Song of Rhanna (The Rhanna series)

by Christine Marion Fraser

  ‘Would you have him an invalid for the rest of his days?’ he asked bluntly. ‘Because he will be if he’s allowed to lie and rot on that couch feeling sorry for himself.’ At Lorn, one trying, uncooperative day, he flared into a temper and ordered, ‘Get up yourself today, man! Do you think Lewis would have knuckled down! Christ Almighty! He was a rogue, but never a coward. He hated illness, ay, ran from it all his days while you fought a good fight, but in the end illness caught up with him and he turned to face it squarely in its black, terrifying face!’

  ‘Don’t talk to me about Lewis and what he did!’ Lorn retaliated furiously. ‘He only had it at the end. I’ve had it all my buggering life and I’m too tired to fight it anymore!’

  Grant’s jaw jutted. Lorn felt he was looking at his father. ‘Too buggering right you are. Somewhere along the way you mislaid that beautiful fighting spirit I used to admire in you till I was drunk with pride in my wee brother.’ His black eyes flashed. ‘Of course, I might have been wrong about you all along. It just needed a woman to leave you in the lurch to make you behave like one yourself. I haveny a doubt Ruth isn’t lying back feeling sorry for herself. She’s got too much bloody gumption! She’s stronger than you, Lorn, you’ll go under while she comes out on top – you’ll see!’

  Rage bubbled in Lorn’s breast, his pupils dilated, his fists balled. ‘Watch your mouth, McKenzie!’ he almost sobbed, fury blinding him to the fact that his brother’s harsh words were uttered in a desperate bid to goad him on to his feet.

  And not only did Grant berate Lorn unmercifully, he employed half the village to do the same. Laigmhor had never been busier. Hour after hour, day after day, there was always someone at Lorn’s side, encouraging him, haranguing him. Babbie came in her spare time to massage his feet and legs, Shona also took her turn, as did Kate, Barra, any of the womenfolk who felt themselves to be capable of the task. Only Kirsteen remained dubious while Fergus became as hard and as determined as Grant, turning a deaf ear to Lorn’s pleas for mercy. It became a grim, resolute battle but everyone had the same goal in mind: ‘to see young McKenzie up on his feet’. Lorn was swept along on a tide of enthusiasm but during rare quiet moments when he had the parlour to himself, he was glad to sink into the abyss of his innermost thoughts and it was during these times that he knew he could never get truly well till he found out Ruth’s whereabouts and discovered for himself if she loved him enough ever to forgive him.

  The arrival of Grant and Fiona’s son caused a temporary and welcome lull in what had become to Lorn an almost unbearable ordeal. Ian Lachlan McKenzie made his forceful entry into the world at 7 a.m. on a still, misty morning in mid-October.

  Lachlan held his tiny grandson in his arms and experienced a rush of such emotion he felt a mist of tears before his vision. He had delivered many babies in his day. Every one had brought him a sense of wonder at the miracle of a new creation, but never had he known the humbling and incredible thrill of bringing the flesh of his flesh into the world. It had been a long and exhausting night, weariness had sat heavy on his shoulders, he had felt the age of every bone in his body and a little voice from within told him it was as well he would be retiring soon. Now, as he laughed down into the small new face lying contentedly in the crook of his arm he felt a vigour as of youth flowing in his veins and in his exuberance he gave a little yelp of delight and chuckled, a low musical cadence of sheer pride.

  Babbie, busy at Fiona’s bedside, glanced up and smiled despite a pang of poignancy in the knowing that this would be one of the last times she might work with him in his official capacity as GP on Rhanna – it would certainly be the last baby they would deliver together. Doctor Jenkins was taking over more and more of the running of the practice and while Babbie was gradually coming to like her and they both worked together amicably, she knew that things would never be quite the same again without Lachlan at the helm. Theirs had been a long association, more than twenty years in fact; she had grown used to his ways, to the warm, caring compassion he had always displayed towards his patients no matter how he might be feeling himself. Yet she knew she had to relinquish him with a show of nonchalance. He and Phebie were so looking forward to their days of freedom and so richly deserved them it would have seemed selfish, if not childish, of her to harp on about what his leaving would mean to her and his patients. He was anxious too for Doctor Jenkins to be liked, and well he might be for, though the islanders had surmounted their initial suspicion of a newcomer and were now extending the cautious hand of friendship, there were still many obstacles to overcome and Doctor Jenkins faced a long uphill climb before she would ever be accepted as good enough to take his place. But Lachlan himself had had to overcome the selfsame barriers when he had come to Rhanna as a fresh-faced young GP and just as ‘Auld McLure’ had been held up to him so he in turn would be held in comparison to Doctor Megan.

  But she had several advantages to her credit. The islanders had quickly gotten over the surprise of ‘a leddy doctor’ in Lachlan’s place, to the women she was a godsend in that they could discuss personal ailments without embarrassment; to the menfolk she was ‘beautiful just’ though they weren’t so willing to bring matters of a personal nature to her attention. Her other saving grace was her knowledge of the Gaelic language which though not extensive was enough to allow her to understand and converse reasonably well with the older Gaels. She had taken a gentle hint from Lachlan and had stopped wearing her white coat for everyday consultations and little by little the islanders were breathing easier in her presence and creeping out of their shells of reserve.

  ‘At least, she’s good wi’ the needle,’ Kate had approved with some satisfaction after being subjected to a course of injections for an inflamed bunion. ‘I had to bare my bum for the jags and there I was wi’ my breeks at my ankles and waiting. Before you could say “wheech” she had the job done and me never knowing a thing till it was all over.’

  Everyone agreed with Kate that the new doctor was indeed a wizard in this respect and when Jim Jim made a further observation to the effect that ‘she has good hands for a leddy doctor, no’ too gentle and no’ too coarse wi’ a touch to them that is just sublime’, heads nodded in sage agreement while everyone vied with each other to bring Doctor Megan’s other good points into the open. News of her progress filtered through to Megan’s ear making her breathe a sigh of heartfelt relief as she had reached the stage of feeling that she would never be accepted by the canny islanders. With this in mind, Babbie had been careful to make her own attitude to the new doctor as agreeable as possible though inwardly she rebelled at the inevitable changes taking place in her own working routine, so the look she threw at Lachlan had more than a touch of tenderness in it as she asked teasingly, ‘Are you going to fawn over him all day or do you think the new mother might have a shot at holding her firstborn?’

  Lachlan looked at his daughter lying against the pillows, her face hollowed with the fatigue of childbirth. Yet she was radiant. She had always been attractive rather than beautiful but now she glowed with an inner light and in the brightness of her eyes he saw mirrored the mischievous sprite of yesteryear while an echo of her child’s voice came to him, declaring vehemently to the world at large that she would never, never have children. His own eyes twinkled at the memory. ‘Ach, she doesn’t mind her old man getting a whily with the bairn – after all she was always so adamant about not having any, she might not even want a peep at the wee cratur’ who has just put her through a night of hell.’

  But Fiona had already gotten over the pain of childbirth. She took the child in her arms and gazed down at him, then what Lachlan called her ‘Fiona smile’ dimpled roguishly over her face. ‘Decidedly ugly,’ she giggled, ‘but he’ll grow bonny and big and he’ll proudly bear his grandfather’s name . . .’ She looked up at her father and reaching out squeezed his hand. ‘And what could be a nobler thing?’ Her voice was husky. ‘If he’s lucky enough to grow in the least like you then he will indeed be blessed – it’s just a pity the fa
mily surname won’t get to continue – the McKenzies are doing fine in that respect but we McLachlans are lagging behind.’

  ‘Don’t be so sure of that,’ he said decidedly. ‘Shona and Niall are always coming up with surprises, I know Shona at least would like another, anything’s possible with that lassie.’

  ‘Ay, but she isn’t such a lassie now,’ Fiona said bluntly. ‘And she’ll have to ca’ canny if she’s thinking about adding to her family.’

  At that point the door opened and in came Phebie, Elspeth, and Grant, the latter having just arrived back from a night’s fishing with the smacks. Elspeth had been shocked by his departure the evening before, everyone else relieved. He had brought them all to the point of screaming, with his floor-pacing and his nail-biting and in the end it was Lachlan who had suggested he go fishing as it was going to be a long night of waiting. And so the big, sturdy McKenzie had thankfully taken himself off after getting full approval from his wife. A night with the smacks had done a lot to ease his anxiety. Seizing the excuse of drinking the baby into the world his cronies and he had become slowly and merrily intoxicated. On his arrival back at Slochmhor he had earned Elspeth’s further disapproval by giggling his head off at nothing and swinging both she and Phebie round and round in his arms till they were red-faced and dizzy. His delight at seeing his newborn son was infectious. He showered his wife with praise and kisses, black eyes snapping in an excess of pride and mischief. He kissed the younger women, shook hands with Lachlan, advanced on Elspeth who backed away, something like a smile beginning to dawn on her gaunt, immobile face. ‘Hearken to me,’ she warned severely. ‘Just you get a grip on yourself, laddie. I was never one for all that kind o’ palaver.’

  Grant grinned wickedly and stretched out his strong muscular arms. ‘Elspeth, Elspeth,’ he implored in delight. ‘Would you deny a new father a congratulatory kiss from your very own bonny lips?’

  From the bed Fiona snorted with laughter. The scene presented by the wizened old woman fighting off the attentions of the brawny young man was utterly hilarious. Catching her Grant pinioned her arms briefly and bending his head kissed her soundly on the lips.

  Elspeth was stunned, inwardly thrilled. Two spots of red flared high on her cheeks. ‘Never, never have I been so insulted,’ she said, too adamantly. ‘The McKenzies are all the same – mad, the lot o’ them.’

  She scurried to the bedside, giving Grant a wide berth. Her eyes were oddly bright as she gazed down at the new addition to the household. ‘My, my, he is bonny just – but his wee hands feel cold. Let me take him and warm his feets by the fire. I’ve got his wee goonies all ready – flannelette they are – I made them myself, nice and soft for his tender skin.’

  Over her wispy grey head Fiona caught her parents’ eyes and she threw them a slow, deliberate wink. It was plain that Elspeth was overjoyed to have a baby about the house again; it was also plain that Fiona and the old housekeeper were bound to have some spicy disagreements over the child’s upbringing. Elspeth was entirely old-fashioned in her outlook and had already expressed shock at some of Fiona’s ideas. She was very much the independent modern young woman and had very decided ideas of her own on childrearing. But for the moment she let the old woman have her own way, an unexpected sadness enveloping her at sight of Elspeth’s creped hands next to the baby’s flawless skin. Elspeth was crooning to him, taking him to the fire to let the heat wash over him. The toes of his tiny pink feet spread, then curled in bliss; his toothless mouth stretched into a lopsided yawn, his eyes went out of focus and he squinted at the flames in the grate. The dear, tender little head, with its mop of jet black hair, nestled trustingly against Elspeth’s scrawny bosom and the wonder of it brought tears to her eyes.

  Everyone in the room was touched by the tenderness of the moment, by the deep and sincere attachment of a childless old woman to a helpless scrap who had so recently taken his first breath of life.

  Grant collapsed on the bed beside Fiona to cuddle her and kiss the tip of her nose, all at once sobered by the thought that he was at last really and truly a father. Lachlan put his arm around Phebie’s waist and drew her in close. Silently they looked back and remembered the wondrous moments of their own children’s births. Now these children were grown, producing children of their own, gradually the older people, the grandparents were taking a back seat. Soon Lachlan would be retiring – they were approaching the evening of their life – yet how near – how sweet were the memories of youth . . .

  Babbie gave a self-conscious little laugh and confessed, ‘I don’t often feel left out during such times but somehow, watching all your pensive faces, I’m almost convinced that I’ve missed out on something pretty earthshattering – and now I’m too old to do anything about it. Perhaps I should have given up nursing and had an absolute wheen of bairns.’

  Lachlan laughed. ‘Each to his own, Babbie; you chose the right course for you. And you picked the right word to describe having and rearing children – earthshattering it certainly is . . .’ Just then the baby opened its mouth and gave its lungs full throttle.

  ‘And earsplitting into the bargain,’ Lachlan added putting his hands over his ears and making haste to go downstairs to a well-earned breakfast.

  Later that day Fiona and Grant had a visitor in the shape of Dodie bearing a very sophisticated gift tray containing a well-known brand of baby powder, soap and shampoo. For a long time he had had his eye on it reposing on a shelf in Merry Mary’s shop and as soon as he heard that his favourite male McKenzie was the proud father of a son he galloped to the shop to purchase the gift, complete with blue wrappings, closing his big ears to the teasing of the village men, feeling inordinately proud that he was able to buy such a fine present instead of having to resort to his usual home-made offerings.

  Fiona tore off the wrapping and her face fell, as did that of her husband.

  ‘You dinna like it!’ Dodie wailed. ‘It was the nicest thing in the shop too wi’ all they fancy blue ribbons and bitties o’ paper tied round it.’

  ‘Of course we like it,’ Grant chose his words carefully. ‘It’s just – well – we’ve seen the lovely painted stones you gave to Shona and wee Ellie. I had hoped – thought, you would have maybe given us one for our firstborn. Your stones are unique you see, Dodie, this, well, anyone can have the likes o’ that but not everyone can have your bonny stones.’

  Dodie was speechless with delight. He blushed and stammered, backed out of the room, knocked over a small table in the process, then turned and loped off home where he picked out his very best painted stone. Sitting down by a ramshackle table he painstakingly scratched the name ‘Ian Lachlan McKenzie’ across the bottom then turning it over he added his own unique mark, the initial ‘D’ shakily and unobtrusively scrawled in a corner.

  When he at last presented the stone to the new parents, the look on their faces was a reward that would keep his spirits buoyed for many days to come. Rather disdainfully he flicked a calloused finger over the contents of the little blue tray. ‘You can be giving these to the jumble sale in the hall next week, an ordinary bairnie might be glad o’ them.’

  Fiona and Grant exchanged laughing glances. Dodie could be quite a snob on occasion and from the prim pursing of his lips they guessed that this was one time he had every intention of boasting to all and sundry: ‘Only the best is good enough for the best – if you ask Grant and Fiona they will tell you the truth o’ that.’

  Part Five

  Winter 1964/65

  Chapter Sixteen

  It had been a wet windy winter with the rain sweeping horizontally over the hills and gale force winds boiling the Sound of Rhanna to fury. It was on such a day, three weeks before Christmas, that Grant came breezing into Laigmhor’s parlour, his dark head glistening with raindrops, the shoulders of his blue fisherknit fuzzed with rain, for he often scorned wearing a raincoat, risking a severe reprisal from his mother for being ‘a daft gowk of a laddie’. Much to everyone’s joy, he and Fiona had decided to make their p
ermanent home on Rhanna, a decision hastened by the fact that his application for the job as skipper on the new Western Islands ferry had been successful. He and his wife were presently making a languid attempt to look for a house, though at the moment Fiona seemed perfectly content to stay with her parents at Slochmhor, despite a continual battle with Elspeth over the baby’s upbringing.

  The arrangement suited Grant. He got on well with his in-laws and enjoyed the easy-going atmosphere of the house, also he was near enough his old home to be able to go there every day, at least until he started his new job in a few weeks’ time. He was putting Lorn through a routine that had become all too familiar to them both.

  Lorn was growing weary of it. After an initial hopeful start he seemed to have reached his full potential and now there existed a state of deadlock which Grant stubbornly refused to believe, but which must have been apparent to everyone else. It was brought home to him very forcibly by Captain Mac who was these days spending much of his time on Hanaay with his sister but who came over to Rhanna whenever he could.

  ‘Look you, son,’ he said to Grant, prodding his pipe at the other’s chest. ‘That brother o’ yours is never going to get off his damty backside unless something drastic happens to make him. You see, son,’ Captain Mac’s bewhiskered face grew as serious as his jolly, bulbous nose would allow, ‘he hasny the heart to fight. He lost it when that bonny wee wife o’ his walked out on him. I have known the laddie all his days and as brave and bonny a fighter I have yet to meet. But in the old days he was grapplin’ wi’ physical ill health – now it’s his mind and his heart that are needin’ healed. There is only one person in the whole world can do that. We can coax and persuade him till we’re blue in the face but at the end o’ the day it is the miracle o’ Ruth that he needs – ay – and the wee one too for he loved her sorely and will no’ be happy till he claps eyes on her again.’