Stranger on Rhanna

by Christine Marion Fraser

  Rachel and Otto, oblivious to all but the wonders of a Hebridean spring, greeted each new day with delight and made the most of every minute.

  Jon hadn’t arrived as promised. Mamma, he wrote, was feeling weak and shaky after an unexpected bout of flu, but as soon as she was well enough he would be on his way as speedily as was possible.

  I miss you, my darling gypsy. It seems such a very long time since I held you and laughed with you. The days go by very slowly here and the only way I know how to get through them is to keep thinking of you and what it will be like when at last I join you on our beloved island.

  Rachel could hear the voice of longing in the writings of her dear, gentle Jon, and when a letter like that came from him, she would sit very still by her window and imagine that he was on the steamer as it sailed into view on an ethereal sea, coming closer and closer to Mara Òran Bay and the harbour.

  But the pull of life pulsed strongly in her veins and always, always, her footsteps took her to lonely, enchanting Burg Bay and the beloved stranger who waited for her as eagerly and as impatiently as she waited till it was time to go to him.

  She knew she ought to visit her mother more, though Annie never made any particular effort to look pleased when she did go. Rachel wanted to feel close to her mother but always there had been a barrier between them. Annie had never had the ability to communicate easily with her beautiful, gifted daughter. When she was younger, Rachel had been frustrated and hurt by this attitude, but as she grew older her highly developed senses told her that it wasn’t an intentional slight but one born of many things that had puzzled and frightened her mother.

  It had taken years for her to accept the fact that she had given birth to a defective child. The way to understanding had been slow and painful for her and the death of her husband, Dokie Joe, hadn’t helped matters. Rachel had adored her father and had resented Annie’s second marriage to big, strapping Torquil Andrew. Then had come Rachel’s fame, and Annie faced a further struggle as she tried to cope with a young woman who might have sprung from an alien womb, so divorced was she from the reality of Hebridean life.

  Only gradually did Annie come to realize that success and fame had never really gone to her daughter’s head, rather she had clung more fiercely to her beginnings than ever and was always proud to tell everyone of her birthplace, no matter how elevated they might think themselves to be.

  Even so, in Annie’s book, Rachel was Somebody with a capital S and, no matter how hard she tried, she often felt awkward and clumsy when her daughter came to visit and she could never stop comparing her untidy little cottage with the opulent surroundings Rachel must be used to.

  She had been horrified when both Jon and Rachel had tried to persuade her to let them build a bigger house for her. ‘What would the nosy cailleachs think o’ that?’ had been her reaction. So Rachel had to content herself with sending her mother enough money to keep her comfortable and this Annie did not object to since she was careful never to ‘display her wealth in public’ but invested it instead in ‘bits and bobs that anyone might possess’, putting the biggest portion into the bank for a rainy day.

  But there were some lighthearted times to be had in Annie’s company. In her younger days she had often been the talk of the island with her ‘fleering after men o’ all sorts’. She had been merry and quick-tongued, full of laughter and fun and, even now, some of the best ceilidhs were held in her house, especially when Kate was there to add her zestful talk to that of her daughter.

  Rachel thought the world of her grandmother and enjoyed the informal atmosphere of her cottage. ‘Orderly chaos’ was how Kate described it. She never put on airs for anyone: ‘take me as you find me’ was her motto and that could mean anything, from catching her with a headful of formidable curlers, to finding her up to her elbows in the sink sloshing soapsuds around with gusto.

  Quite often too, Tam might be ‘having his head sheared’ with a pair of ancient sheep scissors, or he might simply be sprawled in his favourite chair, snoring his head off and not liking it one bit if Kate poked him in the ribs to don his jacket for ‘the visitors coming to the door’.

  ‘But, Kate,’ he would protest, ‘you’re wearing your curlers – surely that’s worse than me no’ having on my jacket.’

  To which she would ably and unreasonably reply, ‘At least I’m wearing something that hasny got holes in them. Look at your socks, Tam McKinnon, holes in them as big as your head, put your shoes on this minute, I won’t have folks saying that I’m neglecting you by no’ darning your socks.’

  ‘But, Kate, you don’t darn my socks. The last time you put a bit mending to them was when old Joe was biding here, you were just showing off when you darned his socks and his drawers. I knew fine you would never keep it up when the poor auld bodach left home.’

  ‘Tam McKinnon! I don’t darn your socks because I’m too busy knitting the damt things. Now, no’ another peep out o’ you or I’ll keep you indoors for a week to do all the mending you aye manage to shirk.’

  Rachel never minded these altercations between her grandparents, she knew well enough that Kate’s bark was worse than her bite. Rachel always got a warm welcome from the pair of them and, in their house more than anywhere else, she felt as if she had never been away from home and loved it when Kate smothered her in an apron, dumped a bag of flour on the table and told her to make pancakes. As a child, making pancakes and scones in Kate’s gloriously cluttered kitchen had been one of the highlights of her life and she remembered vividly the large table-top littered with bowls of eggs, luggies of milk, pats of butter and most of all, flour, flour, everywhere – on Rachel’s hands, her face, her apron; clouds of it dancing in the sunbeams spilling through the window; particles of it making the cat sneeze and fall off her chair; dustings of it covering Tam’s cap as he sat reading his paper, perfectly oblivious to everything but yesterday’s second-hand news. Then the delicious delight of tearing apart piping hot pancakes to sniff their steamy aroma and eat them running with butter and bramble jam. Neither of them had minded the mess she’d made, not like Annie who lived in a jumble but couldn’t be bothered showing her daughter how to bake because it would just make more mess.

  Rachel had good reason to love her grandparents, but lately she had neglected everyone in favour of her beloved stranger. Ruth, who had looked forward to a long summer spent in the company of her childhood companion, couldn’t hide her displeasure at being given the go-by, and the looks she cast at Rachel whenever they encountered one another in the village were anything but friendly.

  But Rachel could no more resist the pull of Tigh na Cladach than she could help breathing. She and Otto had spent some wonderful musical evenings together. She had taken along her treasured Cremonese violin and they had played piano and violin concertos and solo pieces, each of them in their turn sitting back by the fire to listen to the other.

  One evening they invited Lorn and Ruth to supper at the shorehouse and after an initial spell of awkwardness Ruth had soon bloomed under the soothing influence of music and song. Lorn was a fine musician in his own right, he could play any tune on his fiddle and it wasn’t long before feet were tapping as Scottish reels and strathspeys filled the room. Otto was a perfect host, mannerly and considerate, his strong personality and ability to converse on most subjects putting everyone at ease. When it was time to go home Ruth felt ashamed for thinking the things she had about Otto and Rachel and she didn’t even make comment when Lorn’s expression said ‘I told you so.’

  Otto had heard a lot about McKenzie o’ the Glen and, wishing to get to know him, had sent an invitation to Laigmhor. Fergus, feeling that he would come under the microscope, wasn’t so keen to accept but Kirsteen was curious to meet the man whose name was on everyone’s lips and coaxed and persuaded till he agreed to go, if only for the sake of peace. They were accompanied by Phebie and Lachlan and Mark and Megan, who were regular visitors at Tigh na Cladach. It wasn’t long before a full-blown ceilidh was in full swing in th
e shorehouse.

  It seemed music and rhythm were inherent in Scottish blood, and Otto was enchanted by the Gaelic songs from Lachlan and the amusing Glasgow ditties that Phebie and Mark sang, their heads close together as they gave it ‘laldy’, to quote Mark.

  Only Fergus refused to take part, his natural reserve making him seem dour and unyielding in the laughing company. He sat by the fire, fiddling with his pipe, wishing it was time to go home but knowing there was little hope of that when Kirsteen was so obviously enjoying herself.

  ‘You’re getting to be a bodach before your time,’ she hissed at him at one point. He glowered at her and dug a twist of wire deeper into the stem of his pipe, his mind more on the spring lambing than anything else.

  Rachel played a medley of tunes on her violin, followed by a haunting and evocative selection of Scottish ballads which seemed to bring the wind sighing into the room and evoked the wild beauty of lonely wide spaces. Her young face was pensive in the lamplight as she became lost in the music. She was wearing a simple white dress that enhanced the tanned skin of her smooth limbs and made her look more than ever a child of light and air and beauty.

  Otto watched her entranced, fascinated by her talent, by her dazzling appearance, but most of all by the impression she gave of a being as one with the earth and of the heavens at the same time. She was transcendent yet so vibrantly tangible it was taking all of his willpower to go on treating her as he sensed she wanted to be treated, as someone with the same interests, the same loves as himself, things to be enjoyed without emotional complications getting in the way. She was such a child in many ways but the woman in her couldn’t deny her outstanding desirability. Jon was a lucky man; he shouldn’t leave her alone for so long . . .

  The playing ended. He came back to reality with an effort and, remembering that he was host of the evening, he sat himself down at the piano and performed a solo recital of some of the best-loved composers. It was breathtaking, magnificent; the waves of glorious sound filled the room, effortless and compelling. It was as if he was on stage, giving of his best, his fingers flying over the keyboard without hesitation, his strong face set into lines of concentration as he immersed himself in his playing.

  The last notes echoed into an enchanted silence. Everyone was stunned with the magnificence of the performance. It seemed too trite to clap or make any of the usual sounds of appreciation.

  Lachlan shook his head as if to reluctantly clear it of the magic that had filled it for the last half-hour. ‘Herr Otto Klebb,’ he said softly, ‘who are you, man? You’re no ordinary pianist, that’s for certain. You belong on the concert platform – and don’t try to tell us otherwise . . .’

  Otto jumped up abruptly from his seat. ‘Doctor Lachlan, your estimation of me is too high, I have performed on stage, it is true, but not for a long time, no one remembers me now, it was all so long ago. Now, let us drink and be merry – the night, she is young. I have many stories to hear about the islands and I have all the ears for listening.’

  Kirsteen laughed. ‘You need the old ones for that: the seanachaidhs, Bob the Shepherd, Magnus of Croy, for instance. They’re becoming a dying breed but there are still a few of them left on Rhanna, thank goodness.’

  ‘Then we shall have them, we shall have everything that is Scottish and wonderful – but this night is for us and I wish not to waste another minute of it.’

  His exuberant personality was very catching and he seemed to fill the whole room with his tremendous vitality. He was attentive and kind and treated the womenfolk with the greatest respect and courtesy. Kirsteen, Megan and Phebie had had their hands kissed on arrival and they blossomed under his charm and his manners.

  Fergus had looked surprised when his wife’s hand had been seized and kissed. To himself he had thought the action foreign and showy but had to admit that the man was certainly as everyone said, a Presence with a capital P, and more of a mystery man than ever with his musical talents and his appreciation of all things Scottish. Fergus, never a man to feel at ease in social gatherings, applied a match to his pipe and wondered if Donald had checked the lambing fields before going home . . .

  ‘McKenzie of the Glen!’ Otto was standing there, two huge glasses of schnapps in his hand. ‘I have heard much said of you, many good things,’ he grinned, ‘others not so good, but we can, none of us, be perfect. It seems, however, there is one field in which you excel. Strong men like Herr Tam McKinnon and Herr Shod the Todd have the envy in their eyes when they speak of it: it seems, according to them, that you can drink every man on this island under the table and never be the worse for it yourself. With that in mind I make a challenge to you, drink with me the schnapps, let me discover for myself this wonderful constitution of an ox I have heard so much about.’

  ‘Havers, man,’ Fergus returned succinctly, ‘Tam and Todd aye did exaggerate. I am no better and no worse than them and fine they know it.’

  Otto’s eyes gleamed. He proffered one of the glasses. ‘Prove it.’

  Fergus caught Lachlan’s laughing eyes, he also saw the sympathy in Mark’s. Mark didn’t dare touch strong liquor – the events of last year had ensured that everyone had discovered the reasons for that – even so he knew how to enjoy himself, and all at once Fergus felt boorish and mean because he could take a good dram knowing that he would waken up next day without the ache of addiction gnawing at his innards.

  He looked at Otto. The man was laughing, his keen dark eyes were alive with challenge. Fergus took the offered drink. ‘Slàinte!’ he muttered and drank the liquid down in one gulp, never so much as one flicker of an eyelash showing that he thought the stuff terrible and nowhere near as good as a good whisky.

  Half an hour and two drams of schnapps later he was glowing from head to foot. His dark, handsome face was just a little flushed and he knew he was in perfect control of every one of his senses, therefore it came as a great shock to him to suddenly find himself singing, the notes soaring out clean and clear, as if from the throat of another being over which he had no control.

  The chatter in the room ceased, everyone stared, McKenzie o’ the Glen singing! Ay, and singing in a voice that was unexpectedly pure and tuneful, a soft, lilting tenor with a beauty of tone that was a delight to hear. The song he sang was ‘Vienna, City of my Dreams’, and every word, every intonation was perfect.

  A pin could have been heard to drop when he came to the last word, but no one was going to let go so easily: everyone took it up, and the haunting melody filled every space in the room:

  Farewell Vienna mine,

  I’m in the spell of your charms divine,

  Dressed like a queen with lights so gay,

  You are the love of my heart today . . .

  Rachel had never heard anything so moving. She hardly dared glance at Otto but couldn’t help herself. He sat in his chair, his head thrown back, his eyes black and stark with emotion, she caught her breath, something so poignant twisting in her heart she didn’t know she was crying till she tasted the salt tears on her lips . . .

  Farewell Vienna mine,

  Laughter and music and stars that shine,

  Wonderful city where I belong,

  To you I sing my song.

  The room was suddenly as silent as it had been when Fergus started to sing. A moist-eyed Otto threw his arm round Fergus’s shoulder. ‘My friend,’ he said huskily, ‘I take off to you my hat. That was wonderful, superb . . .’

  ‘Och, c’mon, man,’ Fergus was overcome with embarrassment at the other man’s flamboyancy, ‘there’s no need to go that far . . .’

  ‘But there is, there is need to go even further. You and I, McKenzie of the Glen, will have another little glass of schnapps, and then we will sing together the songs of Vienna made so famous by the unforgettable Richard Tauber, yes?’

  ‘No,’ Fergus said, but he did. He and Otto stood before the fire and they sang the remainder of the night away, much to the delight and amusement of the rest of the company who joined in when they kn
ew the tunes and kept respectfully quiet when they didn’t.

  When everyone eventually piled out of the shorehouse into a clear, stark, starry night, Otto was singing ‘I Belong to Glasgow’ in his cultured Austrian accent while Fergus, whose voice had noticeably degenerated in the last half-hour, was attempting a German drinking song.

  ‘My friend,’ Otto gave Fergus an affectionate hug, ‘we are both equally drunk and therefore we are both equally master drinkers. Next time I will drink with you the Scottish whisky but first, we must get you home in one piece. I have a feeling your legs won’t obey the commands of your head.’

  ‘Problem solved.’ Mark, who was the only entirely sober member of the company, took a hold of Fergus and propped him against the wall, where, with Kirsteen on one side of him and Otto on the other, he managed to remain standing while Mark’s long legs took him swiftly up the brae to the Manse. Ten minutes later he was back at the shorehouse with Thunder, into whose shabby, draughty interior Fergus was stuffed without ceremony to be driven home in anything but style.

  It was a laughing group who helped to extricate his rubbery limbed body from the car and then to carry him into Laigmhor. Once inside the door he threw everyone off and said with great dignity and in an unnaturally high-pitched voice, ‘I am per – per – perfectly capable of sheeing myshelf to bed, thank you and goodnight,’ only to collapse on the bottom step of the stairs with a loud hiccup.

  Kirsteen collapsed down beside him, giggling. ‘I have never, never seen him like this and he’ll certainly never live it down.’ She looked at him. His dark head was lolling on to his chest, one big, strong brown hand was hanging down limply at his side. With another hiccup he began to sing ‘Simple Little Melody’, and he was still singing when the others somehow got him upstairs between them and into bed where they took off his tie and his shoes before pulling the quilt over him.

  ‘He’ll have a beauty of a head come morning,’ Lachlan predicted with a grin. ‘One thing’s for certain, he’ll no’ forget the night that our Austrian friend challenged him to a schnapps-drinking contest.’