Children of Rhanna

by Christine Marion Fraser

  CHAPTER 2

  Just before midnight the first baby was born, and half an hour later came the second, a feeble little mite, with hardly a flicker of life in its tiny body.

  ‘Get water,’ Lachlan instructed Babbie. ‘Two basins, one hot, the other cold.’

  Babbie flew downstairs, brushing aside Fergus’s questions, urging him instead to help her with the water, which he did silently, not daring to ask for further details from the young nurse who told him quickly what was happening. Biddy busied herself with Kirsteen, while Lachlan and Babbie between them worked with the baby, bathing it alternately in hot and cold water. For fifteen minutes it seemed as if there was no life in the infant. A pall of eerie quiet surrounded the doctor and the young nurse, broken only by whimpers from the first arrival, Biddy’s voice soothing Kirsteen, the plop, plop of water, accompanied by splashes as the infant was plunged from basin to basin.

  ‘Come on, come on,’ Lachlan rasped. ‘Cry, for God’s sake, cry!’ His face was shiny with sweat, his brown eyes alive with desperation.

  ‘The skin is turning pink. Look, Lachlan,’ Babbie’s voice was jubilant. The baby jerked and trembled, the tiny fists clenched, the chest heaved and filled the lungs with air, the pink mouth opened wide to give vent to a life-saving cry that was music to the ears of everyone in the room.

  ‘The Lord be thanked,’ Biddy beamed as the baby was wrapped in blankets and brought to Kirsteen’s side. She stroked the young woman’s hair tenderly and whispered, ‘There, there, lass, have a good greet, it’s all right now. My, my, are they not lovely just?’

  It was nearly two o’clock when Lachlan came downstairs and into the kitchen. He stood for a moment, shoulders drooping with weariness, unruly locks of dark hair falling over his brow. The lamplight found every hollow in his thin boyish face, sweat gleamed on his upper lip but his eyes were luminous, the slow breaking of his smile like a summer dawn pouring sunlight over the dark earth.

  Fergus leapt up at his entry, his muscular body taut with suspense, his strong brown right hand bunched into a knuckle of steel. ‘Well?’ His voice was breathless, strange to his own ears.

  Lachlan held out his hand. ‘Congratulations, Fergus, you have sons, identical twins. Kirsteen is naturally very exhausted, but she’s fine, just fine, man.’

  ‘Thank God – oh thank God!’ Fergus’s voice was husky with relief. In a few quick strides he was across the room, grabbing Lachlan’s hand, pumping it so vigorously the doctor gave a little laughing yelp. Phebie, too, was on her feet, laughing, kissing Fergus, kissing Lachlan, waltzing him round and round.

  ‘Hey, go easy,’ Lachlan protested. ‘I’m feeling a wee bitty fragile right now. It’s not every day I deliver twins.’ Fergus was making for the door but Lachlan put out a hand to stop him. ‘Not yet, Fergus, there’s something you should know first.’ He was silent for some time and it seemed as if the house held its breath in suspense of what must follow. ‘You know of course we had quite a fight to save the life of your second son . . .’ He spoke slowly, almost unwillingly. ‘Both babies are premature, and therefore small, but the youngest is well below what I consider to be a healthy weight. He – well – the next few days will be critical for him. His breathing may fail, by rights he should be in an incubator in hospital, but it’s impossible to move him, he would never survive a journey of any length. Also – ‘Lachlan took a deep breath – ‘I think I can detect a heart condition. It’s difficult to tell at this stage how serious it is, only time will tell us that. Otherwise he seems normal enough, but he is very frail and there’s no knowing if he’ll survive. Kirsteen doesn’t know any of this and it’s best not to worry her just now.’

  Babbie appeared in time to hear his last words. ‘I’ll stay for as long as I’m needed,’ she said quietly. ‘The babies will need constant supervision, and if an emergency arises I’ll be nearby to cope.’

  ‘Ay.’ Fergus nodded dejectedly. ‘The bairns are to have Mirabelle’s old room so you can sleep there; the bed’s made up. I lit the fire earlier, so the room should be warm.’ He looked from one to the other. ‘Thank you both – for everything,’ he said briefly but it was enough for Lachlan, who nodded.

  ‘On you go up now,’ he said. ‘Don’t let her see anything is wrong. We’ll give you ten minutes and then we’ll all have a dram together – I could be doing with it,’ he finished with a weary sigh.

  Fergus walked into the hall. All was hushed, even the ticking of the grandmother clock seemed more subdued than usual. It had ticked just as sweetly, just as steadily on that morning of Shona’s birth more than eighteen years ago. No doubt it had been lazily swinging the time away when he and his younger brother, Alick, had been born, because he remembered as an infant gazing solemnly up at the round serene face of it. It had appeared a huge object to him then, and even now, when he loomed above it, it still seemed bigger than he, solid, reassuring.

  The oak-panelled walls were rich yet mellow in lamplight, the pictures that hung on them were as familiar to him as his own name. He had known no other home, he had trodden these floors, these stairs, for more than forty years. He climbed up the wooden stairs as he had done countless times before. Routine was so much a part of life it often seemed to stagnate and it was easy to think that nothing could ever change. But changes, when they did come, were sometimes so dramatic they brought feelings of panic, a sensation of being unable to cope. Such things were happening to him now. He went on upwards but felt he was stepping back over years, living again things his mind had buried. Eighteen years had gone by, yet it was all so near, so real. The first stop in the mists of time came when he went into Mirabelle’s old room to check the fire. This was to be the nursery. Everything that the babies needed was here. To one side of the fire stood the old family cradle, gleaming with a fresh coat of varnish. Beside it was an exact replica, beautifully fashioned by Wullie the Carpenter; the only things it lacked were the tiny cracks of age, the gnaw-marks made by babies cutting milk teeth. Fergus saw the cradles like someone looking at a scene from a dream, for more real to him was the feel of Mirabelle’s presence in the room, the lingering perfume of lavender, the vision of her sitting on her rocking chair by the window, her snowy white mutch cap appearing like a beacon in the black oblong of the window when you looked up and saw her from the garden. So Shona had seen her the day she died, worn out from a lifetime of caring for others.

  ‘Mirabelle, my dear old friend,’ he whispered into the warm silence. ‘Two bairnies are going to shatter your dreams with their cries, but you’ll look to them like you looked to the rest of us.’ An odd peace stole into his heart. Somehow he felt that the old lady was still here, watching over them all, all those she had called my bairnies.

  He put more coal onto the fire then went out of the room and along the passage to the bedroom he shared with Kirsteen. When he opened the door he was transported back to a morning in January 1923. Peace lay over everything and everyone the room held; the shadows were full of secrets, kept yet shared; by the fire Biddy was sound asleep in a deep comfortable chair, skinny black-clad legs spread wide to the heat, hands folded over her stomach, her head falling forward onto her scraggy bosom, the big pin in her felt hat glittering in the soft light.

  Kirsteen lay depleted against the pillows of the big double bed, her ruffled curls damp with perspiration, her eyes closed, her face beautiful as the sculpture of a young girl whose innocence hadn’t yet been violated. For a brief moment Fergus saw again a pure white bed, a girl still with the face of a child, blue-lidded eyes closing as death beckoned her away from the life she had so loved, a girl who had laughed, who had cried, who had adored him with all the exuberant passion of youth – and who had died at the age of twenty-one. In a blinding flash, filled with clarity of each small detail, Fergus saw it all, then in a dizzy sensation of whirling forward through time, he was back in the present, seeing not a bed of death but one filled with life, three lives.

  Kirsteen opened her eyes and saw him standing motionless in
the doorway. She lifted her hand and held it out to him. ‘Fergus, my darling, come and see what we have made together.’ Her voice was low, laden with an intimacy that made his heart turn over. He tip-toed over to the bed, not knowing if he did so to allow Biddy to sleep on undisturbed or because to break the tranquillity in the room would have been a violation. He stood tall above her, drinking in the sight of her lying there with the children of their love at her side.

  ‘Kirsteen, my dearest,’ he whispered huskily. ‘How do you feel?’ Though weary beyond measure, her face was alive with joy, tears of thankfulness drowning her eyes, a smile curving her soft lips. ‘I feel – happiness. It was a sore struggle but it’s over now, it’s over, Fergus.’

  No, he thought, it’s only just begun, the heartache of the unknown. Pain, sharp and overpowering, filled his heart. Surely having gone through so much, her sweet happiness couldn’t be shattered by the death of one of their newborn sons. It would be too cruel to give life only to have it taken away. Tears choked him and to hide them he bent his dark head to kiss her warm lips. Even though her body was racked by fatigue she was overwhelmed as always by his nearness. She caressed the black curls at the nape of his neck and in the passion of love he put his arm under her head to pull her up close so that she was lying against his powerful chest, hearing the dull steady throb of his heart. ‘I love you, my Kirsteen,’ he murmured, ‘and I thank God for keeping you safe.’

  ‘I promised I would give you more sons,’ she smiled. ‘Don’t you want to see them?’

  He straightened and gazed at the two bundles cocooned in white blankets and saw two thatches of jet-black silken hair, the indentation of the fontanelle on each little head making them look fragile and vulnerable. She pulled the blankets away from the puckered faces, identical faces, though one was smaller than the other, the skin so transparent he could see the delicate fretwork of veins. This was the one who might not live, and it looked to him to be already on the brink, but he couldn’t let her see that anything was wrong.

  ‘They’re very small.’ It was all he could find to say and he wished immediately he could take it back.

  A frown crossed her face. ‘I know Lachlan says it’s natural for twins to be smaller than single babies but I never realized – how tiny – especially –’ her slender fingers stroked the cheek of her youngest son – ‘this one. He was all but dead when he was born. Lachlan and Babbie between them saved his life. She’s a fine nurse and Lachlan’s a wonderful doctor – but will this baby survive, I wonder.’

  ‘Of course he will; he’s a McKenzie, remember,’ Fergus said, changing the subject quickly. ‘Wait till Alick and Mary hear about this; now we have two sets of twins in the family. Grant might feel better when he knows he’s got brothers. He was dreading the idea of sisters. There’s only one girl in his life at the moment and that’s Shona. He worships her, though he tries hard to let on he doesn’t.’

  ‘I wonder how he’s getting on at Slochmhor. I hope he isn’t fretting.’

  ‘Not him! He’s filling his time nicely. He made himself late for school this morning by going to see old Joe’s new boat. He loves that old man with his stories of the sea.’

  Her hand tightened over his. ‘He will never be a farmer. He’s not yet eight and already the sea is in his blood. I wonder will one – or both of these babes grow up to love the earth – to till Laigmhor soil . . . If not I’ll have to give you the rest of those five sons I promised.’

  ‘Hell no! Never again! I couldn’t go through another day like this and you’re not going through more hell just to please me. I don’t care if all my sons grow up and go to sea – or to the moon for that matter – you’re more precious to me than a few acres of soil.’

  Footsteps sounded on the stairs and Lachlan came into the room with Phebie and Babbie at his heels. Biddy grunted and groped among the cushions for her specs. ‘Where are the damty things?’ she demanded irritably. ‘If it’s no’ them losin’ themselves it’s my teeths playin’ hide-and-seek wi’ me.’

  ‘If it’s your specs you’re looking for, they’re on the end of your nose, Biddy,’ Babbie giggled.

  ‘Ach, it’s a cailleach I am indeed.’ The old nurse smiled sourly and sniffed the air. ‘Here, is that whisky I’m smellin’ and no one ever offerin’ me a drop!’

  Lachlan handed her a well-filled glass and Biddy, snuggling back contentedly into the chair, gazed into the fire and began to croon a lullaby. Phebie was over by the bed, utterly enchanted at her first glimpse of the twins. One of them stirred and gave a weak cry and Babbie moved quickly to pick him up. ‘I’m taking them through now, Kirsteen. The cradles have been nicely warmed with hot bags and there’s a fire in the room.’

  Anxiety creased Kirsteen’s smooth brow. ‘But – they’ll be hungry,’ she protested. ‘And I wanted to feed them myself.’

  ‘You will,’ Babbie promised kindly but firmly. ‘Just now they only need some boiled sweetened water and you must have a good night’s rest. Don’t worry, they’ll be fine with me. I’ll attend to their every need.’ With a small bundle on each arm, she went to the door where Lachlan had a few quick words with her before she went along to Mirabelle’s old room.

  Kirsteen lay back and Lachlan went to put his hand over hers. ‘It’s for the best, mo ghaoil. You get a good night’s rest and I’ll be back in the morning to check up on the bairns and to make sure you’re behaving.’ He put his arm across Phebie’s shoulders and was about to offer Biddy a lift in his trap when he saw that she was asleep once more, the empty whisky glass clutched against her bosom.

  ‘Leave her,’ Kirsteen said softly. ‘It’s been a long day for her. ‘She can go through to Shona’s room later.’

  ‘I had a mind to sleep in there tonight,’ Fergus protested.

  Phebie laughed. ‘Well, just think how nice it will be for you if you waken in the night feeling lonely and there’s auld Biddy snoring beside you.’

  Kirsteen gave a small tired smile. ‘Use Grant’s room, darling. There’s room in the house for everybody – you can all stay if you like.’ Her eyes were closing despite herself. Lachlan led Phebie away and their footsteps receded downstairs. From the room at the end of the corridor a thin little wail pierced the night, then all was silent once more. Fergus felt uneasy. He stood for along time looking down at Kirsteen. The firelight brushed her pale face with gold, her hands were relaxed and still on the coverlet. He felt alone and more than a little afraid of the thing that he knew but she didn’t. She stirred and gave a sigh. ‘Fergus, you’re there, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes, darling, I’m here.’

  ‘Go to bed,’ she murmured. ‘You must be tired.’

  ‘I am . . .’ His fingers curled over the two rosebuds in his pocket and he took them out and placed them on the white pillow by her head. They looked like two drops of blood that had been preserved for all time.

  She opened her eyes and saw them. Slowly she picked them up and holding them to her lips she kissed them. ‘They’re beautiful, one for each of our sons – but where on earth did you find roses in December?’

  ‘In the garden, growing on the same bush. I wish I could give you an armful – I will yet, I want to get you something special for Christmas. I’ve a mind to go to Oban next week and do a bit of shopping.’

  ‘You could buy me the world but nothing will be as precious to me as these; I shall keep them always. You know that big family Bible that belonged to your grandparents? I’m going to press your rosebuds into that.’

  Biddy was snoring gently, her lips making little plopping noises as she sucked in and expelled air.

  ‘Dear old Biddy.’ Kirsteen’s eyes were like leaded weights and in seconds she was asleep again, the rosebuds clasped to her breasts. Fergus tucked the blankets round her, and brushed her hair with his lips, then he padded soundlessly away to Grant’s untidy room.

  Glass net floats hung over the bed like bunches of gaily coloured balloons, crayoned pictures of boats were pinned askance on the walls; op
posite the bed hung a big gilt-framed painting of the sea, the first thing the little boy saw each morning when he woke. But child of the waves and wind though he was, a floppy teddy bear was tucked carefully under the quilt. Fergus picked it up and looked at it. Quite unthinkingly he put it back in its place, undressed and got into the small narrow bed. In the darkness the rough fur of the bear brushed his face. The bed was cold and he thought longingly of Kirsteen’s warm body beside his. How had he borne all those years alone in an empty bed? He had almost forgotten what it was like. Curling up into a tight ball he fell into a restless sleep, unaware that in the night he hugged his son’s teddy bear to his chest like the little boy of long ago who had cuddled a battered cloth bear made by Mirabelle. Three doors from where he slept Babbie kept a lonely vigil on a helpless baby who barely appeared to be breathing. In the dark hours before dawn Biddy came through to relieve the young nurse, and there, by the fire, in Mirabelle’s big chintz armchair, she held the tiny infant to her old bosom, smelt the fragrance of silken hair against her face, said silent prayers for the preservation of the youngest McKenzie son, and, as always, she felt so much love for the newly born it might have been her own babe cradled so lovingly in her arms.

  Several critical days passed, days in which the fragile baby held to life by a thread. Lachlan was hardly away from Laigmhor, Biddy was in constant attendance, while her young assistant made the strenuous rounds of croft and cottage. She was exhausted, but insisted on spending her nights at Laigmhor. ‘Ach, what did I ever do without you, lass?’ Biddy said with misty eyes, pulling the girl to her and fondling her fiery red hair before pushing her away in embarrassment and toddling off on spindly legs.