Ay, as terrible as I feel. I – I think you’ll have to call Lachlan. That pain in my belly is much worse.’

  The minister had stopped singing, Rachel laid down her violin, both came into the house to look with concern at Ruth. Lorn was already struggling into his jacket, without hesitation running quickly outside to Dugald’s old van parked at the back of the cottage. The vehicle now belonged to Lorn. Dugald was buying a new one while on the mainland and having it shipped over in time for his return. Lorn drove recklessly along the rutted track, for once ignoring the potholes in his anxiety to get over to Slochmhor as speedily as possible.

  Inside the cottage, Mark James was scooping Ruth into his arms, laying her on the big soft chintz sofa while Rachel fetched blankets and pillows from the bedroom. Leaving the minister to tuck Ruth in, Rachel went to the scullery to fill a bowl with cold water which she carried back to the kitchen. Settling herself by Ruth’s side she smoothed the hair from her brow and proceeded to bathe her face gently, and all the while her eyes held Ruth’s, eyes which showed no trace of anxiety but which were instead great black, languorous pools full of tranquillity and peace. Willingly, Ruth allowed herself to drown in waves of calm. She felt as if she had left behind a troubled shore and was floating in safe waters. Even the pain had lessened and with its departure she was lulled into a state of such utter relaxation all she wanted to do was close her eyes and sleep.

  ‘I’d better stay,’ Mark James decided, ‘just in case my help might be needed,’

  He made himself busy, re-fuelling the fire, placing on the resultant glow a big black kettle should Lachlan need ho
t water. The animals watched, waited, eyes and ears alert, as if they sensed that all was not as it should be. Time stretched, slowly, lazily, yet Lachlan was back with Lorn in a surprisingly short time, arriving in his own car because he had met Lorn on the road. He came striding in, his gentle eyes full of the reassurance that had stilled the fears of countless of his patients. His examination of Ruth was swift and sure. Folding away his stethoscope he sat down on the couch beside her and took her hand. ‘Appendicitis, my lassie! We’ll have to get you into hospital quickly. Has this pain been going on for a time?’

  Ruth looked shamefaced. ‘On and off, but more recently it’s been there most of the time – today it just seemed to come to a head.’

  ‘That’s exactly what’s happened. A grumbling appendix can go on for long enough and never come to anything much. In your case an operation will soon get rid of it, don’t worry, you’ll be up on your feet in no time.’

  While he spoke his mind was racing. Ruth was worse than he had allowed her to believe and he knew if he didn’t get her to hospital within an hour or two the inflamed appendix could rupture. In his time he had performed quite a few kitchen table appendectomies, though more recently he had been able to carry out minor surgery in the little room at Slochmhor which he had equipped for the purpose. If at all possible he liked to get his patients to hospital as quickly as possible, yet, that wasn’t always such an easy matter on an island like Rhanna. The nearest air ambulance strip was at Barra, and to get there meant a good two hours by boat. He thought about a helicopter but quickly rejected the idea. They would do a lift-off service in an extreme emergency, but even then the whole procedure of getting one would take too long. A frown creased his brow. He looked again at Ruth. She was lying back on her pillows, her respiration rapid, little moans of pain escaping through her clenched teeth.

  Lorn stroked her hair and gazed anxiously at Lachlan. ‘What will we do, Doctor? Should I phone the laird and ask him to bring his boat round to Portcull?’

  Mention of the laird seemed to trigger off something in Mark James’ head. He stood up, so tall his head almost touched the low-beamed ceiling. ‘I was round seeing Burnbreddie yesterday and was introduced to that flying friend of his – Charlie. I believe he came over to the island in that small plane you often see buzzing about. The laird simply clears the cows off the machair on the estate so that Charlie can use it as a runway . . .’

  ‘That’s right,’ interrupted Lachlan eagerly. ‘By God! That would be the answer to our problems! Lorn, you go over to Mo Dhachaidh and phone the laird from there. Find out if the flying chappie is still there and if so would he be willing to take Ruth to Barra. Tell him it’s an emergency – oh, and while you’re about it phone Babbie and ask her to come over here and also contact the airstrip at Barra and ask them to have an air ambulance standing by . . .’

  Before he had finished speaking Lorn was off again, arriving at Mo Dhachaidh in the middle of afternoon surgery. The place seemed to be full of ailing cats and dogs whose owners were exchanging gory details about their own particular pet’s symptoms. Shona appeared. She often assisted Niall in surgery and looked most attractive in a white overall with her hair pinned round her head in rich gleaming coils. She intercepted her brother in the hall and after hearing his rapid explanation ushered him into the parlour where sat the phone.

  ‘Let me know if you need any help,’ she offered warmly then withdrew, closing the door softly behind her. Lorn got quickly through to the laird who heard him out in silence.

  ‘I’d love to say I could help, old chap,’ the laird’s somewhat nasal drawl floated over the line. ‘Old Charlie is still here all right but I’m afraid he’s too drunk to fly. Hits the bottle a bit does Charlie, though if we’d known this was going to happen . . .’ He let his words tail off and Lorn stood nonplussed, almost beside himself with anxiety, his mind unable to work beyond this obstacle in the path of Ruth’s deliverance. He felt helpless, detached, his brain annoyingly and frighteningly refusing to concentrate on the problems to hand, dwelling instead on the sounds within the house – Ellie Dawn’s laughter – the yelping of a puppy – the long drawn-out wail of a frightened cat . . .

  ‘Got it, old chap!’ The laird’s voice recalled him to earth with nerveshattering suddenness. ‘See if you can get a hold of Anton Büttger. Charlie has had him up several times so he should know what to do. Anton was a bomber pilot with the Luftwaffe – last war . . .’

  ‘Ay, I know all that,’ Lorn interrupted impatiently, having listened enthralled to the many accounts of the German bomber’s crash landing on Rhanna and Anton’s subsequent accident on the cruel slopes of Ben Machrie, ‘I’ll get on to Anton right away.’ Forgetting to thank the laird, he crashed the phone down on the receiver, his hands shaking so much he wondered how he was going to pick the instrument up again to make all his imperative calls. Shona solved the situation. Calm and wonderfully composed, she came into the room bearing a glass of brandy, stood over him while he spluttered it down, waited till he was steadier before asking him what had transpired.

  Shakily he explained, and she nodded decidedly. ‘Right, leave all the phoning to me, you get along home to Ruth – she’ll be needing you.’

  He gripped her hands briefly then made haste back to Fàilte, expecting at least to find Ruth in some distress. Instead she was calmly and peacefully lying with eyes closed, her small, delicate hands tranquilly in repose at her sides. Rachel was beside her, smoothing back her hair from her forehead, stroking her brow with a touch so sure and gentle Lorn was mesmerized just watching.

  Lachlan and Mark James were at the fire, each nursing a glass of whisky, both of them looking more anxious than the patient herself. At Lorn’s entry, Lachlan rose from his chair, his face full of inquiry but holding on to his questions till Lorn had a chance to explain what had happened.

  ‘All we can do now is wait,’ Lorn tried to sound calm. His gaze travelled once more to Ruth. ‘How is she?’

  The minister’s slow and pleasant smile broke over his face. ‘Thanks to Rachel, your wife is calmer than any of us. We might as well not be here for all the good we’ve done.’

  Lorn saw that Rachel had efficiently attended to Ruth’s needs. She had packed a small bag with night things and all the necessary toilet accoutrements and had thoughtfully, added some magazines and books. Painfully Lorn met Rachel’s dark gaze. Her expression was dreamy, almost as if all her perceptions were turned inward and she wasn’t really seeing him.

  It had taken every shred of his willpower to behave normally in her presence over the last few days. He had been aware of every look, every move she made. The effort to behave as usual had been supreme, but for Ruth’s sake he had made it, if only to prove to her that it was she he loved and always would, for on the night of her father’s wedding he had known that she was beginning to suspect that there was something between himself and Rachel. And it was true that he loved his darling young wife. What he felt for Rachel was purely a physical attraction. He knew it and so did she, and he thanked God now that they had both managed to maintain a façade of nonchalance, for in some strange way the delusion had succeeded in making him feel that there was normality in a situation so utterly foreign to his nature. A cold sweat seized him at the very idea of what could have happened that day of dizzy euphoria on the ride over the sands of Mara Oran Bay. It was too impossible to even think about it now – now that his Ruthie needed him . . .

  ‘Lorn.’ Ruth’s hand came out and he strode over to take it gently, struck anew by its daintiness, by her overall fragility which had captured him from the start. Yet he knew that behind her air of vulnerability there lay a core of strength and determination which in many ways was even greater than his own. She opened her eyes to look at him and he felt himself pulled into the purpled depths of her gaze. He smiled, a nervous, half-shy smile, and despite her feelings of unreality she felt a renewal of that sense of wonder that this tall young giant was her husband. The outline of his face was slightly blurr
ed. Rachel’s wonderful hands had transported her into a state of such tranquillity she seemed to belong to another world. She had allowed herself to relax, to drift – no wonder her mother had died with contentment in her soul. Rachel was possessed of a power that was uncanny and Ruth was thankful that she should be there at this time, smoothing away the fears that had plagued her from the minute she knew that she had to leave Fàilte – her children . . .

  ‘Lorn.’ Her fingers curled over his. ‘Rachel is going to look after the children – here in their own home. It will be best for them – but you, Lorn, what about you?’

  ‘Ach, Ruthie,’ he smiled at her and touched her cheek with his finger. ‘Don’t worry your head about me. I’ll get all the attention I need over at Laigmhor, Mother will see to that. We’ll all be fine, it’s you we’re thinking about at the moment – I wonder if I ought to let your father know.’

  ‘No, Lorn,’ her voice was adamant. ‘There’s nothing he can do for me that isn’t already being done. He hasny had a break in years and I don’t want him running back here because of me . . .’

  ‘I think I hear a car.’ Mark James was already at the door to usher in Babbie and Anton. The latter had come straight from the fields, his fair hair was wind-tossed, his boots caked with earth, sweat glistened on his tanned skin.