Return To Rhanna

by Christine Marion Fraser

  Lorn didn’t comprehend the meaning of his words and Lachlan took one hand from the wheel and gripped the boy’s shoulder. ‘In my experience there are such things as premature births – the island’s full of them. Ay, many’s the bouncing full-term babe I’ve slapped on the backside and the mother telling me, as innocent as you like, how surprised she was that a premature baby could be so big.’ His infectious laugh rang out. ‘The cailleachs will talk but just you keep them guessing. After all, you’re not the first couple to conceive on your wedding night and you won’t be the last.’

  ‘Bugger me, I hadny thought of that!’ Lorn’s tones were filled with awe and Lachlan smiled. How like Fergus the boy sounded, the same timbre of voice, the same terminology. They were also alike by nature, though there was one important difference in Lorn, an acceptance of the vagaries of life and a willingness to meet the twists of fate laid at his door. In his youth, Fergus had been too complicated, too proud to accept the tricks of life though maturity had mellowed him, had dampened the fire of his ready temper and for that Lachlan breathed many a sigh of relief.

  He brought the car to a halt outside Laigmhor. ‘Away you go in, Lorn,’ he instructed. ‘I can see your father another time, your news is more important.’

  ‘Thanks, Doctor,’ Lorn said briefly. He banged the car door shut and watched till the tail lights receded into the distance before turning his steps towards the house.

  The peace of evening lay over Laigmhor, a soft light shone from the kitchen window, the sharp fragrance of peat smoke filled the air, strains of Scottish dance music filtered from the parlour. Lorn breathed deeply, loving the sight of the sprawling farm with its outbuildings huddled into the night shadows. The kitchen was empty but for the animals heaped contentedly at the fire. Lorn took another deep breath and squaring his shoulders crossed over the silent hall to open the door of the parlour. Fergus was dancing with Shona, whirling her round with his strong right arm. Kirsteen was at the fire, busy with a pile of woolly socks which were always needing to be mended. At Lorn’s entry she glanced up, her expression unchanging but a light in her eyes at sight of her youngest son. She wondered why he had gone out of the house with a darkened brow and why he had returned full of a suppressed excitement.

  ‘I have something to tell you,’ he said and his voice was clear and strong. ‘Would you mind switching off the wireless?’

  Fergus complied with his wishes and silence flooded the room. In a breathless rush Lorn imparted his news then paused to look at each face in a mixture of defiance and joy. ‘Well, aren’t any of you going to congratulate me? It isn’t every day I ask a lass to marry me.’

  Without ado Fergus went to the sideboard to withdraw glasses and a bottle of whisky. ‘I’m thinking this calls for a dram – in my case a big one.’ The hand that poured the whisky was not quite steady but by the time he held up his glass to toast the future happiness of Lorn and Ruth he was himself again, his black eyes showing his genuine delight when he said, ‘You’re young to be taking a wife but I can’t talk for I was not that much older myself when I got wed. Young marriages seem to run in the McKenzie household and I wish you every happiness, son. You’ll make your home here till we can fix you up with something else. Matthew was talking about going to live beside Tina’s mother in Portcull and it’s quite likely their cottage will be free soon. The bairn will be born here—’ He laughed. ‘It’s time these old walls heard again a baby’s voice, it will bring some life to the place.’

  Kirsteen had said very little. She hugged Lorn before slipping quietly out of the room, her eyes very shiny. Fergus found her in the kitchen, leaning against the mantelpiece, her head on her arm, the firelight finding every hollow in her face and gleaming on the tears staining her cheeks.

  Fergus took her tenderly in his embrace and kissed her wet face. ‘Mo cridhe,’ he whispered huskily. ‘Did I do right telling Lorn that he and Ruth could live here? I didn’t give you any say in the matter.’

  She leaned her head on his shoulder, loving the strength of his body. ‘Fergie, Fergie, they were the nicest words I’ve heard spoken in this house for many a long day – oh, my darling,’ she snuggled her face into the warm hollow of his neck, ‘I love you for so many things but tonight I love you more than ever for being the man you are.’

  He held her away from him, his dark gaze very intense. She was smiling, a smile of radiance that all at once banished her weariness. ‘You look so happy,’ he said wonderingly. ‘Like the Kirsteen I knew long ago with the sunlight in her hair and the summer in her smile.’

  She laughed, running a finger over his firm rebellious mouth. ‘Just when I think we’ve had all our romance you speak the words of a poet but you’re right – I am that girl of long ago – at heart anyway.’ She drew a deep breath. ‘Oh, I’m so happy – I feel as if – as if Lewis was about to come back to us – he’ll live on in his bairn.’

  ‘Ay, but you must think of it as Lorn’s – we all must think that.’

  ‘Och, I know, I know, it will be Lorn’s but – just occasionally I’ll look – and I’ll remember Lewis.’

  In the parlour Shona sat with Lorn, both of them lost in their own separate thoughts.

  ‘Was it very difficult to accept – the thing that Ruth had to tell you?’ Shona said eventually, tearing her gaze away from the leaping flames in the hearth.

  Lorn nibbled at a thumb nail, a habit of his when he had a lot on his mind. ‘She didn’t tell me – I had already guessed. It made it less painful for her – oh, we had a bit of a scene, she’s got a lot of pride in her and thought I wanted to marry her just to give the bairn a name.’

  ‘And – aren’t you?’

  He glared at her. ‘You should know better than that, Shona!’ he ground out. ‘What a daft thing to say. You know how I feel about Ruth.’

  The blue of her eyes deepened and she smiled. ‘I just wanted to hear you say it. She’s lucky to have you, Lorn. She could travel the length and breadth of the globe and never find your like.’

  ‘I just hope that witch of a mother of hers thinks so too. She doesn’t trust the McKenzies.’

  ‘Morag Ruadh doesn’t trust anyone,’ said Shona with a shudder. ‘Not even herself. That’s been the root of her troubles all these years. She’ll go to her grave with an uneasy mind – you mark my words. It’s a good thing Ruth’s getting out in time, it’s her father I feel sorry for – poor old Doug, he deserved better than Morag – yet – in his own way he’s fond of the caillich – he seldom speaks ill of her. Any other man would have left her years ago.’

  ‘He stayed for Ruth’s sake.’

  ‘Ay, but he’ll stay long after Ruth’s gone, he’ll see it through to the bitter end – and it will be a bitter one. Morag will pay a terrible price for her years of self-loathing and I doubt it will be a price not even she bargained for.’

  The carbolic smelling kitchen was faintly lit by a single paraffin lamp which cast shadows over the ceiling and softened the harsh outlines of the sparsely furnished room.

  Thanks to Dugald the fire was piled amply with peats, and its warm glow was about the only source of welcome the house had to offer. He was sitting beside the range in his rocking chair, his mop of silvery white hair shining like a beacon against the drab walls whose only embellishment took the form of religious samplers hung in places where they were sure to catch the eye. Recently he had rebelled and had nailed up several of his own little watercolours of wildflowers and birds of the seashore. They had stood out like jewels and Ruth’s heart had lightened every time she looked at them. The delicate hues of summer had been captured in each petal and she could almost smell the sweet fragrance of each bloom filtering through the perpetual taint of disinfectant.

  But the joy had been brief. One day she found every one of the paintings gone and on questioning her father had learned that Morag had taken them all down and wouldn’t tell him what had become of them. Ruth had felt a great, overpowering sadness washing over her. Her father had looked so lost
, a defeated droop about his shoulders that made him look old, yet, when Ruth had cried aloud in anger he had put his fingers to her lips and said, ‘Weesht, Ruthie, I can paint more. Your mother is no’ too well the now and you mustny say a word to her about them.’

  He had omitted to tell his daughter that Morag was becoming less and less responsible for her actions and he had never mentioned that he had had to get out of bed on more than one occasion to either prevent his wife from her nocturnal wanderings or to bring her back from them. On the last occasion she had led him to the kirkyard, a ghostly apparition in her white nightgown, moving through the darkness, following a pathway which she had trodden many times during her life. The hairs had risen on the back of his neck when her steps had finally stopped at the kirk on the hillock and she had begun to sing, a thin high sound, eerily enhanced by the silence of night and the ghostly sight of gravestones rising out of the gloom. The scraping of the kirk door had leapt out at him like thunder, startling him into action, forcing him to go forward just as Morag was about to enter the old church. She had shown no surprise at his sudden appearance and had allowed him to lead her home, her hand in his like a trusting child. She remembered nothing of such happenings and so Dugald struggled to keep his secret to himself. As a result he was so exhausted it was becoming more and more difficult for him to maintain a show of normality to the world, though for Ruth’s sake he strived to remain cheerful.

  Ruth’s gaze swept over him as she entered the kitchen. He was sticking pictures of his beloved birds and flowers into a big scrapbook. Earlier in the evening Morag had accused him of idleness but he had ignored her and had gone on quietly with his hobby.

  ‘You’re back, Ruthie,’ he smiled in greeting. ‘Would you like a cuppy? The kettle’s on the boil.’

  Ruth went to stand by him, laying her hand on his thin shoulder. ‘No, Father, I’m fine – I – there’s a few things I’d like to say to you and Mam.’

  Morag didn’t hear. She was flouncing about more than usual, lifting pots from the range and banging them down on the shelves of the larder.

  ‘Just where have you been all this time, my girl?’ she asked through tight lips. ‘I said you could go over to your Grannie’s for a whily but I didn’t mean this long. You know fine that Saturday is a busy day for me. Is it too much to expect a bit o’ help from you?’

  Fine Ruth knew what Morag meant. For as long as she could remember, Saturday nights in the ‘temple’ were a bustle of relentless activity. Everything that could be scrubbed was attended to with a thoroughness that left wooden objects as bleached as dry bones. Though the floors and walls were washed every morning with carbolic, they were treated to another onslaught on Saturday nights till it seemed that the very plaster cried out for mercy. Afternoons were spent preparing food and the evening spent cooking it so that there would be nothing to do on the Sabbath but serve it.

  On summer evenings Dugald was able to escape to his boat or to the moors but with the onset of winter he was forced to resign himself to the house and somehow immerse himself in the harmless pastimes which Morag despised.

  Ruth watched her mother for a moment before she made a reply. She had grown thinner of late but she was agile as ever, her lithe body encased in a homespun jersey and skirt, her legs swathed in long black woollen stockings which she had knitted herself. Her hair, though spiked with white, was as flamboyantly red as it had ever been and she never ventured outside without a severe black hat jammed on so tightly only the more unruly strands could find an escape.

  Ruth licked her dry lips, wishing that she had been able to get her father on his own. She hated herself in those moments, knowing that she was about to heap more coals onto those which already consumed his life. She hesitated, wondering perhaps if she ought to wait for a while. But no! If she didn’t speak now she might never recapture the courage she had plucked up on the way up the path.

  ‘I wasn’t at Granny’s, Mam, I was with Lorn McKenzie.’ Her voice came out strong and clear, the confident ring to it as much a surprise to herself as the words were to Morag. Ruth had found that strength was the only effective weapon against her mother. She laughed at anything else, gentleness was to her a sign of weakness and because Dugald had used it over the years she was scornful of him and though she never said as much she made it plain he was to be despised for his patient endurance.

  Morag paused in the larder doorway and slowly, as if afraid she might drop it, she lowered a heavy pan carefully onto the top of the sideboard.

  ‘What was that you said, Ruth?’ she asked, her voice ominously quiet.

  ‘I said I was with Lorn, Mam.’ Ruth’s own voice remained steady, though inwardly she was trembling so much she felt that if she stayed on her feet for very much longer she would faint. All her life she had dreaded her mother’s rages. She rarely shouted or indulged in verbal battles but gave out the impression that she would explode at any moment, like a volcano that had been simmering for years and seemed ready to erupt into uncontrolled violence. There was also about her a frightening intensity, an eerie quality of rage in continual ferment beneath a flimsy surface. Ruth had always known that her mother’s strength was purely physical and lately she had come to see that the spiritual props upon which she had built her life were beginning to crumble. She was turning more and more to her Bible and finding nothing in it to sustain the warped beliefs she had harboured for so long. It was a crazed and fruitless searching for spiritual sustenance and she was poorly equipped to deal with the realities of her own and her family’s existence.

  Every time Ruth or Dugald brought the cold realities of the everyday world into the house she was genuinely shocked and unable to face them rationally and she experienced a sense of panic as she heard the determination in her daughter’s voice.

  ‘Wi’ Lorn, eh?’ She struggled to sound cold and detached. ‘And what pray were you doin’ wi’ him when you were supposed to be wi’ your grandparents?’

  ‘We – we were just talking, Mam.’ Ruth felt herself faltering and gathered up her strength for the onslaught that must surely follow her next words. ‘We’re going to be married, Mam – I – I hope you and Father are pleased.’

  Colour suffused Morag’s ruddy face. ‘Married? Married to Lorn McKenzie! And how did this come about, my girl? If I’m no’ mistaking I was led to believe it was his brother you were caperin’ about with. Ay, he’s dead now but he had his use o’ you first—’ Her voice rose slightly. ‘He violated you, Ruth! My lassie, my very own lassie, who never heeded any o’ my warnings about men but just threw herself at the first lad who came along. What sort o’ a girl are you, Ruth? Giving your body to one man one minute and the next tellin’ me you’re goin’ to be marryin’ his brither? The de’il is in you, Ruth, and no mistake and may the Lord forgive you!’

  All the power left Ruth and her voice broke on a sob. ‘Mam, I love Lorn, I’ve always loved him! I only went with Lewis because he was dying and needed me more than he ever needed anyone in his life. I never loved him – but – but I’m expecting his baby and Lorn is going to marry me because he loves me more than his pride – more than anyone in the world ever loved me – except – except for my father. He’s the only one who ever showed me what it was like to be loved and it’s nice, Mam, to be loved. I’m truly sorry it had to happen this way but – you had to know and there’s nothing you can do about it – except – tell me that you care more for me than you care about the gossips and what they’ll say!’

  There was a long silence in the room. Dugald prepared himself for Morag’s reaction even though he himself had been poorly prepared for the blow of Ruth’s news. He adored the flaxen-haired girl and fully believed she was his daughter. For years he had doubted this to be the case, but more and more, as time passed and the little quirks of nature that were in him became apparent in Ruth, his doubts had become fewer and had reached the stage where they were practically non-existent. She was his child, the startling fairness of her hair and complexion had been his as a l
ad, she had inherited his gift for writing and just lately had shown that she had a talent for painting. She was the only thing that made any sense of his life, she was his life and now she was going to be married, she would go away from the house never to return, taking everything that meant anything to him for without her nothing was worthwhile – he was condemned to living alone in the house with Morag and he couldn’t take any more of her – he couldn’t . . . Shame washed over him. Ruthie, his Ruthie was expecting a child. She was only a wee lassie herself yet she had never by a single word given her secret away. How she must have suffered . . . He sucked in his breath and reaching out he seized Ruth’s hand and pulled her down beside him. He couldn’t speak, couldn’t tell her that she and Lorn had his blessing, but she didn’t need to hear him say anything, it was all in his eyes, those honest grey eyes which so easily conveyed his emotions.

  Morag seemed to have shrivelled in the last few minutes. All the colour had drained from her face except for two flaming spots high on her cheekbones. She sagged against the sideboard, its bleached surface supporting the weight of her gaunt frame on arms that were rigid. The silence stretched, a tangible force, filling the dark corners with insidious waiting. The very house seemed to be holding its breath in suspense. Ruth could bear it no longer. The wrath that she had dreaded was suspended, unspoken words of anger hung in the heavy air like poison-laden barbs.

  ‘Mam!’ Ruth struggled to her feet and limping over to her mother placed a hand on her arm. ‘Mam,’ she appealed again, ‘are you all right?’

  Slowly Morag raised her head and the girl saw that her strange green eyes were glittering unnaturally in the faint light. ‘All right, all right,’ she hissed through lips that were deathly white. ‘How can you ask that, my girl? How can you speak to me – knowing the things you’ve done? I will be the laughing stock of this place.’ Her tone became a lamenting wail. ‘I will never be able to hold up my head in pride again – never, as long as I live. You’ve brought a curse to the good name of this house, you wanton, brazen hussy that you are . . .’