‘Do you – would you come with me, Megan? Everybody else will have a partner of some sort and it would be far nicer than sitting on our own hoping that someone will be kind enough to dance with us. It was when I saw Old Joe and Grace today, looking so contented and happy together, that the irony of the whole thing struck me. He’s well into his second century and still extracting as much as he can from life and here we are, a quarter of his age and both of us scurrying about our daily business, trying to pretend that the other doesn’t exist. I think, Megan, the time has come for us to face facts.’
Her Christian name, spoken in his slow, deep voice, brought a sensation of wonder to her being. She looked at him in a daze, only comprehending part of what he was saying, the part that mattered most to her and which she could hardly take in.
‘Yes, yes, Mr James. That would be fine.’ She was furious with herself for sounding so stilted and prudish. She wanted to get up, behave foolishly, do a dance of joy round the room, yet all she could do was stammer out a few words and call him by his surname. Even to her own ears she sounded unbelievably stuffy and she hardly dared look at him to see what his reaction had been.
He stood up, filling her vision, overwhelming her. ‘That’s settled then, I’ll come down for you in about an hour – and please – just call me Mark – only beings like Elspeth call me by my surname.’
She too got up and went with him to the door. He was so close she could see the pulse beating under the bronzed skin of his neck. ‘I’ll – I’d better go and get ready.’ She was doing it again, stammering, behaving like an awkward schoolgirl, and she glanced at him quickly to see what he was thinking. The full battery of his fascinating gaze was on her, she saw plainly the dark curve of his eyelashes – and – her heart began to pound so hard she couldn’t suppress a small protesting cry – he was reaching out to her – the touch of his fingers on her bare arm so electrifying, she shivered. Without a word, he took her face in his hands to kiss her gently on the lips. She drew back as if she had been scalded, colour invaded her face, making her all at once vibrantly alive and lovely.
‘How dare you do that!’ she demanded angrily, though she wasn’t sure if her anger was directed against him or at herself for having savoured the feel of his lips on hers.
A smile lifted the corners of his well-shaped mouth. ‘I dared because I sensed you wanted it as much as I did – I told you it would only take a moment but I think you will agree with me it was a moment that was very well spent – for the two of us.’
Before she could say more he was off, his long stride taking him easily and swiftly to the sheep track leading to the cliff top. Some time elapsed before her heart returned to its normal beat and the hour that followed passed in a strangely unreal daze as she recalled over and over the warm, sweet joy of his mouth on hers.
A marquee had been erected on the grassy stretch between the hall and the shore. It was crammed with people helping themselves to the variety of delicacies spread out on the buffet tables while the men were already taking full advantage of the bar set up in a far corner. An enormous wedding cake reposed on a table inside the marquee, provided by a mainland bakery who had been so intrigued by the news of Old Joe’s marriage they had also sent over an army of caterers for the event. The gesture was not without its ulterior motives however, as the size of the cake caused such a stir among the newspaper photographers they spent a full ten minutes and much of their film snapping it from every angle. Eventually the bridegroom was moved to a violent protest. Brandishing a large carving knife he waved it at the photographers and yelled, ‘Is it blind you are? It is no’ the cake who got wed today and I’ll thank you to pay a bitty more attention to me and my good lady.’
The subsequent shower of flashbulbs was adequate enough to satisfy the old man’s sudden thirst for fame. Beside the cake he posed with Grace and in days to come he was to cause quite a sensation over the nation’s breakfast tables. The uisge beatha was flowing, the skirl of the pipes reeling through the air. It seemed everyone on the island had gathered in Portcull for the combined celebration of Joe’s wedding and Lachlan’s retirement. Not that everyone viewed the retirement as a reason to celebrate. It made Lachlan’s farewell to his patients too heartrendingly final, and by the end of the afternoon the tears were flowing as freely as the whisky, though everyone pulled themselves together when a move was made from the marquee into the hall where the dance and ceilidh were to take place.
Here an even greater effort than usual had been made to cover up the hall’s rather sombre and sadly neglected decor. Huge bunches of brightly coloured balloons hung from the rafters, the platform where the presentations were to take place was gay with streamers and banners of every description. Barra had loaned some of her picturesque little watercolours to hang on the walls along with several of Dugald’s humorous sketches of wildlife of the area. As these included caricatures of Tam and his cronies, caught in various stages of inebriation crawling through the heather, the hall was soon in an uproar of laughter which reached a crescendo as the real thing came staggering through the door in ones and twos. The night that followed was to be one of the most memorable in the minds of everyone present. Joe and his new wife led the dancing, followed by Lachlan and Phebie. During the course of the evening Lorn found himself dancing with his mother.
‘You’ll have to hold me up,’ he grinned, ‘I’m still unsteady without my sticks.’
‘Hold you up indeed,’ she said firmly. ‘You don’t need them anymore, Lorn, soon you’ll be throwing them away.’
He looked at her thoughtfully. ‘Ay, you might be right at that, Mother, I think they’ve become more a habit than anything.’ He glanced round the room, looking for Ruth and saw her in the arms of Grant who was making her do a reel while everyone else was dancing a waltz. In the middle of the floor Fiona was hooching and skirling, completely past the stage of knowing which leg was supposed to be doing which. Lorn threw back his head and laughed. ‘Our new parents are letting their hair down tonight, Fiona is fleeing in more ways than one.’
‘It’s so good to see you laughing again, Lorn,’ Kirsteen observed and in a mood of abandonment he grabbed her and kissed the tip of her nose. She felt good and happy, everything had fallen back into place, Ruth and Lorn and the children were all back together again, Grant and Fiona were settling in happily to island life. She would never tell Lorn that both she and Fergus had heard him moving about the house on that fateful morning of his taking Douglas to Ruth. Her first instinct had been to rise and go and find out if anything was wrong, but Fergus had pushed her back and told her to let their son go his own way. If Lorn didn’t do it then he never would and he would blame them for standing in his way.
Lorn went off to join his younger companions and Kirsteen floated into Fergus’ embrace. He nuzzled her hair. ‘Mmm, you smell lovely tonight, and you look lovely too.’
She studied his handsome strong face and her breath caught in her throat. ‘I love you, McKenzie o’ the Glen. We’ve had an eventful married life but it’s been so rich and fulfilling because you’ve always been at my side.’
His arm tightened round her, his black eyes looked deep into hers. ‘Mo cridhe,’ he said huskily, ‘do I detect a wee bitty sadness in your voice on this night of nights?’
She nodded. ‘Ay, just a wee bit. We’ve come a long way, you and I, and each day seems to go faster and faster, there’s no holding back time any longer. Phebie and Lachlan too, it’s so strange to think that he’s retired now, yet when first we knew them both they were young, just starting off really – like us.’
His eyes had grown strangely shiny. ‘I know fine what you mean, mo cridhe, but just remember: “grow old along with me, the best is yet to be, the last of life for which the first was made”.’
She buried her face in his shoulder. ‘Oh, Fergie, you’re being a poet again, I love it when you drop all that tough façade you show to the world and say beautiful things.’
He looked around at the familiar face
s that surrounded them. ‘It’s a night for poetry, it’s a night for many things – but most of all – it’s a night for love.’
Phebie and Lachlan too were in a pensive mood. He put his arms tightly round her warm soft waist and whispered, ‘Phebie, can I tell you how much you’ve always meant to me, all through our years together you’ve stood by me, helped in every way you could. I would never have reached this stage in life if it hadn’t been for you.’
‘Lachy,’ she touched the unruly lock of hair on his brow, ‘we could never have reached this stage if we hadn’t helped each other. I look back and I remember all the love we’ve had and I feel so lucky. Do you remember that day in Sauchiehall Street? I was rushing along, not even aware that a man called Lachlan McLachlan existed . . .’
‘Ay, it was fate or something of the kind that made us bump into each other,’ he said, his eyes misty with reminiscence. He stumbled against her and laughed. ‘And we’re still bumping into each other, come closer, so that I can hold you tighter and keep you safe.’
Shona and Niall watched their respective parents locked away in worlds of their own. ‘They’re re-living things they’ve shared,’ Shona said with a soft little smile. ‘How I love those four people. They have always been there when we needed them. Now they are as alone as they were in the beginning, all their families married with lives of their own.’
Niall’s brown eyes were tender. ‘It’s time they all had a bit of a rest from us – and yet, we’ll go on needing them in the future, parents are parents for the rest of their lives.’
‘Ay, Niall, like us. I hope our wee Ellie will always feel she can turn to us when she needs help – and—’ she looked at him through her lashes, ‘I hope too that our son will feel the same in years to come.’
He frowned. ‘But we haven’t got a . . .’ He stared at her incredulously. ‘You’re not – don’t tell me . . .’
She pulled him to her and laughed. ‘Ay, Niall, I am, around Christmas I think. If we’re lucky it might be a son – Santa might bring him down the lum in his sack.’
Niall was so stunned he sat down suddenly pulling her with him. ‘Mrs McLachlan, I want you to repeat all that very very slowly and then I would be grateful if you could go and fetch me a large whisky to steady my nerves!’
Robbie and Barra, walking arm in arm along the harbour on their way to the hall, came upon Dodie having the wits scared out of him by a leering Canty Tam, recounting gory tales of murder and magic most foul. Dodie was looking even more mournful than usual and Robbie, after sending Canty Tam on his way with a few sharp words, said kindly, ‘What ails you, Dodie? Are you no’ goin’ in for the ceilidhing? I would have thought you would have wanted to see Lachlan bein’ handed all his bonny retiral presents.’
‘I canny go in like this!’ Dodie wailed, scrubbing his nose with the back of a grimy hand. ‘I had to tramp miles to give Ealasaid her potach and now there will no’ be time to go back to my hoosie and change. I have a wee something I wanted to give Lachlan too.’
Robbie looked at his wife and they both nodded in unison. ‘You’re comin’ back to our house,’ Robbie said decidedly, leading a protesting Dodie by the arm. ‘Och, c’mon now, man, just do as you are told for once in your life. I have a bonny jacket and trousers that you can borrow if you feel you canny bring yourself to keep them.’
Once inside the cosy harbour house, Robbie speedily divested the old eccentric of his smelly outer layers, took him to the scullery where he made him scrub the dirt from his face and hands before bundling him into fresh clothing. Barra came bustling through from the bedroom with a pair of stout shoes in her hands.
‘Take off your wellingtons and put these on,’ she ordered kindly.
Dodie turned a bright crimson. ‘I canny!’ he wailed. ‘I have holes in my socks and I haveny had a chance to wash my feets for a whily.’
Patiently Barra went to fetch clean socks and after gulping in a few deep breaths of wholesome air she joined her husband in the battle to get the big knobbly boots from Dodie’s feet. They heaved and groaned while Dodie sat in helpless red-faced embarrassment. Just as they were thinking they would have to give up, the great wellingtons came away with a loud sucking sound and both Barra and Robbie went flying backwards to land with some surprise on the rug. The released smells from the boots drifted into all the lavender-smelling corners of the clean little house and without more ado Robbie pushed socks and shoes at Dodie and bade him put them on as quickly as he knew how.
His body enclosed in the size too small clothes, with his cap removed and his baby fine hair slicked down with water, Dodie looked as presentable as he ever would and, each taking one of his long arms, Barra and Robbie hustled him outside and along to the hall without further ado.
Leading him straight over to Lachlan and Phebie sitting together on a bench, they nudged him and in some confusion he produced an untidily wrapped package from somewhere in the regions of his vest. ‘It’s no’ much,’ he explained with his usual reticence. ‘I found it on the shore just after Grant’s bairnie was born – but – I thought it would be just the thing to be remindin’ you of all the babies you have delivered into the world. I polished it up a wee bitty to preserve it for it was dead as an old bone the way it was.’
Lachlan pulled back the paper to reveal a piece of driftwood shaped exactly like a baby lying in the foetal position in a little nest of polished wood. The features of the child held all the wondrous innocence of new creation, its little arms were crossed over its chest, its fists curled under its chin. It was the most exquisitely natural piece of sculpture that Lachlan had ever seen. Dodie’s ‘wee bitty polish’ had been lavished on it with a love and care that must have taken many painstaking nights of work to bring the white wood to its present delicate sheen. On the base of it Dodie had lovingly scratched, ‘To Doctor Lachlan – a grandson. from D.’ It sounded exactly like a notice from a birth column, one so full of unworldly nuances that Lachlan felt an unexpected lump rising in his throat. Getting up he threw his arm across Dodie’s bent back.
‘Biddy was right about you, Dodie, you seem to know instinctively just what to give to a body. You were blessed with a precious gift of insight that few people have and because of that you are indeed a man blessed by God.’ His voice was husky. The expression of gratitude on the old man’s face was utterly touching. ‘Don’t look so grateful, man, it is me who is feeling that in full measure. Your bonny gift will have pride o’ place in my den. I will look at it and I’ll remember all the innocent wee cratur’s I helped into the world and I will also remember you, Dodie, and bless you.’
Dodie was overwhelmed. Tears fell out of his strange grey-green eyes and dripped down his chin. ‘I’ll miss ye, ay, I will that, you were aye that good to me when I wasny feelin’ like myself.’
Lachlan fumbled in his pocket and produced a length of tobacco. ‘Here, you take this baccy and enjoy it and if you’ll be coming over to the bar wi’ me I will be honoured if you’ll have a good stiff dram with a man who has just been given the gift of a grandson who will never grow old.’
A short time later the laird arrived to preside over the presentation. There were gifts galore from the villagers to Old Joe and Grace, a long, humorous, affectionate speech to Lachlan along with a beautiful, ornate mantelclock, fishing rods and basket and, because news had leaked out that he was writing a book about his experiences as an island GP, a portable typewriter complete with carrying case. Phebie was showered with flowers and gifts of a feminine nature and just when it seemed the pair were about to erupt into tears the laird handed Lachlan a new battery for his car. Tears changed to laughter, echoed by everyone in the hall.
Lachlan’s temperamental old car was a standing joke among the islanders and whenever he was late anywhere everyone shook their heads and told each other, ‘It will be thon mad wee car o’ his playing up again. It only starts if it is in a good mood.’
Lachlan looked around at the sea of well-kent faces before him. Tears of laughter an
d pain shone in his brown gentle eyes, the eyes into which countless of his patients had gazed in their dying moments to see mirrored in them love, compassion and a reassurance so full of faith they were able to go on their last, final journey without fear.
He shook his head. ‘I – don’t know what to say. I’ve made many speeches in my time but never before have I felt so – overwhelmed – not only in the things you’ve given to me and to Phebie – but by the love and caring behind each gift. I know you all so well—’ A smile lit his thin face. ‘Ay, every last part of you . . .’ He paused to allow the laughter and banter to die down. ‘You can be a gey thrawn lot when the mood takes you but I know that behind every dour, bonny face, there lies a heart as big as a house and if I was to change the name of this island I think I would have to call it Hospitality Island. I will miss you, but I’ll be thinking of you whenever I look at my mantelpiece and see this truly grand clock and when I’m out on the water with my rods. But I warn you now, if my book ever gets finished and even more to the point, if it ever gets published, you needny think I’m going to share the proceeds with you.’
He drew Phebie forward. ‘Here’s the bonny lass who will be sharing with me anything I have. She more than me deserves a long long holiday. I call her my bonny plump rose. There was a time when she would have hit me over the head with a spurtle for calling her any such thing.’ He smiled at his blushing wife. ‘But I know you will agree with me that, not only has she been my right hand man all these years, she has been a comfort to every patient who ever walked through my door for no matter how she was feeling herself she never failed to have a smile for everyone.’
Song of Rhanna (The Rhanna series) Page 33
