‘My my,’ Fingal McLeod, a lanky, tousle-haired crofter with a peg leg, watched her disappearance through the door with admiration. ‘So that is the new doctor? Have you ever seen such a bonny pair o’ legs? They just go on and on for miles.’ He sniggered. ‘I wonder if I show her old Peggy will she maybe return the compliment and let me see one o’ hers – though two would be better.’
‘Hmph,’ Behag’s jowls were hanging in disapproving layers. ‘Fancy a doctor wearin’ they ridiculous spiky shoes. She will be leaving wee pits all over the floors and breaking her ankles into the bargain.’
‘And she was wearin’ a white coat.’ Jim Jim looked uneasy. ‘I never could be natural speakin’ to a body in a white coat.’
Everyone looked at everyone else uncomfortably. To them a doctor in a white coat meant officiousness and was a most effective barrier against friendly overtures.
‘Lachlan’s never worn a white coat in all the time he’s been here,’ said Merry Mary nervously. ‘I mind once he was away and a locum in his place wore a coat so thick wi’ starch it stood up on its own according to Elspeth. She had to launder the damty things and got excreta on her hands. They were all dry and scaly like a fish.’
‘Eczema,’ corrected Mollie automatically. ‘You are gettin’ mixed up wi’ dung, Merry Mary.’
‘Indeed I am not,’ asserted Merry Mary witheringly. ‘Elspeth had her own cure for dry hands. Every night before bedtime she coated her hands in dung from my very own byre and went to bed wi’ cotton gloves over them.’
Todd’s round face positively beamed. ‘It is no wonder she could never get another man after Hector died. I wouldny like to go to bed wi’ her at the best o’ times but the idea o’ her pawin’ me wi’ shitty fingers would be the last straw.’
‘It worked too,’ put in Kate who had been quietly wondering how she was going to tell a doctor in a white coat that she was having bother with her piles again. ‘I mind Elspeth showed me her hands, lily white they were and as smooth as a baby’s bum. “My, Elspeth,” I says, “it just shows what a good dollop o’ dung will do to a body’s parts.” I suggessed she should try it on her face and she never spoke to me for a month after.’
Phebie’s exit from the parlour very effectively quelled further gossip. Her eyes were red as if she had just been crying and her usual cheery smile of greeting was conspicuous by its absence.
Behag clicked her tongue and said solicitously, ‘And how are you this evening, Mistress McLachlan? No’ too happy from the look of you, but never mind, you will soon have the family round you again and will have no time to feel anything for no doubt they will keep you busier than you have ever been before.’
It was an inflammatory remark and everyone there, not the least Phebie, knew that it was a deliberate attempt to draw her into speaking about the argument with Kirsteen.
Phebie’s ample bosom heaved, the look she cast at Behag would have withered a forest. ‘And I suppose you know all about young families, Behag? Maybe you have been keeping one hidden up your sleeve to surprise us with – or maybe you just throw a few ingredients into a witch’s pot, shout “Abracadabra” and a ready-made set o’ bairns come tripping out to throw their arms about you and shout “Mother”!’
Behag spluttered and turned purple, everyone else stared at Phebie in open-mouthed astonishment, while Kate threw up her hands and gave vent to peals of such infectious laughter she soon had everyone else joining in. Even Phebie saw the funny side and broke first into a giggle then into a full-bellied laugh which soon dispelled her previous gloom. Only Behag failed to see humour in the situation and as soon as Elspeth appeared to announce that the doctors were ready, she got up and flounced into the surgery, ignoring Jim Jim’s protests that he was first.
‘The buggering old cheat,’ he fumed, then appealing to the rest, ‘I hope that the new doctor tries pokin’ butter up her erse wi’ a red hot needle – ay, and down her throat as well!’
‘Ach God!’ Kate was off again, Phebie collapsed on a chair and clutched her stomach, Jim Jim shot a perfectly aimed spit into a flower pot in his exuberance, everyone else wobbled and snorted.
The mirthful sounds wafted through the solid oak door of the surgery. Lachlan’s lips twitched, Megan looked at Behag’s wizened red countenance, heard her stuttered request for something to cure her constipation and valiantly squashed down an irrepressible urge to shout with mirth. Hastily she rushed into the little dispensary where she collapsed against the shelves and allowed herself the luxury of a good laugh.
Her eyes roved over the various bottles containing cures for constipation and seizing one she measured out an amount which would ensure that Behag would be back in a few days complaining of diarrhoea. Already she had judged the ex-postmistress as a source of mischief-making and had no qualms in giving her the medicine. Another wave of mirth wafted from the hall. Pushing the hair from her neck she smiled, a soft, quiet, radiant smile which completely transformed her hitherto pensive face into one of vibrant attractiveness. She knew she was going to enjoy living on Rhanna with people like the McLachlans and the McKenzies, whom she didn’t yet know, but who sounded interesting. And of course she had already fallen in love with the villagers with their open honest faces and what was obviously a hilarious sense of fun. Even old Behag, for all her faults and sly tongue was very much a character in her own right. She was part of the scheme of things and in every community there had to be a Behag to make you appreciate the more good-hearted in your midst.
Chapter Fourteen
Kirsteen burst into the kitchen, threw herself on a chair and cried passionately, ‘I will never speak to Phebie McLachlan again! I never thought she could be so pig-headed and stubborn!’
Fergus looked up from his paper and eyed his wife in some surprise. Tears of frustration were dancing in her eyes, her cheeks were flushed, the hand she pushed through her hair was not quite steady. Patiently he folded up the paper, laid it on the coalbox, and waited for an explanation of the outburst. In a choked voice she related all that had transpired between herself and Phebie, finishing with the somewhat petty exclamation, ‘And to think I believed she was my friend!’
Fergus put his pipe between his teeth and, with slow deliberation, lit it from a paper spill held to the fire. He cleared his throat, realizing that this was a delicate situation which needed careful handling.
‘You must see her side of the picture as well as your own,’ he said, choosing each word carefully. ‘If you think Phebie’s being unreasonable, she must be thinking exactly the same thing as yourself, for isn’t it a fact that you both want the selfsame thing?’
It was the wrong thing to say. Kirsteen’s reaction told him that immediately. With disbelieving eyes she glared at him. ‘Oh, so you are taking her side in all this? I thought you at least would see reason.’
He sighed. ‘I am just trying to see both sides and you’re the one who isn’t seeing reason . . .’
Lorn came in at that point. An apathy had settled over him in the last few weeks that nothing seemed to penetrate. He was thin and tired looking, the hollows in his face alarming Kirsteen so much she was afraid that he might relapse back into the delicate state of health of his early years. He had written to Ruth, sent her money for Lorna, but just a week ago the letters had been sent back unopened. Humiliated beyond bearing, he had in desperation phoned Dungowrie Farm. Jean Jackson had answered and her voice had been full of sympathy when she explained that Ruth had left the farm taking Lorna with her, and she didn’t know where they’d gone. Ruth had been strange and uncommunicative for a long time. All she would say was that she was going to get a job, and that Jean wasn’t to worry as she would be in touch as soon as she was settled.
Putting the phone down, Lorn had gone up to his room, buried his face in his hands and sunk into an abyss of lonely despair. All he could think of was Lorna, his darling child, her little face bewildered as she was taken to one strange place after another. Because of him she was suffering, an innocent baby who
had never done a wrong thing in the short years she had lived on earth. Anger against Ruth had swamped him. He had asked himself over and over how she could be so heartless as to use their daughter to get back at him. He wasn’t so worried about the effect on his son, who was too young to know what was happening and had settled happily at Laigmhor – but Lorna – she knew all right. Wise beyond her years, she would know only too well that she was being kept apart from her father because of something he had done – and – the thought curdled his blood – in time she might grow to blame him as much as Ruth was blaming him – to even perhaps – hate him.
‘But no,’ he had whispered in torment to the empty room, ‘I won’t allow that to happen, my babby. I’ll get you back, somehow I’ll get you back.’
He had gone to Glasgow to scour the streets with no success. He had ignored Dugald’s earlier advice and had gone to several police stations to ask them to keep a lookout for his missing wife and child for they were missing, as surely as if they had just disappeared off the face of the earth. He had phoned the police almost every day since but they had nothing to report. No young woman by the name of Ruth McKenzie had come to their notice. Lorn’s misery and dejection grew till his parents were driven to distraction and a heartfelt desire for Ruth to come to her senses and at least let everyone know she was well and managing.
Dugald too had lost his earlier contentment and was steadily reverting back to his former state of unhappiness. He had received only one or two sketchy postcards from his daughter and in them she hoped he was well and not worrying about her, hardly a word about how she or Lorna were coping. Totie, furious at how things were turning out, coaxed him to take an interest in the things he loved, and for her sake he made the effort though if hers hadn’t been such a strong personality he might well have succumbed to perpetual depression.
At sight of Lorn by the window, his gaze fixed blindly on the rain-smirred distance, Kirsteen, in her present mood, instead of feeling sympathy, experienced instead an almost overwhelming desire to go and shake him, tell him if he had to moon around, would he mind doing it where no one else could see him. With an effort she controlled herself, contenting herself by saying more sharply than she meant, ‘For heaven’s sake, Lorn, if you go on like this you’ll make yourself ill – and the rest of us with you. Can you not find something to do other than mope? Och, it will be good to have Grant back again – of all my sons he’s the one who’s been the least bother . . .’
She had gone too far and she knew it. Fergus glowered at her from lowered brows, Lorn stared, thunderstruck.
She passed her hand distractedly over her eyes and said pleadingly, ‘Lorn, Lorn, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean any of it – it’s just, well, we all have our worries and I’ve just had a row with Phebie—’
‘And that’s all you have to bother about, eh?’ Lorn’s voice was harsh with hurt. ‘You had a petty argument with Phebie over Grant and that’s so important you canny see what’s under your very nose! I’m seeing a new side o’ you, Mother, one that I don’t like very much.’
‘We all have sides to our nature that aren’t very pleasant, Lorn,’ she cried in appeal, her cheeks burning with shame. ‘I was angry – I took it out on you, we all do that in our lives – you must have done it . . .’
‘Where’s Douglas?’ he demanded roughly.
Bewildered she had to think for a moment. ‘Outside – playing with the cats in the wee shed.’
‘Fine. I’m going out with the tractor and I want to take him with me, it’s time he started to learn . . .’
‘But he’s only a baby!’ protested Kirsteen, rather afraid of the stark wildness staring out of her son’s eyes.
‘I was a baby when Father took me out to the fields. My love of the soil grew from babyhood and I want Douglas to be the same.’
Without another word he went to the door, pushed his feet into his wellingtons, and strode away round to the little garden at the back of the house. The rain, which had been falling steadily for almost a week, had stopped, and a watery sun was breaking through the grey mantle of cloud. In the distance the little white houses of Portcull stood out against the grey heaving mass of the Atlantic; the smell of grass and wet earth was sweet and heavy in the air; the perfume of roses wafted from the flower bed set against the mossy stones of a small rambling shed where garden tools and all sorts of bits and pieces were stored. The roses had been Mirabelle’s doing, planted in a burst of optimism and a craving for something of beauty amidst the weeds which flourished in the sandy soil of the area. With love and care, the bushes had flourished to give pleasure to many and now Lorn stood for a long moment, breathing the scent of them, seeing the perfection of one single pink rosebud amidst the green foliage. A vision came to him, of Ruth on the night of the Burnbreddie dance, a figure of feminine sweetness in a white dress, a single pink rosebud pinned over her breast.
‘Oh God, Ruthie!’ He ran his fingers through his hair, blinked his eyes to get rid of the tears. His bout of anger against her had passed once more, in its place was a craving to see her, touch her, hear that dear musical voice of hers saying his name . . .
His heart felt as heavy as lead as he went to get his son. The little boy toddled towards him, his face upturned so that he could look up at the giant of a man who was his father. He was flushed and grubby, his lint-white hair full of straw and cat’s hairs, but he was smiling and happy and Lorn scooped him up to sit him on his shoulders. The little boy crooned with delight which turned to a gurgle of joy when he saw that they were making for the tractor, for he liked nothing better than to ride in the big machine beside his father.
The fields were sodden, seagulls and oystercatchers swam happily in the pools lying in the hollows. The tractor climbed upwards, towards the better drained high ground which was in the process of being ploughed. Wet weather had forestalled progress and Lorn knew that he should wait for it to dry out before proceeding with the work. But he had wanted an excuse to get away from the house, away from eyes that he felt contained accusations, away from his mother who was normally so understanding but who had proved with just a few thoughtless words that she blamed him as much as anyone. The fragrance of the wet fields filled his senses, the freedom of high lonely places washed over him . . . but there was no freedom in his life anymore, it was all around him yet failed to touch him. He was ensnared by loneliness and his own bleak thoughts. Douglas prattled and chuckled by his side; he pointed a chubby finger making Lorn look into the distance. Away to the east a rainbow appeared, its perfect curve spanning the grey reaches of the sea, imbuing it with colour, life . . . In days gone by Lorn had always looked upon the rainbow as a symbol of hope, a sign that where there was rain also there was sunshine, but now he saw it with the dull eyes of a man without hope, a man who had had everything and had foolishly exchanged it for the swift passing pleasure of forbidden love . . . Lewis came to him, quite suddenly, so near and real he might have been sitting in the cab beside him. Fresh rage spurted through Lom’s veins. In his present state of mind he saw Lewis as a spectre at the feast, come to gloat at the ruins of his brother’s life. He wanted to shout out, to tell Lewis to go away, leave him, but he choked the words down so that he wouldn’t frighten his son. He drove the tractor faster, as if by doing so he could somehow leave behind the spirit of his dead brother – but the faster he went, the stronger Lewis’ presence became and he could almost hear the well-known voice saying, ‘Careful, Lorn, my lad, careful.’
The tractor careered towards a steep slope, the great wheels chewing up clods of grass, a beam of sunlight slanted down, glinting on the millions of raindrops which misted the grass . . . Lorn put up his hand to shield his eyes from the glare. The ground was racing to meet him and he realized he was going too fast. He braked but his reflex actions were slow and in the mists of his mind he knew he had left it too late. He was sideways on at the crest of the slope, without any warning the big lumbering machine began slowly to tilt over . . . adrenalin pumped through his veins, goa
ding his heart to a frightening gallop. The sky reeled, spun, as if in slow motion the tractor went over.
‘Lewis! Lewis!’ He screamed his brother’s name and in that split moment in time he realized that the spirit of Lewis only came to him in time of danger, to warn him when it was imminent, not to goad him into doing wrongful things as he had imagined that hot sun-filled day in the fields when he had come upon Rachel lying half-naked in the hollow of the knoll . . . A scream that was not his own pierced his eardrums, filled his head. Letting the wheel go his arms shot out to pull his son to him, then he twisted round in his seat so that the child would have some protection from the inevitable crash to follow. The tractor seemed to hang suspended for infinite moments before it spun down the wet slope, rolling over twice before it plunged sickeningly into an outcrop of rock at the bottom. Bits of it peeled away like cardboard, the shattering of the windscreen was a hellish explosion inside Lorn’s head.
He felt himself being lifted as if by a giant’s hand, had the sensation of flying through the air before being tossed mercilessly to the ground like a helpless doll. In the split second before the impact he twisted round violently so that his son, who was held to his breast, would be protected from the full horror of that which was to come. Flesh and bone thudded into the earth, all the breath was squeezed from his lungs, a blinding flash of pain went through his head, he heard a dull crack and in the mists of his consciousness imagined it to come from the tractor and not from his own body. From somewhere nearby Douglas was screaming, a terrified sound that beat into Lorn’s head in fuzzy waves – relief swamped him – the screams meant the little boy was alive. He was aware of the sky, the clouds rolling, the dampness of the sodden grass soaking into his clothes – and he was amazed to know that he could still see – feel.
Song of Rhanna (The Rhanna series) Page 24
