‘You gave me the gift, I am truly your daughter.’ Her words rang in his ears and he turned his face to the pillow. He felt comforted and fulfilled beyond measure and for the first time in years the rigours of his existence faded into insignificance. He forgot the cold, sparse emptiness of his lonely bedroom and fell asleep with the glow of love and pride filling every corner of his heart.
CHAPTER 12
The news of Ruth’s success spread round the island like wildfire. When it reached Rachel’s ears she went racing down to the village, her long bare legs carrying her swiftly. Ruth was in the henhouses gathering eggs, but she got up quickly to see who could be flying down the stony road in such a hurry. At sight of Rachel she put down the egg basket. The two girls stood regarding each other with warm joy, then Rachel covered the short distance that bridged them and took her friend into a strong, congratulatory embrace. In those precious breathless moments of swift heartbeats, both girls felt that everything they had ever dreamed of was coming true. The world was at their feet, the fire and energy of youth pulsed rapidly in their veins.
Rachel herself was on the crest of a wave. After her father’s death she had felt her place would be at home with her widowed mother, but just a year ago Annie had told her daughter that she and Torquil Andrew were to be married. Now, a tiny baby girl with blonde hair and brown eyes had arrived, and the couple were very happy. Rachel wasn’t impressed by the new arrival. She had never been the sort of girl to fawn with wide-eyed adulation over babies, she had had enough of them with her young brothers – for whom she had been expected to fetch and carry. The thing that was important to her was that her mother now had someone to lean on, and Rachel had dared to hope that she could pursue a career of music. Jon, who had visited Rhanna as often as he could, had encouraged her all the way, and her ambition was to stay on at school to study hard and perhaps go on to the Atheneum in Glasgow. To her joy her mother had raised no objection – ‘Ay, your father would have wanted that,’ Annie had said without a great deal of interest – the girl’s euphoria was threaded with the dark knowledge that her mother was too wrapped up in her new-found happiness to care very much about that of her daughter.
Torquil Andrew, though kind, was never quite at ease with Rachel. He sensed that she had always known about him and Annie. Although he was a sensible man, he was also a superstitious one, and somehow, in Rachel’s company, he felt that the spirit of Dokie Joe was very much alive and would never be allowed to die. Rachel didn’t need words to tell him that or the fact that, though he was now man of the house, in Rachel’s eyes he would always be an intruder. Yet he knew that he had been the means of freeing her from her ingrained sense of duty to her family, and he knew that she was grateful to him for that.
Old Isabel came out of her cottage and saw her granddaughter with Rachel. Morag Ruadh had gone away up the Hillock to the Kirk to supervise the tuning of the ancient organ, and now a sense of freedom cloaked the temple and its policies.
‘Go you away and enjoy yourselves,’ Isabel instructed as she came through the gate. ‘You don’t get out enough, Ruth.’
‘But I’ve still to peel the tatties and prepare the mackerel that old Joe handed in this morning . . .’
‘Ach, get away wi’ you; I’ll do these in no time! Your mother might think Jim Jim and myself are hapless, but there she is far wrong, lassie.’ She held up a plump hand. ‘Don’t argue – when your mother comes back (and the Lord knows when that will be, for she’ll have thon poor wee mannie sweatin’ over that damt music box for hours), I’ll just tell her I sent you over to Nigg wi’ a knitting pattern for auld Aggie. A trip like that should keep you away for a few hours, eh?’ She beamed mischievously, and Ruth hugged her and peeled off her apron.
The girls went off arm in arm hugging each other with glee at the rather awed looks thrown at Ruth from people she had known all her life. Lorn and Lewis had been dispatched from Laigmhor to fetch some groceries from Portcull and they came along the glen road, Lewis swinging the empty shopping bag in the air. He immediately set about teasing Ruth. ‘Is it permitted for a humble peasant like myself to speak to one so grand?’ he grinned. ‘You’re a sensation – do you know that, Ruth Naomi Donaldson? Old Behag nearly had apoplexy when she saw your name in print. They have called out the fire brigade to put out her tongue.’
‘And to think just yesterday I was gabbling on about you maybe being famous one day,’ Lorn said, ‘and all the time you already were.’ He bent forward and dropped a kiss on her hot cheek. ‘Congratulations, Ruthie.’ His voice was soft and rather intimate in her ear. ‘You deserve all the success you get, you’ll make this island proud of you.’
Ruth was confused. The kiss had been brief, yet she had the oddest feeling that his warm lips were still there against her face. His blue eyes gazed into hers and something that neither of them could understand passed between them, a short sharp little shock of tingling awareness.
Lewis’s hearty laugh carried them over the moment. ‘Would you look at that, Rachel! At last! Little brother is finding out what girls are for. Go on, Lorn, she won’t bite, will you, Ruth? She might be a writer but she’s still flesh and blood.’
‘It’s strange,’ Lorn said, his face red, but his voice thoughtful, ‘one day a person that everyone takes for granted suddenly does something that changes them in the eyes of the world. They’re still the same but everyone starts to see them in a new light. If they really get famous the world puts them on a pedestal. It becomes an honour to get close to famous people, to get their signature – to touch them.’
‘I’ve only written one little story,’ Ruth protested awkwardly, rather taken aback at Lorn’s deep-thinking philosophies.
Rachel was nodding her agreement at the words, though she couldn’t suppress a smile as Lewis gave Ruth a ridiculous curtsey and said in a high voice, ‘Please, may I touch the hem of your dress, my lady, or will I dare to kiss your hand?’
Dodie came galloping down the hill path from Nigg. Grinding to a halt he cried in tones more mournful than usual, ‘He breeah.’
The young people returned the greeting and Lewis added, ‘Fine the day may be, but you don’t look too pleased with yourself, Dodie. What ails you?’
‘Ach, it’s these damty towrists,’ Dodie moaned. ‘I’m gettin’ fair scunnered wi’ them swarmin’ up the hill to look at the pattern on my wee hoosie.’
‘Why don’t you take the sign down?’ Lorn suggested. ‘You’ll get peace then.’
But Dodie’s countenance became more sorrowful than ever. ‘Ach, it would be no use at all, they all know about the pattern now. Like flies round a lump o’ dung they are, an’ it’s no’ worth the coppers they put in my tin – there was two foreign coins there this mornin’,’ he ended with a sniff.
‘Well, paint over it then,’ Lorn said patiently.
Dodie’s eyes filled. ‘But I wouldny like to lose my pattern – it’s a fine pattern, so it is.’
‘But you could still have it,’ Lewis pointed out. ‘On the inside of the roof where only you can see it.’
Dodie brightened. ‘Ay, that would be just the thing – only I used the last o’ my paint on the door o’ Ealasaid’s byre – she’ll be havin’ her calf soon and I wanted to make the place nice for it comin’.’
‘We’ll bring some over and do it for you,’ Lorn offered. ‘Grant will be home in a few days and will be looking for something to keep him busy.’
‘Ach, it’s kind you are just, just like your father.’ He was about to take off, but stopped in his tracks to rub his grizzled chin and stare in rather stupefied awe at Ruth. He couldn’t read a word of English and had scant idea of anything that went on in the outside world, but he had heard about Ruth’s story appearing in print, and was greatly impressed by the fact. His gaze travelled slowly from Ruth’s face to her feet then travelled back again as if he was trying to convince himself that she was real and not some kind of transient apparition.
Ruth shifted her feet in some embarras
sment but managed to smile and say, ‘I’m just the same as I ever was, Dodie, you don’t have to look at me as if I was a ghost.’
‘Ay, but you will never be the same as you ever was,’ Dodie returned cryptically. ‘Everybody will be readin’ your story and seein’ your name. You will no’ just belong to the island any more, you will belong to other folks – folks like the towrists who come and gawp at my wee hoosie and at myself as if I was different. If folk like these found out you were a writer they would come and look at you for you are different – like my wee hoosie.’
For all his unworldly ways Dodie had an uncanny insight into more sophisticated minds, and it was perhaps this that made the islanders pause occasionally and say, ‘Auld Dodie’s no’ as daft as folks make out. He has his head screwed on even though the Lord never fixed it into the right threads.’
Ruth felt uncomfortable and was glad when a diversion appeared in the shape of Todd’s car slowly purring down the glen road. In the passenger seat was Biddy who, despite her aversion to cars, had been delighted at being offered a lift into Portcull. She beamed toothlessly at the little group by the roadside, and gave a coy little wave such as she had seen practised by members of the royal family. Behind the driving wheel sat the rich American lady, and she too raised a hand in salute.
Dodie, perhaps hoping for a lift in the car himself, galloped off after it, followed by the twins who had been given strict instructions to get to the shops before they closed. The girls went off to the moors to spend a pleasant afternoon, though Rachel kept her promise and made Ruth remove her calliper so that she could massage the twisted little leg. Ruth sat in the heather and watched her friend’s long slim fingers patiently working away. Only with Rachel could she allow herself to be truly free, and she felt no embarrassment in exposing the limb that had caused her such distress all her life. Rather, she experienced a strange sense of relaxation as she felt the blood coursing under Rachel’s sure touch, and when she finally put back the calliper, she was sure that it wasn’t just imagination that made her feel a strength in her leg that hadn’t been there before. She looked at Rachel’s lovely face, noted the proud tilt of her head. If only Rachel could speak. Ruth was certain that her voice would have been as sweet as the music she made. It seemed such a sad thing that a beautiful girl like Rachel could never express all those deep thoughts and emotions that crowded into her eyes.
Rachel read her thoughts and with her hands she spelled out quickly, ‘You mustn’t feel sorry for me, Ruth. I don’t for you.’
‘I know, I know!’ Ruth cried. ‘I don’t feel sorry, it’s just – how I would have loved to hear the voice that might have been yours – just once, so that I could have a memory of it inside my head!’
Rachel’s hands said slowly, ‘And I would love to see you running like a deer – just once – but we are as we are. If we had been different we might never have been friends.’
Ruth nodded wonderingly. ‘I never thought of that. You can’t speak but you think out things that other folks wouldn’t dream of. I’m too busy imagining things to sometimes see the truth, I think I’m what’s known as a romantic, while you have your two feet firmly planted on the ground.’ She giggled suddenly. ‘I have an excuse – only one of mine is firmly planted. Isn’t that a fine picture for you – one leg on the ground like a flamingo and my head lost in the clouds? No wonder Dodie was looking for me back there.’
Laughing they ran over the heather and parted at the bridge by Murdy’s house. In the distance Rachel saw Stink the Tink and she ran to him. The tinkers had learned to understand her sign language and Stink watched as her expressive hands asked, ‘Why haven’t you got old Mo with you today?’
Stink leaned against his laden wheelbarrow and rubbing a tattered sleeve over his sweaty brow he said sorrowfully, ‘The old man is not at all well, miss. His chest is rattlin’ like a bundle o’ dry hay. He has not been outside his tent since we came last week and we are afraid for him, miss. He has not eaten a bite for days and is only able to sup hot toddy – we are all thinkin’ the good Lord has set His finger upon the old man.’
Rachel drew back in horror, her smooth brow furrowed. Her beloved old rogue of an Irishman couldn’t be dying – her visits to the tinker encampment to see him were one of the highlights of her life. But old Mo was indeed very ill. That evening, when the sun was low in the western sky, Rachel ran over the heat-hazed moors to the hollow near Dunuaigh. The smoke from the tinkers’ fires curled lazily into the gold-washed sky and in the little burn that purled through the heather the tinker children paddled their feet, while nearby the women washed clothes. The small round framework tents with their weathered coverings of grey canvas were dotted together in companionable closeness. It was a familiar scene to Rachel. She of all the people on Rhanna knew the tinkers as well as they knew each other, and as her long brown legs carried her swiftly through the tough moor grasses, the children glanced up and waved to her in greeting. She found old Mo lying on a tattered pile of bedding. His pram lay outside, abandoned and forgotten-looking – as if the old man who had occupied it for so long would never again ride upon its creaking chassis.
The sound of old Mo’s rapid breathing filled the dark confined space. Rachel knelt beside him and put her hand on his damp brow. His mottled face was grey and gaunt, and he didn’t stir at her touch. Beside him lay an almost full bottle of whisky, and to Rachel that in itself was a sign that the old man was not long for the world. In a panic she started up. She had to get help. He couldn’t, he mustn’t, be allowed to die. She ran outside and without preliminary, began hitching a cart to a fly-tormented pony who was searching the heather for clover.
‘It is no use, miss,’ Stink cried. ‘There is no help for him. Leave the old man to die in peace.’
But Rachel paid no heed. She jumped on the cart and, grabbing the reins, coaxed the pony into a trot. One thought beat in Rachel’s head: Help, she had to get help. The doctor was too far away; the nearest person with medical knowledge was Biddy – and it was to the sturdy grey stone house in Glen Fallan that Rachel guided the horse. Biddy was preparing for bed. The remains of her supper of oatcakes and creamy milk lay on the table. Halfway through eating it, she had fallen asleep and sat by the embers of the fire, her cat Woody ensconced on her knee, her white head nodding onto her breast. Rachel opened the door and went inside to shake the old woman gently by the shoulder. Biddy jumped and Woody clawed her knee in fright before leaping down to scamper under a chair.
‘Ach, what on earth!’ grumbled Biddy. ‘Can’t a body have a snooze at the fireside without bein’ shaken to bits?’ She screwed up her eyes at the intruder, but without her glasses she was blind. ‘Has the cat got your tongue?’ she cried sharply. ‘Get me my damty specs till I see who you are.’
She grabbed the proffered glasses and stuck them on the end of her nose. The vision of Rachel was a hazy one. ‘Are you a spook or are you real?’ Biddy demanded. ‘What is it you’re tryin’ to tell me?’
But Rachel had no time to waste. She knew the old nurse could make little sense of her sign language and gently she began pulling Biddy to her feet. ‘Please, oh, please,’ the girl cried silently. ‘Come with me. Make her come, God.’
Biddy sensed the girl’s urgency. The dazzling child with her untamed quality and great expressive eyes had always been a particular favourite of hers. Stiffly she got to her feet. ‘Go away ben the lobby and get me my cloak and my bag,’ she ordered. ‘I’m no’ a mind reader but I’m thinkin’ somebody must be ill.’
A few minutes later, they departed from the house and Rachel goaded the horse into a trot. The sun had set, diffusing the sky with fire. The cliffs of Croy were red in the glow, the sea a sheet of flame; the peace of night lay over the moors like an invisible cloak.
‘It’s as I thought,’ Biddy said softly when the tink camp came into view. ‘Yon auld Irish de’il I haveny a doubt.’
A tinker woman was bathing old Mo’s brow; when she saw Biddy she shook her red head. ‘It�
�s no use me old woman, he’s nearly a goner. Come mornin’ he’ll be wi’ the fairies. You have had a wasted journey.’ Biddy puffed out her scraggy chest. ‘I’ll be the judge o’ that, my bonny woman. Bring me some clean cold water and dinna waste too much time about it.’
With difficulty she eased herself over to the old man and examined him quickly, screwing up her nose as odours of all kinds were released from his clothing. She shook her head and turned to Rachel. ‘Pneumonia. Too far gone to help. The bodach is burning up. The only thing we can do for him is make him as comfortable as it’s possible to make a dying body.’
Rachel recoiled as if she had been struck. Gently the old nurse took her hand. ‘My bairnie, you are young and strong wi’ life tumbling through your veins so fast it’s like a burnie rushin’ after rain – this is an auld man, the stream o’ his life is dryin’ up. Look at him, Rachel, he is very very tired. He wants to die; he needs to rest. When a body gets old and feeble, the dawn of each new day can sometimes be more a curse than a blessing.’ She shook her head sadly and sighed. ‘Fine I know it too, some mornin’s I feel like closin’ my eyes like old Mo here and givin’ up the ghost.’
Rachel felt the sobs tearing at her throat. She looked at the old man’s grey, sunken face. Biddy was right, he did look tired and very old; the stubble that sprouted from his sweat-lathered face looked like snow lying on grey earth.
As the hours wore on, Mo’s breathing became harsher. And when Biddy grew weary of bathing him, Rachel took over, gently washing the perspiration from his face and chest. The only sounds in the ghostly hours before dawn were Mo’s laboured breaths and the resigned moans from a nearby tent where a young woman lay in childbirth. Sometime before dawn the old man stirred and opened his eyes. They were dazed, and he seemed to struggle out from a far distant place, but awareness came into them at sight of Rachel. He struggled to speak, but no sound came and Rachel bathed his cracked lips and lifted his head to allow him to drink some water. He spluttered and said in a strong voice, ‘Water! Water bejasus! It’s the water o’ life I’m needin’! Where’s me whisky?’
Children of Rhanna Page 23