Rhanna at War

by Christine Marion Fraser

  ‘Fräu Morrison is a very soft-hearted old lady underneath her steel,’ Anton observed, holding up his hand to ward off the barrage of disbelieving comments with which his words were met. ‘It is true, she hides it well under a face which shows nothing, she complains about everything – yet – she finds time last night to come up to my room with a bowl of something she calls Benger’s food. She frowns at me and tells me I look like death then sits on my bed to spoon the food into me as if I was a little boy.’

  ‘Never!!’ Babbie and Niall cried simultaneously.

  ‘Oh, but yes. She is a very lonely old woman with a great capacity for love. It is squashed away inside her heart but occasionally – it shows.’

  ‘You are quite the young philosopher,’ Babbie said dryly.

  ‘Nothing so grand, Fräulein. I just observe people, that is all, and lying here, with nothing to fill my time, I observe more than ever.’ A spasm of pain crossed his face and Babbie was immediately alert.

  ‘Observing you I would guess something is wrong,’ she said briskly. ‘Where does it hurt?’

  ‘It is nothing,’ he said weakly.

  ‘I found him crawling about the room and saw blood on the bandages round his middle,’ Niall volunteered somewhat sheepishly.

  ‘And you sit around gossiping like a couple of old women knowing that!’ Babbie scolded angrily. ‘Och, men! What makes you all think it’s brave to tear yourselves apart and then say nothing about it?’ She threw back Anton’s covers and saw at once the blood seeping through the bandages. His hand was over the wound, as if trying to staunch the blood which was profuse enough to seep steadily through his fingers. ‘Oh, let me look!’ Babbie cried furiously. ‘A philosopher you may be but certainly not a wise one! You’ve probably gone and burst your stitches. Niall, go down quickly and ask Elspeth for a bowl of hot water . . . and bring some bandages from the surgery!’ she yelled after his departing form.

  ‘Fräulein . . . Babbie . . . don’t be angry.’ Anton laid his bandaged hand on her arm. ‘There was something that had to be settled – something far more important to me than a few burst stitches. Do you understand?’

  ‘Ay, well enough,’ she replied shortly. ‘Now lie back and be quiet, you’ve talked enough for one morning.’

  With the bandages removed and the wound cleaned up Babbie soon saw that the damage wasn’t as bad as she had imagined. Only two of the stitches had torn apart but even so, Babbie was in an awkward position. She knew she couldn’t get Anton down to the surgery to administer to him properly, but he read her thoughts.

  ‘Do it here,’ he told her, ‘and please, without ether, it makes me sick and stupid and I’ve already had enough of it.’

  ‘Oh, but . . .’

  ‘Please – Babbie. I am just beginning to enjoy food again . . . and . . .’ he looked at Niall. ‘I have some company around me that is just getting interesting.’

  ‘Father has some of Tam’s whisky in his cupboard,’ Niall said. ‘I’ll go down and get it.’

  Niall fed Anton the whisky while Babbie repaired the damage. He watched Babbie’s sure, steady fingers gently but firmly closing up the raw, gaping aperture in Anton’s belly and was filled with admiration for her coolness. Anton said nothing. He spluttered on the whisky, gritted his teeth and held on to Niall’s arm with such force that the mark of his fingers lay on Niall’s flesh in a vivid white pattern. Only when Babbie was finished did she show some reaction, and to steady the trembling of her legs she raised the whisky bottle to her lips and took a good draught.

  ‘God bless Tam McKinnon,’ she choked, and Niall followed her example.

  ‘Slainte!’ he cried.

  ‘Slainte,’ Anton muttered feebly though he had no earthly idea what it meant.

  They all looked at one another and smiled.

  ‘Well done, Nurse Babbie,’ Niall said softly.

  ‘And Niall McLachlan,’ Anton muttered with a little laugh.

  Babbie gazed for a moment into Anton’s eyes which, though dazed with pain, still shone in his face in all their startling acuity. ‘Well done, Anton Büttger,’ she said huskily. ‘You deserve a medal.’

  A flush stained his pale face. ‘No more medals, please. Just a good strong “cuppa” as you say, with plenty of sugar . . . that is . . . if it can be spared, of course.’

  Later that day Niall went up to Anton’s room armed with a pack of cards and an account of an exploit that had happened over lunch and which had almost sent Elspeth away from Slochmhor for ever. It transpired that Fiona had danced home from school simply because sago pudding was on the menu that day and it was her favourite. Phebie had entirely forgotten her daughter’s threat of the previous evening about doctoring Elspeth’s pudding with frog spawn, and had not been even suspicious when the little girl had volunteered to go into the kitchen to fetch the pudding. But when Fiona had returned, proudly bearing the dish, and had placed it in front of Elspeth, the old woman had stared for a long moment at the lump of white jelly dotted with little black spots wobbling on top of her sago, and then let out a wail that made everyone jump. Without being able to help themselves the entire company had erupted into spasms of agonized mirth, all except Nurse Millar who had glowered at everyone and commiserated with Elspeth in a nasal, monotonous flow of useless adjectives. Phebie had bulldozed Fiona out of the room and into the hall with the intention of spanking her soundly, but on looking at the child’s unrepentant grin she had instead collapsed on to the stairs where both mother and daughter had clutched each other in an ecstasy of pure, unadulterated, silent mirth.

  The unfolding of the tale made Niall bellow with renewed laughter while Anton clutched his stomach. ‘Please, no more, I want to keep my stitches for a while yet. Ah, she is truly a devil, your little Fiona. But, why did she do it?’

  ‘A build-up of many things, but mainly for you.’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Ay, she was mad at Elspeth for going on about rationing and you being here eating all the food that we don’t have and which you were too ill to eat if we did have. But, Fiona’s like that. She always protects those who can’t speak up for themselves.’

  ‘She is a little girl who goes for the underdog, eh?’

  ‘She is also very fond of you.’

  ‘Then, she is an angel. Heidi – Fiona – little devils with haloes, in Heidi’s case perhaps even more appropriate now. But, poor Frau Morrison, she talks only for the sake of listening to her own voice. It is perhaps the only thing she has sometimes to keep her company.’

  ‘Ach well, never mind that now, how about a game?’

  ‘Fine, but you should be with your Shona at this moment.’

  ‘Should I?’ Niall said sharply.

  ‘You know it or you would not shout.’

  ‘You know too much, or you think you do!’

  ‘Don’t you love her? If she was my girl I wouldn’t lose sight of her for a moment. She is very beautiful.’

  ‘Perhaps I – love her too much.’

  ‘No one can ever be loved too much. Listen, Niall, I don’t give a damn whether you take your feelings out on me or not, but don’t take them out on that lovely child you call your sweetheart. Because – she is a child, Niall,’ he went on earnestly. ‘You have only to look at her to know that. Eighteen, it is very young, she hasn’t yet learned to say “sorry”, but you, you are a man, a boy in many ways but the war makes people grow up quickly, with too much of a jolt perhaps, but it does the job a lot quicker than nature intended. So, stop behaving like a spoilt little boy and go and get off your chest whatever it is that makes you moon about by a German airman’s bedside instead of facing up to reality.’

  ‘You cheeky Jerry bastard!’ Niall grinned.

  ‘I know,’ Anton said simply.

  ‘Girls,’ Niall said ruefully.

  ‘What would we do without them? So, today, games; tomorrow, Shona. All right?’

  ‘You win,’ Niall laughed. ‘But I hope not at cards. Hell!’ he glanced at his plastered right
arm then at Anton’s bound fist, ‘look at us, like a couple of Egyptian mummies! Bugger it! How are we supposed to deal with these useless things?’

  But Fiona, popping her head round the door at that moment, solved the problem. ‘Cards! Can I play?’

  ‘You can deal,’ Niall said promptly, and he and Anton squealed with joy which was lost on the adroit Fiona who proceeded to deal, called on all the games which she knew best to play, then completely foiled her partners by winning time after time till, exhausted, the men declared themselves well and truly beaten.

  ‘We really ought to play for money,’ dimpled the little girl as she whirled out of the room with a triumphant whoop.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Early next morning Niall met Fergus at the gate of Laigmhor. Fergus looked at Niall’s plaster-encased arm and his dark rugged face broke into a smile. ‘We have one thing in common – for a time at least.’

  Niall leaned against the dyke and looked towards the sea gleaming in the sun-bathed morning. ‘There’s a lot we have in common, Fergus, though at one time no one would have thought it. For one thing we both love the same girl – with one difference – you know how to get the best out of her. There was a time I thought I could do that too, but growing up has brought changes to us both . . .’ He shook his fair head, at a loss how to explain further.

  Fergus lit his pipe and stood puffing it for a moment, his thoughts on the last two difficult days during which both he and Kirsteen had talked to Shona about the foolishness of wasting time on petty quarrels and how she had only to cast her mind back to the precious years he and Kirsteen had wasted to realize how time could slip by too easily through pride and misunderstanding. Shona had listened, quietly and respectfully, without any fight or argument whatsoever, which very fact had puzzled and worried both Kirsteen and Fergus because it was so unlike spirited Shona. In the end Fergus had lost his temper and told her she was behaving like a spoilt child and if she ever wanted any happiness out of life then she would first have to learn to grow up and do a bit of giving as well as taking. Losing his temper had been a mistake, of course, because then Shona lost hers also and more or less told him to mind his own affairs. He had been able to sense the misery engulfing her and had wanted to take her to him and hold her close but the barriers had been too firmly up for that and it was with a sense of relief that he now handed the problem over to Niall.

  ‘Take a bit of advice, lad . . .’ he said, ‘I haven’t had a lot of experience with women – God knows I mucked up my own affairs pretty thoroughly – but I’ve learned that it’s no use hanging around waiting for time to sort things out for you, you’ve got to do it yourself. Time has a knack of changing things, sometimes not to very good advantage. I know my daughter. She’s a stubborn wee bitch at times . . .’ He smiled. ‘What else can you expect from a girl with a father like me? You’ll have to show her who’s boss, be a little domineering! She’s in there now, mooning around, waiting for you – get in there and be firm with her! She can’t go running off into tantrums for the rest of her life!’

  It was a big speech for someone usually so thrifty with words, and Niall sensed the caring that had prompted it. He gripped Fergus by the shoulder. ‘Thanks,’ he said briefly then went through the gate and up the path.

  Shona was putting away the breakfast dishes. She had seen him at the gate and kept her back to him as he came through the door. She knew it was a foolish gesture. She had waited for this moment for what seemed eternity. Now it was here and she didn’t know quite how to handle it.

  ‘Right now, we’ll have no more of your sulks!’ Niall said firmly. ‘It’s a lovely day, just right for a brisk walk over the moors!’

  She turned a crimson face, opened her mouth to speak, but he gave her no chance. ‘Be quick now, get your peenie off. You’d better wear your wellies, for the dew is still heavy on the grass.’ With that, she flew upstairs, her heart singing, and was back in minutes with a blue cardigan over her shoulders.

  ‘Put your coat on too,’ Niall told her sternly. ‘There’s a bite in the wind despite the sun.’

  ‘You sound like Mirabelle,’ she laughed happily and they went out into the sunny morning. He put his arm round her shoulders and they walked in silence to the hill track that wound over the high moors. The wind blew against the tough sedge grass, rippling it into tawny waves; green fern curls prodded through the tangle of dead bracken and nebulous webs glistened on the rich carpet of moss at the edge of the track.

  On the ridge of a hillock a small group of islanders were already skinning fresh peat hags. Laughter and banter went hand in hand with such work because it involved both sexes. Peat skinning meant a lot of hard work yet a casual observer might have been forgiven for thinking the fun-loving islanders were literally having a picnic. Yet, despite the banter, the hags were worked with a skill that could only be carried out by a people imbued with generations of self-sufficiency. While the men cut deeply into the banks with the broad-bladed rutter the women expertly skimmed off the top layer of turf with flaughter spades. At regular intervals the workers fortified themselves from the milk luggie into which they simply plunged a ladle to fill with thick creamy milk.

  ‘It’s early for the skimming,’ Niall commented.

  ‘The weather has been so fine here,’ Shona said almost apologetically. ‘There’s a good skin on the hags.’

  ‘Ay, it has been warm for the time of year,’ Niall said absently. ‘Though I canny say I noticed too much blue skies. Smoke hangs about a long time after the fires have died down.’

  Torquil Andrew’s voice came floating down and they looked up to see him waving his spade. ‘Were you enjoyin’ the ceilidh last Sunday, Niall?’

  Niall waved and answered in the affirmative.

  Shona’s head went up. ‘So, you had a fine time the other evening, Niall McLachlan!’ she said.

  ‘Indeed I did so,’ he said defensively.

  ‘And Babbie too, no doubt?’

  ‘I think so. She went home earlier than the rest.’

  ‘And you went with her?’

  ‘No, I did not. Nancy and Archie saw her along. She was tired with one thing and another!’ He stopped and faced her squarely, the wind tossing his fair hair into his eyes and whipping at the old kilt he always wore when he came back to Rhanna. ‘If you must know, you wee spitfire, I got well and truly drunk at the ceilidh. To put it rudely, I got pissed! And all because of you! Good God, you little bitch! I’ve longed to see you for months – when I do I find you hanging over a German airman as if you never knew Niall McLachlan was born!’

  She stared. ‘You’re jealous, Niall McLachlan!’

  ‘All right, I’m jealous, dammit! I have a right to be jealous. If I could look at you without trembling I might not be jealous! But I am, and I do, and if that sounds like a lot of seagull shit you can throw it back in my face if it makes you feel better . . . go on then, start throwing!’ he finished passionately.

  ‘It was your attitude to Anton,’ she said gently. ‘I know he’s a German – the Enemy – but he’s first and foremost a human being and you spoke to him as if he were a bit of cow dung!’

  ‘I know.’ His voice was subdued with shame. ‘I apologized to him yesterday. After I got home from the ceilidh, I was in my room, drunk as a lord, hating the thought of a German through the wall from me! I spent a good long while feeling sick and hating Anton. I wanted to go through and spew on him! Then the next morning I heard a thud and went in to find the poor bugger had fallen out of bed trying to reach a glass of water. He burst some of his stitches and Babbie had to sew him back up again – all without ether. Later we talked for ages . . . about the war, what it does to people. He’s all right is Anton.’

  Shona reached up and pushed a lock of hair from his eyes. ‘When I saw him, lying so hurt and helpless, it was you I saw on a bloody beach in France. His face was your face. I had to help in every way I could because, in a way, it was you I was helping. I suppose that sounds silly.’

&n
bsp; He laughed then, his brown eyes crinkling with joy. ‘The daftest thing in the world, but I love you for it!’ He drew her to him and kissed her harshly, his lips forcing hers apart till the warmth of his tongue briefly touched hers.

  ‘Oh God.’ Niall breathed into her silken hair. ‘I’ve dreamt of this moment for so long. I want to kiss you forever! Do you think people are allowed to kiss each other in heaven? If not then I’m never going to die!’

  Shona laughed gaily. ‘I think people kiss all the time in heaven. How else would they know they were there?’ She lay against him for a moment then murmured casually, ‘And what about Babbie?’

  The question took him unawares as indeed she had meant it to do. He blushed and drew away from her, not meeting her eyes. ‘Babbie, ay, we must have that out. It’s what I brought you out to talk about really.’ He sat down on a mossy boulder and idly pulled at the dried heads of dead heather. ‘We weren’t lying when we said we knew one another only briefly in Glasgow . . . on the other hand we weren’t being exactly truthful either. We met on a blind date and before we really knew what was happening had poured out all our troubles to each other. I think we both had wanted just a shoulder – you know the sort of thing. I found out she was married . . .’

  ‘Married! But she doesn’t wear a wedding ring!’

  ‘It’s on a chain round her neck. Babbie is a very private person. When I met her she had just had word that her husband had been reported missing, believed killed. They had been married only six months when he went to war. At this very moment she is in the most private hell of all . . . not knowing if he is alive or dead. That’s why she doesn’t wear her ring for all the world to see, she can’t bear all the questioning.’

  ‘Oh dear God! Poor Babbie!’ Shona cried in anguish. ‘I know only too well what she’s going through, the terrible suspense, the hoping when you’ve almost given up hope. It’s cruel, so cruel you wish that half the time you were dead yourself yet you have to keep hanging on . . . in case . . . just in case there might be a chance . . .’