Return To Rhanna

by Christine Marion Fraser

  Beside the cruisie there were even the remains of the matches she had struck so frantically whilst in the throes of lonely childbirth – she shuddered and forced her mind away from that time, thinking instead of that day all those years ago when she and Niall had come here – there had been a reason – he had wanted to still the fears she had about marriage, to take away the guilt she had harboured since the birth of their stillborn son, she had been haunted by it and hadn’t wanted to face the reality that marriage to Niall would bring. But he had stilled her fears – had loved her, tenderly, passionately, completely and he had succeeded in taking away the shadows of the past. She shivered again, wondering why her steps had led her here today, almost as if she had been meant to come back, a pilgrimage to make her realize how lucky she was in her marriage. ‘Niall,’ she murmured, ‘we’ve been so happy, we’ve had so much love in our lives – and Ellie has made it complete.’

  But she wasn’t complete, that was the root of her present unrest and she faced it that morning in the cave at Dunuaigh. It had all started with Ruth and her baby – yet it went back further than that, back a long way. The advent of little Lorna had brought it all to the surface, that was all. It was as simple as that. She gritted her teeth. ‘I’m not going to think about it anymore,’ she vowed there and then. ‘I’m a lucky bitch, I’ve got Ellie, she’s all I want . . .’

  In a burst of determined energy she set about cleaning the cave, as if by doing so she could dust the cobwebs from her mind, rid herself of useless longings. Using a hand brush and shovel she found by the fireplace she brushed furiously till the layers of cobwebs were dissipated, with her dampened hanky she lifted as much dust as was possible. Eventually she stood back, hot but satisfied, taking a last look round. ‘I’ll never come back here,’ she vowed aloud. ‘There’s no reason now, it all belongs in the past.’

  Rather pensively she went back outside to the sun. With a last affectionate pat on the silver trunk of the birch tree she made her way back to the abbey where she took her lunch from her saddlebag and sat with her back against a wall to eat chicken sandwiches and fruit cake washed down with a flask of cold creamy milk.

  She had no desire now to stay in the hollow and getting back on her bike she cycled round to Glenriach and was nearing Loch Tenee when she saw a black bicycle much like her own propped against a rock. Beside it, gazing over the loch was the unmistakable figure of Mark James.

  The brakes of Biddy’s bike squealed in protest as she jammed them on and any dignified meeting she might have harboured in her mind was immediately squashed as, with one foot drawing sparks from the road, the bicycle careered on, coming to an abrupt halt at the verge, throwing her off amid thumps, squeaks and muffled curses.

  Mark James was at her side, helping her up, brushing her down, anxiety fighting the twinkle she glimpsed in his eyes.

  ‘Ach, I’m fine, go ahead and laugh if you want,’ she told him sharply. ‘I don’t think I’ve broken anything so you don’t have to fuss like a mother hen.’

  ‘Fine you may feel, but you look as if you’ve been in the wars,’ he hazarded, eyeing the red blotches on her legs and the scratches on her arms, his mouth twitching at sight of the dust marring her dress and lying in streaks across her suntanned limbs.

  She glanced down at herself and laughed. ‘You mustny bother about me, I’ve been out all morning enjoying myself.’

  The engaging grin that had captivated her from the start, beamed out. ‘You have some quaint ideas about having fun – you ought to bathe those scratches before they fester.’

  ‘I’m a good healer,’ she told him but nevertheless ran down to the edge of the loch to plunge her arms in. ‘I’m sorry I interrupted you,’ she threw over her shoulder. ‘I canny bide it if anybody does the same to me.’

  He came to stand by her, tall enough to make her crick her neck to look up at him. He loomed against the blue sky, clean looking in a white shirt tucked into fawn slacks, his feet encased in open sandals.

  ‘I was only having a bite of lunch at the lochside. Tina packed it for me and then bundled me out of the Manse, complete with John Grey’s bicycle, a legacy for the next in line, I suppose. Tina thinks I don’t get enough fresh air. She has gone all motherly on me lately so I thought I’d better do as I was told.’

  Shona straightened, keeping her eyes averted, not wanting to meet his quizzical gaze. ‘I’d better be getting on, time passes so quickly on a day like this I just forgot about it.’ She went over to examine her bike, relieved when she saw that the jolt had made little impression on the tough framework.

  ‘I’m finished here,’ he called, ‘I’ll get you along the road.’ He began to pack up, every movement slow and leisurely, reminding her of Woody in a lazy mood. ‘Which way are you going?’ he asked as he came up pushing his bike and when she told him she intended to go back via the high road he said easily, ‘Suits me, I’m making some house calls this afternoon and there’s one or two folk live in that direction.’

  She hesitated, wondering if it was too late to change her mind, tell him that she was going the harbour route after all. But he was already away, wobbling a little as he waited for her to catch up.

  ‘Och to hell, what’s the harm?’ she argued with herself and mounted quickly. He was easy to talk to, asking her things about herself, her family, genuinely interested, amused at some of the anecdotes she related, yet he made scant reference to his own life and she couldn’t stop herself from wondering why. But it was so pleasant cycling alongside him, feeling the sun on her face, the wind in her hair, his deep pleasant voice in her ears, that she forgot about everything and gave herself up to the pleasures of the moment. At the hill track they were about to go their separate ways when Dodie loomed over the brae, his nut-brown face showing his pleasure at sight of them. The minister had obviously encountered the old eccentric before and was ready to return the familiar greeting in kind, batting not one eyelid at sight of Dodie’s garb which was the same, winter and summer alike, nary a nostril wrinkling at the smells emanating from the big, wellington-encased feet.

  ‘I was wondering,’ Dodie began, ‘if you would like to be coming to my house for a wee strupak. I dinna get to come to kirk as much as I would like and haveny had a right chance to speak wi’ you – I haveny the right dress for wearin’ on the Sabbath and folks do nothing but sit in the pews and talk about the things you’re wearing.’ In his prim way he was lying. Shona knew fine that he could look smart enough when the notion took him but most of his life he had avoided going to church, only turning up in the kirkyard for funerals and occasionally weddings.

  ‘I was aye thinkin’ that God is no’ just to be found in a kirk,’ Dodie was explaining gloomily. ‘I find Him all the time when I am wanderin’ the moors. I sometimes let Him into my own hoosie forbye, but it is no’ God I’m wantin’ to see the day, it is yourself, Mr James. I’d like fine if you would be honourin’ me wi’ a visit.’

  Shona eyed the old man, thinking that he was indeed growing sophisticated and she was further astounded when he fluttered an eyelid in her direction in an attempted wink and invited her along as well.

  The tiny cottage in its picturesque setting of heathery hillock, flanked by a burn that tumbled over white stones, sparkled white in the sun. It had obviously just been painted and Shona suspected this was the reason Dodie had asked them back. Her suspicion was confirmed when the minister commented on the charm of the house and how well it was maintained. In an excess of pride Dodie puffed out his bony chest and nodded in eager agreement.

  ‘Ay, ay, it’s a fine wee house and does me and Ealasaid a treat. Now, will you be comin’ this way, mind the sharn doesny get on your shoes, the sheeps drop it all over the place but I am no’ mindin’ for it makes a good manure for my vegetables, mashed in a bucket wi’ a wee droppy water.’

  Shona held her breath. History was about to be made. Dodie was actually leading them to his door and it would be the first time ever that a minister had been invited over the doorst
ep. But at the last minute he held up his stubby hand. They both stopped dead and she was afraid to look at her companion to see his reaction.

  ‘Sit you down here.’ Dodie indicated two flat rocks abutting into the cropped turf at the side of the cottage. ‘I’ll no’ be a minute now,’ he told them after they were settled. ‘Just you enjoy the sun and be restin’ your feets till I come back.’

  He disappeared into the dim interior and there was silence. Shona looked down at her thumbs, twiddling them for a few moments before she dared to sneak a glance at the minister. He was sitting with his legs drawn up, his hands clasped round his kees – and – she smothered a giggle as she noticed that his face was red with suppressed mirth and that his lips were firmly compressed. Her strangled snort reached his ears and he simply couldn’t keep back the laughter any longer. Throwing back his head he gave vent to gales of such infectious mirth she joined in, smothering hers into her hanky.

  ‘Weesht!’ she warned imperatively. ‘Dodie’s coming back.’

  It was with little surprise that she saw what the old man was carrying and it was with a sense almost of gratitude that she accepted the big stick of juicy red rhubarb and the polky of sugar he pressed into her hands.

  The minister showed admirable appreciation of the most unusual strupak ever offered him since his arrival to the island, dipping his rhubarb into the sugar with all the enthusiasm of a small boy.

  Dodie, his big blunt hands folded over his chest, beamed at his visitors with paternal fondness. ‘Ay, you’re enjoying that and so you should right enough.’ He fluttered his eyelid once again at Shona. ‘This lassie will tell you it is the best rhubarb in all the island but I can trust her no’ to be giving my bonny secret away.’ He shuffled backwards a step. ‘I will leave you in peace to enjoy it for I must go and see to my Ealasaid – dinna forget to put your polkies in your pouches – I was scunnered wi’ all thon litter left by the towrists and dinna want to see the likes on my land again.’

  Mark James got up and laid his hand on Dodie’s bent shoulder. ‘God bless you, Dodie,’ he said warmly. ‘And thank you for the strupak – it’s the nicest I ever had.’

  Dodie blushed with pleasure and as he stumbled away he vowed to himself that he would go to kirk someday soon and this time it wouldn’t be to a funeral – it would be to listen to the nice kind voice of the new minister talking about God in that straightforward way he had, no’ wi’ the yells o’ thunder that the other ministers had unsuccessfully used to try and get their message over.

  Shona was lost in thought, thinking about a day just like this when she and Niall had learned the secret of Dodie’s rhubarb.

  ‘A penny for them.’ Mark James was beside her, looking down at her enquiringly.

  ‘Och, I was just thinking. With Niall and Ellie both gone I find myself with a lot of time to think.’

  ‘Why don’t you come with me today?’ The question was very direct. ‘The old folks here are the most marvellous characters I’ve ever come across. I’m supposed to buck them up but when I leave it’s with the feeling I’ve taken away more than I’ve given.’

  ‘All right.’ The answer was out before she quite realized it but it was too late to take it back. He was reaching out, courteously helping her up, his hands firm and warm in hers.

  He was good company, she couldn’t deny it, nor the fact that an easy rapport had sprung up between them. She also discovered that he had a sense of humour which became more apparent as time went on. At one point he halted his bike and reaching inside his saddlebag withdrew a crumpled tweed jacket which he shook briskly to remove the creases. From the pocket he extracted his dog collar and proceeded to fix it round his neck. Shrugging himself into the jacket he grinned at her rather sheepishly. ‘The old folk like a minister to look the part so I always carry these things with me when I go visiting.’

  ‘I know what you mean,’ she laughed. ‘Everything must fit into a category.’

  ‘Especially ministers. I learned that lesson very harshly when I called one day at the doctor’s house. Elspeth Morrison answered the door and her look of horror at seeing me minus my collar was something I won’t forget in a hurry. I felt I had committed the worst cardinal sin of all and literally withered before her eyes. She was so angry at me she made no attempt to offer me a cuppy till Phebie came on the scene and sent her scuttling about her business. Behag is another who scares the pants off me. She only has to look at me and I wilt under her intimidating scrutiny. I often wish I had the courage to do as you did that day you came rushing out of the Post Office – or better—’ He choked on a spurt of laughter and his eyes danced. ‘I’d like to do it in front of the entire Sabbath congregation – just once, to see the horrified reaction on all those prim Sunday faces.’ Shona shrieked with glee and they went on their way, indulging in all sorts of ridiculous nonsense so that, by the time they reached the first port of call, they were red faced and breathless. The house they approached was perched on the edge of the cliffs, surrounded by an oasis of emerald green turf on which a drift of fat brown hens clucked and poked. Old Meggie, a widow of ninety, came to meet them, leaning heavily on a gnarled walking stick, a tartan shawl thrown over her thin shoulders, a white peeny covering a black dress which reached to her ankles, her eyes shrewd and quick behind her glasses.

  She entertained them with volatile ease, firing inquisitive questions about her fellow islanders with a speed that left them dazed, and all the while the sun streamed through the open door together with the hens and a collie dog who had one brown eye and one blue. The views across the cliffs to the Sound were entrancing and the old lady was able to tell them which fishing trawler was which, though they were just small dots on the glazed sea. ‘I spend most o’ my time watchin’ the boats on the water,’ she told them proudly. ‘I like thon big fancy yachts though the wee fishing boats are the best o’ the lot. I keek at them through my spyglasses and can watch them peeing over the side – ay – and a fine splash they make too if the water is fine and calm. It’s no use at all on a rough sea.’

  At this point the minister took a fit of coughing while Shona found it necessary to get out her hanky and blow her nose hard, both of them gratefully accepting the cup of tea proffered by Meggie whose eyes were twinkling mischievously at their discomfiture.

  Before they left she hobbled to the mantelpiece where sat a crinoline doll. With a devilishly merry chuckle she reached up a mottled hand and whipped away the doll to reveal a bottle of whisky which had been hiding under the full skirt. ‘You’ll hae a droppy, Minister?’ she quavered and without waiting for an answer poured three good measures, downing hers in one gulp after making a short toast to Mark James regarding his new post. Shona went with her to rinse the glasses, a faint astonishment in her at the way Mark James had so speedily consumed his whisky, leaving hardly a drop at the bottom of the glass.

  Old Meggie obviously approved of him, in the privacy of the tiny scullery confiding, ‘He’s a bonny mannie, that he is. I like it fine when he comes to visit. He can take a dram as good as the next man but you will never see him the worse for it – oh no. He’s a man after my own heart for he doesny have to make you feart o’ God in order to get his message over. I like the Lord better since the new minister came and that’s a fact.’

  She came outside to see them off, her white hanky fluttering in the wind till they were lost to view in a bend in the road.

  A winding sheep track led to the home of Jack the Light, the taciturn ancient that Ellie loved to visit. Having spent much of his life alone he was shy and reserved with all but a privileged few, sharing his life with three dogs, several tamed wild rabbits, a goat, a cow and a three-legged cat who came bouncing to meet the visitors and usher them along, her tail high in the air.

  Jack the Light was at his window, watching their approach, but when they went in he was fiddling with a brass ship’s telescope, apparently engrossed with its workings, barely lifting his grey head to acknowledge their arrival.

  Shona gaz
ed round the room which so fascinated her daughter and found herself entranced in turn. Skulls and bones of all descriptions littered the mantelpiece and dresser, together with every type of seashell imaginable. Outside, propped against the front wall of the house, reposed the enormous jaw-bone of a whale which must have measured at least sixteen feet long.

  The old man gruffly invited them to take a seat but Mark James declined, going instead to inspect the display of marine skulls on the dresser, touching each one, asking questions about them. Jack’s rather grim countenance gradually relaxed, the frown lines departed as he blossomed visibly, after a while plunging eagerly into detailed accounts of how he had come by his treasures.

  ‘Mostly they came in on the tide,’ he nodded, his eyes faraway, as if he was watching the rollers tossing their spoils onto the beach. ‘Every day something new, life was never dull for me in those days, oh no, aye something in the waves to occupy me – but here I am, no’ even polite enough to offer you a dram – you will be havin’ one wi’ me?’ His enquiry was anxious. ‘I know fine some meenisters see it as the de’il’s brew but it was the only thing that kept my bones warm in my days as keeper and I have it to thank for keepin’ me alive now – my limbs get sore betimes but a droppy o’ the good stuff soon puts me on my feets again.’

  It was then Shona noticed that his hands were twisted with rheumatism and his walk, when he rose to get the whisky, was stiff and awkward, making him shuffle his feet like a toddler taking its first steps. She declined the whisky politely, feeling her face uncomfortably hot and she wondered at Mark James, who with a large whisky warming in his hands, gave no sign of having taken anything stronger than tea. The old man spoke about Ellie, his rheumy eyes glowing as he described her visits to his house and the interest she showed, not only in his collections, but in the stories attached to each one, though Shona suspected the same tales were repeated time and again.