Stranger on Rhanna

by Christine Marion Fraser

  Robbie took off his cap and scratched his head whilst listening to Wullie’s outpourings of troubles. He knew for a fact that Ranald and some of the other men had put forward one or two useless suggestions for dealing with the cockerels and Robbie was slightly annoyed that Wullie hadn’t come to him sooner since he was obviously the man for the job. But Barra had warned him to bide his time and as he had never been one to push himself forward, he had waited patiently for his font of knowledge to be tapped.

  And now here was Wullie, almost foaming at the mouth as he described his feelings, ending in a breathless rush, ‘I’ll make it worth your while, Robbie, it won’t be much but enough to buy you a good dram or two.’

  Robbie affected to think the matter over carefully. He hummed and he hawed and generally delayed his answer, then, when Wullie was almost at bursting point, he said with a nonchalant air, ‘I’ll no’ deny you have a problem there, Wullie, and though I say it myself I’m the man you’re lookin’ for. But there are one or two wee risks attached and I’ll be lookin’ for more than just a couple o’ drams – a bottle o’ best malt would go down much better and would make it worth my while.’

  Wullie pondered for only a moment before nodding so eagerly the latest drip flew off the end of his nose. ‘Right, a bottle it is, where, when, and how?’

  ‘Well, when I worked to Burnbreddie and we wanted to catch the young pheasants we used to put a wee drop o’ whisky in a peck or two o’ meal; before we knew it they were as meek as lambs and just askin’ for us to pick them up and do what we liked wi’ them.’

  To Wullie this was a terrible waste of good whisky but he was ready to try anything and nodded his agreement.

  ‘We canny do it during the day when Dodie is about,’ Robbie went on, his genial face growing pink at the thought of the adventure ahead, ‘and it’s no use at night when the birds have gone to roost and wouldny come down even to eat their grannie.’

  Wullie couldn’t see the relevance of that but made no comment as the plan unfolded.

  ‘Morning is the best time,’ Robbie decided. ‘Before anybody is up and about, including the chickens, we have to be there to make sure the cockerels get to the meal first, and as it’s light so early we’d best just spend the night in the hen hoosie, it’s a good big shed and we’ll be comfortable enough wi’ just a couple o’ blankets and a tot or two out o’ my bottle.’

  ‘But I had thought to give you that when it was all over,’ objected Wullie.

  ‘Na, na, taste and try before you buy, my father aye told us that and I have never forgotten the sense o’ his words.’

  Wullie agreed grudgingly, final arrangements were made and both men went home to tell their respective wives of their plans. Main thought of ‘poor auld Dodie’ and called on the Lord ‘to spare him’; Barra told Robbie he was going soft in the head in his dotage but went to the linen kist to look out some blankets and then to the dresser to seek out a pair of his thickest winter socks.

  Early next morning the sun rose on a sleeping land. All was as it had been at the same time on the previous day, with one difference – there was no raucous crowing from Croft Beag to break the golden silence. Only the sounds of the summer countryside could be heard: the burns tumbled down from the hills; corncrakes rustled the grasses; a curlew bubbled out its liquid song on the shore; the sea lapped the silvered sands; peesies ran with their chicks; gulls rode the silken air currents; small birds spilled out their tiny hearts in triumphant praise of the new day. It was perfection, it was bliss.

  If Wullie had been safely tucked up in his snug bed he might have been more able to appreciate all of these things, as it was both he and Robbie had spent an extremely uncomfortable and smelly night. The odour of hen’s droppings was anything but conducive to sweet dreams and the wooden floor seemed to produce ever more splinters as the night wore on. Despite the blankets, it was cold, draughty and hard, and at two of the clock Robbie had suggested that a swig from the whisky bottle might serve to make the situation more bearable, though ‘only a wee one’, since he had to be awake to make sure the cockerels availed themselves of the doctored meal.

  On first entering the shed, Wullie had been keen to simply grab the cocks and throttle them there and then but, as Robbie had pointed out, there was the pecking order to consider. The biggest and most royal of the birds was right at the top, as befitted a king of his size and status, the other five were on different rungs of the ladder, so to speak, and to try and catch them all at the one time would have created a hell’s own din and would undoubtedly have brought Dodie running helter-skelter to see what all the fuss was about.

  ‘You would just waken the whole neighbourhood,’ Robbie insisted. ‘Far better to do it my way, I know what I’m talkin’ about. If you’re so smart why did you no’ just do the job yourself and save me havin’ to bide in this shitty shed when I could be home in my own bed wi’ my feets on Barra’s nice warm bum.’

  Wullie was mad at himself for upsetting Robbie’s placid temperament. He gave in, and producing the bottle of best malt he passed it to Robbie for the first swig and waited politely for his turn.

  That had been more than three hours ago. Now the first faint fingers of sunlight probed gently but insistently through the cobwebby window pane. They found the spiders and sent them running into their corners, they caressed a heap of crumpled blankets on the floor and slowly crept up to touch two faces, one round, smiling and absolutely dead to the world, the other thinner, younger but equally serene, as its owner wallowed in the best sleep he had enjoyed for weeks.

  The relentless light explored further; it found an empty whisky bottle clasped lovingly to Robbie’s quietly heaving bosom, the glass winking and gleaming with every tranquil breath he took.

  Otherwise the shed was empty of life: the cockerels and their harems had risen at first light, delighted to find breakfast served so early in the day. The tempting bowls of meal didn’t last long, the potion was gobbled up in no time at all and out into the morning tripped the hens.

  Now they were staggering about in the yard in varying stages of inebriation: some so drunk they had fallen on to their backs and there they lay, bellies to the wind, their funny big chicken feet stiffly saluting the heavens; others were just wandering about aimlessly, tripping themselves up, so that every so often one would take a nose dive into a grassy mound where it remained, impaled on its own beak.

  As for the cockerels, they were a sorry sight: no more did their bright red combs waggle proudly, instead they flopped miserably, along with everything else that they normally carried upright. True, King Cock did make an attempt to find his voice, he arched his throat, stuck his beak in the air and opened his lungs, but only a strangulated hiccupping sound emerged. Thus discouraged, he settled himself moodily into his feathers, lifted one leg and promptly fell over.

  Luckily for Wullie and Robbie there weren’t many people abroad at that time of the day, only Canty Tam stood at the gate, staring with all his lop-sided might at the hilarious scene, his vacant eyes wide and wondering but unable to relay any message to his brain that made sense.

  He leered, of course – Canty Tam always leered, no matter the occasion – then with a sense of importance almost choking him he ran to knock up Dodie. While he waited for signs of life he stood back from the door, looked up at the window and yelled on the old man to hurry up as all his hens were dead or dying.

  His loud, excitable voice filtered into the hen hoosie. Robbie was the first to stir, grudgingly he emerged from what had been a very satisfying dream in which he had been chasing Aggie McKinnon through the heather, brandishing a hat made out of King Cock’s tail feathers. Aggie had been stark naked, her girth had slowed her down, and it had been an easy enough matter for Robbie to catch her and present her with the hat. Smiling at him coyly, she had placed the hat on her head and had stood there, looking at him invitingly, wearing nothing but the hat and her birthday suit. Robbie had been on the point of collecting his reward when he was rudely roused, and h
e had to sit very still for a moment while he gathered his senses together.

  Wullie’s sleep had been deep and dreamless, all he wanted was to remain in that state forever but some bugger was kicking up a terrible racket outside his window . . . those bloody cockerels were still at it . . . He awoke with a start, his heart thumping, surprised to find that he wasn’t in his own bed with Mairi warm and sleepy beside him.

  In some alarm he gazed dazedly around him. Awareness hit him like a blow, he looked at Robbie, Robbie looked at him, as one they scrambled to their feet and went racing outside, just in time to see Dodie and Canty Tam bearing down on them, their clumsy feet carrying them swiftly to the scene of drunken debauchery.

  ‘My hens! My bonny bairnies!’ The tears immediately coursed down Dodie’s wizened cheeks as he beheld the scene before him. ‘What have you done wi’ them, Wullie McKinnon?’ he cried, dropping on to his knees to take King Cock to his breast and rock him back and forward as if he was a baby.

  ‘Ach, come on now, man.’ Robbie tried to sound reassuring even though he was as surprised as Dodie by the sight of the inebriated poultry. ‘We haveny done them any harm, they’re no’ dead – just – er – a wee bittie drunk.’

  ‘Drunk!’ Dodie’s nose frothed as profusely as Wullie’s who, standing in the full glare of morning light was a sorry sight to behold with his hair standing on end and ‘the snotters blinding him’, according to the nature of his affliction.

  ‘Drunk!’ Dodie repeated. ‘How can my bonny hens be drunk, they have never touched a drop o’ the de’il’s brew in the whole o’ their lives?’

  Robbie tried to pour oil on troubled waters, but it was no use, Dodie was so enraged he threatened to call in the police and both Wullie and Robbie gulped.

  In the old days the law had been ‘Big Gregor’ who had spent his visits ceilidhing at relatives’ houses and generally catching up on island news; now there was Clodhopper, named so because of his enormous size fourteen shoes and his peculiar habit of standing first on one foot and then on the other.

  But there was more to Clodhopper than just big feet. His visits always held an element of surprise because there was never any warning as to when he might appear, he positively revelled in his position of power and thoroughly enjoyed snooping about at all hours of the day and night.

  He took a special delight in hiding behind rocks and bushes and pouncing on people if he suspected them of wrongdoing. But his pièce de résistance was to lurk on the shore near the hotel, waiting for closing time and the revellers to emerge and drive off in their various modes of transport. Once he had booked Donald Ban for speeding through Portcull in his tractor, though Donald swore blind he had been going so slow he would have been faster getting out and walking.

  Rhanna had been shocked to the core, for Donald hadn’t even been drunk at the time, and folk told one another that things were getting so bad with Clodhopper he would be accusing them next of speeding on their bicycles.

  Fortunately he only ever showed up about twice a year. Nevertheless, Dodie’s threats were rather worrying for Robbie and Wullie, each of whom had given Clodhopper reason for suspicion on more than one occasion: Robbie for poaching, Wullie for driving his father’s builder’s van without a licence.

  ‘Och, Dodie, you’ll no’ do that,’ said Wullie, who was looking quite pale. ‘You and me have been friends for a long time, you wouldny go and betray a man who has never grudged you a helping hand in the whole o’ his life.’

  ‘You’re no’ my friend anymore,’ Dodie said with a watery sniff. ‘All you ever do is shout and swear at me and I’m that feart o’ you I wish I was back in my own house up on the hill. I could do what I liked there and no one was any the wiser.’

  ‘Ach, the Hellish Hags o’ the Hill would have got you in the end,’ Canty Tam said with conviction. ‘I’ve seen them up there, black spooks wi’ bat’s wings and awful evil faces on them. They have hideous voices too, screechin’ and cacklin’ and flappin’ about, just waitin’ to pounce on anyone who goes near their lair. My mither warned me never to go on that hill on my own for fear one would catch me and carry me away forever.’

  His predictions of doom and gloom had an immediate effect on Dodie, he forgot all about the police and burst into tears instead, which gave the two mischief-makers the chance they needed. Each putting an arm around Dodie’s shuddering shoulders they led him away into the house to ply him with tea and sympathy, leaving Canty Tam to rush away and tell his tale, suitably embroidered, to anyone who would listen.

  In days to come neither Robbie nor Wullie would be allowed to forget the episode of the drunken chickens, though for the moment that was the least of their worries. More immediate were their efforts to console Dodie and try to dissuade him from drastic action, which was rather difficult under the circumstances. The hens went off laying for a week and the cockerels didn’t crow for at least two days, though on the afternoon of the third the familiar cacophony once more blasted forth.

  Wullie’s troubles had begun all over again, but help came to him from a most unexpected quarter.

  One morning, on answering an abrupt knock at his door, he stared with surprise at a young man standing on the threshold. He was tall and lanky, his smooth skin sported a stubbly growth that was at least a week old, dangling from one ear was an ornament that resembled a curtain ring, and his greasy fair hair was tied back and held in place with an elastic band.

  He introduced himself as Andy from Ayrshire, told Wullie he knew all about his problems with the cockerels and that he could have them crated and ready to leave on the afternoon boat.

  ‘I’ll tell the old man that my pal’s a cockerel fancier,’ he explained, rubbing his nose with a nicotine-stained finger. ‘I’ll gie him the patter, butter up his birds, offer him a price, and before you can say cock-a-doodle-doo, they’ll be mine. Of course,’ he went on glibly, ‘it will cost ye. I’ll have to pay the old geezer and I’ll need something for my trouble. Thirty pounds and the job’s done, half for me, the rest for him.’

  Wullie nearly had a fit. Thirty pounds! It was too much! First a bottle of best malt for that useless gowk Robbie, now this queer-looking young fart with his hawk-like face and his earring.

  Wullie withdrew into the house for a quick confab with Mairi who had been watching proceedings from the window.

  ‘He’ll be one o’ they flower people they have over on the mainland,’ she hazarded. ‘They go about looking like that.’

  ‘Either that or a hippie,’ said Wullie, who wasn’t too sure of what was in vogue at the moment and didn’t much care. He was only too eager to see the back of the cockerels, but the thought of parting with all that money made him hesitate.

  ‘Ach, it’s worth it.’ Mairi made up his mind for him. ‘I have a wee bit money put by and everyone wants their hair done for Otto’s Ceilidh so I’ll soon make up the loss. You’re my man after all and I canny have you going off your head for the sake o’ a few pounds.’

  To her surprise, Wullie kissed her soundly on the nose before rushing outside to tell Andy from Ayrshire he had a deal and the sooner the job was done the better.

  True to his word, that very afternoon, the young man presented himself at Wullie’s door complete with the birds that were confined in two ancient peat creels. ‘I let the old man keep one,’ Andy explained, ‘he insisted on that.’

  ‘One is better than six, Wullie,’ said Mairi soothingly. ‘And you’ll hardly ever know it’s there since they only crow if there are others to compete with.’

  Wullie saw the reasoning in that. He handed over the thirty pounds, the young man thanked him politely, shouldered the creels and went on his way. Wullie watched till he was out of sight before letting out a great whoop of joy, then, before Mairi knew what was happening, he had swung her into his arms to carry her up to the bedroom for ‘a bit o’ a cuddle by way o’ celebration’.

  Ranald looked fondly at the five pound note nestling in the palm of his hand. ‘Everything went according
to plan then,’ he stated glibly. ‘I told you it would work, son.’ He grinned, gazing fondly into Andy from Ayrshire’s grubby face, delighted to think that he was the instigator of such a successful ruse. ‘Fifteen pounds wasny much to ask for peace o’ mind. And Dodie would be pleased to get a fiver for his cockerels, especially if he thought they were going somewhere they would be admired and cared for.’

  ‘Oh ay, by the time I had filled his lugs wi’ praise he would have given me the bloody birds for nothing and I would have got away wi’ it.’

  And that was exactly what had happened. No one ever knew what really transpired between Dodie and Andy from Ayrshire, but, on the strength of a promise from the young stranger, Dodie had gladly parted with his cockerels, receiving not a penny piece in return.

  Andy had piled on the compliments. ‘These birds are a credit to you. They’ll have to prove their worth, of course, that’s why I canny give you more than my word at the moment, but I know my pal will be that pleased wi’ them he’ll want more o’ the same, so you keep the big one to carry on the line and I’ll be back next year wi’ cash in my hand.’

  Dodie, beaming from ear to ear, felt that it had been an honour to do business with Andy from Ayrshire – and King Cock was staying, he would do his work well, he was forever treading the hens and was father to more clutches of chickens than Dodie could count.

  Andy from Ayrshire hoisted his rucksack on to his shoulders and stuck out his hand. ‘Thanks for the bed, Ranald, I’ve fair enjoyed my few days on Rhanna. I’ll look you up next time I’m on the island’ – he winked – ‘by that time Dodie’s cockerel will have got to work and Wullie will be only too pleased to stump up peace money.’

  Ranald, feeling right pleased with himself, pumped the young man’s hand and told him there was always a bed waiting for him. ‘Though mind,’ he added pleasantly, ‘prices are aye going up and it might cost you a wee bit more to bide in my house next time.’

  Andy merely grinned and walked away down to the harbour to check that the cockerels were all right before sitting himself down on a bollard to count his money. Twenty-five pounds, not bad for a day’s work, the arrangement had been fifteen pounds to be split three ways – that poor bugger, Wullie, would be too embarrassed ever to admit to anyone that he had parted with thirty pounds to get rid of the cockerels, and the poor old boy with the funny smell had promised never to tell a soul of the deal he’d struck with a summer visitor.