Song of Rhanna (The Rhanna series)

by Christine Marion Fraser

  Dawn filtered in, grey and desolate. Haar lay in pockets over the fields; swathed the trees by Sliach; erased the loch and the distant moors. Lorn rose earlier than usual. She heard him going to the kitchen, a short while later letting himself out of the house. Her lip curled. Too ashamed to dare to face her, to make any attempt at a reconciliation. She went to the window and watched him walking away, tall and straight in the morning light, his face turned away from her so that she couldn’t see it. Ben had decided to go with him and walked obediently at his heels, his greying muzzle to the ground, sniffing happily at all the fresh smells. Lorn didn’t look back at the house. She noticed that his steps were slow, faltering, so unlike his usual sure, springy stride. She would most likely never see him again. The realization filled her head with a pain so deep she felt all her resolutions tumbling about her. She would never see Ben too – he was old – he couldn’t live many more years – she would have to leave behind all the animals, the house, everything that had been so good, so sweet in life.

  The enormity of what she had planned struck her with renewed force – she couldn’t do it – she wasn’t strong enough, courageous enough to run away from the only life she had ever known. Then a fresh surge of anger gave her the strength she needed – and mixing with it all was a determination to make Lorn suffer for what he had done – she never wanted to see him again – never.

  Splashing her face with cold water from the big flowery jug she dressed hurriedly then went through to dress Lorna. She was in the highest of spirits and wanted to linger to play with the animals but Ruth hurried her through breakfast. She knew if she didn’t do everything swiftly she would have time to think and thinking was dangerous at a time like this.

  She fed the hens, put bowls of milk out for the cats, settled the fire and put the guard over it. Lastly she seized her pen and scribbled a hasty note to Lorn which she propped against the sugar bowl on the table.

  Lorna was ready, asking no questions, accepting the fact that her mother was taking her out early. Ruth checked through her bag. Money, enough of it to see her through for a while, all the bits and pieces she always carried, a comb for Lorna’s hair on the boat, one or two addresses she would need. Lifting up the cases she bade Lorna follow her and they went outside, shutting the door for the last time.

  She stood for a moment, breathing deeply of the hill air. The mist was rolling away from the fields, trees loomed like ghosts among the swirling wraiths, the clouds were breaking apart, patches of blue appeared. It was very still and peaceful. The hens crooned from the knoll; the cows grazed placidly; the scent of peat smoke drifted from the chimneys of Fàilte mingling with that blowing lazily from Laigmhor. Lorna was splashing in the pools of water lying in the hollows of the drying green, her face alight with mischief. Ruth took one last, lingering look at the little house in which she had known bliss beyond compare. Sadness lay over her face, her vision grew blurred. Abruptly she pulled her gaze away and set off over the fields, not wanting to take the glen road in case she might meet someone who would start asking awkward questions about her luggage. Even so, she anxiously scanned the landscape just in case Lorn might be working nearby. He had been busy in the top fields for the last week so she couldn’t be too careful. She stumbled as she walked, blinded by tears that suddenly swamped her and Lorna’s fingers curled consolingly into her hand.

  ‘Don’t cry, Mam, it’s all better.’ The words were meant to be reassuring but the child’s voice trembled on a note of uncertainty.

  Ruth straightened her shoulders resolutely. For Lorna’s sake she had to be strong, had to behave normally. Squeezing the little hand she forced a smile. ‘Ay, it’s all better, my wee lamb, and it will be better still going for a nice sail in the boat. You’ll like that, won’t you?’

  Lorna’s face was solemn, the kind of solemnity she wore when she sensed unhappiness in those around her. ‘Will Douglas be coming wiv us?’

  ‘No, he has to stay with your grannie. Come on, we have to hurry, the boat will be leaving in a wee while.’

  Taking her daughter’s hand she led her firmly along the road to the harbour. Except for Merry Mary knitting on a chair outside the shop, the place was deserted and thankfully Ruth led Lorna up the gangplank. From one of the harbour cottages music from a wireless drifted and Ruth stiffened as she recognized the strains of the Song of Rhanna. To her, in those unhappy, fraught moments, it seemed like a mockery, tormenting her, reminding her of people she had loved and who had repaid her trust by being unfaithful behind her back, who had drained her when she was least strong. Her legs shook as she stood at the rail, her purpled gaze sweeping over the hills and the glens she so loved.

  Merry Mary looked up, shading her eyes from the glare, and she wondered why Ruth hadn’t mentioned yesterday in the shop that she was taking a trip away from the island. Little Lorna was raising her hand, waving, and Merry Mary’s heart swelled with affection for Ruth’s daughter. Bustling into the shop she emerged with a box of sweets and puffed up to the quay just as the gangplank was being raised.

  ‘Here.’ She thrust the package at a bearded boathand. ‘Give these to wee Lorna McKenzie. She has just got on the boat wi’ her mother. I didny know Ruth was taking a trip away from the island. I saw her yesterday and she never mentioned it.’

  The boathand grinned. ‘Ay, Mary, you know a lot but no’ enough! Ask Kate, she knows everybody’s business and will likely tell you that Ruth is away to meet a secret lover she’s hidden away for years in Oban or the like.’ He snorted with glee at the look of disapproval on Merry Mary’s face. ‘Ach, it was a joke. I’ll see the bairn gets the sweeties – now get out o’ my way before the ropes ca’ you off your feets. You wouldny like a dip this mornin’, the water’s too cold.’

  Merry Mary shaded her eyes again and waved up to Lorna standing at the rails with her mother, her face composed, her finger in her mouth as if she wasn’t too keen on the idea of this unexpected trip.

  Ruth didn’t want to know the pain of watching her beloved island slipping away but against her will she stood as if rooted to the spot, seeing everything in a blur. Impatiently she wiped her eyes. The sun was slanting through the clouds, bathing the mountain tops in gold. The fresh greenery of spring clothed the fields and trees; tiny white specks that were lambs dotted the meadows round Laigmhor – and – she tried to drag her gaze away but stared as one transfixed – beyond Laigmhor she could just make out the chimneys of Fàilte. A drift of blue smoke hazed the hollow; a tiny matchstick figure walked in the fields. Her heart filled with a bittersweet yearning. Was it Lorn? Striding homewards, perhaps because he had forgotten something or else coming back to see her – he would find the house empty – see the note . . .

  Far, far in the hidden glens of Rhanna the cuckoo had arrived and was calling, its notes echoing and re-echoing against the hills, drifting down to the harbour. Of all the triumphant sounds of spring this was the one which appealed most to Ruth’s poetic soul. Always she had waited with a kind of breathless expectancy for the cuckoo to herald the approach of summer. Somehow it seemed to her that in its simple notes lay the portent of golden Hebridean days, when all the world was blue, when exotic butterflies danced upon the flowers and lovers cried and laughed in each other’s arms in fragrant fields of ripening hay . . .

  She stared at the scene till her eyes grew hot and her legs felt weak beneath her. Unable to bear the sadness any longer, she seized Lorna’s hand and guided her away from the rails. But she couldn’t resist taking one last lingering look over her shoulder. Already a good stretch of water separated them from the island. Pearly clouds ringed the hills, everything was merging, changing shape as the boat swung round. She couldn’t distinguish one field, one glen from the next; the sea lapped the dazzling white beaches, then even that too changed. In a few short minutes the hills were just an ethereal shape against the sky, the island a blue blur floating on the ocean. She was no longer a part of it, no longer a part of anything that had been her life for more than twent
y-two years.

  Chapter Twelve

  Lorn stood in the kitchen and faced his father, bracing himself for the storm he knew must surely follow the news he had to impart. He was drawn and pallid, with a dark stubble lying over his hollowed face. He had spent a harrowing, sleepless night sitting in a stunned stupor with Ruth’s letter crushed in his hand. In it she had told him she was leaving and taking Lorna with her. ‘You aren’t her father after all,’ the note read. ‘You can tell your parents what you like, I don’t care. I warn you not to come looking for me, you would be wasting your time. If you push me too hard it could come to a divorce. I would get both children in view of your faithlessness – this way at least you have your son, so for your own sake it would be best to leave things as they are till I have had more time to think. At the moment I can’t see things too clearly. I only know I have to get away from you. I will get a job and Lorna will be well looked after. When my father gets back I want you to tell him what’s happened – tell him not to worry – I will be in touch with him when I’m feeling more settled. Ruth.’

  Lorn had been too shocked to immediately take in the full import of the letter’s contents. In a daze he had gone over to Mo Dhachaidh to collect his son and then he had sat in the kitchen for the rest of the night while little by little the full realization of what had happened sank into his disbelieving mind. Now he had to tell his parents and he didn’t know how he was going to be able to deliver such a blow coherently. His mother wasn’t in the room, only his father, black eyes burning into him questioningly, the lines of his face set – as if he was preparing himself for some sort of shock.

  ‘Would you – I think I could talk to you better outside.’ Lorn didn’t recognize his own voice, it was high and ragged.

  ‘Right, we’ll go up to the south pasture.’ Fergus was already at the door, striding away in front, stopping only when he reached the high, windblown field that curved gently to meet the lower slopes of Ben Machrie. Lorn had followed slowly, dreading the awful moment of truth. He was breathing heavily, not from exertion but from the burden of his seething emotions. Fergus stood waiting, saying nothing. Lorn wished he would speak, say something, anything to ease the steely tension that had arisen between them ever since he had told his father he had something important to tell him.

  He took a deep breath. ‘Ruthie’s left me,’ he imparted shortly.

  Fergus’ eyes raked his son’s face. ‘Left you! What the hell do you mean?’

  ‘What I say.’ Lorn’s voice was soft with despair. ‘She – she’s taken Lorna – but not Douglas—’

  ‘Why?’ Fergus snapped the query out.

  ‘Because – because of – things she heard about me and Rachel.’

  ‘And were they true?’ Fergus spat the words, his face deathly white.

  ‘Ay – ay, they were.’ Lorn’s voice broke, he sagged, as if the effort to hold himself upright was suddenly too much. He was totally unprepared for what happened next. His father’s fist shot out, crashing like a steel ball into the side of his face with such force he staggered and fell. Dazedly he lay on the grass, shaking his head, blood spurting from a gash on his lip.

  Fergus was breathing hard, nostrils dilated, eyes glittering like coals in the pallor of his face. ‘I ought to thrash the living daylights out of you! You bloody young fool – why did you do it?’

  Lorn staggered to his feet. His father’s face swam in his blurred vision. He had an almost irresistible urge to hit back; his breath rasped in his throat; his fists curled into balls at his sides, but with a supreme effort he stayed himself.

  ‘I lost my head!’ he hurled the words out. ‘For once in my life I lost my bloody head! Do you think I don’t hate myself for what I’ve done? Why are you such a God Almighty judge anyway! Haven’t you ever done anything in your life of which you can look back and be so ashamed you feel sick to the guts every time you think about it?’

  Fergus’ jaw clenched. ‘We’re not discussing my life – we’re talking about the buggering mess you’ve made of yours . . .’ He stopped dead and stared at his son. It seemed that in some strange way history was repeating itself. Lorn was right. Oh God! How right he was. There had been a time when he had hated himself for things he had done. Time had dulled his memories but this confrontation with Lorn brought it all flooding back – Kirsteen leaving him to bring up his child in some strange place – far away from everything that was dear and familiar. The circumstances had been different from those of his son but in the end it all amounted to much the same thing.

  He looked at the young face in front of him, saw the stark misery lying like a grey shadow over it. The thought struck him – perhaps he had always expected too much of this youngest son of his – and – instead of beating him he should be doing everything in his power to help. Drawing his fingers across his mouth he studied Lorn contemplatively, giving himself time to think, time to decide on the right approach. With a quick, decisive gesture he threw out his arm and placed it firmly about the boy’s shoulders. Lorn had instinctively jerked his head back, as if he had been prepared for another blow, and Fergus laughed dryly. ‘Don’t fret, I’m not going to spend precious time thrashing you, though if I’d been ten years younger I might have done for it’s no more than you deserve. Here.’ He thrust his hanky into the other’s hand. ‘Clean your face then we’ll sit here on the bank and talk this over like two sensible adults.’

  Lorn sank down gratefully on the mossy ground. He hadn’t eaten since dinner time the day before and felt as weak as a kitten. Before his father could speak he burst out impetuously, ‘I’m going to look for her! She said not to but I’m damned if I’ll sit back and let her take Lorna away from me. I have as much right to her as Ruthie – oh God! Poor wee lassie – she’s the one who’s going to suffer most from all this.’

  Burying his head in his hands he gave vent to his feelings, the dry harsh sobs shaking his shoulders with their depth. Fergus let him cry. He had seen strong men weep before, he himself had done it in despair and sorrow many a time. In those moments he felt closer than ever to his son and had to swallow a lump in his own throat at the sight of the manly shoulders shuddering like those of a small boy.

  Lorn raised a tearstained ashamed face. ‘You must think me a weak fool.’ He wiped frantically at his eyes. ‘Weeping as easily as any woman.’

  ‘Ach, I’ve done it myself often enough.’

  ‘You?’ Lorn’s tones were disbelieving.

  ‘Ay, me, don’t look so surprised. I might be your father but that doesn’t mean I’m not human. Now – first things first. We’re going back to let your mother know what’s happened. You and Douglas will both stay at Laigmhor till all this is settled. I wouldny worry too much about Ruth. She’ll come back; given time, she’ll come back. At the moment she’ll be feeling too angry and hurt to know what she’s doing but she’s a mother as well as a wife and she won’t stay away from her son any longer than she needs to. Give her a week or two to calm down and if she’s not back by then go and look for her – though I warn you, that might no’ be as easy as it sounds.’

  Lorn looked at his hands. ‘She – she might want to leave me – for good I mean – in her place I might feel the same.’

  ‘Ach, c’mon, man, don’t cross bridges. Just now she’ll feel anything but liking for you but that will pass.’

  ‘Will it?’ Lorn’s voice was flat. ‘I’m not so sure, Ruthie’s very – unworldly. Everything was cut and dried in her life till this happened and she might no’ be able to face the reality of it. I see a good lot of Morag in her, it’s getting plainer as the years pass. Och, nothing like Morag’s fanatical ways, but to Morag the world was a harsh place, she couldn’t take too much of it and buried herself in religion in an effort to escape. In a way Ruthie’s the same only she didn’t bury herself in religion, she buried herself in me – and now that I’ve proved I’m not a saint, just another human being, everything in her rosy world has crumbled and she might no’ be able to forgive me for it.’<
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  Fergus stood up. ‘Come on, Lorn, that kind of talk won’t get you anywhere. You have a son who needs you. He will be wondering where his mother is and it’s up to you as his father to make sure that he doesn’t become more bewildered than he already is.’

  That night Lorn lay in his old room at Laigmhor, the room he had shared with his brother for so many years and with Ruth during the first months of their marriage. In this room, in this bed, she had given birth to Lorna, Lewis’ daughter, but so much a part of him he had almost forgotten that another man had fathered her. Ruth’s note had cruelly reminded him of the fact and with that excuse she had seen fit to remove his darling little girl from his life.

  A feeling of unreality washed over him. Only two nights ago he had lain with his wife, had caressed the softness of her body – now she was gone from him – but more than miles separated them, they were apart in every sense and he felt lost in a void of useless longing.

  He thought briefly of Rachel but she seemed to belong to another time, a time of which only the more prominent details made any impression in his restless thinking. He didn’t blame her for anything that had happened, he blamed only himself and it was a heavy weight which lay like a cold lump of lead in the pit of his belly. From along the passage he heard Douglas gurgling and laughing with Kirsteen. Thinking about her reaction to the news made him squirm afresh with guilt. She had merely looked at him strangely, those keen blue eyes of hers hurt and sad. She had known a great deal of tragedy in recent years, but lately life had been kinder to her. Grant was coming home; she was going to be a grandmother again. She had learned to laugh more, but today he had taken it all away with just a few words. The familiar look of pain was back in eyes which had stared at him in disbelief and, finally, unwilling acceptance.