Song of Rhanna (The Rhanna series)

by Christine Marion Fraser

  Sure enough one of Merry Mary’s generous ears had escaped her Sunday best hat and stood out in all its orange-tinged glory for the world to see. Merry Mary, having naturally ginger hair of her own, had decided to enhance it with an auburn rinse but the results were not quite what she had expected and the wispy hair lurking under her hat was more ginger than it had ever been, with a sheen of bright orange to add to the shocking effect.

  Shona clutched Niall. ‘Don’t! If I see another orange ear or strand of purple hair I’ll burst.’

  Fortunately, just then the deep, pleasant voice of the minister rang out and the marriage ceremony began. Dugald had heard the words twice before, the first time when he was just nineteen, his young bride seventeen, full of tender innocence that had remained with her till her early death three years later. It had taken him a long time to get over the blow of such a premature parting and he had given no thought to marriage till the advent of Morag Ruadh into his life. All through those long unhappy years spent with Morag it seemed Totie had always been there, strong, handsome Totie with her bright green eyes and her mass of thick hair, once dark, now a steely grey but as wavy and attractive as it had always been.

  She was wearing a dress of forest green that day with a single pink rose fixed above the swell of her sturdy breasts, another nestling in the band of her big floppy ridiculous hat. Memories swamped Dugald, joys and sorrows all mingling together, making him feel slightly apprehensive of what the future held in store for him. But it was too late now to turn back even if he had wanted to. ‘Third time lucky.’ The rather cynical prediction of the islanders seemed to ring in his ears. He straightened his shoulders, cleared his throat nervously and turned to see Ruth watching him, her fair face as serious as his but a smile lighting it as she caught his eye. He smiled back, saw Totie’s green, unwavering gaze fixed on him and he relaxed. She was a mountain this woman, a solid reliable presence who gave him the same sort of reassurance that he got from the hills each morning he looked upon them from his window. Mark James was handing him the ring, his fingers shook, for a moment he thought he was going to drop it.

  Ruth held her breath while her own fingers tightened convulsively over Lorn’s hand. She had never loved her father more than in these moments. He was so distinguished looking in his dark suit, his mop of silvery hair standing out like a halo against the crimson light from the stained glass window. She had come to kirk early to sit in the quietness and say a prayer for his future happiness. She wasn’t feeling too well that morning. The pain in her stomach had grown more constant of late, and she knew she ought to go to Doctor Lachlan’s to see about it – she would – just as soon as her father was safely married and away on his honeymoon. She didn’t want him to be upset or anxious in any way at a time like this and she certainly didn’t want him going away with an uneasy mind, for she knew he worried if there was anything at all wrong with her.

  The minister was nodding at Dugald, giving him mute encouragement and now the ring was on Totie’s finger and the kirk let go its breath.

  Ruth moved closer to Lorn and his hand closed over hers even tighter. He had surprised and delighted her that morning by presenting her with a parcel which contained a new outfit for the wedding, together with some very feminine underwear.

  ‘Lorn,’ she had gasped. ‘How on earth . . .?’

  ‘Easy.’ His strong dark face had relaxed into the happiest smile she had seen for days, for there had been a constraint in his manner of late that made him moody and silent. ‘I got Mother to get them in Oban when she was over with Burnbreddie’s wife. She knew your size but wasn’t so sure about the style—’ Anxiously he had looked at her, eager to allay the guilt that had lain black and heavy on his conscience for days.

  With shining eyes she had picked up the pink linen suit and held it against her. ‘Oh, Lorn, it’s perfect! Kirsteen aye did have good taste – and – the underclothes – what on earth did you say to her? I canny imagine you describing frillies to your very own mother, you won’t even do it with me.’

  His bronzed face lit. Catching her and kissing her he laughed. ‘I just told her to get you some new breeks and things but Mother aye did have a romantic nature – these are what she came back with.’ He had moved closer against her. ‘I didn’t tell her you won’t get to put them on – I thought I might have a go at that.’

  ‘Ach, you would just take them right off again,’ she had murmured shyly, a flush high on her cheekbones as his hands had brushed her breasts and his dark head came down to nuzzle her ears till she tingled. He hadn’t made love to her for more than a week and there had been an urgency in the arms that enclosed her – then Rachel had come into the room and he had sprung away, a dark flush of anger staining his tanned skin, the dourness back in his manner. But now, with his hand warm and firm in hers she sensed a warmness back in him once more and she whispered, ‘I love you, Lorn McKenzie.’

  ‘Me too, Ruthie.’ He squeezed her hand and felt a lump in his throat because her fingers were so slender, so trusting lying in his. He was very conscious of Rachel close by, utterly and strikingly beautiful in the sombre setting of the kirk, and he hated himself for even thinking of her when Ruth’s hand lay so confidingly in his.

  Rachel saw the exchange between the two. She closed her eyes and tried to think of Jon from whom she had just received a letter, telling her he would be away a while yet and he was missing her more and more every day. But he seemed very far away and out of reach, out even of the recall of memory for no matter how hard she tried she couldn’t bring to mind his dear honest face. The only face she saw, in dreams, in reality, was the face of Lorn McKenzie and she kept her eyes squeezed tight shut and forced herself to concentrate on the notes of a skylark’s song, now near, now far away, trilling in ecstasy over the moors. The Song of Rhanna came sighing into her head, growing, swelling. A smile hovered at her lips and quite unconsciously her fingers strummed on her Bible, beating time, beat beating, faster and faster – like her heart every time she looked at Lorn and remembered the feel of his muscular arms around her, his lips burning into hers . . .

  She opened her eyes. The ceremony was over. Dugald and Totie were coming down the aisle, smiling, relieved. The triumphal strains of Mendelssohn’s Wedding March reverberated through the time-worn cloisters, coaxed from the ancient harmonium by Barra McLean’s persuasive hands and feet. Once upon a time the cantankerous old instrument had been Morag Ruadh’s jealously guarded possession. After her death it had lain silent and neglected and Sunday worship had not seemed the same without its wheezy strains filling the kirk. In the end Mark James had appealed to Barra and though she had protested that she only knew how to play the piano she had finally capitulated. Now she perspired, grew beetroot-red, her two small feet thumped the pedals with vigour, her fingers flew unerringly over the keyboard. Undeterred by a pigeon’s droppings which rained down from the lofty rafters to land with military precision on the music sheets, she wheezed, thumped and played the newlyweds out of the kirk and on to the Hillock where Todd the Shod was ready to take over with the pipes. Everybody streamed outside, the party mood already on them as stirring tunes reeled through the air. Dugald and Totie were surrounded, congratulated, bombarded with rice and confetti.

  Dodie arrived on the scene, his lips stretching into the familiar ‘He breeah’, his big calloused hands holding tightly to a large piece of driftwood shaped like a dolphin. He had smoothed and polished it, lavishing many nights of care upon it, for it was his habit to present all newlyweds with a simple gift. And even though he was bemused by Dugald’s third marriage he handed over his gift graciously though couldn’t refrain from saying, ‘Are you no’ feart Morag Ruadh will maybe come down and haunt you? She might no’ take kindly to another lady in her house.’

  Dugald’s eyes twinkled though he tried to look serious for Dodie’s sake. ‘Ach no, Dodie, Morag will be far too busy up yonder to be bothered haunting the likes o’ me. She aye liked to keep busy you see, and she will have more and enoug
h to do making sure everything gets kept nice and clean and that none of the cratur’s up there try to shirk their work.’

  Dodie’s dreamy eyes had grown round. ‘Do you really think that, Dugald? My, it would be grand if it was the case, for I’m aye feart she takes it into her head to come down and haunt the kirkyard the way she used to when she was alive.’

  ‘You can rest easy, Dodie,’ interposed Totie firmly. ‘Morag is at peace now and is no’ likely to come back down here – to haunt you or anybody else for that matter.’

  ‘Are you coming to the reception later, Dodie?’ Dugald expected a negative reply because the old eccentric rarely appeared at social gatherings and he was taken aback therefore when Dodie nodded his head violently and burst out, ‘I am that – Hector the Boat is bringing over a creel o’ fresh lobsters and there is nothing I like better than a lobster straight from the pot—’ He gulped and rushed on, ‘I dinna like dances and things as a rule, but I haveny anything for my tea and Hector says I will no’ get a taste o’ one lobster unless I show my face so I’m away home now to see will I have something to wear grand enough to come to your party.’

  He galloped off, almost knocking down Kate who, skirts held high, was already jigging in time to the pipes.

  Mark James was at the kirk door, talking to Rachel, telling her how much he had enjoyed hearing the Song of Rhanna on the wireless. He had first met Rachel when he had come to the island three years before and he had never forgotten the girl with the lovely face and the restless eyes which gave away so much of what she was feeling. He had also been impressed by her bravery and by the strange gift of healing which she had displayed at Morag Ruadh’s deathbed. She hadn’t been able to avert Morag’s death, nobody could have done that because it was what she had wanted, but she had almost miraculously calmed Morag’s troubled soul so that she had departed life peacefully and without any of the fears which had beset her for years.

  The minister’s smoky grey gaze held Rachel’s as he said, ‘I was wondering if you would mind me having a go at putting words to your tune? I’ve always been interested in music and quite often while away my spare time composing little verses that I think might go with some tune I’ve heard. I know I could never do your melody justice, but could you – would you allow me to try?’

  Rachel thought to herself that it was little wonder this man had earned the trust and love of the islanders. His lack of ego was one of his most endearing traits and gave him the ability to understand others whose self-confidence was low. Rachel showed her eager approval of his suggestion and they parted after making an arrangement for her to come to the Manse any evening she felt like it.

  Mark James turned his attention to the scene on the Hillock. The grass here was a bright emerald green against the blue of the sky. Everyone was wearing their best clothes and the colourful mosaic they made as they stood about talking, or in Kate and Nancy’s case dancing with arms entwined, was not a usual sight, as normally the sombre Sabbath clothing and the reserved demeanour of the islanders on this high, windblown hill made it a place of hushed voices and sober chatter. Captain Mac bustled up, a splendid sight to behold. He had allowed his whiskers to grow and grow and now the bushy white beard fairly bristled with its own importance. He had always been an eyecatching sight but now, with his big, bulbous red nose shining in the sun, his luxuriant silvery hair and whiskers gleaming, his kilt flying in the breezes, he was the kind of man to stand out in a crowd and not be dismayed by the fact.

  ‘You’ll be coming to the reception, Minister?’ he greeted Mark James. ‘It wouldny be the same without you and that’s a fact. Nellie was just sayin’ it is a pity a fine figure o’ a man like yourself hasny a woman to enjoy these things with.’ One bushy eyebrow descended as he winked knowingly. ‘Nellie might be my sister but she is just the same as the rest. Women seem to think that men like you and me canny content ourselves unless we have a woman to look to us. I tell you, much as I miss my cailleach, I would think twice before taking on another woman: they can be buggering pests betimes, ay, even Nellie herself gets me down wi’ her continual nagging at me to keep off the rum, no’ to smoke my pipe, no’ to put my feet up on the hearth.’ He shook his head sadly. ‘Ay, we’re better off without them, ay indeed.’

  ‘They make the world a brighter place, Mac. I for one wouldn’t like to live in a world without them.’ Mark James’ face was perfectly serious and Captain Mac’s big smile beamed out.

  ‘Ach, you’re right there, son. I only said all that for I have been feeling a kind of restlessness comin’ over me this whily and I didny like to admit it might be because I have a hankering to be takin’ another woman to myself – mind – she would have to be special. I was fond o’ my cailleach and know I will never get her likes again but somebody near enough – ay, somebody near enough as perfect as my Mary!’ He was gazing into the distance as he spoke and quite suddenly he strode away, making for a grassy knoll on which was ensconced the hunched-up figure of Aunt Grace, Dugald’s sister who had hitherto lived in Coll but who was now comfortably installed in a little cottage by Portcull harbour. She was crying her eyes out into a sodden scrap of lace hanky, sniffing loudly as if hoping she would be heard. She reposed on the knoll in all her Sabbath splendour, her green felt hat held in place by a fearsome hat pin decorated by a glazed china cherry, her brown tweed coat hugging her ankles. The cherries in her hat matched that on the end of the pin and strummed a gay little tattoo in time to her sobs; her sturdy black-booted feet, as if divorced from the rest of her, were contrarily tapping in time to the tunes from Todd’s pipes, though as Mac approached her feet became still and she buried her face further into her hanky.

  ‘What ails you, Grace?’ asked Mac kindly, admiring the coy turn of her head away from him. ‘I had thought you would be happy to be at Doug’s weddin’.’

  ‘I am, I am,’ she waved her hanky at him with vigour. ‘It was beautiful just, but it minded me o’ Jeemie on our weddin’ day and I just had to have a wee greet. He wasny sober you see, Jeemie aye had the nerves and before the cermony he had a dram too many and had to be held up by his brothers till he took his vows. Ach, it was lovely just and today in kirk minded me on it.’

  ‘Ach, you’re havering, lass,’ blustered Mac, his eyes twinkling as he noted that her feet were going again. ‘Doug only had the one dram before he came out. He was perfectly sober.’

  Aunt Grace waved her hanky again and wailed. ‘I know, I know, that’s why I’m greetin’. You see, I aye told Jeemie he shouldny have been drunk at the altar o’ God but by God! He took his vows as bravely and as sincerely as Doug did today and I just wish Jeemie was here so that I could tell him I’m sorry for all those years o’ nagging the poor good mannie. I get lonely betimes and just wish I had my man back again to keep me company.’

  Her feet were gaining momentum as she spoke and quite suddenly and with great agility she sprachled up and told Mac, ‘I’ll be fine when I’ve had a good hot cuppy. Will you be comin’ wi’ me? You can tell me about your own poor, dear departed wife while I’m makin’ the tea and changin’ out these awful drab clothes – I treated myself to an awful bonny frock for the reception and you can be havin’ the first peep at it – if it pleases you that is,’ she added with a sidelong glance.

  Mac crooked his arm and away they went down the brae, Mac’s kilt swinging in the breeze, Aunt Grace’s cherries waggling merrily. Halfway down she executed a kind of shuffling jig, her black boots twinkling in the sunshine, and Mac put back his head and gave vent to the deep hearty bellow for which he was famed.

  Old Joe, thoroughly disgruntled because Kate had told him sternly that he didn’t have time to go to his beloved harbour before the reception began, looked after Aunt Grace’s quaint figure thoughtfully. ‘She is an able wee woman, that sister o’ yours, Dugald,’ he observed with studied indifference.

  ‘Ay, she is that, Joe,’ agreed Dugald, watching his sister’s cherries bobbing in the distance.

  ‘She’ll be a youngste
r compared wi’ myself, I’m thinkin’,’ hazarded the old man carefully.

  ‘If I’m minding right she’ll be seventy on her next birthday – a mite older than myself.’

  Old Joe couldn’t keep a gleam of interest from his eyes. ‘As young as that, eh? And she’ll be owning the house at the harbour I haveny a doubt? I mind you sayin’ the house in Coll was hers so she will have had enough and plenty to buy the new place?’

  ‘Oh, she’s comfortably off is Grace,’ nodded Dugald, surprised at Joe’s interest and at the unusual garrulity with which he spoke of everyday affairs since he had been a dreamer all his days and always avoided the harsher realities if he could help it.

  Joe rubbed his chin absently and his sea-green eyes positively sparkled, for an idea had come into his head, one so astounding that he was taken aback at himself for even thinking it. ‘A fine wee body,’ he murmured almost to himself. ‘And she’ll be at the reception I haveny a doubt?’

  ‘Oh ay, she will that,’ assured Dugald. ‘She’ll be away home now to change into her best bib and tucker.’

  Old Joe turned away, forgetting the harbour in the new diversions which crowded into his mind. So engrossed was he in thought, he made no objection to Kate ushering him away down the hill with the intention of making him change from his boots into the despised dressy shoes she had told him to wear to kirk but which he had conveniently forgotten.

  Everyone else dispersed to go home and change, leaving Erchy and Todd stamping their sturdy feet on the turf and blowing into their pipes with such vigour the sound carried for miles, tingling the blood of all who heard and making them tap their feet in anticipation of the night of fun which lay ahead. Dugald had hired the village hall for the reception and the villagers had seen to it that it was decorated appropriately for the occasion. Streamers and balloons hung from the ceiling, a banner across the stage yelled out congratulations to the newlyweds in large red letters, while a small message underneath said cryptically, ‘If at first you don’t succeed, try, try and try again. Well done, Dugald Ban.’