Song of Rhanna (The Rhanna series)

by Christine Marion Fraser

  ‘Because I’ve already been through all that,’ Lorn had answered flatly. ‘I’ve had the pity and about as much compassion as I can damned well take in a lifetime. I don’t want anyone to feel sorry for me again and I won’t go out of that door till I am bloody well ready.’

  Yet in his heart, he knew that his father was right – but only up to a point. It wasn’t pride that made him feel as he did, but sheer lack of fighting spirit, though he didn’t dare tell his father that, he would be too ashamed to admit it aloud for he hardly dared admit it to himself. Far better to let everyone believe what they would – just so long as they didn’t think he was a cowardly defeatist.

  His hands went down to fondle Ben’s soft ears and he whispered, ‘Thank God for you, Ben, you don’t ask questions, you just accept me – as I am.’

  The old dog had taken to lying, either on the couch at his master’s feet, or on the floor beside him. Day after day he lay with his muzzle on his paws, his brown, intelligent gaze fixed on the young man he loved, accepting his state of immobility with a resigned patience that Lorn wished could be transferred to the human beings around him; for though they didn’t say as much he sensed their anxiety and at times, in his frustration, resented it . . .

  The savoury aroma of stewing steak wafted from the kitchen. He could visualize the scene, his mother at the shining, blackleaded range, his father stripped to the waist at the sink, washing off the morning grime. It had been a routine that Lorn had accepted in his life but now that it was out of his reach he longed for the commonplace certainty of it, pined for old, familiar ways. He had worried because his father had had to shoulder the brunt of the work, but if it was a strain on him it didn’t show. He was as ruggedly strong and vital as ever and seemed positively to revel in hard physical work. Only Kirsteen knew that he was often more weary than he would ever admit. Only she saw the hollows in his face when he came in at night and flopped exhausted into a chair to sleep for perhaps half an hour before his meal, something he had seldom done before. And only she saw him in repose after he had fallen into bed to sleep as soon as his head touched the pillow and she knew the dread of realizing that though he looked ten years younger he was after all in his sixty-fifth year and no longer a young man.

  But canny Old Bob noticed more than he ever let on and just a month ago he had complained to Fergus that he was finding things hard going even with Donald and Matthew to help. He had asked Fergus to consider taking on another man for general farm labouring and Fergus had scrutinized his walnut-brown face keenly and had said suspiciously, ‘I’ve never known you complain before, maybe the time has come for you to give up farming.’

  ‘Na, na, lad, I’ll no’ do that,’ Bob had forcibly replied. ‘Besides, deny it how you will, you need all the hands you can get wi’ Lorn laid up and that means auld yins too.’ Nonchalantly he had examined his grimy nails. ‘I was thinkin’ o’ askin’ Mairi’s lad to help out. He’s keen on farming but hasny managed to get much since he left the smacks and remember he was aye good on the croft before he went to sea. I’d make the young bugger pull his weight if you thought to take him on here.’

  And so Davie McKinnon, a tall lanky youth with a continual drip at his nose which folk said had been inherited from Wullie, his father, came to work at Laigmhor, throwing himself into his job with such a will Fergus almost forgot his early reputation for drinking himself sober. Kirsteen was able to breathe a sigh of relief as gradually the spring came back to Fergus’ step and he had enough energy to coorie in beside her at night to talk and frequently to make love.

  Doctor Megan was taking over more and more of Lachlan’s duties and it was she who had attended Lorn most frequently since his accident. At first she had been quiet and shy with none of the ready repartee that everyone enjoyed in Lachlan.

  With Lorn though, she gradually blossomed out till she was able to sit on the couch beside him and in her clear, attractive voice recount some of the problems she had encountered in her dealings with some of the older islanders. When she laughed a sprite lit her hazel eyes, a bloom came to her cheeks and she was so different from the young woman that everyone was appraising in a suspicious fashion that Lorn knew it was only a matter of time before her charm became apparent to everyone.

  On the day however that a visit from Mark James coincided with hers she immediately reverted back to her more reserved self. A spot of colour had burned in her cheeks as the minister’s smoky gaze swept over her and she had been so confused she had dropped her bag and its contents on to the floor. Gallantly, Mark James got down on the floor to help her gather up the things. Lorn had expected a bit of banter from him over the incident but none was forthcoming. Instead he seemed as confused as the doctor. Her thanks to him were noticeably succinct; his reply equally brief. They had seemed embarrassed and awkward in one another’s company and Doctor Megan’s visit had been very short indeed, her departure so laden with relief Lorn had stared out of the window at her receding figure in some bemusement.

  After her departure Mark James had been detached and inattentive, his gaze going again and again to the window as if mentally he had followed Doctor Megan down the road to her cottage at Burg. Lorn had mentioned all this to Shona, and an odd look had come into her blue eyes. She had clasped her fingers to her lips and had said almost to herself, ‘I wonder – oh – if only it could be.’

  Lorn had asked her what she meant and with a laugh she had looked him straight in the eye and said simply, ‘Don’t you think they are well suited? Our Mark James and the new doctor?’

  In view of the scene that he had just witnessed Lorn had expressed some doubts over this and Shona, eyes sparkling, had scolded him. ‘Ach, Lorn, use your head! Have you no romance in you at all! Think about it.’

  And think about it Lorn did, in the end coming to the conclusion that his sister was right and that there existed between the minister and the doctor the beginnings of what could only be described as romance.

  As always Bob came every day to take his midday meal at Laigmhor. Lorn looked forward to his visits, enjoying them even more than those of younger acquaintances. There was a serenity about Bob, a quality about his manner that could only come with the dignity of old age. He was also possessed of a dry wit and piquant tongue that could be wonderfully stimulating. In the evenings he toiled down the steep brae from his cottage, bringing his fiddle. He and Lorn would play together happily for hours or they would simply get out the cards and have a few games and a dram. Bob also had a fund of stories to relate about his shepherding days as a boy and Lorn would listen enthralled, realizing that he was honoured to hear them as the old man was normally as reserved as the hills about the days of his past.

  Quite often Fergus and Kirsteen came to join in the cards or the singing. If Shona and Niall, or Phebie and Lachlan came over, a ceilidh would often develop and these were Lorn’s happiest times, surrounded by family and friends, no time to mope, to think. He had the wireless set to listen to if he so desired but almost every time he switched on the Song of Rhanna seemed to be playing. The words which had been composed by Mark James had been bought by a recording company and it was one of the most popular tunes of that summer. Lorn switched off whenever he heard it. It was too evocative, bringing back so many painful memories he wished only to forget. His time with Rachel seemed so unreal to him he couldn’t believe it had actually happened, had cost so much pain and suffering to so many. Yet he couldn’t ignore Rachel’s existence, a feeling that she had a right to know everything that had happened since her departure, so he had written to her, explaining. A letter came back, full of the same kind of remorse he was going through. But she had known something momentous had happened. She had written letters to Ruth addressed to Fàilte with never an answering note and Lorn realized that his father, who went regularly to the cottage to collect the mail Erchy in his absent-mindedness popped through the door, had kept back Rachel’s letters with the intention of sparing his son such painful reminders of the past . . .

&nbs
p; The door opened, interrupting Lorn’s musings. Old Bob came through, bearing his dinner on a tray, Kirsteen at his heels to set Lorn’s down on a chair while she plumped his pillows. ‘I want it all eaten,’ she said as lightly as she could, sadness swamping her as she looked at the hollows in her son’s face, saw a delicacy in him she had thought had disappeared with boyhood. He was rarely hungry, taking only as much as he thought would ward off the comments about his lack of appetite. She didn’t fuss, she had never fussed, it was one of the things he loved most about her but she couldn’t stop the concern showing on her face and he hated himself for being the cause of it. Douglas tottered in at her back, fretfully declaring that he wanted to eat his dinner with his father, but Kirsteen, knowing from experience how tiring his boisterous company could be even to the most fit, shooed him back into the kitchen. He went unwillingly, tearing his bib off as a gesture of defiance, and Kirsteen sighed, knowing that for the rest of the meal he would be in a bad temper, for he had inherited that trait very strongly and was too young to know how to control it. He had been difficult since his father’s accident, often keeping her awake till the small hours with his tantrums and his refusal to sleep. At other times he was a sunny lovable scamp, his highly developed, sense of humour so infectious it never failed to raise a laugh even in the sourest of company.

  Stolidly Bob ate his dinner, never one to indulge in idle chatter while the serious business of eating was in progress, remaining silent till every scrap was eaten and the plate scraped clean by means of a hunk of crusty bread. Satisfied he at last sat back, tapped out his pipe on his boot, lit it, and sat puffing for a few thoughtful minutes. Normally when he spoke it was with the slow, easy deliberation of the Hebridean, but on this occasion there was a certain suppressed excitement in his voice as he said carefully, ‘I was just after seein’ Grant and Fiona makin’ their way over the fields to Slochmhor – I didny say anything to your folks for I had a mind they might like to know the surprise o’ it for themselves . . .

  ‘Grant and Fiona!’ A flush of colour touched Lorn’s face. ‘You old de’il! How could you know a thing like that and still eat your dinner as if Ben was going to steal it!’

  ‘Ach well, I like to take my time wi’ my food – at my age you have to be careful wi’ the chewing.’

  Lorn’s eyes were sparkling. ‘How the hell can they be on the island? The steamer came last night and nary a sign of them.’

  ‘I’m thinkin’ they came on a fishing boat. You mind Grant was aye a lad for that kind of thing and of course the lads at Oban have long memories. Grant would have no trouble hitching a lift. The boat likely docked at Portvoynachan.’

  ‘Did they see you? How did they look – was Fiona able to walk that far! She must be about ready to have her baby.’

  Bob drew on his pipe. It made a sucking bubbling sound and he removed it from his mouth to take it apart, blow down it, peer through it. Satisfied that all was well he put it together again and placed the mouthpiece in a little shallow trench on his lower lip which had either been there all along or had conveniently worn away with continual use.

  ‘Ay, she must,’ he agreed reflectively. ‘Her belly is no’ as big as some I’ve seen mind, she was holding herself well and Grant bein’ all gentlemanly and holding her by the waist. They didny see me for I was down in the barley field which is near as high as myself just now. I have a fancy the door will be opening in a wee whily and you will hear your mother screechin’ wi’ pleasure and your father makin’ noises like a bull wi’ the wind.’

  Almost before he finished speaking there came from the kitchen a skirling of shouts and laughter such as had never been heard in the house since the days of Lewis’ tornado-like homecomings. Fergus’ deep laugh boomed out, above it rose Kirsteen’s high, delighted voice, Lachlan’s pleasant tones, Phebie’s girlish giggle.

  Bob sucked placidly at his pipe, his eyes on Lorn’s face, smiling to himself at the anticipation stamped across it. The next moment the door burst open, the silence in the room shattered as it filled with people. Out of the sea of faces leapt one that Lorn had ached to see, Grant, bronzed, dark eyes alive with laughter, his strapping brawny figure dwarfing that of his neatly made wife. For a split second he remained still, his eyes alighting on Lorn’s face, then he was leaping forward, taking Lorn’s hands, gripping them tightly. His laughter-bright face did not change with the shock that registered within him at sight of a Lorn he had once known many years ago, the Lorn of old, too thin, too pale.

  His deep voice boomed out. ‘Lorn, you young bugger! I thought you might have been at the door to welcome us back – and don’t give me your Lorn look, all stubborn and annoyed. It’s as well I’m home, I can see things have been allowed to slide around here. I’ll have you up on your feet in no time. We canny have lazy buggers like you cluttering up the house – it’s untidy enough as it is.’

  ‘Of all the cheek,’ Kirsteen’s face was alight. ‘Just for that I’ll make you do some of the housework to teach you a lesson.’

  Old Bob, silent while the family exchanged their excited greetings, tucked his pipe away into an inner pocket and stood up. ‘If you’ll be excusing me I have to get back to my work – it’s no’ everybody has the time to stand around gossiping.’ His blue eyes twinkled as he spoke and Grant laughed.

  ‘Oh no you don’t, Bob my lad, we have still to hear all your news. A wee bird told me you had won the pools and something else even more astounding.’

  Bob rubbed his grizzled chin. ‘Oh, and what would that be I’d like to know?’

  ‘You are courting that’s what, you cunning old devil!’ Fiona burst out in delight. ‘It’s the talk of the town! Jock Simpson of Rumhor gave us a lift over and he was full of you and your romantic affairs.’

  ‘Ach, it is just a lot o’ palaver over nothing,’ Bob sniffed disdainfully. Nevertheless he thoroughly enjoyed holding court for the next few minutes though in his canny way giving little away about his business.

  ‘Other folks are good at tellin’ me what I am supposed to be gettin’ up to,’ was his parting shot at the door, ‘so I will just let you all talk yourselves blue in the face. At the end o’ the day we will see who has been right and who has been wrong. That is one thing about gossip, it is all just like a wee puzzle wi’ everybody addin’ a bit then when the truth comes out all the damty pieces are scattered to the wind for they are about as much good as a castrated ram to a breeding yowe.’

  Lorn looked at Fiona, standing with an arm round each of her parents. Though in the last stages of her pregnancy it was difficult to believe. Because she was normally so slender and fairly tall, she carried herself well yet looked inordinately proud of her little lump of a belly. Her sun-kissed face was glowing, her bright brown eyes sparkling under the heavy fringe of her shining hair. Lorn grinned at her. ‘Bob saw this brother of mine hauling you over the fields. Don’t tell me he made you walk all the way from Portvoynachan?’

  ‘I’m not that daft and fine Dimples McKenzie knows it!’ She threw her husband a laughing glance. ‘We hitched a lift as far as Caillich Point then walked the rest of the way over the fields to surprise everyone.’

  ‘You certainly did that,’ said Lachlan decidedly. ‘There I was, enjoying a nap as befits a gentleman of my years, when all at once the peace of the house was invaded by two young heathens.’

  Grant was unperturbed. ‘Ach, you’ll get to sleep all you like in the next week or two. Fiona is going to put her feet up and drive you crazy with her chatter while I divide my time between young Lorn here and the lobster fishing. I’m longing to do a bit of that.’

  Kirsteen and Phebie exchanged rather shamefaced glances. After all the arguments Grant had decided in just a few short words what he and Fiona planned to do with their time.

  Fiona snuggled further against her father. ‘I came home for two very special reasons, one to have my baby on Rhanna and two, to have it delivered by my very own doctor daddy.’ Lachlan touched her hair. To him she was still the little gir
l he had nursed on his knee, attended to the many bumps and bruises of childhood, chased through the sunlit woods in games of hide and seek with her bubbling laughter echoing from tree to tree. She was thirty-one now, a grown woman, yet he knew he would always look at her and see a little bit of the child that she had been. ‘Your doctor daddy will be so proud he might never get his head inside another door again. After all, it isn’t every man who has the honour of bringing his very own grandchild into the world.’

  Lorn lay back and listened to the banter around him and a feeling of happiness such as he hadn’t experienced in months, crept into his heart like a tiny ray of warm sunshine.

  Grant was as good as his word. Babbie had set out a programme of exercises and every day he came to Laigmhor to make sure Lorn carried them out. Sometimes he brought Fiona, who seemed quite content to sit in the cool parlour watching proceedings. But unobtrusive as her presence was Lorn preferred when Grant came alone as he was embarrassed at the idea of a woman being present while his brother put him through a programme of exercises. He was ashamed of how much the muscles in his legs had wasted in such a short space of time, but as the days wore on he ceased to worry about such trivialities. Grant was a hard taskmaster and wouldn’t let up for a moment, not even on the days when frustration goaded Lorn into unreasoning temper which he took out on anyone who crossed his path. He was minded of the days his brother, very often against their father’s wishes, had taught him how to swim, to play football, to do a lot of the things Fergus had forbidden. In the end Grant’s teachings had proved invaluable, he had had a big hand in fashioning Lorn into the kind of young man he was to become, tough, fearless, afraid of no obstacle. Now Grant was again a man with a purpose. It saddened him to see his proud young brother going under, lacking the will to get up and go, the way he had done with such brave determination all these years ago. Kirsteen, afraid that her eldest son was driving his brother too hard, asked him to ease up.