Stranger on Rhanna

by Christine Marion Fraser

  Table of Contents

  Also by Christine Marion Fraser

  About the Author

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Map

  Part One: Spring 1967

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Part Two: Early Summer 1967

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Part Three: Late Summer 1967

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Part Four: Autumn/Winter 1967/68

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Also by Christine Marion Fraser

  Rhanna

  Children of Rhanna

  Return to Rhanna

  Song of Rhanna

  Storm Over Rhanna

  Stranger on Rhanna

  A Rhanna Mystery

  King’s Croft

  King’s Acre

  Kinvara

  Kinvara Wives

  Kinvara Summer

  Kinvara Affairs

  About the Author

  Christine Marion Fraser was one of Scotland’s best-selling authors, outselling even Catherine Cookson, with world-wide readership and translations into many foreign languages. She was the author of the much-loved Rhanna series. Second youngest of a large family, she soon learned independence during childhood years spent in the post-war Govan district of Glasgow. Chris lived in Argyll with her husband. She died on 22nd November 2002.

  STRANGER ON RHANNA

  Christine Marion Fraser

  www.hodder.co.uk

  First published in Great Britain in 1992

  by HarperCollinsPublishers

  This edition published in 2013 by Hodder & Stoughton

  An Hachette UK company

  Copyright © 1992 Christine Marion Fraser

  The right of Christine Marion Fraser to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library

  eBook ISBN 978 1 444 76827 5

  Hodder & Stoughton Ltd

  338 Euston Road

  London NW1 3BH

  www.hodder.co.uk

  For Andy ‘Mahatmacoat’ McKillop – the best.

  Praise for Christine Marion Fraser

  ‘Christine Marion Fraser weaves an intriguing story in which the characters are alive against a spellbinding background’

  Yorkshire Herald

  ‘Fraser writes with a great depth of feeling and has the knack of making her characters come alive. She paints beautiful pictures of the countryside and their changing seasons’

  Aberdeen Express

  ‘Full-blooded romance, a strong, authentic setting’

  The Scotsman

  ‘An author who has won a huge audience for her warm, absorbing tales of ordinary folk’

  Annabel

  ‘Christine Marion Fraser writes characters so real they almost leap out of the pages . . . you would swear she must have grown up with them’

  Sun

  Part One

  SPRING 1967

  Chapter One

  Rachel stood at the door of An Cala and breathed deeply the scents of sea and machair that were borne to her on the fresh breezes of the early March day. Her dark eyes gazed out to the Sound of Rhanna where lively white sea horses leapt and pranced in foaming turbulence, and she thought how good it was to be back home on Rhanna, listening to the cries of the wheeling gulls and the wild surge of the ocean.

  The rest of the world seemed so far away, especially her hectic world of endless concert tours that took her from one country to the next, where she was never still for a moment and there was never any time to pause and remember the people and places that were dear and familiar to her, but which were so very far removed from the bustle, the excitement and the adoring public that demanded so much of her time, her energy, her emotions . . .

  Lately it had all become too much for her; she was drained, physically and mentally, and she hadn’t made any objections when Jon, her husband, had suggested that she should take a long holiday.

  ‘At least six months,’ he had told her firmly. ‘You are between tours and deserve a long spell away from it all. You could spend some time on Rhanna, then, if you would like, I’ll take you some place where the sun shines all day and all we need to do is eat and sleep and find time for each other again.’

  She thought about Jon. He was so good to her: always thinking about her welfare, devoting himself to her every whim, managing her affairs, travelling with her wherever she went.

  ‘Whither thou goest I will go also.’

  The words floated into her mind and she smiled because for once Jon hadn’t come with her but had instead gone to visit his big, domineering Mamma in Hamburg who had never ceased to be surprised that her son had actually severed the apron strings to marry a girl from a remote Scottish island.

  He hadn’t suggested that Rachel should accompany him to Hamburg. His monumental Mamma, with her loud, demanding voice, had never taken to Rachel – after all, wasn’t she the girl who had stolen away her only son? Never mind that she was a world-famous violinist, at heart she was still as wild and as abandoned as the gypsy-like child he had fallen in love with on a fateful visit to Rhanna many years ago. She didn’t have the breeding, she didn’t have the poise, she only had her music and she wouldn’t have made such a success of that if it hadn’t been for Jon’s sacrificing his own musical talents so that she could pursue fame and fortune.

  Besides all that, she had been born with a terrible physical defect, and no man should have to live with such a thing: it wasn’t right, it wasn’t normal. Perhaps there were other abnormalities that no one knew about. Why hadn’t Rachel conceived by now? She was young, she looked strong enough. It couldn’t be Jon’s fault: he was healthy and normal. A man needed children to keep him happy. Of course, it might have something to do with all that traipsing about from one country to the next: what sort of a life was that for any married couple? But, of course, Rachel needed the fame, the adoration – never mind her husband and the sacrifices he’d had to make . . .

  Jon had heard it all many times and he never exposed Rachel to his mother’s narrow reasonings if he could help it. But Rachel knew what Mamma Jodl thought of her: it was all there, in the accusing blue eyes, in the way the woman watched her and made reference to Jon’s forebears.

  ‘There has always been a son to carry on the name of Jodl,’ she would say with calculating nonchalance. ‘We are a family who go back a long way, and always there is the strong seed, the male line. Jon would never deliberately allow it to die out, he has always
been proud of his name.’

  But Mamma Jodl was very far from Rachel’s mind that crisp, bright March day with Mara Òran Bay sparkling at her feet and the great dome of the sky stretching wide and infinite overhead. She had been on the island two days now but no one knew that she was here: she had wanted time to be alone, just herself and the silence, the blessed, wondrous silence she had dreamed about for so long. It was a reprieve from people. A blissful respite from hurry, noise, bustle, and – most importantly – there was no phone. At their flat in London they were besieged with requests for her presence at many and varied functions; they were inundated with mail; the door went; the phone jangled. It was an exciting but exhausting life and when it all became too much she knew she had to escape back to the peace and serenity of Rhanna, her island home, her refuge when the bigger world became intolerable.

  She had come armed with enough supplies to last several days. On the boat she had worn dark glasses and had kept her coat collar muffled round her face. No one had given her a second glance. It had been a rough crossing from Oban and most of the passengers had sat in the saloon, either ‘half asleep or half dead or a mixture o’ both’, according to Ranald who had been over on the mainland visiting one of his many cousins.

  ‘Ay, well, if that’s the case, I’d rather be dying wi’ a good tot o’ rum in me,’ Captain Mac had returned and so saying he had staggered off in the direction of the bar, clutching an assortment of parcels, with Ranald so close on his heels that he had tripped and half fallen out of the doorway, leaving behind him a string of oaths that could only have come from a man who had spent most of his life at sea.

  The expletives were like music in Rachel’s ears. She had half thought of joining the two men in the bar but had quickly decided against it. Word of her arrival would spread round the island like wildfire and, until she was settled, that was the last thing she wanted.

  No one had noticed her leaving the boat and she had been able to make her leisurely way to An Cala, observed only by the sheep cropping the machair and three large Highland cows, who had gazed at her benignly through untidy straggles of wheat-coloured hair.

  It had been wonderful to be alone in An Cala – which was the Gaelic for The Haven or The Harbour – no one but herself, wandering through the quiet rooms, every window affording views of sea and shore, hills and fields.

  Heating had been a problem. She hadn’t wanted to broadcast her presence by having smoke blowing from the chimneys, so she compromised by lighting the fire only at night and by day keeping herself so busy cleaning the house she had no time to feel cold. Of course, she could have started the generator that supplied An Cala with electric heat and light, but the road was nearby, as was Croft na Ard, the home of Anton and Babbie Büttger. Anybody could have heard the rather noisy generator purring away in its shed, so she had cooked her meals on the Calor-gas stove and had eaten them curled up by the fire with the curtains pulled across the windows. Candles and oil lamps allowed her to read and light her way to bed and it had altogether been two of the most relaxing days she had spent for years.

  She knew, of course, that she must soon make her presence known – the Rhanna folk didn’t appreciate such secrecy and when they found out she had slipped on to the island without anyone knowing she would be the talk of the place. Behag Beag and Elspeth Morrison, in particular, would no doubt have the most to say on the subject. But for now it was enough that she went undiscovered and with an upsurge of sheer abandonment she tossed back her glossy black hair and spread wide her arms as if to embrace the ocean to her breast.

  Ruth wandered slowly along the white sands of Mara Òran Bay, deep in thought, in her mind writing the final chapter of her second book. The dialogue was piling in on her and, getting out her notebook, she jotted the words down before they could slip away. Ahead of her, four-and-a-half-year-old Douglas ran and played, his lint-white head bobbing about as he searched for small sea creatures in the rock pools. He was a child who craved perpetual motion and interest in his life. That afternoon he had been particularly restless and in exasperation Ruth had set out to take him for a long walk by the shore, even if it meant leaving her typewriter for a while.

  But she was glad that she had come out: Lorn was always telling her that she spent far too much time in the house. Lifting her head, she took a deep breath of salt-laden sea air. Her eyes travelled upwards to An Cala, and she wondered when Rachel would come back to Rhanna. It had been some months since she had seen her friend; she loved it when Jon and Rachel came home, their lives were so exciting and there was always so much they had to tell her – the places they’d seen, the people they’d met . . .

  A movement near the house attracted her attention. Shading her eyes, she stared upwards and made out a lone figure standing on the cliffs gazing out to sea. Her heart quickened. It surely couldn’t be Rachel: she hadn’t written to say she was coming – but who else could be wandering about outside An Cala, if not Rachel?

  Calling on Douglas, she hurried with him up the steep track to the house, her violet eyes shining when she saw that it was indeed the girl who, in long-ago childhood, had shared all her little secrets.

  ‘Rachel!’ she called breathlessly, running forward as she spoke.

  Rachel spun round, her heart galloping into her throat with fright. So engrossed had she been with her thoughts, with the glorious sense of being the only person inhabiting this particular spot at that particular time, she hadn’t been aware of any other living soul encroaching on this private place that she considered to be hers.

  She loved Ruth, she had always loved her, they had spent the early years of their lives together. She had travelled the world but never had she found anyone who could ever quite compare with Ruth: she could never be as confiding, or as trusting with anyone else, but Ruth could be possessive at times and the way she was feeling now, Rachel didn’t want to be possessed by anyone, not even her childhood friend.

  Her reciprocal greeting was therefore somewhat restrained and Ruth’s face fell a little when her welcoming embrace was not wholeheartedly returned. With the intention of making some excuse to be on her way, she opened her mouth to call on Douglas, but he was already clinging to the hand of the lovely young woman whom he had called ‘Aunt Ray’ ever since he had learned to speak.

  It didn’t matter to him that she couldn’t answer him back, he simply watched her expressive gestures, the fluent movements of her hands, and gradually he was learning the basic symbols of the sign language.

  Rachel led him into the house and Ruth could do nothing but follow, though slowly, indignation growing in her at the realisation that Rachel hadn’t told her she was coming to the island – when she had always declared she wouldn’t feel right arriving on Rhanna with no Ruth to greet her at the harbour.

  The fire was unlit and the house was cold. With a strange little smile, Rachel struck a match and held it to the twists of paper in the grate. She didn’t need wood, from an early age she had been taught how to light a fire without it and she had never forgotten the art. She watched the flames curling, the smoke drifting up the chimney. It didn’t matter now: she had been discovered, there was no further need to deny herself home comforts, very soon the whole of Rhanna would know that she was here. The solitude, the peace, was over.

  ‘I’ll make tea.’ Ruth got up and went to the tiny kitchen, her limp pronounced as it always was when she was upset or angry. She rattled cups and saucers with energy, she found the tea caddy and poured hot water into the teapot to warm it. The tea smelled funny, sort of smoky and spicy. Just like Rachel, she thought, even her very tea has to be exotic and different. No wonder Annie, her mother, sometimes said that her daughter’s head was too full of fancy ideas for her own good.

  When finally she carried the tray of tea and biscuits into the living room, the fire was leaping up the lum and Douglas was ensconced in a big comfortable armchair, happily applying coloured crayons to a picture book on his lap.

  Rachel kept a good supply of chal
ks and children’s books in the house for the benefit of young visitors. She was altogether most attentive to their needs, and though each and every one of them knew that she could be as firm as she was kind-hearted, they all respected her for it and were, with few exceptions, as eager to please her as she was them.

  There had been a time in her life when she hadn’t wanted children but as the years had gone by her attitudes had changed till now she was more than anxious to have a much longed-for baby. It didn’t matter that such an event would interrupt her career and she often thought longingly of what it would be like to have the same kind of life as other young married women. But for her it could never be like that and she knew it: her passion for music would never be stilled and always she would strive for perfection till the pinnacle was reached.

  Ruth drew in a chair to the fire, smiling a little to herself when she smelled the incense that pervaded the room. Rachel said she burned it to sweeten the air and take away the mustiness from rooms that had lain empty, but the islanders had different ideas. Old Sorcha insisted on calling the strange perfume ‘incest’ and claimed it made her feel funny whenever she ‘sniffed in the reek o’ it’. And whenever Kate McKinnon visited her granddaughter she danced and swayed to Rachel’s ‘provocative oriental music’ looking glazed about the eyes, ‘as if the incest had seeped into her head and made her think about her essentials’, to quote Sorcha.

  Rachel had gotten over her annoyance at the intrusion, and she eagerly asked Ruth to relate all her news, her hands and fingers flying so fast they were just a blur of frantic movement. But Ruth had long ago learnt the sign language and was able to answer every question, for although her friend was dumb her hearing was perfect. Nevertheless, many assumed that speech and hearing defects went hand in hand and were quite nonplussed in Rachel’s company.

  Forgetting her earlier feelings of anger, Ruth explained that she was just finishing her second novel, The Far Island, and that the paperback of her first book, Hebridean Dream, was due to be released shortly.