‘She’ll make a fine wee doctor,’ the old man said with gentle conviction. ‘She has all the patience it takes for a job like that, forbye being as bright as a winter moon.’ He got up stiffly, holding onto the arm of the chair while he flexed his knees though it was a surprisingly agile finger that he wagged at Shona while instructing her to ‘Wait you there now, I have something I want you to give to Ellie when she comes home.’
He disappeared into another room and Shona, unable to contain herself a moment longer, leaned over and hissed, ‘What on earth are you doing with all that whisky? Four calls we’ve made this afternoon, and you’ve had a dram at each one. You’ve had enough to floor a horse yet you seem as sober as a judge.’
Mark James kept her in suspense by smiling at her in a secretive fashion then he pulled back one side of his jacket to reveal a wide-necked flask reposing in the depths of an inside pocket. To demonstrate, he unearthed it, poured in his untouched whisky, stoppered it and placed it back in the pocket.
‘If I was to drink all I’m given I’d be in a perpetual stupor,’ he grinned. ‘So I devised this little method for disposing of it. Later I’ll put it into those little miniature bottles you get and give it back to the old folks at New Year.’
‘Well, you cunning bu . . .’ She caught the blasphemy in time as she remembered she was, after all, in the company of a minister, yet so relaxed did he make her feel it was an easy enough matter to say the kind of things she might say to Niall.
‘I know,’ he agreed. ‘But you have to admit it’s the only way to remain sober and yet not offend.’
‘But – how did you manage it?’ she asked in amazement. ‘I was watching you all the time.’
‘Not all the time. I’m a great one for stepping to the door to admire the view every so often and every one of the houses we visited today had a particularly fine outlook.’
Her appreciation of this was tinged with a certain amount of outrage. ‘You might have invited me to join you in a breath of air! I feel as drunk as Tam McKinnon must feel after a night at the malt.’
He merely laughed. ‘Och, c’mon now, don’t get up on your high horse. It has done you good to let your hair down and you don’t have to answer to anybody. In my position I have to be careful, which doesn’t mean to say I’m a stick in the mud. I enjoy a dram but there’s a time and place for everything.’
Jack the Light shuffled back into the room, bearing a beautifully polished piece of wood in the shape of a seal complete with flippers. ‘I found it on the shore and thought Ellie might like it. Old Dodie got his eye on it and I had a mind to let him have it but ach – he finds enough treasures of his own and had no need o’ this one—’ He broke off to look at the minister with respect. ‘I see your glass is empty – I knew fine you would enjoy a dram and I’m thinkin’ a big chiel like yourself could stand another.’ But Mark James held up his hand and got to his feet with an alacrity that made Shona smile. ‘Thank you, Jack, but no, I must be getting along but may say it’s been a pleasure to make your acquaintance. I didn’t get along as far as your house the last time but hope you don’t mind if I come back.’
The old man was overcome, a gleam of tears showing in his eyes. ‘Indeed no, I will look forward to it – I – well I’m no’ a body who can be doing wi’ a lot o’ folk round my feets but sometimes it gets a wee bitty lonely and I’d welcome a crack wi’ a mannie like yourself—’ He lowered his voice bashfully. ‘The way I like you is because you have never once mentioned the Lord to me, yet I feel, when you’ve gone, you will have left a wee bit o’ Him behind – ay indeed.’
At the door he pressed something into Mark James’s hands and red with embarrassment all but pushed him out of the door.
They were nearing the Manse when he stopped to unwrap the parcel. Nestling in the folds of paper was a magnificently curled ram’s horn, its neck embedded with silver to strengthen it. A fine chain was attached to a tightly stoppered cork which came out with a pop. He sniffed. ‘Whisky,’ he laughed. ‘I doubt if I’m not careful I’ll be getting myself a reputation.’ Inside the wrappings he found a hastily scrawled note which read: ‘This is for your mantelpiece. It will sit there as innocent as you like as long as you never let the cailleachs catch you drinking from it. If truth be known it is them who gave us a taste for the good stuff in the first place by putting it in our feeding bottles when we were just bairnies. So if you ever want to blame somebody – blame them. Jack the Light.’
Shona gave vent to peals of laughter. ‘The cratur’ is right there but just the same I’d advise you never to let the likes of Elspeth Morrison catch you with that ram’s horn to your lips!’ She looked at him, his hair was tousled, a streak of dirt lay over the rugged contours of his face, a flush of sunburn freckled his sinewy arms.
‘You have a way with the old folks,’ she told him softly. ‘They’ve taken you to their hearts.’
‘I just let them talk, open out about their lives. Memories are the only things some of them have. Watch their faces when they drift back in time – they light up – glow. Half the time I don’t know who or what they’re talking about, but the important thing is to let them see you’re listening.’ He looked at her keenly and she felt the smoky blue of his eyes penetrating deeply into her senses. ‘Earlier you spoke about memories, we all have them, happy or sad they’re always there at the edge of recall. The thing is not to dwell on them too much, leave that to the old, it’s all they have – you have so much more and you’re young enough to care what goes on in the present.’
‘What about the future?’ she asked quietly.
‘It’s important but an unknown quantity. It’s natural to look forward as long as we don’t expect too much, for very often you will be let down.’
‘Such words of wisdom.’ She wanted to make the words light but instead sounded serious.
He looked at his hands. ‘I’m a rambling fool, that’s all. I just – get the impression that you’re going through a phase at the moment, torn between things that happened in the past and those that you would like to happen now.’
She flushed. ‘You sound as if you know a lot about my life.’
‘My dear Shona, I wish I did, I can only read what’s written on your face – and I see a restlessness – a dissatisfaction with the things you already have which are so much more than many.’
Briefly he touched her hand then started to walk away towards the Manse, pushing his bike, saying over his shoulder, ‘I have strict orders from Tina to be back by five and it’s almost that now.’
In a few minutes he would be gone from her and already she felt bereft without his presence. At the last minute he turned, the smile on his lips warm. ‘We must do this again sometime – it was nice to have your company.’
‘Ay, we must.’ She tried not to sound too eager.
His quizzical gaze bridged the distance that had sprung between them. ‘Will I see you in kirk this Sabbath?’
The question caught her off-guard and colour flooded her face. He had noticed her absence from church when she herself had almost forgotten about it. She couldn’t explain, even to herself, why she hadn’t gone. Niall had been home and she had suggested they go for a long walk instead of the usual Sunday routine involving kirk and dinner at Laigmhor. He had looked at her rather strangely but had acceded readily enough. Yet she hadn’t enjoyed the brisk walk over the cliffs; one half of her had been in kirk listening to the mellow voice of Mark James, the other half had been preoccupied in wondering what had made her break the habit of a lifetime when all the time she knew the answer and wouldn’t face it.
But that day she did, looking at the tall handsome figure of Mark James standing against the sun, eyes crinkled, black hair wind tossed, she knew he had been the reason behind it all. He was in her thoughts too constantly for it to be safe and she had reasoned that the only way to forget about him would be to stay away from his magnetic presence. But it hadn’t worked. The more she tried to forget him, the more she thought about him,
and now she decided it might be better to behave as normal, force herself to see him not as a dangerously attractive man but as the rather mysterious minister who had come to the island with the sole purpose of carrying out his godly duties.
‘I’ll be there,’ she said abruptly and pedalled quickly away without looking back once.
When she got home she went immediately upstairs to rummage in the box which contained all her personal possessions. There were so many diaries but it took her only a minute to pick out the one dated 1941. The entry was there all right, a brief chronicle of her visit to the cave with Niall, written under the seventh of July, exactly twenty years ago to the day.
How odd that she should go back to the spot exactly twenty years later but perhaps not so odd when she stopped to really think about it. Her subconscious had guided her to a place filled with precious beginnings. It had been the start of her life with Niall – a prelude to years of happy marriage. Today had been a kind of anniversary pilgrimage – nothing more – yet – that persistent niggle of foreboding was still in her making her feel afraid, though of what she didn’t know.
Niall had been very much in her thoughts this morning, worming into her mind at every turn, making her too aware of how much she missed him. She felt suddenly cold and with a shudder closed the diary with a decisive snap. Her father had always said that she was possessed of too much imagination and he was right – the words of Mark James came to her, beating insistently inside her head, telling her not to dwell too much on things past, it was the present which mattered. She clasped her fingers to her mouth. He was right. She had so much that was good and wonderful in her life and when Niall and Ellie came home she would show them just how grateful and lucky she was to have them.
That night she went happy to bed but woke in the small hours, overwhelmed by a feeling of such loneliness she cried out and turned quickly to snuggle into the safety of Niall’s arms – but he wasn’t there – and she wondered if he was lying awake in a lonely bed, thinking about her, missing the feel of her arms about him as much as she missed his.
Chapter Ten
Ruth picked up her mother’s dinner tray and carried it through to the parlour. Morag’s bed had been brought down here to make it easier to tend her. It had been placed close by the window which afforded a view of the harbour, the kirk on the Hillock, the Manse, and the magnificent wide sweep of the Sound of Rhanna.
The weather had grown oppressively hot with thunder growling among the hills on and off for days and everyone was wondering ‘if the damt thing was comin’ or goin’ or just hangin’ about making noises like a cow wi’ the wind’.
All the windows in the temple had been thrown wide but not a breeze stirred the curtains, even the cobwebs in the eaves hung grey and still.
Morag was propped against a pile of pillows, her once ruddy face pale and hollow so that her green eyes looked abnormally big. She had allowed Barra McLean to cut her hair and it sprang up in natural curls round her head, the redness of it a startling contrast to the wan face it framed. Her arms lay listlessly on the counterpane, the long bony fingers of her good right hand never at rest, continually plucking threads from the coverlet so that a ball of fluff had formed in the palm of her hand. Her other hand was limp and useless looking and lay passively on top of the Bible which never left her side, day or night.
She was muttering when Ruth came into the room, a weak unintelligible string of sounds which no one could understand. Ruth put the tray on a chair and helped her mother to sit up, talking to her calmly, chattering about everyday affairs. It was the only way she could dissipate the oddly eerie atmosphere in the room and though the sound of her own voice was hollow in her ears it had the effect of bringing some normality to bear. Patting the pillows into shape she gripped her mother’s thin arm and attempted to pull her up. But she might not have bothered, Morag immediately sank back down again in hollow-eyed, hopeless apathy, her gaze fixed on the chimneys of the Manse, unblinking, uninterested.
‘Mam, I’ve brought your dinner,’ Ruth said, a note of despair in her voice as she visualized another long discourse of persuasion with little hope of any response. Since the scene in the kirk, Morag had refused nearly all nourishment, allowing herself an occasional sip of water, the only liquid she would allow to pass her lips.
‘It’s a nice salad, Mam.’ Ruth tried to sound enthusiastic. ‘And there’s a dish of fresh strawberries sent over from the Manse gardens. Mr James picked them himself,’ she ended persuasively.
The minister had paid several calls to the house and it was only during his visits that Morag showed a flicker of interest. He had talked to her, often for an hour and more, and the last time, while he was reading a passage from the Bible, her hand had come up to touch the book briefly before it fell back to her side. Tears had been in her eyes, spilling slowly over her face in soundless despair, wordlessly letting him know that she understood the things he was talking about.
At Ruth’s words she pulled her head slowly round and one finger quivered outwards, as if pointing to the dish of fruit on the tray.
Ruth picked it up and took it over to the bed. ‘That’s right, Mam, you’ll enjoy these.’
She held her breath as she pushed a juicy red berry between her mother’s white lips. Morag lay against the pillows, the strawberry held in her mouth, but for her hair the only splash of colour against a background of white, then suddenly and violently she spat it out, wiping the juice from her chin, grimacing as if she had tasted poison.
‘Och, Mam, you’ve got to eat sometime,’ Ruth beseeched wearily. Her eyes strayed to the view from the window. Oh how she longed to run out there, away from the atmosphere of gloom which prevailed in the house. She had hardly seen anything of Rachel since the christening; how lovely it would be to go with her into the sweet green countryside where there was life, hope, freedom; to feel the exuberance of Rachel’s spirit expanding her, bringing her out, making her wonderfully aware of the glories of the world – and how she longed too to see her little baby again. It had only been five days but seemed more like five months. She was only a wee thing but already she had such personality, she was so full of life, so comical with her toothless smiles and chuckles – she was joy, pure and simple. It seemed impossible to her now that she had ever entertained the idea of giving her child away to someone else and she shuddered at the very thought – She jumped out of her reverie. Her mother was talking, in a clear strong voice like the Morag of old and her words brought an icy dread to Ruth’s soul.
‘I’ve laid your white frock over the bed, Ruth, you must put it on right away – and see to it that you bathe first – clean – you must be clean, my girl, in your mind as well as all else. When you’ve had your bath you can read me a chapter of the Bible before your father comes home.’
Ruth felt panic rising in her breast. She was whisked back to the days of her early girlhood when her mother had spoken these selfsame words almost every waking day. Morag’s green, unwavering stare was on her and, despite her shivers, Ruth opened her mouth to make some pacifying remark. Then she realized that her mother was not looking at her, but straight through her, as if she didn’t exist, as if she was watching the phantoms of the past flitting through her distorted mind – but there was something else in Morag’s eyes. Despite their glitter they lacked true life – there was a look of death in them – and Ruth knew in those moments that her mother didn’t have long to live. She was approaching death without fuss or struggle, with her virtual refusal to take nourishment, willing the final curtain to fall over the miserable existence she had created for herself.
Ruth could stand no more. With a little whimper she limped hurriedly from the room, hardly seeing where she was going, her heart pounding in her breast so that she felt lightheaded. The walls of the kitchen closed in on her, crushing her, suffocating her . . . She wasn’t prepared for another human being to be part of her terrified impressions, her father was next door, taking a break from the sick room, having his dinner in the c
omfortable atmosphere of her grandparents’ house, but someone was there in her vision, a tall, dark spectre which wavered and blurred. She swayed and put out a hand to steady herself only to find it in a comforting grip. She was being led to a chair, made to sit down, a few minutes later finding a strong hot cup of tea in her hands. It burned her throat and she knew it had been laced with brandy but she didn’t care and gulped it down thankfully. In a short while she felt better, her stomach had fallen back into place, her head had stopped swimming. Rachel was sitting in a chair beside her, drinking tea, her whole demeanour calm, relaxed – except for her eyes – they were dark with unease and Ruth knew she didn’t feel happy in the house. The temple did that to people, unsettled them, made them look round anxiously as if seeking a way of escape. Rachel was watching her, eyebrows raised enquiringly, and in a rush it all came out, the crushing fear, the anxieties.
‘Mam’s dying, Rachel,’ she said flatly. ‘I saw it in her face just now. Sometimes she knows what’s going on around her, at other times she lapses into a world of her own – she – says things. It’s getting worse every day and I feel I don’t want to go into her room ever again.’
Rachel stood up, a determined look in her turbulent eyes. Before Ruth could move or say anything she went to the door of Morag’s room and, opening it, went boldly inside. Ruth watched, horrified. Her mother had never liked Rachel. Always she had feared the untamed, gypsy-like creature with her powerful personality and her ability to strike terror into her with just one glance of her dark, luminous eyes.
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