Children of Rhanna

by Christine Marion Fraser

  Erchy was leaning against his red post van, avidly devouring the headlines on each bundle of newspapers he had dotted over the bonnet for convenience. He was never in a hurry but Morag gave Ruth an impatient little push. The child hesitated, looking through the door of her grandparents’ cottage.

  ‘Is – Grannie going to be all right?’ she asked fearfully, wanting to run inside and put her arms round old Isabel, whom she adored.

  Biddy appeared, her dim eyes kind behind her specs. ‘Ay, my wee lamb, she’ll be right enough. It’s just her heart gave her a fright. Don’t you worry your wee head about her.’ Biddy knew it was more than likely that a morning of Morag’s spicy tongue had caused Isabel to have the shakes, but she held her counsel though the sight of Ruth’s white strained face made her fume inwardly at Morag.

  ‘Here,’ she said, and fumbled in her pocket. Withdrawing a crumpled paper bag, she offered it to Ruth. ‘You take some Imperial mints, they will keep your jaws busy till you get home.’

  Ruth felt the waves of disapproval tautening her mother’s body. ‘No, thank you, Biddy, I’m – I’m not very hungry.’

  ‘Here, what’s all this?’ Jim Jim appeared beside Biddy and put his hands out to his little granddaughter. ‘Come in my wee one and have your dinner before you go home. Your father will keep for a whily and I will not have you going away from this house with an empty belly.’

  Morag quelled him with a stony stare, but Ruth settled the matter by limping hurriedly to the post van and climbing into the passenger seat.

  ‘My, my, some folks are aye in a hurry,’ Erchy said, gathering the bundles of papers and throwing them into the back of the van, covering two hares he had retrieved from his snares earlier. On the journey over the high cliff road he whistled, talked, and offered the little girl chocolate but she refused and didn’t respond to any of his banter. He had often told his cronies, ‘She’s a sad, sad wee lassie that Ruth Donaldson,’ but now he glanced at her pale, set, plain little face and sensed something more than sadness. They were hurtling over the firm emerald-green of the links – cunning Erchy avoided the bumpy road whenever he could and knew every diversive route – but soon they were climbing a sandy sheep track and were back on the road again, in time to see Jon Jodl turning up the grass-rutted road to Croft na Ard, The High Croft. Ruth sat up in her seat and gave a shy wave, which made Erchy’s eyes gleam with interest. ‘Are you knowing the mannie, then?’ he asked nonchalantly, the words jolting in his throat as the wheels hit a rock.

  ‘No,’ Ruth answered guardedly. ‘We met him on the road earlier and Lewis told him the way to Croft na Ard.’

  ‘Oh ay, young Büttger’s place, eh? Does the hiker laddie know him then? A fine lad is Anton – for a Jerry – he will likely know lots of folks from way back.’

  Ruth was caught off her guard and for the first time a spark of enthusiasm flickered in her eyes. ‘You’re right enough, Erchy, he is a friend of Mr Büttger’s – Jon something or other – a strange name. They fought in the war together and crashed their plane on Rhanna the year I was born.’

  ‘Get away now!’ Erchy received the news with such enthusiasm he almost ran over a group of cud-chewing sheep reclining on the verge. ‘Jon – let me think now – a clever-looking wee lad wi’ specs? Ay, ay, it’s coming back – he was at the Manse ceilidh – oh hell!’ Erchy slapped his knee in delight. ‘What a night that was, me playin’ the pipes and old Andrew the fiddle. This chappie – Jon Yodel – something like that – by God! Was he no’ a marvel on the fiddle! Even old Andrew had to admit he was good.’

  ‘He is a fiddler! Rachel and him and all the other fiddlers are going to be playing together while he’s here.’ Ruth’s misery was swamped by eagerness. ‘He’s going to teach Rachel the dumb language.’

  ‘Bugger me!’ Erchy slapped his knee again and slid Ruth a sidelong glance. ‘Another Jerry, eh? Are you no’ feart you’ll catch a dose o’ the German measles from him?’

  Ruth giggled despite herself. ‘I don’t care! I don’t care, Erchy!’ she cried, and Erchy, as pleased by her smiles as he was excited by the news, fairly hurtled towards Portvoynachan, hardly able to wait to tell everyone about Jon’s arrival.

  Jon trudged along, gazing over the lush green pastures to the ocean beyond. The white sands in the bay shelved into the water, turning it to shades of kingfisher-blues and greens, and further out from the shallows purple merged to deepest ultramarine. Several small groups of crofters were down by the shore, filling their carts with banner-like tangles of seaweed brought in by the spring tides. The carts were in the water, the ponies waiting patiently in the splashing waves, while all around them, against the pale gleam of sky and sea, was a bustle of activity as the men and women gathered the harvest of the sea to fertilize the land. A tractor purred busily in a nearby field and Jon wondered if it was Anton who was at the wheel. He was near the farmhouse itself now, a sturdy whitewashed building surrounded by numerous outhouses. Round a corner came a tall, fair, bronzed young man, stripped to the waist, his muscles gleaming with the sweat of his morning’s labour. At sight of Jon he stopped abruptly, his keen blue eyes enquiring.

  Jon smiled in delight at sight of his former commander but said politely, ‘Excuse me – I wonder if I am on the right track. I am looking for a fellow by the name of Anton Büttger. Perhaps you know him or can tell me where I can find him.’

  ‘I am he,’ Anton said carefully and with slight suspicion. After more than four years on the island he was as wary of tourists as the islanders themselves. He plunged his arms into the water barrel and threw glistening flurries over his shoulders and face, keeping one eye on the visitor. Jon could contain himself no longer.

  ‘Anton,’ he breathed, suppressing his jubilation with difficulty, ‘don’t you know me? Have I changed so much? Don’t you remember poor nervous little Jon Jodl – spewing into a tin while we were up there flying in the clouds?’

  ‘Jon!’ Anton came forward a few paces to look in disbelief at Jon’s shining face. ‘Good God, Jon!’ he cried with a little yelp of laughter. He strode forward and embraced the young man to him and for several moments they laughed and slapped each other and stood back to gaze and smile, and say each other’s names over and over.

  ‘Come inside and explain all,’ said Anton after a while. ‘You can have dinner with us, Babbie will be in shortly.’ He led Jon to a side door and they went into a large airy kitchen with a flagged floor scattered with rag rugs, on top of which sat smugly comfortable-looking chintz easy chairs. The deep window recesses gave splendid views over the Sound of Rhanna; on the ledges sat posies of wild primroses; the rich smell of newly turned earth filtered in through the windows, mingling with the delicious fragrance of home-made lentil broth; snowy muslin curtains billowed gently in the breezes; the strains of a Gaelic air wafted up from the bay. A dark-haired young girl was busy at the table but she paused and looked up as the men came in.

  ‘This is Jean,’ Anton said. ‘She comes up from Portcull every day and keeps the house spic and span for us.’

  Jean darted Jon a shy smile but went smartly about her business as the men sat down and became engrossed in newscatching.

  ‘So, you are in Oban now, Jon,’ said Anton at last. ‘That is wonderful. You can spend all your holidays here – but perhaps I presume too much – perhaps you go back to Germany whenever you can.’

  But Jon shook his head. ‘Not so often as I used to. You see, my gentle little Papa is dead now and –’ he spread his long fingers expressively, ‘Mamma gives me no peace: Why did I go away? Why do I stay away? It may be wrong of me, but I cannot stand to be in her shadow. She destroys the character, ruins the personality. She was one of the reasons I left home – the other, well that is easy, since the day I left Rhanna I wanted to come back and make my home in Scotland.’

  ‘You are not married?’

  Jon shook his head ruefully and gave a funny laugh. ‘No, I think Mamma put me off all that. I’ve had enough of pushing and bullying to las
t me a lifetime. Of course, not all women are like Mamma,’ he hastened to add. ‘You were lucky, Anton, you found the girl you love when you dropped in on Rhanna on a flying visit . . .’ He laughed. ‘But I make silly jokes – tell me about Babbie; it sounds like a fairy story with a very happy ending.’

  Anton’s blue eyes flashed. ‘No endings, only lovely beginnings that are like chapters in a book. We are still getting to know one another though we have been married more than four years now. Ah, Jon, it was a long wait, Babbie here, me in the prison camp – but she waited. The war ended, I came back; all the lust for flying out of me and all the things my father taught me about farming unlocked from my head.’

  ‘Did you marry here?’ Jon asked eagerly.

  ‘Where else? I went back to Germany after my release but I felt only sadness. Babbie and I have no family; all her friends were here, and so now are mine. The Reverend John Gray married us in the church at Portcull – it was a wonderful wedding. Babbie’s friend Shona was the matron of honour and McKenzie of the Glen gave Babbie away to me –’ he said, his teeth flashing, ‘the nicest gift I have ever had. The ceilidh went on for days afterwards, though the first one was at Laigmhor. At first we lived with dear old Biddy in Glen Fallan, but McKenzie of the Glen was all the time putting in good words for me in the ears of the Laird. Old Madam Balfour took a stroke soon after her son came back from the war and now cannot speak a word, or no doubt she would have put her spokes in the wheels. Burnbreddie himself is a good man and did not rebel too much at the idea of a German tenanting one of his farms.’ He gazed round fondly at the white-painted walls. ‘It was pretty run down when we took over. The two sons were killed in the war, and the old folk had not the heart to go on – we are still building it up, making the fields work again.’

  ‘Burnbreddie is a man who does not hold grudges?’ Jon said quietly.

  Anton shook his head. ‘No, he has the big heart and the hearts of all our friends are even bigger – after all, those boys, and many more, were sons of this island and we . . .’

  ‘No – don’t say it.’ A flash of the old tension flitted over Jon’s face. ‘In my dreams I still remember and often I wake up shaking.’

  Anton put a brown hand over Jon’s. ‘You are right, my friend – no sense in raking it up . . . Good God! I still cannot believe you are here! We have so much to talk about – but first you must eat!’

  ‘Are there any little ones yet?’ Jon asked with a smile, looking round in a way that suggested he might have missed something.

  Anton laughed. ‘No, you won’t find any lurking in the corners, Jon, We don’t have any yet and I am selfish enough to want to keep Babbie to myself for as long as I can. She is dedicated to her job, anyway, and I think she just might grow into another Biddy all over again . . .’

  Wheels scrunched outside and Anton’s eyes flooded with light. The next minute Babbie came flying in, her freckled skin glowing, her hat slightly awry.

  ‘Liebling,’ Anton greeted her, putting an arm round her waist and kissing her with unashamed love. It was then that Jon noticed his friend’s right hand, three of the fingers missing, a reminder of the trauma he had endured after his nightmare landing on Rhanna. Jon swallowed but had no time for further thoughts. Anton was drawing Babbie forward. ‘Look, liebling, see who we have here – my comrade, Jon Jodl. You remember one another, don’t you?’

  Jon had encountered Babbie only briefly on the night of the Manse ceilidh, but he had not forgotten the girl with the red curls and the odd, dreaming green eyes. Then he had sensed sadness in her, but there was no trace of that now in the radiant young woman standing before him.

  ‘Jon,’ she said, and held out her hand. ‘Of course I remember you. You were pale and ill then, but behind that distinguished little beard you glow now with health.’ She glanced at the rucksack lying on the floor. ‘Where are you camping?’

  ‘Nowhere yet,’ laughed Jon. ‘I have only just arrived.’

  ‘Then you must stay here of course –’ She held up her hand to ward off his protests. ‘I insist – besides,’ she said, her eyes sparkling mischievously, ‘there are ulterior motives. Spring is Anton’s busiest time – you will be called upon to work for your keep, young man, and while you’re doing it you and Anton can catch up with all the lost years.’

  Jon flushed with pleasure and Anton laughed deeply. ‘You see, my friend, your papa was not the only one to marry a bossy woman – only one difference – I spank mine when she gets out of hand.’

  Jean was hovering, waiting to serve the meal and Babbie pushed the men towards the sink. ‘Wash!’ she commanded. ‘You smell of dung, Anton, and Jon looks nearly as bad as old Dodie.’

  Jon paused with the soap in his hands. ‘I met him today – in Glen Fallan – I also met some children, two of Mr McKenzie’s sons and two little girls, one who was dumb and the other who limped badly.’ He frowned. ‘I was getting on well with them till they heard I was a German then they just took to their heels and ran, saying something about German measles.’

  Babbie and Anton exchanged glances, the former remembering when Lachlan had found out that Rubella, or German measles, could cause terrible defects in unborn children. There had been a mild epidemic of measles some weeks after the Germans’ departure from Rhanna in the spring of 1941. Kirsteen, Annie, and Morag Ruadh had all succumbed to the rash in the early stages of their pregnancies and with the exception of Lewis, their babies had all been born with congenital defects. The illness had been discovered in Australia in 1940 and had gone under the microscope till eventually news of its effects on the unborn had filtered through to the medical world and Lachlan had had the answer to the thing that had puzzled him for so long. The islanders had soon heard about it, too, and the cry had gone up: ‘German measles! The Jerries must have brought it thon time they were here!’

  The belief had persisted for quite some time, during which an exasperated Lachlan had tried to reassure everyone that the illness was not specifically carried about by Germans. Gradually the indignation had died down till the whole thing became just a joke. On Anton’s return he had been the butt for much teasing and leg-pulling and the islanders had taken an absolute delight in scuffling away to clear a path every time he appeared.

  ‘But the children believe it still,’ Jon said after hearing Babbie’s explanation. ‘They looked positively terrified.’

  Babbie smiled. ‘Children love to exaggerate, also they love to scare themselves to death. They heard all the gossip in the beginning and are even more reluctant than the old folks to let it rest.’ Her eyes fell on Jon’s violin case and her smile widened. ‘Mark my words, Jon, when next you see them you’ll only have to start playing your fiddle to have them dancing behind you as if you were the Pied Piper himself.’

  Jon lathered soap over his arms. The sound of the sea, the wind, wafted in through doors and windows. Jean was setting bowls of steaming broth on the table, the sunbeams pranced over the white walls and spilled blood-red over the ruddy flags on the floor. He smiled with quiet joy at the vision Babbie’s words presented in his mind. How good, how very good to be back on Rhanna with people he had never forgotten.

  CHAPTER 6

  After the twins had made their departure on Conker, Fergus sank down into a chair in the kitchen and closed his eyes with a weary sigh. Janet Taylor, who lived at Croft na Beinn, but who came faithfully every day to Laigmhor as her mother had done before her, was hanging out teatowels in the washing green at the back of the house. She was an efficient worker though rather slow and dreamy and was often sidetracked in the midst of her chores. Now she left the washing to play with a kitten an in the interlude Kirsteen paused by Fergus’s chair and stood looking down at him. The collar of his thin shirt lay open, showing where the mahogany brown of his neck merged with the pale smoothness of his shoulders. His firm mouth was relaxed and she longed as always to kiss it and to place her pinky into the deep cleft on his chin. His body was lean and lithe, the muscles in it so hard, not even r
epose relaxed them. There were more white hairs among the jet black of his curly thatch, but otherwise there was nothing to tell her that more than twenty years had passed since her first meeting with him in the woods by Loch Tenee. Her life with him had been turbulent, beautiful; full of problems and of joys; of soaring heights of ecstasy, of plunging depths of despair; but through it all, her love for him had grown and blossomed into a greatness beyond compare. He was often difficult to live with, quick-tongued and dour, but he tempered these things with the magnitude of his deep and abiding love for her. Often he goaded her to fury, but just as often he induced in her laughter, joy, pain, dear and tender adoration. He was the man he had been and always would be and she wouldn’t have had him any other way.

  Occasionally she invoked stark terror in herself by imagining what her life would be like without him, the kind of nameless fear she had experienced when he had been lost in the sea by the Sgor Creags, but quickly she pushed such thoughts aside and snuggled into the warm nearness of him in bed beside her.

  She put out a finger and gently stroked the little white hairs above his ears. ‘You’re tired, darling, you should learn to ease up a bit.’

  A smile curved his mouth but he didn’t open his eyes. ‘Havers, woman, are you hinting that I’m getting past it?’

  She fell on her knees beside him, entwined her arms round his middle and put her head on his lap. ‘Past it! After last night? No wonder you’re weary, you passionate brute.’

  Lazily he drew her up on his knee and cupping her face in his hand he drew her to him and nuzzled her lips with his. ‘Mmm, you shouldn’t have reminded me – couldn’t you send Janet down the road on some pretext? We could always go upstairs and lie down for a wee while – seeing you think I need resting.’