‘Douglas!’ The name tore from his throat yet seemed to come from another being outwith himself, one that could open his lips yet had no voice. Raising his head he saw the little boy crawling over the grass towards him and in his relief words bubbled over one another, ‘Thank God! Oh, thank God!’ Yet, although he seemed to have shouted the words no sound came. A veil of frustrated tears filled his eyes and he lay back as waves of pain bit into him like red hot knives . . . His eyelids were heavy, pulled down by leaden weights – he wanted nothing more than to close them but he had to stay awake, had to make sure his son was all right.
Ruth sank exhausted into a chair by the empty fireplace and gazed round with dull eyes at the tiny, single-end apartment she had been staying in since her departure from Dungowrie Farm. She shuddered in a mixture of cold and distaste. It was all so different from what she had been used to, but it was all she had been able to find after trudging the length and breadth of Glasgow. At least the rent was low and she had made friends with a young woman in the flat above. Annie had three children of her own and it was no bother to her to look after Lorna while Ruth went out looking for a job. Physically and mentally exhausted, she had halfheartedly scanned the jobs columns in the papers, despair overwhelming her because she had had no training for anything and was coming to the conclusion that she would have to be satisfied with the most menial of positions – if she was lucky enough to be accepted for one. She had gone from one place to the next only to find the jobs taken or were beyond her physical capabilities. Then two days ago a visit to the employment exchange had resulted in her being sent to one of the big newspaper offices in the city. As a result of her interview she got the job and though she was little more than an office girl, making tea and generally cleaning and tidying up, at least she could now support herself and Lorna and she had a roof over her head.
The door opened and Annie came in with Lorna, who immediately went over to her mother and scrambled on to her knee. ‘Has she behaved herself?’ Ruth asked, ruffling her daughter’s hair.
‘Oh ay,’ said Annie cheerfully. ‘She’s a quiet wee soul mind. She just hangs about and keeps asking when she’s going to see her father and her wee brother.’
Ruth coloured and got up quickly. ‘I’ll have to see about getting her something to eat. I had to wait ages for a tram and thought I would never get home—’ She paused and looked at the dingy walls surrounding her. How could she ever think of this as home? Home was far away, everything that she had known and loved was on Rhanna and she wondered if she would ever see it again. She thought suddenly of Lorn and an odd/little shiver of dread went through her. She went to put the kettle on while Annie prattled on about her children – but Ruth wasn’t listening. An unease had gripped her and no matter how hard she tried to shake it off it refused to go away. She wasn’t to know that at that very minute Lorn lay in the fields above Laigmhor badly injured and that her little son, bewildered and terrified, needed her more than he had ever needed her before . . .
At the sound of a child screaming, Anton and Babbie, walking hand in hand along the cliffs above the wild rocky outcrops of Caillich Point, the Witches’ Place, stiffened and looked up startled.
‘Where did that come from?’ Babbie said, shading her eyes against the evening sun cascading over the countryside.
Anton pulled her in close to him and smiled. ‘Do not worry your head, liebling, it will just be some children from the village having a skylark.’
She shook her red head. ‘No, I’ve heard enough babies in my time to know it came from one – and it sounded terrified – come on, lazy, we’d better go and look.’
Anton followed her unwillingly, loth to relinquish the rare interlude of an evening stroll with his wife. But as they climbed up the slopes of Laigmhor’s fields the sight that met his eyes made him forget all else. Babbie’s feet were pounding the turf ahead of him. Catching her up he reached down to pluck up a sobbing, petrified Douglas, in time to stop him reaching the blood-stained figure of his father. Swiftly Babbie checked the child over, relieved to see that he only had superficial cuts and bruises. Anton tore off his jacket to wrap it round the little boy’s trembling body while Babbie fell on her knees by Lorn’s prone figure. Her keen professional gaze roved over his body which was lying at an unnaturally twisted angle. What he had imagined to be dampness from the earth was in fact blood spurting from a gash in his leg, soaking into his clothing as if it was blotting paper. His face and head were a mass of cuts, like crimson chalk marks on the deathly pallor of his face. His lips were moving and Babbie told him urgently, ‘Douglas is fine, Lorn, don’t try to move – can you feel your legs at all?’
As she spoke she was removing her nylon stockings, using one to tie a tourniquet above the wound in his leg. Feebly he moved his head and she spoke to Anton quickly. ‘Go up to Laigmhor and call Lachlan – tell him to come as quickly as he can. Surgery should still be on so you should get him all right.’
Cuddling the now quiet Douglas to his chest, Anton rushed off, his athletic stride taking him easily over the top of the fields which was the shortest route to Laigmhor. Left alone Babbie folded her jacket and placed it under Lorn’s head. He was only just hanging on to consciousness and she bit her lip, looking again and again at his face while she worked with the tourniquet, alternately loosening and tightening it. She hardly dared look at his legs . . .
‘Of course, they could just be fractured,’ she consoled herself and didn’t think beyond that. It was very quiet up here on the windblown field. In the woods below, the trees rustled, bluebells covered the leafy earth in a dense carpet. A corncrake was calling nearby, its bare, harsh sound boring into her head. Yet she was glad of it, for somehow it lessened the harshness of Lorn’s breathing. He was beginning to moan softly and she wished with all her heart that she had her bag with her so that she could have given him something to lessen the pain he was obviously suffering.
His lips moved again and this time he managed to croak out a few exhausted words. ‘Lewis – tried to warn me – he tried. My punishment for – what I did – to Ruthie.’
Babbie took his big hand in hers. It was cold and clammy. She spoke to him, softly, comfortingly, lifted her free hand to look at her watch. Anton had just been gone fifteen minutes yet it seemed as if she had been kneeling there for the same amount of hours . . . Voices floated down the slopes, figures appeared over a rise – the tense running figures of Kirsteen and Fergus. As they came nearer, Lorn heard them too. He opened his eyes but everything was veiled in a red mist and he couldn’t distinguish the features on the two pale blobs which hovered suddenly above him.
Kirsteen took one look at her youngest son and her hand flew to her mouth. ‘It’s my fault,’ she whispered in fear. ‘I said things—’
Fergus reached out to her, pulled her against him. ‘Weesht, weesht,’ he soothed. ‘You mustny blame yourself. For his sake pull yourself together.’
Comforting though his words were, they were entirely automatic. Every time his eyes strayed to his son lying so helplessly on the wet grass of the field his stomach heaved in fear and trepidation. Kirsteen straightened up, wiped her eyes and appeared to pull herself together, for she was able to fall on her knees beside her son and gently stroke the hair from his brow.
The purring of a tractor came to their ears, shortly it appeared with Anton at the wheel, Lachlan beside him. Anton had taken the smaller machine from the shed at Laigmhor simply because it was far quicker than walking. He had gone in it to Slochmhor, leaving Douglas with Elspeth, the new doctor to deal with the remaining patients while Lachlan grabbed his bag and came at once.
He bent over Lorn, made a swift, sure examination. His brown eyes were worried when he finally straightened up to speak quietly to the others. ‘He’s come down on his back with a Godawful thump – it’s difficult to say how bad it is but he doesn’t seem able to feel his legs. The rest isn’t as bad as it looks but that gash on his leg will need stitches. We must get him over to Slochmhor at
once. He’s banged his head too and has maybe got a bit of concussion – I’m going to give him an injection for the pain – it will put him out for a while.’
The needle pierced Lorn’s flesh, he murmured something about Ruth, relaxed, was glad to feel the drug rushing over his brain and he could sink into oblivion.
Lachlan pushed the hair back from his eyes, a frown creasing his brow. He was loth to move the boy though of course it was inevitable. He would do all he could for him at Slochmhor but they would have to get him to hospital for X-rays, find out the extent of damage to his back – also there could be internal injuries . . . He shook his head, better to take one thing at a time, first move was to Slochmhor – not such an easy task as it sounded, he mustn’t suffer any unnecessary movement. As if reading his thoughts Anton spoke to him quietly. Lachlan nodded and without ado began to peel off his jacket, directing everyone else to do likewise. In minutes the garments had been fashioned into a soft, pliable makeshift stretcher into which Lorn was placed. On the slow, careful plod over the fields, Babbie kept working with the tourniquet and Lachlan, watching, thanked the Gods for a nurse as devoted and as brilliant as she. Whenever he praised her she merely smiled her radiant smile and told him she had learned from Biddy how to cope with people’s feelings and from him how to deal with broken bodies.
Lachlan mused on how speedily and safely Ruth had been transported to hospital when she had taken ill and he wished the laird’s flying friend could be here now to relieve them in the present crisis. As if in answer to his prayers the drone of a small aircraft sounded above. Automatically everyone looked upwards, Anton pausing to rest and crane his neck heavenwards. His handsome face lit. ‘It’s Charlie, or I’m a Dutchman! All fresh and sober and dropping in on Burnbreddie for the weekend. I’ll phone him as soon as we get to Slochmhor! Lorn should be in hospital in the bat of an eyebrow.’
‘Lid,’ corrected Babbie, giggling in her relief.
Fergus’ arm tightened round Kirsteen’s waist. ‘God is on our side, mo cridhe,’ he murmured into her ear and she snuggled against him, glad of his hard strength.
An hour later Lorn was on his way to hospital, cleaned and stitched, a blood transfusion dripping into his arm, Fergus in the front seat beside a sober and slightly bemused Charlie, ideas running through his head about starting an air ambulance service on Rhanna. Kirsteen stood with Douglas in her arms, watching the plane disappear into the clouds wishing with all her heart that she was in the aircraft with her son. But Douglas needed her more than he had ever needed anyone in his young life. He clung to her, terrified to let her out of his sight, his small face harrowed and tear-stained, his warm mouth moving against her neck, alternately crying for his mother and father.
‘My poor wee babby.’ Her arms tightened around him even as a tight band of dread closed round her heart. Lachlan had tried to reassure her about Lorn but she knew he was only being kind. She couldn’t stop the bleak thoughts from crowding in on her. Lorn was badly injured – he might never walk again . . . A sob rose in her throat. Anton put his arm round her and guided her over the fields. In the distance a plump figure was approaching and soon Phebie’s sweet, concerned features became discernible. She had been out when the news had come about Lorn. Having just learned of the accident she had left Slochmhor at once and now she came running, panting from her exertions, without hesitation coming straight up to her friend and throwing her arms about her. For a long moment, her comforting embrace lingered on Kirsteen’s slender shoulders before she stood back to dab her eyes with a corner of her cardigan.
‘Oh, Kirsteen, I’m so sorry about everything,’ she said brokenly. ‘I was a selfish besom to say I wanted Grant and Fiona to stay with me – and now this has happened and I feel so petty and mean.’
Kirsteen laid her hand on the other’s arm. ‘Don’t, Phebie, please don’t, I was sillier than anyone. When that two come home they can decide for themselves where they want to stay.’ Her lip trembled. ‘We’re just a couple of old grannies fighting over nothing.’
A smile of relief chased away Phebie’s tears and she said huskily, ‘So – are we friends again?’
‘We were never anything else. Now I’d better get home and put this wee lad to bed. He’s had a terrible fright.’
‘I’ll come with you,’ Phebie decided. ‘I – I would like to wait with you till you hear word about Lorn – if you don’t mind that is.’
Kirsteen could not think of anyone else she would rather have with her during what she knew would be a suspenseful period of waiting. She nodded gratefully at the suggestion and walked with her friend through the quiet gloaming to the strangely empty atmosphere that all at once pervaded the rooms of Laigmhor.
Part Four
Autumn 1964
Chapter Fifteen
It was a warm, golden September with the rays of the mellow sun pouring over the heather on the hills, slanting through the dying bracken, turning it to amber. The smoke from the chimneys of Portcull spiralled lazily into a deep blue sky, its azure depths echoed in the tiny lochans that dotted the moors. Every morning the villagers took their carts and peat creels up to the peat hags to collect the stacks of turf which had lain all summer drying in the wind and sun. Tam had acquired an ancient ramshackle of a lorry. In the days it didn’t break down he hired it out, with himself as the driver thrown in for free, to bring down loads of peat from the various hags. But a lot of folk grumbled at the prices he charged, especially as he declined to help in the backbreaking work of lifting and loading, and quite a few refused to take advantage of his services, preferring the more traditional and less costly methods.
Old Bob, throwing innate caution to the winds, treated himself to a brand new van in which to collect his peat, though the track up to his house was so unsuitable for a vehicle he was forced to leave it at the bottom and plod up the hill with barrowloads of winter fuel, helped in the venture by a few of the villagers hoping he would perhaps lend out his van.
‘You could have bought yourself a fine new house on the level wi’ all that money o’ yours,’ a sweating Ranald told him in envious tones, but Bob merely spat his disapproval of the suggestion and intoned that his house would do him well enough till he thought about retiring.
‘Retiring!’ Ranald was incredulous. ‘You should have retired years ago, you mean auld bodach.’
‘Ay, maybe I should but I didny,’ Old Bob said placidly. ‘And I’m no’ going to either till I have a good reason.’
Ranald’s eyes gleamed. ‘Ach, you’re meaning Grace Donaldson. She’ll be your reason, Bob, we’ve seen you goin’ to her house wi’ presents o’ grouse and pheasant. You can court her all you like and give her fish and game till they are comin’ out her ears but it will no’ work. Old Joe has his foot in her door – I even saw him kissing her one day – though only on the cheek mind.’
Old Bob grew red, but retaliated with dignity, ‘My affairs are my own, I will no’ be discussing them wi’ you or anybody else and that’s an end o’ the matter.’
From the window of Laigmhor’s parlour, Lorn lay on the couch and every day watched the comings and goings on the road. He had spent a lot of his boyhood hours on the selfsame couch by the parlour window and often, in the course of the last three months, a sense of unreality swamped him. He was hardly able to take in the fact that here he was again – an invalid who couldn’t get up – walk – go outside. The time of the accident was a vague blur in his mind. He could only recall certain parts of it but in the days that followed he was made cruelly aware of what the incident had cost him.
The time in hospital hadn’t been so bad. You expected things like stitches and bandages after a serious accident. It was afterwards that the full import of his injuries had struck him like a physical blow. His cuts and grazes had healed quickly enough but it was what the doctors had discovered about his back which wouldn’t be so easy to heal – if ever. He moved restlessly, as if trying to escape the dark thoughts which overwhelmed him, but he couldn’t escap
e the stark reality of legs that wouldn’t move – the doctors had said some nerves had been damaged by the fall – it could be a temporary paralysis – or it could be . . . oh, God, no! He shook his head and forced his eyes back to the window – to the rugged grandeur of the hills, to the people he knew and loved going about their daily business, waving to him as they passed by. It was they who kept him going when his thoughts were bleak and dark, they who made him feel a part of that glorious outside world – even though he might never be in it again . . .
‘Stop it!’ he told himself fiercely. ‘Of course you’ll bloody well walk again, it will just take time, that’s all . . .’ In the distance a girl with golden hair was coming down the track from Nigg. His thoughts flew unbidden to Ruth. Lying here, day after day, he had plenty of time to think, but he tried to stifle thoughts of Ruth, to push them down to the pit of his being where they couldn’t hurt. To a certain degree he had succeeded, yet he couldn’t deny she was more in his mind than out of it – and his little girl. She filled his thoughts almost continually.
Where was she? How was she? What was she doing? Had she forgotten him? Did she still look upon him as the big strong man she had respected and loved or did she see him as an ogre? One who had somehow made her mother unhappy? Yet much as he longed to see her he dreaded her seeing him as he was. His father had suggested that he use a wheelchair but he had rejected this with the fierce declaration that he would go out under his own steam and not before. Fergus had looked at him strangely and had said seriously, ‘Don’t let pride stand in your way, Lorn. You were always better balanced than me in that respect, for pity’s sake don’t let yourself down now.’
‘It isn’t pride,’ Lorn had told him through gritted teeth. ‘I lost what I had of that months ago.’
Fergus’ black eyes had glittered. ‘No, then what is it that makes a man too ashamed to let the world see that his body is as capable of being broken as that of any other man?’
Song of Rhanna (The Rhanna series) Page 25
