Jon was playing Rabbie Burns’s My Love is Like a Red Red Rose. The beautiful evocative strains spilled into the air, liquid, haunting, accompanied by the pure, bubbling song of a nearby curlew. Kirsteen felt as if her heart was bursting with pent-up emotions. Red roses – Fergus – red rosebuds – the twins – laughing, crying – Fergus dancing on a night of love and laughter . . . Everything was a jumble in her mind. She felt Fergus’s propinquity overwhelming her, sapping her of so much strength it took all her willpower to hold onto her mask of indifference. The exquisite notes flowed from Jon’s violin and the words of the song beat into her, washing into her veins, swelling deep into her breast: ‘And I will love thee still my dear till a’ the seas gang dry.’ She dug her nails into her knees in the agony of believing that the man she would love till the end of time seemed not to love her enough to forgive her for words spoken in the heat of anger.
CHAPTER 8
The imminence of Merry Mary’s retiral party was now uppermost in everyone’s minds, and the day crept round at last, heralded by the arrival of slate-blue storm clouds building up on the horizon. An ominous calm lay over the glassy swell of the waves and old Joe rubbed his chin thoughtfully as he gazed out over the Sound of Rhanna.
‘There will be a bugger o’ a storm come nightfall,’ he forecast with assurance, and one of the fisherwives looked at him anxiously.
‘The smacks were due in the day,’ she said worriedly. ‘And my man went out with them.’
‘Ach, it will be all right,’ Joe reassured. ‘They’ll maybe lie up at Mallaig for a while.’
‘And maybe they won’t,’ the fisherwife said doubtfully.
‘Ach well, they know what they’re doin’,’ old Joe soothed, though he looked again at the clouds and felt uneasy. If the men had indeed left the port of Mallaig they would be caught in the teeth of the storm long before they reached Rhanna . . .
Lewis squirmed as Kirsteen pulled the comb through his thick crop of curls but Kirsteen didn’t prolong the agony and stood back to survey her twin sons with pride. Their faces were glowing from a brisk wash, auburn lights shone in their newly washed hair, and their blue eyes were big with excitement. Tonight they were playing with Rachel, old Andrew, old Mo, Jon, and one or two others who went to make up the ‘Portcull Fiddlers’. They stood fidgeting in their white shirts and McKenzie kilts while Kirsteen gave them a thorough inspection. ‘Right, you’ll do,’ she told them with a laugh. ‘Take your jackets and go downstairs to wait for me.’
‘I wish Grant was here,’ Lorn said before he turned and followed Lewis downstairs. Kirsteen wished so too. Outside the rain slanted in horizontal sheets across the hills and battered against the window panes; the wind had keened over the moors and whined down the chimneys all day, sending so many blasts of smoke into the rooms that earlier Kirsteen had had to open doors and windows to allow the fresh air to swoop in and disperse the choking clouds. Out in the yard something clattered and Kirsteen prayed that it wasn’t a part of the dairy roof, which had been mended during the winter gales. Fergus was out at the sheds now with Matthew, securing doors and windows against the fury of the gale. He had sent a message via Lewis that she was to go on ahead of him to the hall and he would be along later. She was dressed and ready but went along to her bedroom to pull back the curtains at the window. Rivers of rain gushed down the panes, interspersed with smatterings of hail and it was difficult to believe that only days before the weather had been so warm and springlike. She pressed the tips of her fingers to her lips and thought about Grant out with the smacks. His parting shot of four days ago came to her. ‘Don’t worry, Mother, I’ll be back in time for Merry Mary’s ceilidh – I wouldny miss it for the world. Press my navy suit and leave it ready on the bed – I must look my best for all those lassies waiting to pounce on me.’ He had laughed, his dark eyes crinkling with mischief before he gave her a hurried kiss and went off.
‘He’ll be fine,’ Alick had reassured her earlier. ‘That lad could take on the Atlantic single-handed. He’s got seafaring blood in him, with a few exceptions it runs in the family. I often wish I’d made a career out of the sea myself, though my view of it is maybe just a romantic one.’
Kirsteen could hear Alick talking with Mary in Shona’s room as they prepared themselves for going out. Everyone was looking forward to the evening ahead. Part of Kirsteen didn’t want to go: she wanted to stay behind and wait to see if Grant would come home; also – if she were here in the room when Fergus came in to get ready, they could perhaps at last make things up with no one but themselves in the house.
Absently she pulled a comb through her shining hair and almost without thinking went to open the door of the wardrobe to touch the wrappings on the fur jacket, wondering if she should wear it or if it was perhaps too grand for a village ceilidh . . . No – it wasn’t just any ceilidh, this was a momentous night for little Merry Mary and it was only right that everyone should turn up looking their best. She took down the jacket and wrapped herself in its warm luxury. The fur collar nestledagainst her cheeks, she wished Fergus were with her to give her his approval, but they were still worlds apart, speaking without really communicating, and every night they went their separate ways to bed. It was such a strange situation. Kirsteen knew that it had to end, but at the same time she wondered just how long such a ridiculous state of affairs could go on. She buried her face into the collar of the jacket. Oh God! She missed him so: cuddled next to her in bed, talking over the events of each day, laughing over the little intimacies that only they shared . . .
The door burst open and Shona came in, her glorious mane of hair framing her sparkling face, the collar of her fur jacket pulled up cosily over her ears. ‘Kirsteen, aren’t you ready yet?’ she chided. ‘Lachlan’s outside waiting with the car and Biddy’s grumbling about the smell of it. She says she would rather have the smell of a horse’s bum in front of her nose. You’ve to come with us though you’ll be squeezed against Biddy. I’ll have to sit on Niall’s knee. The Johnstons are taking the twins and Mary and Alick –’ She stopped in her outburst and her blue eyes shone. ‘Oh, you’re wearing your jacket, too! I brought mine hoping for a chance to wear it, but thinking it was a bit too showy for tonight. I’m looking forward to Merry Mary’s ceilidh. Janet is looking after Ellie so I can stay out as long as I want. Isn’t Father coming?’
‘He’ll be along later, he’s securing things in the sheds.’
‘You’re still not talking, are you?’ Shona sounded accusing.
‘N-no.’
‘I thought so.’ Shona’s face was serious as she faced Kirsteen. ‘Now listen to me, Kirsteen. Niall and me only have a day or two left of our holiday, and before I go I want to see you and that stubborn father of mine on speaking terms. You’re behaving like a couple of bairns, so you are! You both need a good skelping – and – and the cheek of you going all motherly on me and giving me advice about Niall a few years back. I haven’t forgotton, in case you think it. You ought to be ashamed, the pair of you. Promise me you’ll make it up tonight.’
Kirsteen’s eyes sparkled suddenly. ‘Yes, Grannie, I promise,’ she said and giggled.
Little black specks were scurrying along the harbour, bending into a wind that was lashing the sea into white-veined rollers that churned round the reefs of Port Rum Point before throwing themselves violently against the Sgor Creags to roar and curl into the air in creamy plumes forty feet high. The fierce blasts of the sou’westerly shrieked low over the water, pushing the sea into the mouth of the harbour so that even in this normally sheltered anchorage, there was a violence in the waves lashing over the walls. The tops of the waves were being hurled onto the road, spattering over the hurrying figures making for the hall, but everyone was in a cheery mood and the stinging drops only made them shriek with surprise and scuttle along faster before another onslaught caught them out.
The village hall was no more than a converted barn, the term converted relating only to the addition of a new floor, some windows, and
a mobile platform, a simple framework structure laid over with stout wooden planks. The hayloft still remained, much to the delight of courting couples who made full use of it when amorous feelings got the better of the desire to sing and dance.
Jon had spent a good part of the day helping the languid menfolk of the village to prepare the hall during the course of which there had been more discussion and banter than actual work, but with much tactful persuasion the young German had succeeded in accomplishing the task, and the hall looked splendid. It was hung with coloured lanterns and paper festoons, which, though made from newspaper strips coated with various hues of distemper, still looked very impressive – though here and there an odd item of news popped out.
Canty Tam, who revelled in gory details, leered at them and announced, ‘I can see the headlines about thon murder where the mannie chopped his wife in wee pieces and fed her to the dog.’ He leaned so far sideways in order to devour the exposed newsprint that he fell into a pile of chairs ably aided by Robbie, who clipped him on the ear for good measure.
Bundles of net floats hung round the platform together with bunches of balloons, and at the front was stretched a red banner on which Ranald had splashed in whitewash, A MERRY FAREWELL TO MERRY MARY. HASTE YE BACK.
‘Here, what way are you putting that?’ Tam asked with a derisive snort of mirth. ‘The wifie is no’ goin’ anywhere; she’s just givin’ up the shop.’
But Ranald remained unruffled. ‘Ach, it sounds fine, it’s a poetic way o’ sayin’ things – though of course you wouldny know much about poetry. I read a lot and know fine there’s more ways o’ sayin’ the obvious than just sayin’ what is obvious.’
‘Ay well, if that’s what poetry does to the brain I’ll stick to things that makes sense,’ the grinning Tam returned.
But the crowd that poured into the hall that evening did not see the little flaws in the decor, and nods of appreciation followed the first swift appraisals. Merry Mary blushed with pleasure when she saw the efforts on her behalf and was amazed at the sight of the swelling ranks, but everyone who knew and loved the little Englishwoman with her limp ginger hair and big happy smile, was determined to give her a rousing send-off. She had served behind the counter of the village general store for more than fifty years, and as some of the older ones put it, ‘was more native than the natives’. During her fifty years of service she had thoroughly enjoyed gathering and dispensing gossip, but had never done it in a malicious manner. For every bad word she had to say about anyone she had a dozen good ones to compensate, and everyone knew they would sorely miss the cheery smile they had grown so used to seeing whenever the bell tinkled above her door.
Merry Mary was radiant that evening despite a dress patterned with livid orange and purple flowers and, when Scott Balfour, resplendent in kilt and tweed jacket, came in accompanied by his attractive wife, Rena, a murmur went round the room. ‘The Laird himself – Merry Mary is indeed honoured. He’ll be here to make the presentations later.’
Elspeth, who herself had caused quite a stir appearing in a black dress with white ruffles at the throat and wrists, her grey hair attractively arranged round her gaunt face, her thin lips bearing a discreet smudge of lipstick, whispered to Merry Mary, ‘It is a popular woman you are indeed, Merry Mary. I doubt there’s naught but a handful here would turn up to see me off – no, not even for my own funeral.’
‘Ach, I’ll come anyway, Elspeth, never you fear,’ the little Englishwoman said kindly. ‘But it is talking of funerals you are and you lookin’ so grand you might be goin’ to your own wedding. Your hair is a treat, that it is.’
Elspeth blushed in confused appreciation of the compliment, but she said off-handedly, ‘Ach, that rascal Fiona bullied me into letting her do it – she’s a modern miss if ever there was one, though I’m glad to see she is no’ wearin’ the trowser tonight. I’m thinkin’, though, that she’s overdone things wi’ my person, for I was never a one for fancy ways. But och, it’s no’ every day I get the chance to see one o’ my friends off in style – mainly because there’s precious few bodies I can call my friends,’ she sniffed. ‘I canny help but think o’ Mirabelle betimes. She would aye listen to my troubles whether she felt like it or no.’
Merry Mary patted her scrawny arm. ‘Well, you know you’re always welcome at my cottage for a crack and a cuppy and you can bring me a bit o’ gossip for I’ll no’ be gettin’ so much of that now.’
Anton, looking exceedingly handsome with his fair hair brushed back and his blue eyes shining, approached and with a little click of his heels he first kissed Merry Mary’s hand and then turned to Elspeth and made a similar gesture. ‘Ladies, may I say how charming you look tonight and I am hoping that you will do me the honour of dancing with me later.’ He looked Elspeth straight in the eye and she hastily composed her features into stern lines as he went on in his charming broken English: ‘Frau Elspeth, I have never forgotten your kindness to me when I was ill and how you put the strength back in my “feets” with your home-made tablet. And though I don’t see you often, I think of you and the times you came up to my room and fed me the Benger’s Food – so tonight we will do the Highland Fling together, eh?’
‘Ach, get away wi’ you, your tongue is smoother than silk,’ scolded Elspeth, acutely aware of Merry Mary’s smile, though she was secretly thrilled at having been singled out by the young German for whom she had a soft spot (though never for one moment would she let the fact be known).
Anton turned away and Merry Mary nodded meaningfully and said, ‘So, you were up in his room thon time he was laid up and near dyin’ – and all the time you were puttin’ it about you had no time at all for Jerries. Well, well, ’tis learnin’ we are all the time, but –’ she said, her eyes twinkling while Elspeth snorted, ‘don’t worry, Elspeth; I will no’ be tellin’ a soul about you and your wee secret sojourns in Mr Büttger’s sickroom.’
‘You are a silly woman, Merry Mary!’ Elspeth blustered. ‘That was years ago, and anyways, I have no intention of discussing it with you or anyone else.’ She stomped away in high dudgeon.
Babbie watched her retreat and her green eyes positively danced. Grabbing her husband’s arm, she smothered her giggles into his sleeve and hissed, ‘You impudent young bugger, Mr Büttger! That was positively brazen. I’ve always known you had a certain charm, but that was bare-faced and calculated.’
Anton was unrepentant. ‘Nonsense, liebling, I have made the night for a lonely old lady and I have also given Mistress Beag something to talk about – see how she scowls thunder at me.’
He was right. Behag had witnessed the exchanges and her jowls sagged over her neck as she told Kate, ‘Hmph, did you see that? These two lettin’ a German kiss them – ay, that Elspeth never did fool me. She is smoulderin’ wi’ passion under that sour face o’ hers and of course, wi’ her bein’ a widow woman things will be worse for her – what I mean is, a pure body like myself has no knowledge of the lusts o’ the flesh and has no need to hanker after them.’
‘Ay, right enough,’ Kate said, nodding in mock sympathy. ‘Though wi’ all that enchantment you hide so well ’tis a miracle you escaped intact.’
Behag affected not to notice the sarcasm and gazed round the crowded hall. ‘A fine turnout I must say. I wonder will I get the same when I retire. I’ve missed hardly a day behind the counter o’ the Post Office and I am a native of the island, after all – Merry Mary is just an incomer.’
‘You’ll maybe get a send-off you never bargained for,’ Kate said, and dimpled. ‘Right off the damty island if you don’t learn to smile a bit more instead o’ grumpin’ your head off. Folks only get what they deserve in this life, and if you go on moanin’ like an old hag you’ll get no more than a box o’ matches and a rocket when your time comes.’
‘My, my, but you’re a spiteful woman, Kate McKinnon,’ Behag blustered and flounced away to seek out her brother Robbie on whom she continually vented her wrath.
Jon had been passing the time with t
he Rev. John Gray who had been delighted at the young German’s return to the island and had given him a very cordial welcome. Everyone had been glad to see Jon and his popularity was proven when he had affectionately been bestowed with the nickname ‘Jock’. The men didn’t resent his intrusion into the life of the village – rather, they were glad to off-load the responsibility of organizing Merry Mary’s ceilidh onto his willing shoulders, and when he climbed onto the platform to arrange the children into their places, a cheer went up and cries of ‘Good old Jock!’ went round the room.
Jon had already taught Rachel much of the deaf and dumb language and the two now carried on an animated conversation with their hands. Annie felt a rush of pride as she beheld her raven-haired daughter on the platform. She wished Dokie Joe was here to see his beautiful, clever child. His weatherbeaten face would have given little away, but Annie knew that while he was too slow to keep up with Rachel’s mercurial brain, he was nevertheless so proud of her that often, when he’d had a bit too much to drink, he boasted about her to his mates. Annie sighed. She often wished that her husband didn’t have to make his living from the sea. Forbye being a financially uncertain existence, it was a lonely one for her with him being away for days on end. He should have been due in with the smacks tonight but there was little hope of that with the storm blowing up.
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