Children of Rhanna

by Christine Marion Fraser

  She uttered the last words without a hint of self-consciousness, so lost was she in the tale she told with such sincerity in her sweet voice. Both boys were completely entranced. Lewis’s eyes were on her face, drinking in the almost ethereal quality of beauty the last few minutes had brought to it. Lorn looked down at his hands and murmured softly, ‘You’re a fine storyteller, Ruthie – just like your father. One day, I think, you might be famous.’

  Ruth started out of her reverie and the crimson flooded her cheeks once more. In confusion she said, ‘Oh, I must go, Mam will be waiting for me to help her with breakfast – I – I’m late as it is . . .’

  Lorn saw her dilemma. She was in a panic at being late, yet if need be she would stay where she was forever. Under no circumstances would she put on her calliper in front of them, and without it she couldn’t walk. Lorn stood up and gave his brother a little push. ‘Come on, big brother, Mother will have breakfast ready, and I for one am starving.’

  ‘Me too!’ Lewis was like an eager hungry young puppy. He began to run. ‘We’ll be seeing you, Ruth,’ he called over his shoulder, ‘goodbye for now.’

  ‘Goodbye,’ Ruth returned, and waited till they were just mere specks in the heather before she uncurled her legs stiffly from under her. For a moment she stared with dislike at her small wasted foot, then hastily she pulled on stockings and shoes and fitted the calliper in place. Lachlan had told her mother that exercises and physiotherapy might do a lot to improve the leg, but Morag Ruadh had scoffed at the idea and had told Lachlan it was the will of the Lord. When Ruth had told Rachel this, her eyes flashed and she had promised that during these summer holidays she was going to massage Ruth’s leg for her and make her do all sorts of exercises. Ruth smiled as she recalled the glitter of determination in her friend’s dark eyes, and, gathering up her notepad and pencils, she hobbled away over the fields to Portcull. She stood on the hilltop looking down at the village. A thin banner of smoke rose from the chimney of her cottage. Her mother was up and had most likely already scrubbed the kitchen floor with carbolic. She would be making the porridge about now, stirring, stirring, rhythmically banging the wooden spoon against the pan sides. Ruth was fascinated by the ritual. She often fancied that her mother was a red-haired witch standing tight-lipped over the fire, brewing some sort of evil potion, using the wooden spoon as an instrument to rid her of all the emotions she bottled up inside.

  Sure enough, when Ruth opened the door her mother was at the fire pounding the sluggish porridge viciously. She barely turned at Ruth’s entry yet the sideways sweep of her hooded green eyes took in everything. ‘You’re late, Ruth, and you’ve got dirt on the hem of your dress.’

  ‘Ay, Mam, I know, but it’s awful hard to keep clean in a white dress.’

  She stood waiting for the usual questions, a vision of summer in her pure white dress, the rays of the morning sun at her back making her look slightly insubstantial, a being not of this world with her violet dreaming eyes and the fluffy curling hair turned to threads of palest gold in the sun. For over a year now, except when she was away at school, her mother had insisted she wear nothing but white. The change from drab browns and greys had come about one rainy cold morning just after her thirteenth birthday. She would never forget the terror of that morning, or the lonely stark imaginings of a little girl who had been told nothing of the facts of life. She remembered the aching cramp deep in her belly, the misery of nursing her pain in silence, hoping it would go away. But it hadn’t gone away, it had got worse and she had gone to her bed to lie down. Then had come the terror – of seeing blood seeping through her clothes – her blood – coming from some wound deep inside her body. In her ignorance that was what she had imagined, and, pale and shaking, her eyes huge with fear, she had limped through to her mother to cry out pathetically, ‘Mam! Mam! I’m bleeding to death! Could you – would you help me, please.’

  Morag Ruadh had turned round very slowly, her own face white and strained. It had been bad enough for her to watch Ruth’s thin little body blossoming out – but this – this moment of truth was what Morag had dreaded more than any other. She had shut her mind to the inevitability of it, had refused to face the fact that one day it would happen. Her heart had gone queer within her and she had felt faint.

  ‘Mam,’ Ruth’s voice had come again, appalled, shaken, fearful.

  Morag had gazed at her child and the pathos and strain on the pale small face had twisted her heart. For the first time since the night of her baby’s birth, all her motherly instincts were unleashed in one mighty upsurge of pure love. She had sat down in the rocking chair, had taken Ruth into her arms, and for the first time in many years had experienced the earthly joy of kissing and touching smooth skin and silken hair. ‘My babby,’ she had whispered huskily. ‘You mustny be afraid, these things that are happening to you are natural – you’ve grown, Ruth, from a wee lassie into a wee woman. Weesht now, I will take you and bathe you and tell you what to do.’

  Later, when Ruth was calm, her mother had held her at arm’s length to gaze down on her and say, ‘You mustny ever let boys come near you, Ruth, for they want nothing but to take away the purity of a young lass. From now on you will be dressed in virgin white, for nothing is cleaner than the white o’ the driven snow. Heed what I say, my lassie, and remember – when the de’il tempts you, as indeed he will, you must remember my words and be mindful never to violate the purity o’ the garments that clothe your body.’

  Ruth never had forgotten that day or her mother’s words, for each morning she was minded of them afresh when she arose to don white underwear and white outerwear. Boys whispered behind her back and christened her ‘the white virgin’, yet their glances were admiring, for with her fair skin and hair she was a vision of sweetness. The older folk had always pitied her in her drab frocks but now they called her ‘the wee white angel’ and their hearts warmed to her and grew colder to Morag Ruadh for stamping her daughter in ways that were enough to turn the lass to sin.

  ‘And where did you go this mornin’?’ Morag asked as Ruth busied herself laying the table.

  ‘For a walk. It’s a bonny morning.’

  ‘And did you meet anybody at all?’

  ‘Ay, the twins. Lorn is looking much better than he did,’ Ruth answered carefully.

  Morag glanced at her quickly and said meaningfully, ‘Both lads are growing to be young men. You watch out, my girl, I don’t take much to these ways you have o’ goin’ off first thing in the mornin’ by yourself.’ Ruth was saved further questioning by the arrival of her father. He gave her a quick wink and she winked back, enjoying the intimacy of one of several little habits that had sprung up between them over the years.

  During Grace, Ruth sat with her eyes closed, thinking about many things, her mind drifting to Rachel and the plans they had made for the long summer holidays. They would be aided and abetted in these by Ruth’s grandparents, who, though now in their eighties, were still sound of wind and limb and had become adept at thwarting Morag’s attempts to run their lives for them. They took a wicked delight in trying to outwit her, and Ruth dreaded the day when she would have them no more. She was far more at home in their cosy cottage than she ever was in the clinical confines of the place both she and her father referred to in private as ‘the temple’. Here, all savoury smells were perpetually drowned in the ever-present fumes of carbolic and even the food itself seemed to be tainted by disinfectant.

  ‘You’re fidgeting, Ruth,’ Morag inserted the reprimand into her own extended version of morning Grace.

  Ruth folded her hands in her lap and prayed for patience. She was unusually restless that morning and in between polishing the furniture and black-leading the grate she kept going to the window to gaze with anxious eyes in the direction of the Post Office.

  ‘Ach, what’s wi’ you, Ruth?’ Morag demanded sharply. ‘You’re like a hen on a hot girdle.’

  Ruth turned quickly back to her tasks but breathed a sigh of relief when Morag at last went in
to the scullery to fetch the meal basin and then took it out to the sunlit yard where she was at once surrounded by an eager army of hens. Ruth looked once more through the window and her heart leapt. Erchy was emerging from the Post Office and her grandparents’ house was one of the first on his rounds. Throwing down her duster she limped to the side gate to burst shining-eyed upon Isabel and Jim Jim. She had only visited them briefly the evening before but it had been enough for them to slip her a letter that had arrived at their cottage more than a month ago. In wonder she had devoured the contents of it by the light of a torch in the privacy of the wee hoosie at the back of the temple. So exciting was the news contained in the letter that she had barely slept all night and had risen early to go and tell her grandparents her news before making her journey to Brodie’s Burn. Her news had resulted in Isabel spending a feverish morning glued to the window. She had even supped her porridge there so that she would miss nothing of the comings and goings from the Post Office. Jim Jim had remained stolidly by the fire, smoking his pipe and spitting into the peats, but excitement had gained the upper hand in the end and the fire had been abandoned in favour of the window where he jostled with Isabel for the best viewpoint.

  ‘Erchy’s coming,’ Ruth burst out breathlessly.

  ‘Ay, ay, here he is now.’ Jim Jim was at the door, grabbing eagerly at a package from the bemused Erchy’s hands. He cocked a bright eye at Ruth who had grown pink. ‘Love letters, is it? It’s gey lucky havin’ grandparents you can put things like these in care of.’

  Ruth glanced nervously outside. Her mother had fed the hens and had gone over a hillock to inspect her washing. Only her red head showed, and Ruth took the package from a disappointed-looking Jim Jim and said breathlessly, ‘I’ll have to be going now, but I’ll come over at dinner time and show it to you. Quick, Mam’s coming back, I don’t want her finding out yet.’

  Erchy scratched his balding sandy head and grinned after Ruth’s disappearing back. ‘Family secrets, eh? You haveny won a competition like our Todd did a whily back? My, I could fine picture a brand new motor car sitting at your door, Jim Jim.’ He pulled up a chair and took the cup of tea proffered by Isabel. ‘Were you after hearin’ that a rich American lady has hired Todd’s car for a fortnight?’

  ‘Indeed no.’ Isabel folded her ample arms on the table and comfortably settled down to listen to the latest gossip about Todd’s car. He had never driven it since the day it arrived, and for years it had sat outside the Smiddy with a large ‘For Hire’ sign on the window. Tourists were amazed to come upon the incongruous sight of Todd and Mollie sitting outside on kitchen chairs beside the gleaming car, smiling benignly at the passing world, Mollie in her apron, Todd in shirt sleeves, hairy tweed trousers and cloth bonnet. So startling was the contrast between the sturdy whitewashed cottage, the homely old couple, and the sleek car, that the majority of visitors thought the whole thing was a joke and the ‘For Hire’ sign wasn’t to be taken seriously. The car was popular for island weddings and funerals but was seldom used for anything else, therefore Erchy made much of the latest piece of news.

  That day, Ruth spent so much time in the wee hoosie that Morag enquired sharply if her bowels were in good order. The minute Dugald came home he was accosted in the kitchen by his sparkling-eyed daughter. Morag had gone next door with a pot of broth for her parents, giving Ruth the opportunity to be alone with her father. She took him by the hands, propelled him to the rocking chair and made him sit down.

  ‘What on earth’s going on, Ruthie?’ Dugald said, smiling, his eyes on his daughter’s pink cheeks.

  Ruth clasped her hands, and, putting the tips of her fingers to her lips, regarded him for a long silent moment. Then from the pocket of her apron she drew out her letter and handed it to him. ‘Read it, Father,’ she burst out in a strangely controlled voice. Slowly Dugald put on his glasses and glanced through the letter. It was from the editor of a well-known Scottish magazine informing Ruth that the short story she had submitted for consideration had been accepted, for publication and would be appearing in the following month’s issue. Ruth extracted the magazine from the breast fold of her apron, where it had been all day, and, spreading it open, she laid it on her father’s knee. His eyes had grown misty and he had to remove his glasses to wipe the steam from them before he could commence reading. His voice was husky as he read out, ‘Hebridean Dream by Ruth Naomi Donaldson.’ He raised his head slowly and there was such a depth of pride in his grey eyes that Ruth drew in her breath.

  ‘Well, Father, are you pleased?’ she asked somewhat shyly.

  ‘Pleased?’ His tones were tight, charged with so many emotions he could hardly go on. ‘My lassie, you’ve done it – you’ve done it, Ruthie. In bringing your own dreams to fruition you’ve made all my own come true. I’ll bask in your reflected glory and by God! I’ll bask in it till it dazzles me. I’m proud of you, my lassie – so proud I – I think I’m going to cry.’ The mist in his eyes brimmed over, and, fumbling for his hanky, he buried his face into it and could say nothing further.

  Ruth looked down at his thin shoulders, his bowed silvery head. She remembered the days of childhood rambles when all her world had revolved round him, when his slow pleasant voice had woven one story, one magical tale after another. She remembered sitting on his knee by firelight, listening enchanted as his fables lifted her and carried her up and out of harsh reality into lands full of beauty and wonder. He had been her guiding light, her teacher and mentor. All his own dreams had been shattered by a loveless marriage, but unselfishly he had encouraged her, nurtured her talent, nourished her mind with his vast store of knowledge, and in giving of himself, he had given her treasures far greater than any worldly goods. Love for him poured through every fibre of her being, throbbed in each pulsebeat. She laid her hand on his shoulder, and without looking up, he took it and held it and shook his head, too full yet for words.

  ‘You gave me my gift,’ she said, her musical voice soft. ‘I am your daughter – that’s the truth, isn’t it, Father?’

  Slowly he lifted his head. His eyes were full of tears, the pupils of them black and wide with the pain and the pleasure of minutes he would treasure for the rest of his days. Her violet gaze was on him, calm, assured. Understanding passed between them and he knew what she meant. He nodded. ‘Ay, Ruthie, you are indeed my daughter, and I thank God for bringing you into my life. You have been more than a blessing to me – you have been my salvation.’ He reached up and touched her hair. ‘The bonniest hair of all the lassies on the island. When I was a laddie my hair was the colour yours is now – ay, indeed, you are mine, Ruth Naomi Donaldson.’

  She took something else from her pocket and held it up. ‘This was in with the letter, a cheque for five pounds – it isn’t much but it’s a start . . .’

  Morag came in, muttering about the cantankerous ways of her parents, but she stopped short in her tirade to look suspiciously from Ruth to Dugald. ‘What’s wi’ the pair o’ you – and why isn’t the table set, Ruth? I turn my back for five minutes and –’

  ‘Morag, will you be quiet for once in your life and listen to us for a change . . .’

  Morag stared at her husband. His voice had been pleasant but firm, and in the same tones he went on to tell her the news. As she listened, Morag’s expression grew strange; something that was indefinable crept into her green eyes.

  ‘We should be very proud of our lassie,’ Dugald finished softly. ‘She is a daughter any parents would be glad to own.’

  Morag turned away. Her shoulders sagged, and she put out her hands quickly to steady herself on the white scrubbed table. ‘And why is it you had your mail addressed to your grandparents’ house?’ she said finally, not looking up but keeping her gaze glued on the table top.

  ‘I was afraid you would open it, Mam,’ Ruth said quietly.

  Morag threw up her head as an angry retort sprang to her lips, but a glimpse of Ruth’s steady frank gaze made her bite back the words. That look – had she not seen th
e same look in her husband’s eyes every day of her life for the last fifteen years? No matter what she had done to him, no matter how much she had denied him, the steadfast honesty in his deep eyes had never faltered. The same look was there in Ruth, growing stronger with each passing year – and now, the thing that Morag had always scorned as ‘fanciful nonsense’ had taken root to become reality – the dreams, the fables had come out of the clouds and were there, spread out in black and white, on Dugald’s knee. Ruth had been born with a gift – she was a gifted child . . . born of a gifted father. Morag’s heart beat fast – was it possible? Oh God, that it were so . . .

  Ruth was beside her, placing the cheque on the table. ‘This will maybe help with my keep, Mam. I know fine things are dear these days and with me growing so fast it canny make it any easier – get a wee thing for Grannie and Granda – some baccy and maybe a wee sweetie.’

  There was no hint of condescension in Ruth’s voice; it was tinged only with the pleasure of giving. Love for her child flooded Morag’s heart. In a rush of impulse her long fingers clasped round Ruth’s hand and she said awkwardly, ‘You’re a good, good lassie, Ruth – and the Lord knows I’m proud o’ you this day.’

  ‘I’ll set the table, Mam,’ Ruth said. Turning away she winked at her father as she passed his chair on the way to the big oak sideboard.

  That night Dugald went early to bed and lay entranced as he read Hebridean Dream. It was an enchanting tale, written in such a simple, moving style, that long before he had finished it his eyes had grown misty. He leaned back on his pillows to gaze unseeingly through the window. Ruth had written this, his Ruthie had woven this tale of such enchantment it had been judged good enough to be actually published. Good enough! It was wonderful! Wonderful! Wonderful! And his daughter had done it, his daughter! His flesh and blood. She had known all along of the doubts surrounding her identity and she had never uttered a word of them to another soul. Dear God! She must have gone through hell in her mind-searchings, yet her love for him and her loyalty to Morag had never wavered.