As soon as he brought his motor to a halt outside the hall he extricated his bagpipes from the back seat and went rushing away, in his hurry forgetting his manners so that his two very important passengers had to make their own way out of the Rolls and forward into glory.
Todd, breathless after his rush, hoisted his pipes to his chest, raised the chanter to his lips and waited for the appropriate moment, glad of a respite that he might fill his lungs with air before filling his bagpipes with the air from his lungs.
On the other side of the door, Torquil Andrew McGregor, gold medallist at Highland Games, big-muscled, ruggedly handsome in the McGregor tartan, having tuned his pipes in readiness, now waited impatiently to get started.
Magnus and Otto approached, Todd and Torquil looked at one another, nodded and struck up at the same moment. At first the drones were all that could be heard, then the opening tune came, skirling and spilling forth, and to the stirring blast of ‘Highland Laddie’, Magnus and Otto were piped into the hall in style.
As one, the packed hall turned to stare, murmur and admire, for Otto had spared nothing when he had gone to Glasgow to purchase his very first Highland dress. He had the build, the bearing and the dignity for such garb, and, more importantly, he had the right to wear it. His McKinnon tartan kilt was of the very best quality, his white evening shirt sparkled against his black Argyll jacket with its triangular silver buttons, the amber Cairngorm stone in his sgian-dhu shone and winked in its silver setting, his silver kilt and tie pins bore the McKinnon crest and altogether he was a splendidly proud figure.
Beside him, Magnus of Croy, his devoted grandfather, was also an eye-catching sight. Otto had treated him to an entire new rigout, his blue eyes were snapping with excitement in his lively brown face, his head was held high, his back ramrod straight and, for a man of his years, he was altogether a credit to himself and his clan.
A burst of applause broke out. Otto acknowledged it with shining eyes, his heart brimming over with emotion in this, the proudest moment of his life.
The islanders had made a fine job of the hall: balloons and streamers hung from the rafters and walls, and strung across the ceiling was a huge tartan banner bearing the message: ‘Ceud Mile a’Fàilte, Mac nan Èilean’, meaning, ‘A Hundred Thousand Welcomes, Son of The Island’.
Scott Balfour, the laird, came over to personally shake Otto by the hand and fifteen minutes later, when all the noise and fuss had settled down, Scott climbed up on the platform to officially welcome this notable McKinnon to the island, going on to say a few appropriate words before beckoning Otto to come up and join him.
He stood beside the laird and looked down with affection at the faces he had come to know so well these last few months. They had made him feel welcome and wanted, they had befriended him and had very quickly made him feel as if he had belonged here on Rhanna all of his life, and something sore and sad tightened his throat in the knowing that the years were rapidly coming to an end for him and that too soon he must relinquish this land and these people that he loved so well.
The ache inside him misted his eyes and hushed his voice when he thanked the laird and looked straight at the gathering to say simply, ‘All of my life I have waited for this moment, all of my boytime in Austria, I listen to my grandmother’s voice telling to me the tales of her Hebridean childhood and of all the places she loved and never forgot to her dying day. Through her words I have seen the skies and the seas, I have walked on the moors and beside the ocean, I have heard the birds and listened to the beat of the waves breaking on the shore, the scents of the wildflowers were the perfumes I smelt in my dreams, and I hugged it all to myself and could never get enough of her memories.
‘But the best was yet to come – the chance to see and hear all of these things for myself – and in my wildest dreams I could never have imagined the reality to be so breathtaking. I came here as a stranger, but when the time comes for me to go I know I will leave with the knowledge that I didn’t just find friends on my island of dreams, I found my family as well and discovered for myself the true meaning and the joy of having kin I could call my own.’
He gazed at his grandfather down there at the edge of the crowd. He extended his hand. Magnus went up to him, grandfather and grandson looked at one another for a long time before they shook hands and embraced, Magnus a bit red in the face, Otto delighted and obviously enjoying every second.
‘Ach my, are they no’ lovely just?’ Kate furtively searched for her hanky and blew her nose hard. ‘Tis proud I am to be kin to such a bonny man as Otto, he has such a fine way o’ putting himself over and of course, I was the first person on the island to hear about his grandmother and to find out who he was.’
But Kate did not know everything about Otto, as the next few minutes proved. While he was up on the platform Mamma had been watching him with a puzzled frown on her features, it was the first chance she had had to see Otto face to face and she stared at him intently. Her frown cleared and she cried out in a voice that everyone could hear, ‘Karl Gustav Langer! The famous pianist! Oh, I have heard your music many times, I attend a concert of yours when you come to Germany, and also in Vienna when I stay with Jon in Austria.’
It was the moment Rachel had dreaded, all along she had known it would happen sometime and in some way, but not like this, in front of everybody, all eyes staring, all heads turning. Frantically she signalled for Jon to do something to shut his mother’s mouth but he showed no inclination to do anything that might help a situation which was now beyond saving anyway.
Barra, who had kept Otto’s secret well, glared at Mamma and rudely told her to hold her tongue, while Magnus, who had found out his grandson’s true identity while they were in Glasgow, was furious with the big loud woman whom he had first encountered at Croy Beag not so very long ago. His recollections of her were anything but fond and he came sprachling down from the platform to take her arm and give her a piece of his mind.
Everyone was looking at everyone else. Word was passed from McKinnon to McKinnon that Herr Otto Klebb wasn’t just a long-lost clansman, he was also one of the most renowned pianists in Europe. Many of them had listened to him on the radio, and though none of them had ever seen him, his name was familiar and one to be held in respect. Now there was an explanation for those glorious waves of melody pouring from the shorehouse, and the reason for the beautiful piano being shipped over specially was all at once clear.
Tam and his cronies eyed one another as they remembered that day of sweating and groaning in their efforts to get the Bechstein in through the doors of Tigh na Cladach. Yesterday had seen a repeat of that performance, only this time it was from Tigh na Cladach to the hall as Otto had insisted on having his own piano at the concert. And no one could blame him there, since the hall’s ancient old ‘wheezebox’ had seen better days and those very decidedly in the dim and distant past.
The men also remembered the ‘affair o’ the Oxo cubes’ and the impromptu ceilidh that had followed, with the spirits flowing like water and Otto there at his piano, laughing, joining in the fun, allowing his mask of dourness to slip and letting the warm, generous man to shine through.
‘And to think,’ Tam whispered breathily in Kate’s ear, ‘he is one o’ us, a McKinnon, the very finest you could get. My, I’m that proud I could burst.’
‘Ay, well don’t do it here,’ returned Kate dryly. ‘You would flood the place wi’ all that beer you’ve been drinking and you wi’ your reputation to uphold as a first-rate McKinnon.’
Lachlan climbed on to the platform and said a few words in Otto’s ear, the next minute he held up his hand and demanded everyone’s attention.
The islanders had always listened to him and they listened now. He asked them not to let Otto’s identity be known outside of Rhanna. The man was here to have a rest, he told them, the last thing he wanted was for the media to find out where he was, if they did it would be exit Otto, and who among them wanted that on their conscience?
No one,
it seemed, was keen for that to happen. A ripple of consternation ran round the room at the very idea, heads nodded, rapid exchanges took place.
Herr Tam, electing himself as spokesman, held up his hand and shouted, ‘You can rely on us, we’ll no’ be telling a soul – and if we hear o’ anybody breathing a word you can bet your boots it will be their last.’
Lachlan grinned. ‘I hope there will never be any need to go that far. I trust you all, as for Otto, he wants you all to treat him as you’ve always done, without undue deference or difference – and while he is with us he is Otto, just that, Karl Langer belongs to the world – Otto belongs to us, and while he doesn’t want any favours from us, I for one am honoured to have him here on Rhanna and will personally make certain that his stay here will be one that he will remember for the rest o’ his days.’
A cheer went up, someone shouted ‘Mac nan Èilean’, and before long the affectionate nickname was ringing from the rafters. Otto acknowledged the show of strength with a triumphant fist raised in the air. Lachlan lifted up his own hand and called for ‘the show to go on’, which had the effect of bringing the gathering down to earth and getting on with the business in hand.
From that night on, the islanders closed ranks. They could be a tight-lipped lot when they liked and vowed to one another that nosy visitors would get nothing out of them, if anyone ever asked about the foreign gentleman they would receive nothing except polite but evasive answers in Gaelic, which was usually a very effective way of dealing with questions that no one wanted to answer.
But for now, it was ‘on with the show’, which was more in the nature of a dance-cum-ceilidh-cum-concert. The chairs had been cleared to one side of the hall and during the first part of the evening The Portcull Fiddlers, in the shape of Rachel, Lorn and Jon, took the platform to provide music that soon had everyone itching to take to the floor. Torquil and Todd played rousing tunes on the pipes; Magnus gave a stirring solo on his kettle drums and later took up his accordion to provide a medley of feet-tapping airs.
Wild skirls and hoochs rent the air, becoming more pronounced as the evening wore on, with the merrymakers taking full advantage of the bar that had been set up in a curtained-off section of the room.
Fergus and Otto drank glass for glass of whisky till before very long the rest of the menfolk realized that they were witnessing a contest of stamina in the drinking field and, in their enthusiastic way, boosted proceedings by holding their own little ‘may the best man win’ sessions.
Mamma watched all of this with mounting concern. ‘This you call culture?’ she complained to Rab who, in his quiet way, was thoroughly enjoying himself. ‘Myself, I call it barbaric: the dancing, it is wild, the music is designed to fill the head with primitive behaviour and bring out a madness that is frightening. But, of course’ – she sniffed disdainfully – ‘they have never known anything else, they are not people of the world.’
Rab’s eyes were calm enough when he looked at her but there was a warning glint in them that promised greater things to come. ‘And just what is your concept of worldly people, Mistress Jodl? Your own daughter-in-law is a world famous violinist yet she knows how to let her hair down when the opportunity presents itself.’
‘Rachel! We cannot count Rachel, she was born and brought up in this place, the madness was in her right from the start and will always be there, no matter how far in the world she travels.’
‘Of course we can count Rachel, and Ruth McKenzie too, she has made her mark in the literary world. Both lassies are a credit to the island, and look at these other youngsters, many o’ them attend college in Glasgow, they are educated and they are clever and, of course – they have the good manners on them that makes certain they never deliberately demean other folk.’
Mamma chose to ignore that point. ‘Pah! Glasgow! What is Glasgow? It is not the world. If they came to Germany they would know the meaning of culture. In Hamburg—’
‘Hamburg?’ Rab interrupted, pronouncing it in such a way as to make it sound like ‘Humbug’. ‘And where in the world is that, I’d like to know?’
‘If you do not know where Hamburg is then you too are lacking in the worldliness.’
Rab shook his head, his eyes were now icy cold. In his soft, slow voice he drawled, ‘We have a saying here on Rhanna: “You haveny lived till you’ve been to Glasgow and you haveny been born till you visit the Hebrides.” Cities like Hamburg are ten a penny; give me Glasgow or Edinburgh any time, because you see, Mistress Jodl, the people in them are human beings who are known and respected the world over.’
At that Mamma proceeded to have a fit of the ‘solkiness’ and Rab immediately deserted her to dance with Eilidh Monro who had had her sights set on him for some considerable time and who hated Mamma’s guts for having arrived so unexpectedly in the mating ring.
Mamma looked after him with worried eyes; she had made a great effort with her appearance for this man though she wouldn’t admit, even to herself, how much she had come to like and admire him. As soon as the music stopped she sought him out, elbowing Eilidh out of the way in her eagerness to make amends with him.
‘The apology I make,’ she announced to him with an effort. ‘You are right, the evening is here to enjoy, but the hall is too hot and I ask of you to get for me the small glass of schnapps.’
Rab’s eyes gently gleamed, he went off and returned with the desired drink, which Mamma downed in one gulp before requesting another. When it too had been consumed without a grimace she allowed Rab to lead her on to the floor and show her how to perform a reel, watched by a glowering Eilidh and several other womenfolk whose tongues were soon red hot with enjoyable speculation.
Mamma was not a figure to be missed in any crowd. Mairi had slightly overdone the blue rinse but even so, Jon’s mother was an impressive sight in more ways than one and when Rab had danced her to a gasping halt, quite a few of the menfolk jostled for her attention. But she had eyes only for Rab and he, whilst making sure that she didn’t monopolize him too much, paid her sufficient attention to make Eilidh retire to the edge of the ring for the rest of the night and join with her cronies in that most satisfying of all female pastimes, that of criticising other females in their choice of dress, hairstyle and footwear.
By nine-thirty everyone had danced themselves to exhaustion and were only too glad to avail themselves of tea and sandwiches before arranging the chairs in rows for the next part of the evening, beginning with the Portvoynachan Ladies Gaelic Choir singing a selection of traditional Gaelic airs, followed by the school choir’s eager rendering of popular Scottish and English songs that soon had everyone tapping their feet.
The light shone on the shining cherubic faces; parents hardly recognised their offspring – the immaculate little dresses, the neatly pressed trousers, the clean, glowing skin, the innocent smiles. Neil Black stepped forward to sing a solo in his soaring, sweet, soprano voice, and his parents almost burst with pride and forgot the grimy, untidy ragamuffin Neil in the utter joy of the moment.
Neil received his applause with suitable aplomb and stepped sedately back to his place as little Lorna McKenzie came forward to recite a poem she had composed herself. Ruth and Lorn listened to their daughter with bated breath; Fergus watched his dark-haired granddaughter and squeezed Kirsteen’s hand. Lorna concluded her poem, her big, solemn eyes swept the upturned faces, with great restraint she refrained from waving to those members of her family dotted about the audience and she too went back to her place to thunderous applause.
In a spurt of jealousy Margaret Black tugged Lorna’s hair and in one minute flat the angels turned into devils. A good going scuffle ensued, parents stormed the platform to rescue, slap, or reprimand their offspring, according to the measure of their misdeeds, while the Portvoynachan Ladies Gaelic Choir rescued the day by singing Brahms’ ‘Lullaby’, which, if inappropriate, successfully filled the gap till order was restored.
It was Jon’s turn next. He was a brilliant musician and could have made a no
table career for himself, but when he met and fell in love with Rachel, he had buried his own ambitions in order to allow her to pursue hers, for in her he had recognized a talent far greater than his own. But he had never allowed himself to neglect his music and soon Sarasate’s ‘Gypsy Airs’ flowed from his violin, haunting and evocative, filling every corner with trembling ecstatic notes that rose and fell, soothed and excited.
Rachel watched his long, sensitive fingers running over the strings. His thin, gentle face was somehow lost and sad in its repose, making her throat tighten with pain. She knew that she had to make him happy again and she vowed to tell him about the baby that very night. It would bring them together again as nothing else would and when Lorn took the platform to play a gay selection of strathspeys and reels, her spirits lifted with the music and she knew that everything was going to come right between herself and Jon.
With hardly a break the entertainment went on. When Rachel took up her own violin to play Massenet’s meditation from Thais, an enthralled silence embraced the audience. Mamma looked at her daughter-in-law’s lovely rapt face and for the first time she knew the power and the glory of Rachel’s talent. She had never been to any of her recitals and something akin to shame touched her, a feeling that grew when, with Otto at the piano and Rachel on the violin, the audience were treated to a soul-stirring performance of the beautiful Poème by Chausson.
Then came the moment that everyone had been waiting for. The platform cleared, Otto seated himself in front of Becky, adjusted his kilt so that he wouldn’t sit on the pleats, shrugged his cuffs away from his hands and began, starting with a selection of Chopin’s piano solos, including the enchanting Nocturne in E flat, which Otto finished with a great flourish before going on to the exalted and stirring Polonaise No 6 in A flat.
‘This is what I wait to hear,’ breathed Mamma, going into such vocal raptures that Barra hissed at her to be quiet and let everyone else enjoy the playing. And enjoy it they did, many of them had never paid much attention to such music before, but then, none of them had had the opportunity to hear a live performance from the hands of such an accomplished maestro, and the excitement of it carried them away on wings of fantasy as crescendos of wonderful sound poured and crashed, thundered and reverberated, till the very rafters seemed to tremble and the foundations shake.
Stranger on Rhanna Page 28