‘I don’t know about that,’ Lorn’s voice was low. ‘Ruthie and I argued last night and she got the brunt of my temper. For a long time now I haven’t been able to thole Rachel because of what she did to Lewis, and last night, when Ruthie asked me if she could have Rachel to stay, my damt pride wouldny let me say yes, even though I can thole Rachel better now and can understand in a way why she turned her back on my brother.’
Fergus slapped his son on the back. ‘Ruth must have her friends, Lorn, and if you really canny abide Rachel the way you say, then just do as I suggest and stay out the road – without being too boorish about it. Once Rachel’s here you might feel differently. If I’m minding right there was a time when you and she got on fine together. When you and Lewis were bairns you couldny keep away from Rachel. I mind fine the lot of you going off together on the back of old Myrtle and you were always down guddling by the shore with Squint splashing about beside you.’
Lorn nodded, not really hearing what his father was saying. He glanced away over the fields to the chimneys of Fàilte peeping over the knoll. Poor Ruthie! How bewildered she must have been last night – and he had been a swine, shouting at her, pulling her about, not giving her a chance to speak. And she had looked so weary too, weary and hurt and apprehensive. No wonder she had flared up at him . . . His fingers went unconsciously to his face to rub the ragged scratches. He deserved these. Ruthie seldom got really riled, but when she did she was like an enraged wildcat freed from bonds of imprisonment. Remorse, deep and raw, flooded his being and suddenly he couldn’t wait to get home to tell her everything was all right. She could have Rachel to stay for as long as she liked – forever if it would please her – it wouldn’t matter to him one way or another how long Rachel remained at Fàilte. He would make damned sure he would give her no opportunity to be alone with him – to watch him with that indefinable expression in her eyes that made him feel as if he was being swallowed up in a void of unknown passion . . .
‘Rachel canny eat you, you know,’ Fergus’ deep voice startled Lorn out of his reverie.
Annoyed to feel his face growing hot he said with feigned lightheartedness, ‘Oh ay, she can, she can swallow me up, spit out the pieces, and then go back to living her life as if nothing had happened.’
Again Fergus frowned, but said nothing, turning instead once more to the ewe to take her by the horns and lead her down to the paddock where he could keep a close eye on her.
Chapter Four
Ruth was hurt when she awoke to discover that Lorn had risen and left the house without even bidding her goodbye. But as she dressed and fed the children her hurt turned to fresh anger. Spoilt McKenzie baby! That’s what he was! Sneaking away out of the house because he wasn’t man enough to face her after his behaviour last night. Slowly and automatically she bundled Douglas into a woolly playsuit, her long, nimble fingers doing up the buttons which the little boy immediately began to undo. Lorn, not a man! Hardly that, Ruth McKenzie, she told herself derisively. He was a man all right, that was part of the trouble, she never could resist the manliness of the silent, laughing McKenzie who was her husband. She loved him so much it often hurt – as it did now, knowing that he was angry with her and wouldn’t speak to her. That was why she was always the one to make the first move, she just couldn’t bear those moody silences. She was weak while he was strong and so she always swallowed her pride first and apologized, even while she hated herself for saying she was sorry for things that weren’t always her fault.
Viciously she tugged on Douglas’ socks. Well, she wouldn’t say she was sorry this time, she had nothing to be sorry about. She had almost hated him last night, the way he had shouted at her – and she hated him now for instilling such a foreign and bitter emotion in her heart.
Rising abruptly, she plunked the baby unceremoniously into his playpen and, finding a writing pad and envelopes, she sat down by the fire to invite Rachel to stay with her. She dashed through the letter, a demon of determination driving her on, and when it was finished she signed it with a triumphant flourish of her pen. But something prevented her from making the final move of sealing and stamping the envelope. Instead she contented herself by tucking in the flap and propping it on the mantelpiece so that Lorn would have to see it when he came in.
She glanced at the clock, amazed to see that almost an hour had passed and she hadn’t yet fed the hens. Douglas was growing restless. He had loosened his cardigan, removed his socks and was now engaged in gnawing the rails of his prison, a monotonous girn flowing in a ceaseless drone from between his busily engaged teeth. With a sigh, Ruth lifted him up and tucking him under her arm she went across the hall with the intention of fetching the hens’ pot from the larder. She was in time to see Lorna toddling away outside, the heavy pot held shakily in her small grasp. The little girl enjoyed going about with her mother to see to the hundred and one small tasks about the place and Ruth had always encouraged this helpful streak. Lately however she had decided that she was now old enough to do things for herself and was growing more independent with each passing day, often to Ruth’s amusement, occasionally to her chagrin as very often the child got under her feet in her eagerness to help.
Ruth held her breath as the tiny figure wobbled its way over the grass, the pot held stiffly in front, the rosy little face set into lines of grim concentration. But as she neared the burn she tripped on a stone and the pot and its contents went flying into the gurgling water.
‘Lorna!’ Ruth’s voice was frayed with unreasoning anger. She put Douglas down on the grass and in a few strides she reached her daughter, yanked her to her feet, examined her swiftly to make sure she wasn’t hurt, then brought her hand down to smack the child’s quivering little bottom. It wasn’t a hard smack and only the child’s pride had been hurt. She stood, dry-eyed, gazing up at her mother, her gentian eyes filled with dark reproach, her soft baby mouth tightened into lines of defiance.
‘Serves you right, madam,’ Ruth lashed out. ‘You take far too much upon yourself! Don’t you ever creep behind my back like that again. Do you hear, Lorna?’
The child made no response, except for a silent jutting of her lower lip. Ruth smacked her again, over and over, knowing as she did so that she was taking out her feelings on an innocent child. ‘You’re a McKenzie all right,’ she panted harshly, straightening up to gaze down upon the trembling little girl whose eyes were still dry but whose expression was one of hurt bewilderment. ‘Just like your father, your grandfather and all the other pig-headed McKenzies who ever lived and breathed. Why can’t you cry like a normal wee lass, why can’t you, Lorna?’
The child bowed her head and her voice came out low, ‘Favver says it’s only babies who cry – and – I’m – I’m a big girl now.’
Ruth looked at her, at the small, dimpled fingers twisting nervously together, the proud, trembling little chin, the big troubled eyes speaking volumes, mutely wanting to know what she had done that had been so terrible. Ruth looked at the sturdy small arms with the baby fat still at the wrists, arms that were always ready to lift and lay, to show affection. How often they had wound themselves round her neck while the satin-smooth face was pressed close to hers in a gesture of pure little girl love. She knew when to be silent, this dear, intelligent small creature and when she sensed unhappiness in the grown-up world around her she would sit in grave, unspeaking sympathy, her hands folded patiently in her lap till she knew things were better.
With a muffled sob Ruth dropped on her knees and folded her daughter to her breast. No wonder Lorn adored this tiny scrap of humanity. She was just three, yet her character and personality were so highly developed it was difficult at times to remember that she was still, after all, just a baby.
‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry, my dear wee babby,’ Ruth crooned huskily. ‘I was in a bad mood and was a bad mother to take it out on you. These greedy hens can do without their pot for once. You can be a really big girl and go into the hen hoosie to fetch some grain to scatter, then you can come into th
e kitchen and help me make some nice wee cakes. Later on we’ll put some into a poke and take them down to Grandpa Donaldson at Portcull. You can tell him you baked them all by yourself.’
Lorna’s face sparkled. ‘Can I push Douglas in his pram?’
Ruth smiled. ‘Ay, even though the last time you pushed him into a ditch. I’ll trust you to do better – now that you’re such a big girl.’
Lorna’s fingers curled forgivingly into Ruth’s, then she withdrew her hand and went away to the hen run where she was immediately surrounded by a hungry mob of chickens. Ruth watched, a mist in her eyes, but all at once she found herself giggling. Lorna was scattering the grain in a most businesslike manner, then seemed to forget that she was such a ‘big girl now’. Putting down the meal basin she dropped on all fours to crawl among the hens, her realistic clucks ringing through the frosty air with exuberant childish enthusiasm.
When Lorn came in at dinner time the house was empty except for the animals heaped by the fire. He gazed round the empty room, surprised at the sense of disappointment that welled up in his breast. He had come home, full of remorse, eager and anxious to make up. He had visualized taking Ruth in his arms, holding her soft body close to his, hearing her musical voice telling him not to worry, that everything was going to be all right.
A scrap of paper under the butter dish caught his eye and snatching it up he read the short note left by Ruth informing him that she was taking the children to see her father and would most likely have dinner with him. Lorn’s was in the oven keeping warm. He crushed the paper into a ball and threw it into the fire, feeling strangely deflated. Ruth was seldom out of the house at mealtimes – in fact she was always here to welcome him, to set his meal on the table, to talk to him – or rather to listen while he talked. She was a very good listener was Ruthie, a trait he had come to accept, even to enjoy. She had a knack of making him feel that his work in the fields was of the utmost interest to her. He ran his fingers through his thick thatch of hair, a frown on his brow as he thought of going over to Dugald’s house himself. Old Isabel would see that there was enough left in the pot to fill a plate for him. Dugald would welcome him surely – but would Ruthie?
No, dammit! Not after last night. She would be cold towards him and he was damned if he could stand that sort of thing – not in front of other people.
Taking the dish from the oven he clattered it on to the table and scraped in his chair. The silence of the house enveloped him, magnifying the very sound of his own chewing inside his head. He stared ahead, his young face set into lines of brooding as he pondered on how empty his life would be without Ruthie and the bairns – empty and dead. Last night she had told him he took her too much for granted, he could see her now, her face white, her eyes big and purple, anger a strange visitor on her gentle features. He thought back to the days when he was so in love with her, but was so shy and awkward he didn’t know how to go about winning her over – and then he had discovered that she loved him too and had done for a long time. And hers was a generous love, it filled his life with a rare and precious light and made him feel contented and good. Every day of their lives together Ruthie showed her love for him – but his frown deepened, furrowing his brow – did he reciprocate that love? Was Ruth as sure of him as he was of her? Sometimes she chided him, told him that he kept his affections solely for the bedroom – but he couldn’t help the way he was made. He just wasn’t the sort to throw his feelings around so easily – not like Lewis – he had never cared who knew how he felt. Women had loved Lewis, he had always seemed to know instinctively how to treat them, to give them what they wanted.
‘Girls love to get presents.’ Lorn heard his brother’s voice so plainly he might have been standing beside his chair. ‘And I don’t mean things like woolly bonnets and knitted scarves either.’
Lom glanced at the clock. If he hurried he would catch Merry Mary before she closed the shop for dinner. She might not have what he wanted but anything was better than facing Ruth with stuttered words of apology and empty hands.
Dugald was coming out of the shop as Ruth approached the village. At sight of her his steps quickened and the smile that she knew and loved so well was on his face long before he reached her.
‘Ruthie,’ his greeting was full of pleasure. ‘Are you just going to the shops or have you time to take a strupak with your old man first?’
Ruth appraised him silently. He looked better than he had ever done and had regained a lot of the sparkle that had departed from his life for so long. Ruth was delighted to see the happiness that took away the gauntness of his thin ascetic face. His mop of hair had grown whiter during Morag Ruadh’s last, tortured illness but it only added to the distinguished air that had settled about him over the years.
‘I hope I’ll get more than just a strupak. Father,’ she smiled at him. ‘I thought we might have our dinner together.’
He swept Douglas out of his pram and took Lorna’s ready hand in his firm clasp. ‘Do you hear that, bairnies? I am to have the pleasure of having my dinner with my grandchildren just as I was beginning to think you had all forgotten me.’
‘Ach, Father, it hasn’t been as long as all that,’ Ruth laughed. ‘I meant to drop in last time I was in the village but got waylaid by Mairi wanting me to go and look at the new hairdryer she had just had installed.’
Old Isabel was puffing up the brae to her cottage which adjoined that of her son-in-law, an arrangement made years ago by Morag, which had been the cause of much consternation for Isabel and Jim Jim. Now, however, they were only too glad to have Dugald next door to them as he made it his business to carry out all the little tasks which had become so irksome to them.
Old Isabel’s rosy face lit up at sight of her great-grandchildren. Jim Jim, peeping from behind his curtain, saw the visitors approaching and he too made haste to welcome them. Ruth laughed at their obvious pleasure and gave up the idea of a cosy strupak and a chat with her father. A noisy and cheerful hour followed during which everyone drank tea and ate buttered scones and vied with each other to relate all the latest local gossip. The children were never short of attention from one or other of their elders and the Temple rang with sounds of childish laughter and grown-up chatter.
‘How different it all is now,’ thought Ruth looking around at the bright walls hung with dozens of her father’s little watercolours. Barra McLean, herself a keen artist, was a regular visitor to the house and it wasn’t unusual to see her and Dugald sitting companionably close in the garden with their easels propped strategically in front of them as they painted views of the Sound of Rhanna to the west and the hills of Glen Fallan to the north. It had struck Ruth on several occasions how well Barra and her father got on in their arty world and how well suited they were in other ways. But Barra was now married to round-faced, blue-eyed Robbie Beag and anyway, a liaison had existed between Dugald and Totie for a long time. Totie had certainly been a great comfort to him all through the difficult and trying years of his marriage to Morag Ruadh. Ruth had been very young when she had discovered that Dugald and Totie had not only been friends, but lovers too, and at first she had been shocked and horrified though never once had she given away her feelings to her father.
‘Did you want to see me, Father?’ she began, once Isabel and Jim Jim had departed, taking the children ‘for a whily’.
‘Ay, that’s right, Ruthie,’ Dugald said quietly. ‘I wanted you to know that Totie and I have decided to get married.’
Ruth stiffened slightly. ‘Oh – have you now?’ Her tones were anything but enthusiastic. ‘I’m delighted to hear it. I know that you and she have been friends for years.’
‘Are you, Ruthie?’ He was looking at her quizzically, his expressive grey eyes full of a gentle amusement.
She kept her eyes averted from him. ‘Ay – well, och yes, you know I am – it’s just . . .’
‘Och, c’mon now, Ruthie, will you stop clattering those dishes about, sit down where I can see you and tell me what you really
think.’
She sat down opposite him and looked him straight in the eye. ‘Father, I only want what’s best for you. You’ve already suffered years of unhappiness because you married the wrong sort of woman. Totie’s such a strong character. You’ve said to me more than once you canny abide the way she goes into your den and tidies away all the things you don’t want tidied away and that was a trait Mam had and which you just couldny stand. It’s maybe only a wee thing, but you’ve got this place so nice and homely now I – I’d hate to think of you going back to where you started and living in a place that isn’t so much a home but a – a sort of filing cabinet.’
She stopped, her father was smiling at her, a smile full of tenderness, for he knew what she was trying to say and could understand her concern.
‘Ruthie, I know what Totie is like. I should, having known her for more years than I care to remember. She has her wee foibles – just like the rest o’ us, but over and above all that she is a bonny, warm, caring woman and I know she cares enough for me to come and go with me a wee bit. She’s waited for me a long time has Totie, and that has meant a great deal to me forbye letting me know that she thinks I was worth waiting for. I am by no means a perfect person myself but if two people care enough for each other then they have to learn to live with the other’s faults and failings and make the best of them. Sometimes to have what we want from this life we have to put up with a few annoyances and I am quite willing to take a chance with Totie just as she is with me. When two people live together they are bound to fight each other in an effort to retain their own identity; it’s what marriage is all about really – the good with the bad. You must have found that in your own marriage.’
‘Ay, I have,’ she admitted slowly. ‘It isn’t always easy living with someone you know is stronger than yourself in every way.’
‘But is it no’ lovely to have a marriage like that, Ruthie? It canny be dull and to make up for all the bad things you have all the other good things to make it worthwhile. Lorn’s a good man, he’s been a good husband to you, he’s closed his eyes to a lot o’ things that any other man might rake up just for the sake o’ an argument. Ay, Ruthie, he’s a good man and Totie’s a good woman and if she’s stronger than I am, then so be it. Sometimes people like you and me, Ruthie, need a stronger shoulder to lean on. We’re very alike, you and I, and maybe that’s why we’ve both chosen partners the complete opposite of ourselves. I canny see you married to a meek and mild mannie, just as I canny see myself living with a colourless gentle wee body creeping about the house for fear she’ll disturb me at my work. Och no – Totie’s my kind o’ woman; a good strong character with no nonsense in her head and a heart as big as a house when it comes to caring and sharing.’
Song of Rhanna (The Rhanna series) Page 6
