Return To Rhanna

by Christine Marion Fraser

  On his return the men of Portcull had treated him kindly, though few were unable to resist teasing him. Dodie had remained primly tight-lipped about his experiences and had now reached the stage of being quite proud of his new appearance, to the degree of carting around a small milk churn which he held up every so often to view himself at different angles.

  ‘Carry a mirror in your pocket,’ Tam McKinnon had urged him. ‘It would be a sight easier and no one will be the wiser.’ But Dodie had turned up his new nose at this. ‘I would be the wiser and I will no’ turn into a cissy for you or for anyone else for that matter. Anyways, the milk churn is only in case I meet Ealasaid, it’s easier to carry than a pail.’

  At Shona’s words he smiled gloomily through his fingers, his grey-green eyes alighting with deference on Ruth whom he had held in some awe since she had had her first story published, a fact which put her ill at ease in his company for he was inclined to eye her from head to foot as if she wasn’t quite real and might disappear from view at any moment. ‘Ay, thon hospital is a fine place just,’ he enthused, his broken teeth showing for a moment. ‘I am knowing now what it feels like to lie back and be treated like a lord. I had a fine rest though I couldny sleep much at night wi’ the noise o’ motor cars an’ folks shoutin’ in the street outside. I wouldny like the likes o’ that life all the time. I missed my bonny cow, that I did, but it was lovely just to get off havin’ to work for a whily.’

  Shona held her counsel knowing it would be useless to bring up the subject of the Old Age Pension for which Dodie was eligible but refused to collect. ‘I dinna want it,’ he had protested disdainfully. ‘I’m no’ auld yet and they can just keep it till I’m no’ young enough to work.’

  So he continued to ‘work to Burnbreddie’ and to do his rounds of farm and croft, taking any odd job that chanced along, though he was not averse to making an easy shilling when the opportunity presented itself, as his next rather breathless words proved. ‘I have just come from Ranald’s,’ he blurted, drawing his greasy cuff across his nose with a loud and satisfying sniff. ‘He asked me to come over this dinner time to see would I collect some nice shells for the shop he is thinkin’ o’ openin’ for the towrists.’

  ‘A shop?’ asked Shona in some distraction, sensing an unusual restlessness in Ruth, who, completely uninterested in Dodie’s ramblings, was gazing over his bent back to the village beyond.

  Dodie nodded excitedly. ‘Ay, just that. A crafty shop or something grand like it. Him an’ one o’ they artist wifies are gettin’ together this winter to turn his big boat shed inside out. She’s goin’ to be paintin’ pictures to sell and Ranald wants me and Hector the Boat to collect and polish all the shells we can – bits o’ driftwood forbye.’ He ended, full of amazement at the idea of anyone paying good money for hunks of wood washed up by the tide.

  Shona couldn’t suppress a giggle. The artist woman that Dodie had referred to was none other than Barra McLean, a distant cousin of Behag and Robbie Beag, who more than thirty-five years ago had taken her leave of the island to study art in Glasgow. Though remaining a spinster, she had done well for herself and with a lifetime of teaching behind her she had retired back to Rhanna and was living in one of the harbour cottages. Her somewhat unconventional form of dress had caused a furore among the island women, led in their disapproval by Behag who was petrified at the idea that any relative of hers should bring disgrace upon the family name. In a loud voice she had denounced Barra, interspersing her words with sniffs of indignation. ‘Hmph, have you ever seen the likes? Smokin’ like a lum and wearin’ the trowser like she was born in them! I wouldny be seen dead wi’ thon cratur’ and that’s a fact. As for that Ranald McTavish! He should think shame of himself but then, he’s the sort that would do anything for sillar and from what I hear that – that person is no’ short of a shilling or two.’

  ‘So, you wouldny be seen dead wi’ Barra?’ Kate had said thoughtfully. ‘Well, you’d best get used to the idea for wi’ her bein’ a relative o’ yours it’s quite on the cards you will get to be nose to tail wi’ her in the kirkyard one day. Oh ay, it’s no’ daft we are, Behag. I am after hearin’ she’s the selfsame cousin o’ yours who went away to the mainland years ago – and a nicer, kindlier woman you couldny meet anywhere – even though she does wear the trowser – and enjoy a dram the same as yourself. I tell you, she’s a mite too nice to be a relative o’ yours – at least she has a civil tongue in her head, which is more than can be said for you.’

  At which point the purple-faced Behag had flounced into her back shop leaving Kate skirling with such infectious laughter she soon had everyone laughing with her and looking askance at the outraged Behag’s disappearing back.

  Ruth smiled absently as Dodie came to the end of his monologue and, shrugging herself out of Shona’s cardigan, she handed it back and murmuring something about getting along to the shop she limped hurriedly away.

  Dodie gazed after her and shook his head sorrowfully. ‘Poor lassie, she’s no’ lookin’ like herself – but then she has good reason. I am after hearin’ that besom Morag is doin’ strange things in the middle o’ the night—’ He paused cryptically and gave Shona a conspiratorial flutter of his eyelid which was meant to be a wink. ‘I saw her wi’ my very own eyes, wanderin’ over the Hillock in her goonie. I was that feart I near died for at first I thought she was a spook comin’ out of the kirkyard to haunt me. I was just fleein’ away when I heard the organ bein’ played in kirk an’ I knew it was that Morag Ruadh, for no one else plays it wi’ a louder foot. It is a wonder to me she never wakened the whole of the island wi’ thon thing echoin’ over the hills – just like a spook it was – screamin’ in agony.’

  Shona paused with her hand on the gate. So the rumours about Morag were true after all. She wondered if Ruth was aware of her mother’s odd behaviour. She had given no indication that things weren’t as normal, if normal could be applied to the kind of life she led. But Shona knew that Ruth was fiercely loyal and would never let slip by a single word that her mother’s behaviour was giving her cause for concern. Shona sighed. As if Ruth hadn’t enough to worry her. It was little wonder that she looked so pale and distraught and not in any frame of mind to be bothered passing the time of day in frivolous chatter.

  Shona laid her hand on Dodie’s arm. ‘Dodie, don’t be saying a word of what you saw, for Ruth’s sake.’

  He stared at her in amazement. ‘I wouldny do that,’ he protested indignantly. ‘I’d be too feart that witch Morag found out and would maybe start hauntin’ me in the middle o’ the night. She’s daft, lassie,’ he stressed gently. ‘She doesn’t know if her head’s on back to front or if she’s comin’ or goin’. I just walk the other way when I see her for the last time she grabbed hold o’ me her eyes were glitterin’ an’ she looked mad as a peat hag. She was lookin’, at me – yet she was lookin’ right through me – as if I wasny there and when she started rantin’ at me for no’ goin’ to kirk on the Sabbath I just tore myself away from her an’ ran all the way home.’

  He glanced round his shoulder in some trepidation, as if expecting to see Morag bearing down on him, and with a breathless ‘He breeah!’ he was off, his long loping stride taking him to the foot of the hill track, almost before Shona had turned to shut the gate behind her.

  Chapter Two

  Fergus looked up as Shona came through the door, rapturously welcomed by Sheil and Ben who had been having their midday repast from bowls set out on the cobbled yard while Bob, their master, was inside as he always was at this time of day, sharing the McKenzie table.

  The kitchen was warm and peaceful with the cats stretched out by the range and the old clock on the wall ticking the seconds away. It was much the same as it had been when Shona had lived at Laigmhor and that was what she loved about it. People had come and gone, time had changed many things, but the house had remained untouched by it all, its sturdy walls occasionally embellished by new paint and the ornamentations placed on them by human hands. More
importantly, they had absorbed atmosphere and seemed to breathe gently of the many souls who had lived and loved and died within the homely shelter of the time-worn bricks. For a moment Shona was whisked back to childhood, seeing in her mind’s eye Mirabelle at the fire, her plump face flushed as she cooked dinner or stirred the morning porridge over the flames. Shona realized that her mother must have stood at the very same fire a long time ago, just a young girl who thought she had all her life in front of her, but who had died as her daughter was born. It was difficult for Shona to get a mental picture of her but she could well imagine her smiling, the way she smiled from the photograph Shona kept among her personal possessions and which she looked at often. Her father had always sat in the same place he was sitting at now, on the same high-backed chair, the dents on its shiny leather surface bearing witness to its years of usage. She studied him for a moment. Time had been kind to him, his tall, muscular body was still lithe and lean, his face certainly bore a few lines but they only added to its ruggedness; his hair, though threaded through with white, was in the main still as black as night, the crisping curls at his nape straggling over the collar of his green serge working shirt. His eyes were dark and lively, smiling as they had smiled at her in yesteryears when she had run in from the meadows to recount some trivial incident that had been of universal importance to her at the time.

  ‘You’re back early, mo ghaoil,’ he observed. ‘Don’t tell me you’re scunnered with housework already.’

  She started out of her reverie. ‘Ach no, it’s daft to be doing much cleaning with the house still to be painted. I just wanted to polish the furniture to keep it in good condition. Tomorrow I’ll go and cover everything ready for you and Lachlan to get over there with your paintbrushes. You could start it while I’m here and I could give you a hand.’

  He made a rueful face at the suggestion. A man of the outdoors, he had never been one to lavish a lot of attention on decor, though Kirsteen had seen to it that the rooms at Laigmhor were kept fresh and presentable.

  Bob scraped a slice of crusty bread over his plate and sniffed scornfully. ‘All thon painting and papering is just a lot o’ palaver and a waste o’ time and money. My own walls look just as good with a bit of distemper brushed over them. The way folks slap paper on their houses you would think the damty things were going to fall down at any minute. Good walls don’t need the likes o’ that to hold them together.’

  ‘Ach, Bob, if you’d had a wife things might have been different,’ giggled Shona, sitting down at the table to reach for a buttered scone. ‘It would have been the making of you and your home – and just think, you would have had someone to darn your socks and wash your shirts for you.’

  ‘A wife!’ Bob snorted in outrage. ‘What would I have done wi’ a wife? Just buggering nuisances – the lot o’ them.’

  Shona’s eyes twinkled. She was thoroughly enjoying the opportunity to tease the old shepherd who had always scorned marriage but who had nevertheless hankered after a family to look after him in his old age which, though he was eighty-six, was to him very much in the distant future.

  ‘Oh, so you’ve had a lot of experience with women then?’ Shona said mischievously. ‘And here was me thinking you were just an innocent bodach with only your dogs to keep you company.’

  Fergus threw back his head and roared with laughter as the indignant Bob exploded into wrath which was belied by the twinkle in his faded blue eyes. ‘My dogs is all I ever wanted and that’s a fact! If I had taken a wife like you, I wouldny be here to tell the tale o’ the kind o’ life you would have led me. It’s all the cleaning that I canny bide. It’s just a waste o’ precious time. I have dust on my mantelpiece that was there twenty years ago and if I cleaned it off tomorrow it would just come back as thick in a month.’

  ‘If you cleaned it off tomorrow you would smother yourself to death, Bob Patterson, and you’d never live that down for the rest of your life.’

  Kirsteen appeared at that moment, smiling as the sounds of merriment filled the kitchen. ‘If that’s not a Highland way of putting things I don’t know what is,’ she said, sinking down into the inglenook by the fire. ‘It’s good to have you home, Shona. You’re the only one who can keep the men in their place. Have you had anything to eat? I didn’t expect you back so soon but there’s plenty left in the pot.’

  ‘I’ve had something, Kirsteen,’ Shona said quickly. ‘I’m just being greedy helping myself to your scones – I never could resist them.’

  Under the veil of her long lashes she observed the older woman, saddened anew at the changes the last few months had wrought in her. She was careful to maintain a show of cheerfulness but her defences were down just then and Shona noted the tired droop of her shoulders and the somewhat defeated angle of her head. Gone was all the youthful buoyancy of spirit, the still, golden beauty that had been peculiarly hers had disappeared, her fine face was thin and drawn and there was more white than fair in her springy, curling hair. Shona felt sadness clutching at her heart. She had lost a brother, but Kirsteen had lost a son and Shona knew only too well that maternal love was one of the deepest, fiercest loves of all.

  She crumbled her scone into her plate, her appetite suddenly gone. Broodingly she wondered how Kirsteen would take the news of Ruth’s pregnancy. What if the girl decided to go away and have the child adopted? Kirsteen would never be able to bear the pain of that – she wouldn’t allow it to happen . . . Shona pulled herself up abruptly. She was letting her thoughts run riot. She had to wait, allow one thing to happen at a time. She wished that Niall was here, he was so steady and sensible, his rational way of thinking allowing him to work out the best way of dealing with things. She half thought of phoning to ask him for his advice but almost immediately shrugged the impulse aside. Far better to wait; after all if any decisions were to be made it was up to Lorn and Ruth to make them and they wouldn’t welcome her interference at this stage.

  ‘Where’s Lorn?’ she heard herself saying somewhat automatically.

  Fergus glanced up quickly. ‘You sound strange, mo ghaoil, the way you used to sound when you had secrets you wanted to keep from me.’

  She felt a slight sense of panic at his words. He knew her so well, almost as if he could read her very thoughts. It had been like that in the old days when it had been just she and he at Laigmhor. Each had been so atuned to the other, a telepathy that existed between them had been uncanny. She had thought that the passage of time might have erased that often disturbingly close bond but knew in those moments that it was something that would always remain with them.

  With a toss of her head she shook his words aside and laughed as she got to her feet. ‘Havers! You’re growing too imaginative in your old age – nearly as bad as myself. Is it so unusual to want to see my very own wee brother? It’s ages since I’ve seen him and we have a lot to catch up on. Just you tell me where he is and I’ll leave you to have your afternoon nap in peace.’

  She found Lorn in one of the sheds that flanked the cobbled yard. He was cleaning mud off the tractor but glanced round at her approach. Again she was struck by the notion that this broad-shouldered boy wasn’t Lorn, but Lewis – Lewis as he had been, a strong, healthy young rascal who had laughed at life. Lorn had always been the more frail of the two but now he was growing stronger every day and had the look of someone who had never known a day’s illness in his life. His sleeves were rolled to the elbows exposing brown muscular arms; the collar of his shirt was laid back to reveal a deep, manly chest. He was as Lewis might have looked if he had lived, but there was also a strong resemblance to Fergus in him. It was there, in his dark intense eyes and in the powerful facial structures which were beginning to mature into young manhood. On an impulse Shona put her arms round him and gave him an affectionate hug and he laughed, a deep warm laugh tinged with embarrassment. ‘Hey, c’mon, I’m too grown-up for that sort of thing,’ he protested. Nevertheless he didn’t pull himself immediately away but hugged her back, his embrace filled with the love he ha
d felt for her all his life. Playfully he tugged at a lock of her hair and stood back to survey her.

  ‘What brings you out here? Have you come to help me clean the tractor? If so you’re welcome. As you know I was always better suited to grooming horses.’

  Shona wrinkled her nose. ‘Me too, you can keep your noisy tractor. Actually – I came to tell you that I have a message for you – from Ruth.’

  ‘From Ruthie?’ He sounded wary, and a little sulky. ‘What is it?’

  ‘You have to see her this evening, up by Brodie’s Burn – don’t ask me what it’s all about – she’ll tell you herself.’

  He turned away but not before she saw a slow flush creeping over his smooth, tanned cheeks. Self-consciously he brushed an impatient hand over his face as if to wipe away the tell-tale crimson that so easily betrayed his inner feelings, and it was so quiet for a few moments she heard plainly the faint rasping as his fingers slid over the stubble of tiny fair hairs on his chin.