Children of Rhanna

by Christine Marion Fraser

  Old Andrew had recognized her talent and had taken her in hand, and now she could extract from her great-grandfather’s scratched old fiddle tunes that amazed everyone who heard them. In music Rachel found expression for all her unspoken thoughts and fears, hopes and dreams.

  Annie wiped her soapy hands on her apron and, reaching for the biscuit tin, gave each of the children a biscuit. Rachel held up two fingers and Annie said in exasperation, ‘Two more! Is it made of money I am? Doesn’t your poor father have to work his fingers to the bone out on that cold raw sea and sometimes no’ enough fish to fill a sardine tin . . .’ Through the window she saw Conker plodding up the road and her face broke into a smile. She pushed two more biscuits into Rachel’s waiting hand. ‘At least you’re no’ a selfish wee lassie. Away wi’ you now before Dave catches his death in the sink. Mind now, Ruth, get along to your grandparents’ double quick, for I won’t be havin’ that saintly mother of yours sayin’ my lassie leads you astray.’

  Rachel pushed half her biscuit into Squint’s ready jaws and hurried with Ruth out onto the sunlit road. Boldly she stood in Conker’s path and when the horse stopped she grabbed Squint, and without preliminary hoisted him up to Lorn, who took him without question. The boys had long ago forgiven him for his desertion. There was a wealth of animals at Laigmhor and they much preferred working dogs to any other.

  ‘We’re going to watch Todd’s car coming off the boat,’ volunteered Ruth while Rachel grabbed her to give her a leg up.

  The boys regarded her steadily. She wasn’t as well known to them as Rachel, but like everyone else they felt sympathy for her in the restricted life she led. Unlike Rachel, she was shy and awkward; she lisped and blushed easily and was self-conscious about her limp, she also wasn’t easy to talk to. Lorn sensed in her the same feelings of inadequacy that were in him and he was, at nine years old, unable to help anyone else to cope with similar feelings. But Lewis had no such complications to hamper his spirit and he gave Ruth a friendly grin.

  ‘Your mother will be keeping a lookout for you,’ he predicted, ‘so just you keep with us and she might not see you in the crowd.’ She blushed crimson and stirred up in him a memory of Dugald standing red-faced and silent in the kitchen at Dunbeag while his wife lectured him for ‘idling away the Lord’s time in useless pursuits’, these being an innocent visit to Portvoynachan harbour at sunrise to watch the fishing smacks coming in, and a quiet sojourn over the moors with jotters and pencils in the hope that the solitude would give him the inspiration he needed to write his beloved poetry.

  Ruth didn’t answer. She was having difficulty mounting Conker and Lewis was about to scramble down to help her when he spotted a figure proceeding up the glen. Though it was some distance away the children knew it was either a tinker or a tourist because of the forward-leaning gait, which suggested the burden of a rucksack or a poc, the name for a tinker’s sack of wares.

  ‘If it’s Stink the Tink I mustny speak to him,’ Ruth said nervously. ‘Last time I did Mam made me stay in my room the whole of the Sabbath to learn by heart three of the Psalms.’

  ‘Ach, it won’t be a tink at all,’ Lorn said. ‘Most of them will be down at the harbour or up by Dunuaigh, and Stink was round the doors yesterday selling colanders so it won’t be him back again.’

  The figure came closer and proved to be a bearded young hiker dressed in shorts and thick wool stockings draped over stout walking boots. ‘Good day to you,’ he nodded pleasantly, his accent suggesting he was a foreigner who had picked up English well. Wriggling the pack from his back he laid it on the grassy bank and flopped down beside it.

  ‘Good day, sir,’ the children chorused in polite unison, though Lorn eyed the stranger with reserve, and Rachel, hands folded behind her back, stared at him openly. The young man stared back, unable for a moment to tear his gaze away from the untamed gypsy-like beauty of the golden-skinned child with her unruly black curls and unwavering brown eyes.

  ‘I wonder if you could help me,’ the young man said, drawing a map from his pocket and studying it intently. He was thin and boyish, his dark-rimmed glasses giving him a studious appearance. ‘I am looking for a place called Croft na Ard. It isn’t marked on this map and everyone at the harbour seemed so excited about something I couldn’t quite understand the directions they gave.’

  ‘Ach, they speak in Gaelic when they get het up,’ Lewis said, grinning. ‘Has the cargo been unloaded yet?’ he added anxiously.

  ‘No, there was bother with one of the Highland beasts, which caught its horns in the rails. There’s quite a commotion down there at the moment and everything has been held up.’

  ‘Good.’ Lewis climbed down off Conker and went to look at the map, though there was no need as he knew fine where Croft na Ard was situated. But he loved people and enjoyed finding out about them. Lorn hid a smile as he watched his brother studying the map, tracing fields and roads with a grubby finger, which stopped suddenly. ‘There it is, Anton Büttger’s place. He came back here after the war and married Babbie, our district nurse. We have two nurses; the other is auld Biddy. She’s past eighty but still sprachles about, delivering babies and drinking whisky.’

  ‘Biddy.’ The young man’s eyes grew dreamy. He gazed round him, at the hills and the drowsing moors, and retreated into a trance. ‘Ah, I remember Biddy all right and I’m so glad she’s still alive. I’ve dreamed of this island for years and vowed I would come back one day. How is Mr and Mrs Gray and Tam McKinnon and that wonderful old man who played the fiddle like a dream – Andrew, his name was Andrew?’

  ‘Old Andrew’s fine, although he’s the oldest man here. Old Madam Balfour of Burnbreddie swears the island people live long because they are pickled in drink. Mr and Mrs McKinnon are just grand – especially Tam. This,’ Lewis said indicating Rachel, ‘is their granddaughter, Rachel. She canny speak but she can hear and is the cleverest girl in the school. She’s as tough as any boy and can fight with her fists. She had to learn to do that because the others used to call her names but don’t dare do it now. She’s so good at everything she even teaches auld Murdoch, our teacher, how to teach. You don’t have to be afraid of her though because she only gives black eyes to people her own size.’

  His laughter rang out and the other children relaxed and smiled too. Lewis did that to people; to him strangers were just potential friends and he had the knack of putting them at ease.

  The young man smiled at Rachel. ‘Tam McKinnon’s granddaughter. Tell me, does he still make whisky that slides down the throat like nectar?’

  Still wary, Rachel tossed her dark head and her eyes fell on the violin case slung over the stranger’s shoulder. Her face immediately lit up, and laying her head to one side, she made an action as if playing the fiddle.

  The young man nodded eagerly. ‘Yes, it’s a fiddle. I carry it with me wherever I go. Do you play?’

  Rachel nodded vigorously and Ruth spoke for the first time. ‘She could play almost before she could walk. Old Andrew taught her.’ Ruth’s heart raced at her audacity and trepidation rose in her breast as she wondered what her mother would say if she knew her daughter had been conversing with a strange man.

  ‘Lewis and me play too,’ Lorn said, his deep blue eyes holding the young man’s gaze. ‘We practise with Bob and old Andrew in Ranald’s boatshed and sometimes we have our own wee concerts there.’

  The stranger’s eyes were sparkling behind his glasses. ‘That sounds wonderful. Perhaps you will allow me to come and practise with you in Ranald’s shed. I am here for two weeks’ holiday and would love to get together with people who play the fiddle. After the war I became a music teacher, but always I wanted to come back to Scotland and now I have a post in the high school of Oban.’

  Rachel was enraptured. The stranger watched her expressive hands trying to convey her joy and he said casually, ‘You do not speak with the language of those who cannot speak? I can teach you if you will let me. When I was in prison camp, there was a boy there so badly injured
in the head he was deaf and dumb. He learned the language and taught it to me. Look, Rachel, this means the sun is shining and the day is beautiful.’

  He made a few swift gestures with his long nimble fingers and Rachel followed them intently, her fingers fluttering as she copied the signs.

  ‘Good girl, you learn swiftly. You will soon be able to speak without words and you can teach your friends to speak your tongue.’

  This delighted the little girl. For the first time she showed her pearly teeth in a radiant smile, and the young man felt sadness in him for the absence of laughter in her, for a joyous sound that would never peal out from her soft child’s mouth.

  Something that might have been a tear gleamed in Rachel’s eyes but she brushed it away. Lewis put an arm round her and gave her an affectionate hug, but he didn’t speak. The stranger seemed to have enchanted them all. Then, the hooting of horns from the harbour brought Lewis to his senses. He made to walk away over to Conker but the young man put a hand on his arm. ‘Please, I can see you are twin brothers,’ he said, looking from one to the other and smiling.

  When the twins were apart they were identical to the inexperienced eye; it was only when they were close together that the difference in them became apparent. ‘Yes, but I’m the eldest,’ Lewis told everyone, not to boast, but in his child’s way, trying to save his brother the embarrassment of having to explain why he was so thin and small.

  ‘Where do you live? What are your names?’

  Lorn didn’t answer, the stranger was being too inquisitive. But Lewis couldn’t help saying with pride, ‘We are Lorn and Lewis McKenzie. Our father is McKenzie of the Glen.’

  ‘Fergus McKenzie, ah yes, the big proud man with eyes of steel and a heart of gold – he was the one who found me – on the moors. I remember his voice, soft, full of light and shade, like music. I knew he felt he should hate me but couldn’t . . .’

  The eyes of the young man were far away. The children watched him rather apprehensively, fascinated by him, yet something telling them to tread carefully.

  The stranger came back from the past and came forward to gallantly lift Ruth onto Conker’s back. ‘And you, little golden-haired princess, what is your name?’

  ‘Ruth Donaldson,’ murmured the little girl hesitantly. ‘My father helps Totie Little in the Post Office at Portvoynachan and my mother is Morag Ruadh. She is a spinner and everyone wants the things she makes.’

  ‘Of course, Morag Ruadh. Does she not also play the piano? I remember the Reverend Gray had a great regard for her music . . .’

  ‘Please, sir,’ Lorn broke in rather rudely, ‘who are you?’

  This was received with a delighted laugh. ‘At last you ask! No one at the harbour recognized me – perhaps the beard – I am Jon Jodl. I was one of the Germans who crash-landed on Rhanna almost ten years ago . . .’

  A Jerry!’ Lewis exclaimed and pulled Conker’s head up so sharply that the horse snickered and drew back. The four children sat on his broad back and stared rudely at the bemused young man.

  Lorn’s face was white. ‘Have you got German measles?’ he asked rather breathlessly. ‘Have you brought them with you?’

  Jon Jodl spread his arms in appeal. ‘German measles! No – I don’t understand – did I say something wrong?’

  Annie came out to her door with a basket of washing under her arm. ‘Rachel, you get along,’ she called. ‘You mustny idle your time away with the to wrists. Get along or you can just come right back and do the dishes!’

  ‘He breeah!’ A familiar cry rent the air and Dodie came galloping down the hill path from Nigg, temporarily stopping the children in their flight. Now in his late fifties, he had grown more bent with the passing years but otherwise he was the same Dodie, travelling the island in all weathers, accepting the changes that tourism was bringing to Rhanna with a reluctant elation because though suspicious of the foreign invasion, he was not averse to the opportunities it brought to his life. ‘I am just going down to the harbour,’ he mournfully told the children. ‘Torquil Andrew of Ballymhor was after tellin’ me that Todd the Shod has a fine new motor car comin’ on the boat. He got it in a magazine for nothing.’ He pulled up short at sight of Jon, his wellingtons scrunching on the stones.

  ‘Dodie,’ Jon said, beaming. In his mind he had pictured many times the folk of Rhanna, their charm and hospitality, the simplicity of their uncluttered lives. To come back and hear all the names he had cherished in his memory was a dream come true.

  Dodie rubbed his grizzled chin. ‘Ay, that’s me right enough, I’m Dodie.’

  ‘Ealasaid – do you still have your Ealasaid?’

  Dodie’s eyes immediately swam and he gulped. ‘My bonny cow died a few years back but I have a calf of hers, her name is Ealasaid too, for they are all alike – all from my first Ealasaid.’

  ‘Rachel!’ Annie’s voice came again. ‘Come you back this minute and get the dishes done!’

  Rachel gave Jon a last lingering look then tapped her heels into Conker’s flanks. The horse began to amble away and Dodie was left to gaze at Jon with real liking. Anyone who spoke to him about his cow was worth a few minutes of his time.

  Lorn turned. ‘Come on, Dodie! He’s a Jerry! You’ll get the measles!’

  The old eccentric immediately took fright, but for different reasons than those of the children. ‘A Jerry!’ he threw back over his hunched shoulders. ‘You’ve no’ come to take the roof off my wee hoosie! You canny do that. The towrists pay to come and look at it!’

  ‘No, Dodie, no!’ Jon cried, and in an effort to convey his sincerity he shouted out the only Gaelic word he knew: ‘Slainte! Slainte!’

  His Gaelic ‘health’ echoed round the hill corries but except for Annie peeping curiously from her window it fell on deaf ears.

  CHAPTER 5

  By the time Conker had plodded on into the harbour, many of the visitors were making their way to the hotel, ably assisted by the children out to make an easy shilling by carrying luggage. The majority of people were watching the unloading of the boat’s cargo. Up the shore came Grant, a brawny young man dressed in an old blue jersey. His arm was linked through that of his sister Shona and with them strode Niall holding two-year-old Helen in his arms. The twins scrambled off Conker, shouting for joy and raced forward. It was quite a reunion. Shona and Niall hadn’t been expected for some days yet. Lorn buried his face into Shona’s hair. She smelt of roses, and the little boy clung unashamedly to her for he loved his big sister with all his heart.

  ‘You’ve grown, you wee wittrock,’ she laughed, holding him at arm’s length to look at him.

  ‘Have I really, Shona? Lewis measured me on the growing post this morning and he says I’ve got half an inch taller than last time.’

  Helen stirred in her father’s arms and pointed a chubby finger at old Mo. ‘Pwam!’ she squealed in delight and they all went over to the crowd gathered by old Mo’s pram. The ancient tinker was sitting up, a whisky bottle next to him, a bow in one hand, a beautiful violin in the other. From it he was extracting haunting melodies that soared above the general hubbub to merge with the soft wind hushing over hill and moor. Jon Jodl stopped on the road above to listen in wonder and Rachel saw him standing there looking rather lonely. On impulse she scrambled away from the crowd and raised her hand to him. He glanced down and saw her and waved back. ‘I’ll see you later, Rachel,’ he called, though he knew she couldn’t hear him. Shouldering his rucksack once more he plodded up the road to Croft na Ard, which lay south about a mile and a half from Portcull. Rachel went back to join the throng. The visitors were entranced by the old Irishman’s playing, but none more than Rachel, who shut her eyes and concentrated on the ethereal strains. She loved and admired old Mo with all her heart and quite often she took her own old fiddle over to Dunuaigh to join the tinkers in their camp-fire gatherings.

  ‘Delightful!’ Rachel’s reverie was broken by a high gushing voice. Coppers were raining into old Mo’s pram as his long fingers, so out of ke
eping with the rest of his tough appearance, skilfully guided the bow over the strings, bringing to a finale the tear-jerking Dark Lochnagar.

  ‘What’s the old boy’s name?’ asked one man of a squinty-nosed youth.

  ‘Mo.’

  ‘Mo? – how strange. What does it mean?’

  ‘Moses.’

  ‘Moses? But surely not! How did he come by it?’

  ‘Ah well, that is indeed a fine mystery, sir. We found him floating in the sea in a big wicker basket and we gave him the name of Moses. He knows not where he came from or where he’s been, and might be a leprechaun for all we are knowing – but there you are, sir, strange things happen in Ireland that can’t be explained away. We took old Mo into our family and will look after him till the angels think it’s time he should be joining them.’

  ‘But surely a leprechaun is a sort of Irish fairy?’

  ‘Indeed that is right, me fine sir. You are lookin’ at an old man who might have come from the land of the little folk itself.’

  The glib-tongued young Irishman kept a straight face throughout this monologue. The tourist eyed him suspiciously then shifted his gaze to old Mo’s battered countenance. ‘Fairy indeed!’ he said contemptuously and stalked away without putting a penny into the pram.

  ‘Is he not a mean sod now, Grandfather?’ The young man grinned at the leprechaun and began to count the takings.

  Rachel clapped her hands in delight as old Mo took up his fiddle once more but his efforts were lost in the ripple of awed comments that heralded the appearance of Todd’s car dangling from the wire hawsers of the ship’s crane.