She shrugged herself out of her reveries and smiled. Mr James was always telling her she thrived on romance and nonsense and he was right enough in that respect – and at her age too! But och, she never did anyone any harm by just dreaming and she would never get this damty letter written if she didn’t focus her mind on it.
Nevertheless she deliberated for another ten minutes before she seized her pen with a decisive gesture and began to write purposefully.
Christmas was just three days away and it was Rachel’s birthday. Ruth, determined to make it as happy an event as possible in the circumstances, had baked a little cake covered with pink icing, which she had decorated with a little chocolate violin and one single red candle, which was all Merry Mary had in the shop at the time as she had been cleaned out of such frivolities because of the festive season.
But Rachel had been delighted anyway. Kate and Annie and a few others had come, bearing little gifts. Lorna had made a squinty Chinese lantern in school and had proudly presented it to her adopted aunt while little Douglas handed over a crumpled bag containing chocolate drops which he had promptly devoured when no one was looking.
At dinnertime everyone departed, including Ruth who wanted to get some supplies at the shops before taking the children back home, Douglas to Laigmhor, Lorna to Shona at Mo Dhachaidh.
The house was quiet again. Rachel stood at the window, watching the steamer coming round Mara Òran Bay as she had watched it so often since Jon had made his hasty departure from Rhanna – but he had never returned – and she had given up wishing and praying for the boat to bring him home again.
She sank into a chair, glad to be alone for a little while. She was feeling lethargic and fretted that she hadn’t been able to visit Otto for some days now, but her time was very near and Megan had made her promise not to leave the house unless it was strictly necessary. She was also suffering from nostalgia. Her birthday – and Jon hadn’t sent so much as a card to mark the event when in days gone by he had showered her with gifts and had made it altogether a special occasion.
Jon. She spoke his name in her heart, please come back to me, I love you, I miss you . . .
She was totally unprepared for the searing pain in her lumbar region and she gasped, gripping the arms of her chair till the moment passed.
She closed her eyes. The waiting was done with, the day she had longed for had come at last – and Jon wasn’t here to share it with her . . . She wept, for all the things in her life that had been precious and sweet, for Jon, for Otto . . .
Poignancy swelled in her breast, her heart pulsed in her ears, deafening her, pounding through all of her body till it seemed the whole world was just one big heartbeat with herself trapped in the echoing roar of it. She didn’t hear the opening of the door but some separate sense made her open her eyes and turn her head to see Jon framed in the doorway, like some impossible vision without substance.
But it was Jon, all right, very much alive, bounding towards her to take her in his arms and crush her to him, warm, whole, real, kissing her tears away, murmuring words of love into her hair, her face, her neck. The light from the window poured over his face, it was thinner than she remembered, he looked as if he hadn’t slept properly in months. Her heart turned over and she knew then how much she had wronged him by not taking him into her confidence, the one person in the world who deserved her honesty and had failed to get it.
Jon. Her lips formed his name, her fingers traced the contours of his face as if to reassure herself that he was really here, her mouth nuzzled his, she fought down another spasm of pain because she couldn’t bear anything to interfere with those precious moments of reunion . . .
And then she looked over his head and saw Mamma Jodl coming into the room, burdened down with an enormous suitcase that Jon had dropped in the porch in his anxiety to get inside.
Rachel’s heart fell. Mamma had kept her word, she had said she would be back for Christmas and she had certainly meant what she said.
Then Mamma did a surprising thing, she swept over to her daughter-in-law to take her to her bosom in a mighty hug. Her eyes were alight, her face was glowing, she looked really pleased to see Jon’s wife and wasn’t slow to express herself.
‘For Christmas I come, but more than that I am here for the birthtime of my grandchild. Jon tells me this only last week; the shock to my heart was not good. I scold Jon for not telling me sooner. My son! Leaving alone his wife to carry the burden of his child. No argument is worth such selfishness and this to him I tell.’
Rachel stared. Had Mamma been the instigator of Jon’s change of heart? Had she taken leave of her senses altogether? Scolding Jon! Sticking up for her daughter-in-law! All at once Rachel realized that she was really quite pleased to see her mother-in-law and, with a small glow warming her heart, she returned the crushing embrace with a more restrained one of her own.
Mamma straightened, she gazed around her with pleasure. ‘To my room I must go,’ she announced. ‘I have pictured the scenery in my mind, now I will look at the real thing from my window. Portcull will be there in the distance, soon I will see Happy Mary and Aggie and all my other cronies, I will listen to the gossip and the deck, Main will give me tea, Kate will give me her worries. I have much to do while I am here – and Christmas to make for Rab McKinnon.’
She disappeared upstairs, they could hear her clumping about, familiarizing herself once more with the house. She hadn’t forgotten anything or anyone it seemed, her mode of speech had been liberally sprinkled with quaint local expressions, she had spoken with great fondness of ‘her cronies’, she had remembered the landscape vividly and obviously couldn’t wait to see it all again. Mamma had very definitely changed her first opinions about Rhanna and had vigorously returned to re-acquaint herself with everything.
Jon and Rachel gazed at one another, shy suddenly, too filled with the wonder of the occasion to trust themselves to express their feelings.
Wordlessly Jon withdrew a letter from his pocket and handed it to his wife.
It was from Tina, beautifully written in a style that was almost copperplate, but the lovely and unique thing about it was that Tina wrote with her pen in the same dialect as her tongue, which gave the impression that she had whispered the words as she was writing them.
Dear Jon,
You might be thinking this is none o’ my business but when Ruth told me that you thought Mr Otto was the father o’ your child then I just made it my business, since that thrawn wee wife o’ yours would rather die than swallow her pride by writing to you herself.
First of all, the dear good man I have come to love like a brother has only a short time left to live. Rachel knew this almost from the start and kept the burden of it locked away tightly in her staunch little heart.
He didn’t want folks knowing and maybe pitying him and she made sure it remained a personal matter till he himself knew he couldn’t keep it a secret any longer.
Maybe they did start off loving one another as man to woman, but he is a gentleman just and would never take what isn’t rightly his. After that, he and Rachel shared a rare kind of companionship, a sort of understanding o’ souls, it was a beautiful thing to see, they were like a a pair o’ children, innocent and relaxed together, and I sometimes had a wee greet to myself just watching them. I was there every day and special friends was all they ever were, dear, good friends who understood one another and found so much to share and laugh about.
He was so happy for her when he found out she was expecting a baby. Mr Otto could never have children of his own, that was one o’ the reasons that he and his wife separated. He told me this in confidence and now I’m telling you in confidence, trusting you will hold your tongue in the matter.
I know fine you love Rachel as she does you. I hope this letter brings you both to your senses, if no’ I’ll personally take the pair o’ you and knock your silly heads together.
When my Matthew died I realized how privileged I was to have had a good man, the amount o’
years we had together wasn’t the important part, it was how we spent our time that counted, loving and caring for one another and trying to live wi’ the faults we both had. Since his death I have never had a moment’s regret, for we treated each other kindly, Matthew and me, and I will never look back in sorrow and anger for things left undone.
Your baby will soon be here, the one you have both been waiting for, so just you catch the next boat or the bairn will arrive before you.
I remain yours respectfully,
Tina
Rachel crushed the letter to her breast, her eyes were glazed with unshed tears. God bless you, Tina, my dear, dear friend, she thought. Reaching for Jon’s hand she held on to it tightly. Her pains were coming faster, growing more intense, little beads of sweat glinted on her brow and Jon gazed at her anxiously. He had come armed with birthday gifts and had been looking forward to seeing her opening them but all that would have to wait.
Rachel had gone into labour in earnest and it was thanks to Tina that he had come when he did or his baby might well have arrived before him.
The trauma of not being able to express her pain vocally would live with Rachel forever. Racked with the torture of childbirth, she writhed and tossed in a silent agony of endurance, feeling at times that she was sinking into a deep red pit of oblivion which never totally engulfed her even though she prayed for the relief it would bring.
Out of one nightmarish trough after another she climbed, clinging to Jon’s hand, vaguely hearing his voice as he spoke to her and encouraged her and suffered some of her ordeal with her.
She knew Mamma was there too, bathing her brow, speaking soothing condolences in broken accents that were oddly comforting because they were familiar sounds in a frighteningly unfamiliar situation.
And even in the midst of her suffering she wondered how she could ever have hated Mamma and wished her out of the same vicinity as herself, for the hands that touched her were gentle and the voice that spoke her name was sincere and caring.
She liked Mamma Jodl in those tormented moments and she knew that no matter how much her mother-in-law might anger her in the future, she would never dislike her with quite the same intensity as she had done in the past.
Minutes, hours, days – she had no idea of the passage of time, for her, each pain-filled second was endless, each hour eternity that had no dusk or day.
In fact, it was a short, if violent, labour. It ended in an explosion of sensations: pain, relief, exhaustion, an eruption of trembling emotions, a baby’s cry, Babbie’s wonderfully sane voice, bubbling, laughing.
‘Happy birthday, Rachel, she’s all yours.’
She put the baby into Rachel’s waiting arms, a tiny daughter with a mop of black hair and a voice that almost deafened everyone in the room. To Rachel it was the most beautiful sound she had ever heard and both she and Jon gazed at the tiny screwed-up face with utter wonder on theirs.
Mamma was beside herself with delight. She had been a good help to Babbie and Megan, she had fetched and carried, she had administered to Rachel, she had tried to domineer Ruth in the kitchen, but had soon discovered that the fair-haired, slightly built girl was stronger than she looked and was having none of Mamma’s bossiness. After that she had tucked in her horns and had set about helping Ruth in every way she could, including keeping the big kettle boiling on the stove all afternoon. Hot water was an essential, endless ‘cuppies’ even more so, but Mamma was growing used to the Scots’ thirst for tea and had herself sat with her feet on the fender to drink two steaming cups, one after the other, during a lull in proceedings.
Despite her busy day she didn’t look in the least fatigued; she held her new granddaughter, she beamed, she crooned. ‘The next will be a son,’ she said in her incorrigible way, and seeing a pair of headlamps coming down the road from Portvoynachan, she rushed to put on her hat and coat in order to go outside and stand waving her arms in the middle of the road.
It was Erchy, coming back from his Christmas deliveries, and he was easily persuaded to take Mamma to Rab’s house when he heard the news about Rachel’s baby.
‘A wee lass, eh?’ Erchy slapped his knee, as tickled pink as Mamma herself. ‘Rab will want to wet its head so I’d best come in wi’ you to make sure he does the job properly.’
‘Wet its head?’ queried Mamma in puzzled tones.
‘Ay, it’s a Scottish tradition,’ Erchy explained happily. ‘A way o’ welcoming a new bairn into the world – it doesny have to be there, of course, we leave it to the minister to do the real thing at the christening, but as long as we wet our own thrapples wi’ a good dram o’ whisky the bairn will have all the good luck it ever needs to start it off in life.’
Erchy wasn’t the only one to be ‘wetting his thrapple’. Babbie, Megan, Ruth, Jon, all drank a toast to the new baby while Rachel drank a well-earned cuppy, a wonder in her that only that very morning she had wakened alone in her bed and had risen to face a birthday without Jon. Now she was a mother, Jon was a father, all in the space of a few short hours – and it was still her birthday, complete with the most precious gift she could ever have wished for.
At last she and Jon were alone in the room with their new daughter. He stood there at the bedside, gazing down on the small, red face, quiet now, one tiny fist jammed into the pink little blubber of a mouth, the other clenched beside one paper-thin ear as she slept the deep and dreamless sleep of the newborn infant.
‘Let’s call her Karla,’ Jon said quietly, ‘Karla McKinnon Jodl.’
Rachel looked at him quickly: surely he wasn’t still thinking that this was the child of Karl Gustav Langer! But the quiet brown eyes that sought hers were innocent of guile as he went on, ‘I want us both to always remember a great man. If you agree then she will have a name to be proud of, Karla for him, McKinnon for you, and Jodl for me, it seems as if it was meant for her.’
The name rang inside Rachel’s head like a melody, Karla McKinnon Jodl. It was beautiful, it was perfect. With tears in her eyes she held her arms out to her husband and he went to the breast that had newly suckled his baby to kiss the creamy skin and nuzzle the warm flesh before curling up beside her, holding her close till she fell asleep in the safe stronghold of his loving arms.
Christmas came on the teeth of a sou’westerly gale that shrieked over the island, whipping the trees into frenzy, lashing the shores, rattling the chimney pots, wailing at windows and doors as if all the witches of hell had been let loose and were trying to gain their demented footholds. But the stout walls held firm; doors and windows remained grimly closed; hardly a soul ventured out of doors but were quite happy to remain by cosy hearths where Christmas lights twinkled and tables groaned under festive fare.
Mamma had never been happier. She organised, she arranged, she cooked, baked, sweated, and produced enormous amounts of food, not just for Rab but for everyone: great smoked hams, mouthwatering cheeses, batch upon batch of apfelstrudel, pastries stuffed with cream, buns bulging with raisins, puddings rich with spices, gateaux dark with chocolate, cakes thick with almonds.
Rachel was very glad to let her mother-in-law take charge, though all the time she fretted, not because Mamma had taken over her kitchen, but for her enforced confinement to the wind-battered house. She had quickly recovered from the birth of her baby and her desire to be up and about was imperative: every minute, every hour, brought Otto closer to death. She had heard that he was failing fast and his last words to her had been a request to see her baby.
So Rachel wouldn’t allow herself to rest. Much to Megan’s dismay she arose from her bed only hours after giving birth in it, and she refused to sit still for any length of time but insisted on wandering about the house ‘like a demented spook’, to quote Annie who had arrived expecting to find her daughter in bed but had instead found her up and fully dressed, going about as usual.
Megan thought the description was apt enough. She had come to know Rachel well in the last year; in the girl’s turbulent dark eyes she recognized a yearni
ng soul and knew that nothing would bring her appeasement till she could visit Otto for the last time and let him hold her baby in his arms.
The little thatched house that overlooked the sea was quiet and peaceful when Jon and Rachel at last took their baby to see Otto. Tina had decorated the kitchen, a tiny tree stood on a table near the window, a row of squinty paper stars were strung across the room, dozens of Christmas cards filled every available space. The homely smells of baking and cooking hung agreeably in the air, a large tray of spicy buns stood cooling on a shelf, presided over by Vienna who was addicted to cakes and pastries and would do anything to sink her fangs into them, while Tina in her turn would do anything to ensure that the ‘big, sleek brute o’ a cratur’ never so much as tasted the reek o’ a scone’.
But she didn’t mean it, even though cats had never rated very highly with her, she put up with them and treated them well because the menfolk in her life appeared to dote on them. Mark James had three ‘sly sleekit brutes’ as she called them; they sized her up, tripped her up, stole food from the table, left bird and mouse corpses in the living room and ‘frightened the shat out o’ her’ by leaping at her from dark corners when she was least expecting it.
But Vienna was special because she was Mr Otto’s cat, and Tina was feeding her a piece of spicy bun when she heard the visitors and turned to welcome them. She had been crying, her eyes were red and dull with sadness. She smiled at the baby, indicated the chairs by Otto’s bed, and took herself ben to the little parlour that led off from the kitchen.
Otto’s condition had greatly worsened since Rachel’s last visit, he was gaunt and pale, the shadow of death lay over him, and it was difficult to believe he was the same big giant of a man who had arrived on Rhanna not so many months ago.
Even so, his eyes were bright and eager for life; he was delighted to see the visitors and immediately stretched out a hand to pull away the shawl from the baby’s face.
Stranger on Rhanna Page 35