Slapping his knee, he gave a chuckle of pure triumph. Ranald thought he was crafty, he didn’t know the half of it – Andy from Ayrshire nearly choked with mirth as he wondered what the opportunist would have said if he had discovered that his holiday lodger was something of an expert on poultry and that he really did have a pal who was a cockerel fancier, and one, furthermore, who would pay a handsome price for Dodie’s five prize birds.
Chapter Nineteen
One of the first things Rachel did when she arrived back on Rhanna was to go and see Lachian. He was working in his garden, tending his herbaceous bed, which somehow managed to survive and thrive despite the fierce winter winds that could sweep through the glen with vicious intensity. It was now a riot of colour and at first Rachel didn’t see him, so high grew the hollyhocks, so exuberantly bloomed the lupins, the delphiniums and the marguerite daisies.
But he saw her and he emerged from behind a clump of love-in-the-mist, to wipe the sweat from his brow with an earth-begrimed hand. He greeted her warmly, his brown eyes crinkling. ‘Rachel, you’re back – I heard you on the wireless only yesterday and thought you would be away for a good whilie yet.’
She hesitated, unsure of how to go about explaining her reasons for being there, wishing with all her heart that she could communicate in the normal way. It wasn’t everyone who understood her sign language, though Lachian had always taken a special interest in her and was able to some extent to know what she conveyed with her gestures.
He saw her face and took the matter out of her hands. ‘Come on, let’s go in. Phebie aye has a cuppy about now and I’m that thirsty I could drink a potful all to myself. I was always more used to tending humans than gardens, but I’m learning, and in many ways plants are like people, a bit o’ loving care and patience works miracles.’
When Phebie saw the visitor coming indoors with her husband she went to get an extra cup, but after she had drunk hers she didn’t stay long in the room. Years of being a doctor’s wife had taught her diplomacy, she saw that Rachel had something of great importance on her mind and Phebie, who was first and foremost a woman of great insight as well as instinct, had a very good idea what that something was, and with a murmured excuse she made her exit, leaving Lachlan to look questioningly at Rachel who, in a high state of tension, was sitting on the edge of the chintz-covered couch.
With a few swift movements she indicated exactly why she had come. Lachlan didn’t need to understand the sign language to know what she meant. He sat back and studied her, remembering the day he had delivered her and Annie’s shock when she had discovered that her beautiful baby had been born dumb. No one could have known that that same child would grow up to be so talented and successful, least of all Annie, who had never held out much hope of her daughter making anything special of her life.
But in recent years, the one thing that Rachel had wanted more than anything was a baby of her own. The passing of time had pushed that desire more and more into the realms of impossibility, now here she was, telling him very plainly that she thought she was pregnant and wanting him to verify it for her.
Going over to her he sat down and took her hand in his reassuring clasp.
‘Rachel,’ he began gently, ‘much as I would love to, you know fine well that I’m not in the position to examine you and tell you what you want to know. Megan is the one you want, I canny just go behind her back and start diagnosing her patients. When I first retired, one or two of my old patients came to me wi’ their ails but I was having none o’ that and I’m sure a sensible lass like you can understand why.’
Rachel looked at him, she smiled and nodded, she seized a pad and pen from a nearby table and began to write furiously.
When he saw what she had written his smile was one of acquiescence. ‘Facts and figures, eh? Dates and times. Right,’ he looked her straight in the eye, ‘everything points to you being about four months pregnant though I’m not going to be trapped into saying that you are pregnant . . .’
He got no further; she threw herself at him and hugged him so hard he emerged laughing and breathless and in time to see her disappearing out of the door. In minutes she was a blur on the glen road as she pedalled with energy to the Manse, where everything was quiet as morning surgery had finished fifteen minutes ago.
But Megan saw her just the same and told her what she already knew. In a hectic state of delight she took Megan’s hand and shook it but that wasn’t expressive enough for her passionate nature, a surprised Megan found herself being danced round the room then outside to her car where Rachel stood, pointing back towards Glen Fallan.
‘Right.’ Megan laughed, caught up in the girl’s euphoria. ‘You want me to take you to see Lachlan, I know fine you have a soft spot for him and I was going to see him this morning anyway before starting on my rounds. Just let me get my bag and I’ll be right with you.’
Thus Lachlan found himself seated once more with Rachel in the parlour while Megan talked with Phebie in the kitchen.
Rachel had a lot of questions to ask and in her impatience her hands flew so fast he found it impossible to understand anything, so, with a great gusting sigh, she had to start all over again till he got the gist of her questioning, mainly why such a thing had happened after all this time.
‘Och, it’s not so long, lass, plenty of women have been wed longer than you before they conceived. You lead a very busy life, when you came to Rhanna you left pressures and commitments behind you for the first time in years, you shook off the fetters and relaxed, it’s as simple as that. Go home now and tell Jon, he’ll be over the moon, you’ve shared your joy wi’ me, now it’s his turn.’
But she shook her head and put her fingers to her lips, trying desperately to tell him, no, she needed time to adjust to this momentous happening, she wasn’t yet ready for Jon to know. She saw Lachlan’s face, surprised, puzzled. She smiled at him reassuringly and was on her way out when Megan stopped her in the hall to ask if she would like a run home, but she declined: it was a beautiful day, she would have to collect her bike from The Manse, she wanted just to walk and think and try to assimilate the wonderful thing that had happened to her.
None of it was quite real yet; she had to get used to the idea of a baby in her life before telling the world of her secret. She would wait till after Otto’s Ceilidh, by then she wouldn’t be able to keep her condition from anyone, far less Jon. Already she was growing bigger, her clothes were becoming tighter – and that sensation of butterflies in her stomach was strengthening and quickening – only it wasn’t butterflies, it was a baby, and as if to prove it was real and living it suddenly moved strongly within her, making her stop and hold her hand to her mouth in a gesture of childish delight.
On the morning of the McKinnon Clan Gathering, Rhanna woke to overcast skies and drizzling rain that blotted out the hills and the sea in dismal blankets.
‘Och, would you look at it!’ Kate pushed aside her curtains to glare with animosity at the dripping scene outside. ‘After such good weather too, the bugger has been saving itself for this particular day. Otto will be fair scunnered and after him going to so much bother too.’
‘It will clear by midday,’ Tam forecast knowledgeably. ‘Sometimes the best days of all start off pissing and grey.’
And he was right, by early afternoon the clouds had melted away, allowing the sun to shine hotly on the refreshed countryside. Banks of mist unfurled from the hills to rise upwards and wreathe the purple peaks in gossamer scarves. Gradually the haar rolled back from the sea to cling mistily to the horizon so that it merged with little blue islands and gave everything an ethereal, magical quality.
Otto had arranged for a party of caterers to come over from the mainland and by two o’clock a huge marquee had been erected on the stretch of machair that skirted Portcull. Fragrant steam rose from urns of tea and soup. Plates piled with salads, sausage rolls, pies, and sandwiches, cold meat and rolls, filled one table; another groaned under an assortment of cakes and biscuits, jellie
s and trifles. Several enormous whole cooked salmon, with all the trimmings, were temptingly displayed and when Jim Jim saw them he wondered if they were meant to be eaten or were just there to be admired.
In a smaller marquee stood barrels of beer and a table whose surface was hidden under an array of spirits the like of which Tam said he had only ever seen in fantasies.
Prominently displayed were a dozen bottles of schnapps. When Fergus eventually set eyes on them he grinned wryly and told Otto it was whisky for him or nothing as never again would he risk a repeat of ‘the night of the schnapps’.
‘My friend,’ Otto laughed, ‘that was in another age. Since then I have acquired a taste for the Uisge Beatha; it is very refreshing – like the tea you are all so fond of.’
‘We’ll see if you can sup it like tea,’ Fergus returned dryly, determined to get his own back on the big Austrian. ‘There’s a long night ahead o’ us, no doubt we’ll each have more than just a few drams – and may the best man still be able to say ‘it’s a braw bricht moonlicht nicht, the nicht’ when the clock has struck midnight.’
Shona took his arm and drew him away. ‘Och, Father,’ she scolded, ‘as if Otto could say that, even when he’s sober – besides, it isn’t fair to make him feel he has to keep up with you in that way, you know you’ve aye been able to hold your whisky; he’s a novice compared to you.’
But Fergus was unrepentant. ‘He has to learn sometime; he’s built like an ox and ought to be able to keep up.’
Shona looked back at Otto and frowned. ‘He was built like an ox, I’d say he’s got thinner – even since I last saw him with his cat, he looks – frail somehow.’
‘Frail! Otto! Havers!’ scoffed Fergus. Nevertheless he too looked back at Otto and wondered if there was something in what Shona had said. She had always been perceptive, she seemed to sense things before anyone else, but the next minute he pushed his doubts away when he saw the man in question throwing back his head and laughing at something Jim Jim had said, and to Fergus he looked the picture of good health and high spirits.
The islanders didn’t descend on the scene in droves, it was against their natural dignity to do so, but come they did, from all over the island: full-blown McKinnons, vaguely related McKinnons, uncles and aunts, cousins and friends of cousins, nephews, nieces, anyone who had any clan connections, no matter how vague, together with those who had no connections at all but just gatecrashed the scene to mingle with the crowd, including a few of the tinks who weren’t going to miss the fun for anything.
‘Hmph, would you look at them, they’ll go anywhere if it means getting free food and drink,’ Behag intoned heavily, fussily and pointedly adjusting the McKinnon tartan ribbon she wore on her frock. She had bought the ribbon just recently from a door hawker who had hastily parted with it for twopence after she had asked him if he held a vendor’s licence and had hinted that she would report him to the authorities if he didn’t. Behag was a great one for flaunting government bodies to anyone she suspected of unlawful dealings, it had always worked wonders for her: half the ironmongery in her kitchen had been acquired cheaply from travelling salesmen who had no wish to tangle with the authorities Behag spoke about so glibly, even though she couldn’t have told one from another.
‘I don’t see anything wrong wi’ the tinks,’ Kate said, following Behag’s gaze before bringing her own back to stare meaningfully at the ribbon pinned to the old woman’s scrawny bosom. ‘At least they didny buy their tartans at the door and pretend to be something they aren’t.’
Behag’s lips tightened but she said nothing more on the subject, certainly not to the formidable Kate, but when she saw Rachel welcoming the tinks she couldn’t resist saying to Sorcha in meaningful tones, ‘Have you noticed how she canny keep away from them? For all we know she might easily be one o’ them seeing as how her mother couldny keep away from them either when she was young.’
Sorcha had been in such a hurry to get out of the house she had forgotten to insert her hearing aid and, moulding one ancient lug into a mottled brown trumpet, she shouted, ‘Eh? What was that? Rachel a tink? You’d better no’ let Kate hear you saying that.’
Kate turned round; the look she threw Behag was venomous in the extreme. Behag scuttled away with agility, her eye falling on Elspeth who was strolling haughtily towards the marquee on the arm of Captain Mac. Behag’s eyes immediately sparkled with interest for despite her mournful demeanour she had had a wonderful time that summer: there were so many interesting things going on in the island, but best of all had been the affair between Elspeth and Captain Mac. Behag had noted that the display of luscious lingerie always appeared on the line after Captain Mac had taken himself off on one of his sojourns and the ex-postmistress’s imagination had worked overtime. Everyone else had grown rather tired of the subject, the novelty of teasing Elspeth had begun to wear off, but for Behag it would never fade and in her mind she had called Elspeth everything from a hussy to a Jezebel.
Unlike Kate she had a healthy respect for Elspeth’s able dialogue and had never dared to say anything that would incur a tongue-lashing, but her innuendoes, her tight-lipped, disapproving silences, had said it all and a little bit more besides.
To her complete and utter surprise Elspeth greeted her warmly and invited her to accompany both her and Mac into the beer tent as it was such a thirsty day.
‘The beer tent!’ Behag was shocked. So she had been right about Elspeth all along! All that so-called aversion to strong drink was just another front and those rumours about her being a secret tippler must be true. For all anyone knew she and Mac might be indulging in drink orgies and God alone knew what other debauchery.
‘Ay, the beer tent.’ Elspeth’s own lips were very subtly beginning to tighten. ‘There’s more than hard liquor in there: I’ve been told there are soft drinks as well, though I might just have a small sherry to wet my thrapple.’
Behag hesitated; a small sherry was respectable, even ministers didn’t turn up their noses at sherry, though of course Mark James couldn’t even take that, not with his problem – but that was another story and one on which Behag held very firm views.
‘Well, just a wee one to keep you company, Elspeth,’ she conceded, and wondered why the other woman’s eyes gleamed with something that might be called amusement.
By this time the scene was a mosaic of colour and life as half the island congregated on the green in front of the village of Portcull. Magnus of Croy arrived in style, driven by Todd the Shod who had at last learned to drive after years of claiming he would never sit behind a wheel of any sort after a lifetime of dealing with horses. He had spent a whole day cleaning and polishing his beautiful Rolls Royce and now it winked and gleamed and caused many a head to turn and smile at the sight of Magnus, sitting in the back, nodding and waving in a very regal manner.
As soon as the car stopped, Otto was there to help his grandfather alight and lead him away to the refreshment tent as he had expressed a desire to ‘wet his whistle’.
‘Neither o’ them are wearing the kilt,’ Kate observed in some disappointment. ‘I had thought, wi’ this being Otto’s official introduction to the Clan McKinnon, he would have appeared in full Highland dress.’
‘Ay, everyone else has made the effort,’ said Isabel. ‘I thought he went to Glasgow to buy an outfit for himself and Magnus – surely he’s no’ going to let a chance like this slip by him.’
‘Ach, give the man time,’ said Todd the Shod. ‘He’ll maybe surprise us all before the day is over.’
‘Are you knowing something we don’t?’ Mollie questioned suspiciously but her husband merely threw her a knowing wink and went to join his cronies who were already making merry in the beer tent.
Halfway through the afternoon Dodie appeared on the scene, shining and scrubbed, thanks to Mairi’s administrations on his person. At the time he hadn’t been too appreciative of being dumped in the tub in order to receive a thorough overhaul by Wullie, who, armed with a large loofah and an eve
n larger sponge, had scoured every inch of Dodie’s skin till he said he hadn’t any left and cried out for mercy. But afterwards, when Mairi had smothered him in body lotion and talcum powder and had cut and shaped his baby-fine hair, he had gazed at himself in the mirror for fully five minutes with a smirk of pure vanity widening his mouth.
She had also sponged and pressed his best suit and on the lapel she had fixed a large rosette of McKinnon tartan ribbon because she told him his mother had been of that clan and he had every right to wear the colours. In truth she didn’t really know what his mother had been, but Dodie had taken her at her word, and was so pleased with himself he forgot to be awkward and shy in the midst of the large gathering and went immediately to seek out Otto who was sitting outside the marquee talking to Rachel.
Without any of his usual hesitation, Dodie presented Otto with one of his hand-painted stones, stuttering a little in his efforts to utter some appropriate English salutation that would be understood by ‘the furrin gentleman’.
Dodie had been one of the first born and bred islanders that Otto had met on his arrival on Rhanna, and ever since the unique ride in Megan’s car, shared by Dodie and his twin lambs, Otto had taken an interest in the old man and had endeared himself still further by always asking after Curly’s welfare. In Dodie’s estimation, Otto was a man of greatness and goodness, and in Otto’s eyes, Dodie was a gentle, special creature whose simple beliefs and often staggering insights placed him in a category that was all his own.
Otto’s greeting was therefore genuinely warm and he received his gift with pleasure, turning it over in his hand, something queer and sad touching his heart when he saw painted notes of music drifting into a blue and heavenly sky and the motto Mac nan Èilean painstakingly scrawled round the edges.
Stranger on Rhanna Page 26
