Stranger on Rhanna

by Christine Marion Fraser

  The sly humour of the remark wasn’t lost on Mary or Aggie, they stared at her appreciatively and as she departed the latter called, ‘We will be seeing you tonight then, Mistress Jodl.’

  ‘Please to call me Helga,’ Mamma requested with dignity and walked away, a spring in her step and a new look of happiness on her hitherto dour and unsmiling countenance.

  The change in Mamma became apparent the minute she stepped over the threshold of An Cala. She was humming a catchy little German tune under her breath as she unpacked her shopping bag and placed the things in the meat safe in the cool pantry by the back door. Without a single grumble she went out to the wee hoosie which had been the bane of her life since her arrival on Rhanna. For the first few days she hadn’t used it at all for ‘certain important functions’ with the result that she had ‘shat bricks for a week’, according to Rachel, and had eventually been forced to take the syrup of figs offered to her by her daughter-in-law who simply couldn’t keep the smiles from her face during the administration of the laxative.

  After that she used the wee hoosie under great sufferance, but use it she did, complaining all the while about the flies, the midgies, the earwigs, ‘the cows who look in the window and lick the panes’, the spiders, the cobwebs, in fact everything and anything she could think of to make life uncomfortable for those who had to live with her.

  Now, however, she said not a word regarding ‘the inconvenience’, as she had labelled the outside lavatory, instead, over the midday meal that Rachel had prepared, she regaled the young folk with her morning’s adventures, her eyes glinting when she told them about her encounter with Holy Smoke, her face lighting when she recalled her meeting with Aggie.

  ‘Tonight I go to play penuckle in her house, I meet the neighbours, I have the dram and the buttered bannocks that Aggie makes to soak up the whisky. I will not play for real money, only a bob or two to make the game exciting.’

  She was really only repeating the things that Aggie had said and she didn’t understand half of it but it sounded so funny to hear her talking about ‘drams’ and ‘bobs’ in her broken English that both her listeners thoroughly enjoyed her chatter.

  So taken was she with the unexpected turn of events she ate every scrap of her meal, even though it was an Italian dish which normally she purported to despise. She even thanked her daughter-in-law for making it before scraping back her chair to tackle the dishes with haste in order that she could go upstairs to look through her wardrobe for something to wear that night.

  When Rab duly arrived that evening in his tractor her enthusiasm paled a little, but he wasn’t a man to stand any nonsense from anybody and succinctly told her to ‘hop in’ since the engine was apt to cut out if it idled too long.

  Mamma, looking very spruce in her summer finery, climbed into the machine with some difficulty, but a helping pull from one of Rab’s brawny arms soon saw her settled beside him and away they went, bumping and lurching on the road to Portcull, she wordless for once, he naturally so since he was a man of few words who ‘couldny abide senseless chit-chat.’

  Rachel and Jon stood at the door of An Cala watching them go. Such a strong sense of relief invaded them both that they held one another’s hands till the tractor was out of sight, before wandering away down to the beach to walk by the sea, revelling in the freedom, delighting in the fact that, at long last, Mamma had found somewhere to go, something to do that she would enjoy, leaving them to pursue the simple joys that had always meant so much to them in leisure hours that were precious and necessary to them in the busy course of their lives.

  Part Three

  LATE SUMMER 1967

  Chapter Eighteen

  As the summer progressed the thing uppermost in most people’s minds was the imminence of the McKinnon Clan Gathering. A great feeling of anticipation was in the air as people began to make their preparations. The question of what to wear was no problem for the menfolk: Sunday best suits were always to hand, hanging in the wardrobe, carefully preserved in mothballs, ready just to be taken out, brushed down and perhaps given an airing on the wash line if the weather was dry. But for this occasion something rather more special was called for and all over the island, kilts of every conceivable tartan were brought out of wraps to be carefully inspected for wear and tear before being cleaned, mended, and generally made spick and span for the big day.

  It wasn’t so simple for the womenfolk, however. A bit of appropriate tartan was certainly called for, be it a ribbon, a sash or a brooch, but trimmings like these had to be fixed on to something decent – it wouldn’t do to don any old blouse or dress that had been worn dozens of times before – and soon the age-old cry went up, ‘I haveny anything to wear! I’m sick o’ looking at this old thing! I’ll have to get something new!’

  The bairns too had to be a credit to their parents at ‘Otto’s Ceilidh’ and so trips to Glasgow or Oban were much to the fore and parcels from mail order catalogues began arriving every other day.

  Erchy had seldom been so busy, he grumbled long and hard at all the extra work and for a time was forced to cut his bus schedule to just twice a week, which caused his regular passengers to grumble long and hard also.

  Old Magnus of Croy, normally calm and collected, became quite upset when he discovered that the moths had made merry with his kilt, which had been carefully wrapped in tissue and placed in a bride’s kist together with camphor-saturated wads and at least a dozen mothballs. But the old man had had little reason to wear Highland dress for at least ten years and somehow the moths and the grubs had invaded the kist. When he at last beheld the damage he shook his head sorrowfully and declared that he ‘couldny go to his grandson’s gathering looking like a second-hand tink!’

  News of his plight soon reached Otto’s ears and over to Croy he drove post-haste in Thunder to put his arm round his grandfather’s shoulders and say softly, ‘I am the only male McKinnon on this island with nothing appropriate to wear at my own clan gathering – and so – I make the trip to Glasgow to buy my first Highland dress. But I have no experience of such things, the help and advice I badly need, so how would it be if grandson and grandfather made the journey together? We will stay in the best hotel, we will paint the town red or purple or whatever colour you like, and while we are there you too can take the opportunity to buy the new kilt.’

  ‘Ach, it will just be a waste at my age,’ said Magnus gruffly, but his blue eyes were brilliant with excitement. He hadn’t been off the island for many years and had never expected to see bright city lights again. Secretly he was delighted and thought it would ‘make a wee change’, out loud he announced with great restraint, ‘You’re right, son, they’ll see you comin’ a mile away and try to take advantage o’ you. It might be wise for me to be there, just to make sure you get the right tartan and all the other bits and pieces to go wi’ it. But there is no need to bide in one o’ they posh hotels, they’re a bunch o’ robbers who are aye lookin’ for you to cross they’re palms wi’ sillar for doing jobs they’re paid to do. I have an old friend in Glasgow, he’ll put us up no bother, his wife’s a great cook and doesny talk too much, they’ll no’ be lookin’ for a penny piece between them, just a good bit dram and a blether in return for bed and board.’

  It was settled. Some days later Otto and his grandfather left the island, the old man resplendent in his best Sunday suit, trembling a little with excitement but conducting himself with great dignity and bearing.

  Otto had only been on Rhanna a few months but already he considered it home and felt strange to be leaving, if only for a short spell. He stood at the rails, a handsome figure in tweed jacket and light trousers, black hair and beard perfectly groomed, his magnetic dark eyes alight as he surveyed the hills and the glens he had come to love dearly.

  But he had lost weight in the last month, his face was thinner, his clothes loose where once they had fitted, perhaps a little too neatly, but as yet only Rachel knew how ill he was, no one else seemed to notice the change in him. On the fac
e of it he had kept up a good show of vitality and strength, and had become such a well-kent figure at functions of any sort that the islanders had come to expect Mac nan Èilean to be there amongst them.

  Only recently there had been a summer fête in the grounds of Burnbreddie in aid of the church fabric fund. Scott Balfour, the laird, had asked Otto to open it and this he had done willingly, even going to the lengths of requesting the use of Burnbreddie’s piano so that he and The Portcull Fiddlers could give a concert on the platform that had been erected inside the marquee.

  The people of Rhanna had come to love and respect him and many a hand was raised in farewell as he and Magnus sailed away from the island on the steamer.

  High on the cliffs above Mara Òran Bay, Rachel also watched the boat heading out towards the Sound, and a pain like a knife twisted in her heart. She didn’t know how much longer she could hold Otto’s tragic secret to herself. She had lost count of the times she had been on the point of sharing the burden with Jon but each time she had held herself back and taken herself off on one of her solitary walks, so many emotions boiling in her breast she thought she would explode with the hurt of them.

  She wished things were as they had been at the start of spring when all the world seemed light and bright and she had looked forward so eagerly to a long, carefree summer on Rhanna. She had been relaxed and happy then, there had been no worries, just herself and the days: the dawns and the gloamings, filled with peace and gladness. She alone had known the seas and the skies, clean and clear, wide and bright, created for her pleasure as she wandered free and at will over empty places that demanded nothing but instilled quiet joy and deep appreciation for everything that was good in life.

  Jon’s coming had brought a mixture of feelings: she wanted so much to enjoy the island with him but Mamma’s presence had overshadowed their happiness till now there was a barrier between them that somehow couldn’t be surmounted. Yet she was wise enough to know that it wasn’t all Mamma’s fault. The knowledge of Otto’s illness had been a traumatic blow for her, the world seemed to have ended that night he had taken her into his confidence. He had become very special to her, there existed between them an attraction that was more than just physical, a unique perception of one another’s feelings that went far beyond anything that she had ever experienced before. She was aware of Jon’s jealousy and she understood it even while it was beyond her to stay away from Otto. He needed her so badly in his lonely fight against an illness that was sapping his strength more and more as the days went by – and she needed him, she couldn’t deny it, he was like a magnet, drawing her to him, making everything and everyone else seem mundane and dull in comparison.

  As she stood there she remembered the shared joys they had experienced that summer: there had been some wonderful times in old Magnus’s cottage with the three of them enjoying their own impromptu little concerts; once they had walked over to the tinks’ camp at Dunuaigh where they were invited to sing round the camp fire in the gloaming – to drink smoke-flavoured tea and eat farls of oatcake straight off the girdle, piping hot and dripping with butter.

  But best of all was the day she had spent at Burg Bay with both Jon and Otto. She had taken each of them by the hand and they had run barefoot into the sea where they had paddled in the shallows, splashing one another, laughing and playing like children, never wanting any of it to end. Later, with their shoes strung round their necks, they had walked along the beach before collapsing in the sand to rest. Jon had lain on his back, watching the fluffy clouds floating by; she and Otto had glanced at one another, their eyes meeting and holding, dark with the knowledge that moments like these were very precious to them and would get fewer and fewer as time went by. He had quickly learned the sign language so that now they could commune easily with one another and convey the things that were in their hearts.

  They didn’t know that Jon saw the way they looked at each other or that the jealousy in his heart was growing blacker and stronger with every passing day.

  The boat had all but disappeared on the horizon, she sighed and she was glad, glad that she too was leaving the island for a time: too much had happened in just a few short months, she had to stand back from it, get it all into perspective. It wasn’t just Otto and Jon, it was herself, she needed time to think, to look into her heart and her mind. She had to belong to herself again, for something so earthshattering was happening to her she couldn’t really believe it herself yet. She had lain at night thinking about it, wondering if it could really be true: it seemed so impossible yet there was every reason for her to hope and pray and dream. But then came sleep and the dawn and the start of another day with people and emotions claiming too much of her attention.

  For some time now, Jon had been growing anxious about the amount of time she was spending out of the public eye: at this stage in her career she needed to stay in the limelight, he told her, and it would be a good idea for her to take advantage of her time in Scotland. He had lined up a concert in the Usher Hall in Edinburgh, recordings at the BBC studios in Glasgow, and, if she agreed, he could arrange for her to appear in other cities throughout the country and still be back on Rhanna at the end of a fortnight.

  At first she had fiercely resisted the suggestions. Jon had kindly but firmly tried to persuade her into accepting but she hadn’t listened, she hadn’t wanted to listen, instead she had stayed away from the house as much as possible and had refused to even look at her violin. But as time wore on she knew she was wrong and he was right and for the past week she had been practising morning, noon, and night and was now ready to leave.

  She would be back in time for Otto’s Ceilidh – nothing or no one was going to make her miss that – and with a resolute toss of her head she went indoors and began to look out the things she would need for her trip.

  Mamma wouldn’t be accompanying them, she seemed more than willing to stay at An Cala on her own: she had made friends on the island, she had had some wonderful times at Aggie’s house and Rab McKinnon was going to show her the island – not in his tractor, she only suffered that if it was completely necessary – no, definitely not the tractor. Rab was going to borrow his uncle’s car, true it had lain rusting at the back of the byre for ‘a good wee whilie’, Rab had explained tongue in cheek, but with a bit of luck, some second-hand tyres, a squirt or two of oil, a bit of elbow grease, it would be as good as new in no time.

  Mamma didn’t question any of that, perhaps she didn’t want to, Rab’s word was good enough for her: he was to be trusted, he always meant what he said, he was dependable, strong, and reliable – and even if the car wasn’t, it was a much safer bet than the tractor, and it was bound to look better than any tractor any day.

  Wullie McKinnon awoke from a deep sleep, the morning was bright and early – too bright and early, the hands of the clock were at four a.m. Outside the window the pearly sky was rosily flushed; the hill peaks wore lacy caps of mist; on the green lower slopes the sheep and cows still lay in sleepy repose; not a wisp of smoke came from the scattering of little white cottages; shades covered the windows like secretive eyelids; not a soul was about, it was that special time of day when the land breathed quietly and gently and gave off an air of belonging only to nature.

  At least it would have been quiet and gentle if it hadn’t been for Dodie’s cockerels, trumpeting away as loud as they could, so effectively drowning out a melodic dawn chorus that even the very birds gave up the effort and huddled themselves sulkily into their feathers.

  Wullie sat up in bed and nearly wept. He had bags under his eyes from lack of sleep, his face was haggard and drawn. ‘That’s it!’ he exploded, his nose frothing with rage. ‘I’m going to do something about these bloody cockerels – this very day!’

  Main stirred and grunted and opened one sleepy eye. Since childhood she had been deaf in one ear and though it was certainly a great inconvenience there were times when it was a blessing in disguise and especially so since Dodie and his cockerels had come to live in the ad
joining croft. All she had to do was bury her good ear into the pillow and she became oblivious to all unwanted noise, she was therefore not as sympathetic as she might have been to her husband’s woes, except in the daytime when the cockerels’ continual vying for supremacy got on her own nerves and she might gladly have brained Dodie if she had been that sort of person.

  But she was a gentle, tolerant soul in the extreme and had always concerned herself with the old eccentric’s welfare. The summer days had passed, Wullie had fretted and fumed but had never carried out his grim threats against the nuisances; this morning, however, there was something in his tone that warned her he meant business and she too sat up, her hair standing in spikes, her newly wakened eyes slowly emerging from sleep and dreams till gradually the rather vacant brown depths betrayed a vapid sort of anxiety.

  ‘Ach, Wullie,’ she clucked, in a voice to suit the occasion, ‘you’ll no’ go and do anything foolish, I hope. These birds mean a lot to auld Dodie and you know what he’s like if he gets upset.’

  But her husband was beyond all reasoning. ‘Upset! After I’ve killed his chickens I’ll thraw his bloody neck while I’m about it! I’ve tholed him and his pests till I canny take any more and you can talk yourself blue in the face about him and his worries for all the good it will do any o’ you.’

  For answer Mairi threw back the covers and hopped out of bed. ‘Och, calm yourself,’ she said soothingly. ‘I’ll make us both a nice cuppy and we can drink it in bed while we talk this over like two sensible people.’

  Main’s answer to all seemingly insuperable problems was ‘a nice cuppy’, but it didn’t work on this particular morning. As soon as the world was up and doing Wullie was up and doing also, seeking out Robbie Beag who, as one-time gamekeeper of Burnbreddie, must surely know all there was to know about fowl of any sort.