He made a neat little bow and escorted her to the door, there to lift his face appreciatively to the sky and sniff the salt-laden air.
A figure came flying along the road on a bicycle, her black hair streaming out behind her, her long legs pushing the pedals with energy.
A spark of interest showed in Otto’s eyes as they followed the progress of the girl on the bike.
‘Thon bonny cratur is Rachel Jodl,’ Tina explained. ‘She is married to Jon, the lad I was telling you about. Rachel is a famous violinist, she has travelled all over the world.’
‘But, she is so young.’
‘Ay, she is that, but from the start she knew where she was going. We are all very proud o’ her.’
‘Rachel Jodl,’ he repeated thoughtfully. ‘I see, and you say she is a famous violinist? Ah, yes, I’ve heard of her – and she is married to this German you speak of?’
‘Ay, our very own Jon Jodl though, of course, she is really a McKinnon whose mother, Annie, is the daughter o’ Kate and Tam McKinnon.’
She paused expectantly, Megan having told her about the stranger’s interest in that particular clan, but though there was a slight lifting of his brows he said nothing and she went on, ‘Jon loved Rachel from the moment he clapped eyes on her going barefoot about the island like a wee gypsy. Och, but it was such a romantic affair between the two,’ Tina said dreamily. ‘Just like a fairy tale, it was: he waited till she was grown up enough to marry then back he came to Rhanna to carry her off into the big, wide world.’
Otto’s eyes twinkled. ‘You’re sure he didn’t magic her away on a pure white charger?’
‘Ach no, nothing like that, though mind . . .’ Tina looked at him, ‘Ach, Mr Klebb, you’re no’ the big, dour chiel you would have us think. A white charger indeed . . .’
She went off down the road chuckling, leaving Otto to go back indoors with a very pensive expression on his face.
The harbour was a-bustle with movement and noise. The steamer had disgorged its usual cargo of mail and supplies and some of the visitors were making their way to the hotel, though several straggled behind to look in the window of Ranald’s craft shop and comment to one another on the price of the displayed goods.
The travelling people had also arrived on the boat and were making great play with their motley collection of dubious-looking possessions, though they weren’t too busy to arrange their ‘star attraction’: a tattered old gnome of an Irishman bearing an accordion as big as himself, in a prominent position close to Ranald’s shop. A tiny little dwarf woman with straggly black hair and a great long beanpole of a man arranged themselves on either side of the accordionist, a key was struck and a vigorous rendering of ‘Danny Boy’ soared aloft, causing the visitors to abandon their interest in Ranald’s shop and turn it instead to the musicians.
‘Ah, is it not a song to pluck the heartstrings?’ inquired a young traveller with broken brown teeth, whose heartstrings were sufficiently intact to enable him to place a smoke-blackened pot at the accordion man’s feet. ‘And surely worth a few pennies for the honour of listening to music from the fingers of a man just risen from his deathbed. Ah yes, the good Lord Himself had a mind to take Aaron that he might join the heavenly band o’ the angels but then He saw fit to spare him so that ordinary mortals like us might have the pleasure of his music.’
The dwarf woman, who went by the appropriate name of Tiny, suffered a fit of coughing at this point while Aaron himself struck two discordant notes in quick succession.
‘Aaron, you say?’ asked one large woman suspiciously. ‘That’s a very biblical name for a – er – travelling person.’
‘Ah indeed, you are right in what you say, me fine lady,’ the broken-toothed youth agreed while he listened with half an ear to the satisfying sound of money chinking into the pot. ‘But a good upstanding man like Aaron has every right to the name that his old mother put upon him. His older brother’s name was Moses and no woman could have had two finer sons. I never knew old Mo myself but it is said he was the greatest violinist this side o’ heaven and played music so fine that even the very seals of the ocean would climb on to the rocks to hear him.’
‘And you, young man, what is your name?’
‘Nothing fancy at all, me fine missus, just plain Joe – Joe Ford Backaxle if you have a mind to hear my full title and now, if you’ll be excusin’ me . . .’
Rachel arrived in time to hear old Mo’s name and to see the look of bemusement on the woman’s face as she stood wondering if she had just had her leg well and truly pulled.
Rachel had come on the sturdy black bike she had hired from Ranald for an indefinite period. Although she had been on Rhanna less than a week, she was already a familiar figure as she flew along the island roads on her bicycle. She had suffered quite a few hints and innuendoes because of the secretive manner of her arrival, but on the whole everyone was pleased to see her back. Even Annie, her mother, who had never quite learned how to handle her beautiful daughter’s fame, had greeted her warmly, and, of course, Kate had welcomed her granddaughter with open arms and had sat back to bathe in the reflected glory – ‘wearing thon big head she grows whenever Rachel’s name is mentioned,’ old Sorcha had sniffed, turning down her deaf aid so that she wouldn’t have to suffer too much of Kate’s prattle.
As for Rachel, she was revelling in the freedom of being back home on Rhanna and had had a wonderful few days exploring all her old haunts and popping in to all the familiar houses to strupak and catch up on island news. She took an absolute delight in visiting Fàilte where the children fussed over her and Lorn and Ruth made time to sit with her and listen to all the exciting tales of her travels.
On hearing that the travellers had arrived, she had fairly whizzed down to the harbour to see them. Her mane of black hair had come loose from its imprisoning red band so that the wind caught it and tossed it hither and thither; her black eyes sparkled in a face that was rosy from the exhilarating ride over the moor road. Though the day was breezily fresh she wore a pair of white shorts that showed off her long shapely legs to perfection and so untamed was the quality of her gypsy-like beauty she might have belonged to the dark-skinned band of travellers themselves.
She was overjoyed to see them again. As a child, running wild and carefree over the bens and glens of Rhanna, she had often gone over to their encampment. There she had been warmly invited to ‘come in about’. She had eaten and drunk with them at their smoky campfires, had played with the motley and mangy collection of cats and dogs, and had joined the dusky-skinned children in their games.
It had been her delight to lay down her curly dark head on a pillow of fragrant heather and to gaze up at the sky as she listened to some wise, sad voice recall the old days and the old ways while woody sparks exploded in the fire and a battered tin kettle sang on the hot stones.
Mention of old Mo had brought back a flood of memories. How she had loved that dear old man. He and she had played their fiddles together and it had seemed to her that the very music of heaven itself poured from his nimble fingers. To the beat and hush of the ocean, to the flight of the migrating geese, to great red balls of fire sinking into crimson seas, she and he had played their haunting melodies and she had never minded that he had ‘wet his dry thrapple’ with the water of life and had often become so inebriated she had had to push him home in his battered old pram and had helped to get him into bed in his tent.
At his request she had played to him when he was dying and from his deathbed he had blessed her with his last breath and had made her take his treasured violin to keep as her very own. Jon had told her it was a Cremonese, made by the great craftsmen of northern Italy, but the value of it hadn’t mattered to her, more important to her was the knowledge that her lovable old rogue of an Irishman had entrusted the beautiful instrument to her care and from that day on it had rarely left her keeping.
‘You have the touch of the angels in those hands, mavourneen,’ the old man had said as he lay peacefully waiting
for death to come to him. ‘Indeed you have more gifts than you know of yourself – and many of them at your fingertips.’
Over the years his words had come true time after time for, as well as their genius for music, Rachel’s hands had healing properties that had become a source of wonder, awe and fear to those who had been touched by her powers. Many mistrusted her because of her strange gifts, others accepted them, one or two who had been directly helped by them regarded her with respect and wouldn’t hear a wrong word against her.
Not caring what anyone thought, she had gone off with Jon into a daunting world of music. Though young, inexperienced and often afraid, she always had Jon to turn to when the going got hard, and when he wasn’t there she had old Mo’s violin to see her through her lonely hours. On it she had played her finest pieces and had composed violin solos that had been hailed and recognized throughout the land. Whenever she placed it under her chin she remembered old Mo and in her heart she was certain that he was up there on the concert platform with her, guiding the bow, touching the strings along with her.
It had been a long time since she had met with any of the travellers; many of the children were new to her and stared at her with sullen eyes, while a big rough-looking man standing a little way off was watching her with brooding black brows, but the rest greeted her as if they had parted just yesterday, without fuss or embarrassment, though each and every one of them knew of her fame.
‘It is yourself, mavourneen!’ Tiny cried, her small Irish pixie of a face creasing into smiles of welcome. ‘Bejabers and bejasus! And lookin’ as fit and as bonny as the bluebells in May.’
Long ago, and to herself, Rachel had christened the dwarf woman ‘Little Lady Leprechaun’ because of her size and her habit of garbing herself in green, and laughing she took the tiny hands in hers and spun Lady Leprechaun round and round till they were both dizzy and breathless.
‘Indeed, Miss Rachel, it is a sight you are for sore eyes!’ exclaimed an odoriferous man known appropriately as Stink the Tink. ‘Will you be coming in about when we have settled ourselves at the camp?’
The travellers had long ago learned to understand her sign language, but all she needed then was a nod and a smile to let them know that she would indeed be over to see them as soon as she could.
At that moment a ramshackle lorry appeared round the side of the craft shop. From it descended Ranald, who absorbed the scene in one glance, his face thunderous when he saw that the travellers were taking all the attention away from his carefully arranged window display.
‘Get away from there!’ he ordered The Beanpole, the idea that he might be losing trade putting a harsh note in his tone and emphasizing the ‘wee bit twist to his face’. ‘And don’t any o’ you be going round the back o’ my premises to use my wall as a lavatory. If it’s no’ dogs and towrists it’s tinks and the sooner the council do something about it the better I’ll be pleased!’
Chapter Six
Behag was sitting on a kitchen chair outside her cottage, her ‘spyglasses’ to her eyes as she avidly watched all the activity at the harbour from the privacy of her tiny garden with its encircling wall. Her twisted ankle was swathed in bandages and she had endured a very frustrating time of it since her accident. Much to her horror, Holy Smoke had called in to see her every evening after he had shut up shop, and the agony of not being able to escape those visits had been almost too much for her to bear.
He had blamed himself for her mishap and in an attempt to pour oil on troubled waters his manner had been a combination of mournful concern and useless advice as to how best she could mobilize herself till her ankle was healed. He offered to bring in her fuel from the fuel shed, he suggested fetching her pension from the Post Office, he said he would do her shopping for her and even help her along to the kirk on the Sabbath by means of an ancient wheelchair that old Meggie of Nigg had demoted to the junk shed.
During the utterance of this last suggestion he was gazing hopefully at the ancient besom reposing in a corner, as if that too might be employed to whisk Behag around the island. A vision of her astride the broomstick, her straggly hair flying out behind her as she sailed in front of a full moon, haughtily giving that royal wave of hers, popped suddenly into his mind, and, for once, he nearly forgot to keep a straight face.
But this was Behag, a very thunderous-looking Behag, with the folds of skin at her jowls sagging further and further into her scraggy neck as she listened to him in the sort of silence that her brother Robbie had once described as ‘shoutin’ aloud wi’ her accusations’.
So Holy Smoke wisely composed his countenance into its usual expression of doom and carried on listing all the things he felt he could do to make the old woman’s life bearable. He offered her just about everything under the sun and when, eventually, he came to a halt he was breathless and bloated with his own magnanimity, but still found the strength to bow his head, clasp his hands to his perpetually downcast mouth and murmur a few words of prayer to the Almighty.
Behag sat ramrod straight, utterly disgusted by ‘all the bowing and scraping’ and the empty promises. But then she asked herself, were they empty? The man seemed positively to be tripping over himself to please her and – was there more than just a touch of fear in his attitude towards her?
A suspicion grew in her mind: she had seen that self-same look on another occasion, when she had been in charge of the Post Office and he had come creeping in to deeve her with a whole list of sorrows and worries that had turned out to be a preliminary to his having to part with more money than he liked.
She looked at her ankle reposing on a rafia stool in front of her. It had something to do with that, and she searched her mind, going back to the time when she had stumbled over some of the junk he had left at his side door . . .
Behag drew in her breath. So, that was it! She had injured herself because of his carelessness and he was terrified that she might think to sue him for it. She hugged herself with glee; a feeling of power possessed her, making her puff out her bony chest and smile to herself with utter satisfaction. She would make him pay all right. By the time she was done with him she would have him where she wanted him – right in the grip of her all-powerful palm.
Settling her tweed skirt demurely round her legs she cleared her throat and said, ‘Well, Mr McKnight, I can see only too well how anxious you are to please me. You can just forget about all these other things, Isabel and Mollie between them have promised to see to my messages and my pension and anything else I’ll be needin’ while I am laid up.’ She cast down her eyes. ‘When Nurse Babbie was in seein’ to my ankle she was just after sayin’ how thin I was and how I should be buildin’ myself up wi’ some good cuts o’ red meat. Seeing as how you’re so eager to help, you will no’ be mindin’ if I ask you to bring a pound or two o’ your best steak next time you come. By that time I will have decided what else I need to keep up my strength, at my age my bones are no’ as supple as they were and as my very own mother aye said, “Old bones need good feedin’ if they are to carry a body through the evenin’ o’ their days”, and though I was too young at the time to see the sense in what she meant I know well enough now but was never able to follow her adage wi’ just my pension to keep me going.’
Holy Smoke was flabbergasted, his entire countenance nose-dived to his knees and he stared at her as if she had just taken leave of her senses.
‘Ach, come now, Miss Beag,’ he cajoled weakly, ‘there is no need to go that far. If I was to hand out meat to every pensioner on Rhanna I would go out o’ business. As it is I have a hard job to make ends meet and . . .’
‘Best steak or nothing, Mr McKnight,’ Behag intoned firmly. ‘Of course, if you prefer to compensate me wi’ sillar instead I will have no objections, though, of course, it would have to be done through all the proper channels.’
The butcher opened his mouth, shut it, opened it again. Like a fish out o’ water, Behag thought, hugging herself at his reactions to her ‘wheeling and dealing’ – she ha
d read that in a magazine and was delighted to be able to apply it to a situation of her very own.
It’s blackmail! Holy Smoke decided to himself. Blatant, heartless blackmail! And to a Christian man like me who wants only to do good to my fellow men – and women!
He stuttered, he protested, he listed a whole catalogue of financial worries that kept him from his sleep at night, but Behag, firm, calm, and unflustered, was impervious to all his pleadings.
In the days that followed he appeared regularly at her door bearing parcels of meat and poultry. Behag had never eaten so well for years and was even able to withstand Kate McKinnon’s sly remarks and innuendoes concerning the butcher man’s visits.
So all in all Behag was right pleased with herself and was even beginning to enjoy her invalid status. As well as all the goings-on in the village and at the harbour, she was able, with the aid of her spyglasses, to watch what went on at Elspeth’s house, though she was rather annoyed that Jim Jim’s gable wall restricted some of her view. Nevertheless she could see enough to satisfy her, but had been disappointed so far in that very little of interest was happening in that quarter. But it would come, she was certain of that; meanwhile there was plenty and enough to occupy her. Today it was the harbour and the tinks and ‘that Rachel’ cavorting amongst them as if she was one of them – though that wouldn’t surprise her as God alone knew what kind of mischief the girl’s mother had gotten up to in her younger days.
She panned the village, pausing again at the harbour. Wait now! Something else was happening down there. That strange foreign man had arrived and there was a lot of activity on the pier. What on earth was that swinging on the end of the ship’s crane? A crate of some sort! Now, what was in it and who was it for . . .?
Stranger on Rhanna Page 6
