Rhanna at War

by Christine Marion Fraser

  He said the endearment softly and a sob rose in her throat. ‘Ni-Cridhe!’ My dear lassie. How long she had waited to hear the caress of his dear, lilting voice but her reply was non-committal. ‘Whenever you want – though not this afternoon. I’m going over to help Tina – she has a bad ankle.’

  ‘I could come with you. I’d like fine to see Tina and the bairns.’

  ‘Och, but I’m just going to wash and set her hair. You would feel in the way.’

  A flush of anger stained his fair skin. ‘I’m having a taste of that already! Tonight then? There’s a ceilidh at the Manse – for the Germans, would you believe! But we don’t have to speak to them. As far as I can gather the islanders are going to make a bonny night of it with Tam’s Uisge-beatha.’

  ‘You and Babbie go. She hasn’t been to an island ceilidh yet. I’ll sit with Anton.’

  ‘Please, Fräulein Shona, do not deny yourself for me!’ Anton cried anxiously. ‘My little friend, Fiona, will tell me some of her fairy stories and show me some of her pets,’ he laughed. ‘She reminds me of my small sister with her caterpillars and her frogs.’

  ‘Count your blessings then!’ Niall gritted so harshly that even Babbie glanced at him in some dismay.

  ‘Well, are you coming tonight or not?’ he demanded of Shona.

  Her head went up again at his tone. ‘I’ll sit with Anton,’ she persisted.

  ‘Oh, grand! Just grand! I’m sure you and he will have a lot to talk about! You can always tell him about the baby you lost because you thought I was dead in Dunkirk! Away you go then! A lot of folk are waiting on you it would seem!’

  Shona flew downstairs and hardly saw where she was going for tears, and later, at Laigmhor, she flounced about, clattering things on the table.

  ‘I see Niall’s home,’ Fergus said carefully as he and Kirsteen exchanged looks.

  ‘Ay, that he is! With a broken arm too! Niall always seems to be in the wars.’ She kept her tone on a conversational level.

  ‘And now you and he are at war with each other,’ Kirsteen said deliberately.

  Shona looked up quickly. ‘If it’s anybody’s business, then you are right enough, Kirsteen!’ she cried hotly. ‘Niall would fight in an empty house . . . his temper is even worse than mine now!’

  Fergus smiled faintly though a muscle was working in his cheek. ‘That would take a bit of doing, mo ghaoil. I won’t stand for it in this house – and I’ll thank you not to talk to Kirsteen in such a disrespectful manner.’

  Shona dumped a pile of plates on to the table with such a clatter that Ginger, a big placid torn, shot out of the door in fright. ‘And who have I to thank for my temper?’ she demanded wildly and stamped out of the kitchen in high dudgeon.

  Chapter Eleven

  The Rev. John Gray had never in all his years on Rhanna felt quite so fulfilled or so important as he had done since the captured Germans were delivered into his care. He had always felt uncomfortably out of his depth when carrying out his pastoral duties among a people who sensed his lack of confidence and also his slightly superior attitude towards them. He had always given them the impression that he regarded them as heathens whose only salvation lay in a conscientious kirk attendance coupled with a selfless devotion to ‘The Book’ and its teachings. But his methods of trying to bring God to the people were hopelessly out of keeping with the simple faith of the Hebridean people. His theological sermons were away above the heads of the majority of parishioners and matters weren’t helped by his stern refusal to learn the Gaelic which was the only language that many of the older inhabitants understood. He had of course picked up the odd Gaelic word, and an intelligent man such as he could easily have learned it all. But he felt to do so would be to encourage the easygoing islanders to take a step back in time. What he had failed to see was a proud little community of Gaels struggling to hold on to a culture that was their inheritance. In the name of progress too much had already been taken away but no one could rob them of their individuality. They had met the so-called civilized world half-way, but had no intention of stepping over the border to be swallowed into anonymity for ever more. And so the Rev. Gray laboured on under his delusions and the barriers between him and the people of Rhanna remained firmly erect.

  Hannah Gray was a much less overpowering personality than her overbearing husband. Her years with him had taught her that silence was the best form of defence against his forceful outlook on life.

  When her husband had first suggested a ceilidh for the Germans the idea at first dumbfounded her, but the more she thought about it the more excited she became. She had often longed to throw a ceilidh in keeping with tradition, but her husband wouldn’t hear of it, telling her sternly that such events were only excuses for uninhibited drinking bouts and an invitation to the Devil to wreak havoc in drink-weakened minds. Over the years Mrs Gray made do with giving strupaks; but her visitors were stiffly formal and always looked poised ready for flight. By contrast, whenever she dropped into a neighbour’s croft, a strupak was a gaily informal affair. She had never ceilidhed in the long, dark nights of winter, and when passing a cottage gay with laughter and song, she had often longed to join the merrymakers but knew that her presence would only embarrass them. But now she would have a ceilidh of her very own! The very thought sped her steps to the kitchen which was soon fragrant with the smell of baking. Normally such activities in the kitchen were banned on the Sabbath but in this instance such restrictions were dropped.

  ‘It must be referred to as more of a praise meeting,’ the minister had warned righteously, but when Torquil Andrew, a strapping figure of a man whose Norse colouring and piercing blue eyes, which made him a great favourite with the women, had appeared at the kitchen door with the sack of potatoes she had asked to buy from him, she gaily told him the news.

  ‘A ceilidh, Torquil,’ she had beamed happily. ‘Here in the Manse tonight. Tell your friends about it . . . but . . .’ she had put a warning finger to her lips and screwed her face into a conspiratorial grimace, ‘you know Mr Gray doesn’t like the drink . . . so only those who don’t.’

  Torquil’s handsome face had broken into a wide grin at the idea of a whisky less ceilidh. Laughing aloud he had pulled the small dumpy Mrs Gray into his bronzed arms and waltzed her round the kitchen. ‘A ceilidh, Mrs Gray! Just what we could be doing with. Mind though – some might no’ like the idea o’ drinkin’ tea, wi’ the Jerries. But I’ll be gettin’ a few folks together, never you fear, mo ghaoil,’ he had said, and went off to spread the news.

  Mrs Gray peered with pleasure into the oven where a batch of scones were rising in fluffy puffs. ‘It will be a fine ceilidh,’ she whispered into the depths of the oven. ‘And even though John will make everyone sing hymns I’m sure it will be a success just the same.’

  But not even Mrs Gray was quite prepared for the unprecedented triumph of her first ceilidh. It started quietly with only a handful of islanders shuffling through the door to look in uncomfortable silence at Jon and Ernst sitting meekly together on a huge wooden settle.

  ‘My, it’s a terrible night, just!’

  ‘Cia mar a Tha!’ (How are you?)

  The first arrivals muttered embarrassed exchanges in a mixture of English and Gaelic, then arranged themselves in silence around the big cosy room.

  ‘A dreich night,’ Merry Mary observed sadly, unwilling to relinquish the safe topic of the weather conditions.

  ‘Ay, ay, right enough,’ came the sage agreements, but after one or two similar observations the company grew unnaturally quiet and the focal point for all eyes became the crackling coal fire which everyone stared at with undivided attention.

  Mrs Gray looked round in dismay. But for the two Germans, old Andrew and Mr McDonald, better known as Jim Jim, the company was made up entirely of elderly women, and Mrs Gray knew that a good ceilidh needed a fair number of each sex to liven proceedings. She looked at old Andrew who sat with his fiddle cuddled on his knee. He appeared faintly out of his depth among such an o
dd company, fidgeting first with his bow, then with a pipe-cleaner which he poked into the depths of an ancient briar, extracting a great amount of an obnoxious tarry substance, and then depositing it carefully on the bars of the fire. Jim Jim was sitting about three feet from the hearth, a distance that was no deterrent to the well-aimed flow of spit which he shot across the intervening space at regular intervals. The sound of it roasting on the coals filled the room and the gathering stared at the popping bubbles with what appeared to be an avid interest.

  Mrs Gray leaned over to Isabel McDonald and said in an anxious whisper, ‘I wonder what has happened to Torquil and the other men. He seemed delighted when I told him about my ceilidh. What if no one else comes?’

  Isabel McDonald looked at her in wonderment. ‘Ach, mo ghaoil! It’s the way o’ things. The younger ones will ceilidh at each other’s houses first! They always do. When they gather up enough o’ a crowd they will be comin’ round here sure enough – or maybe staggering more like!’

  Mrs Gray looked at her in horror. ‘Oh, but John will never . . .’ At that moment the Rev. Gray came running downstairs and into the room. ‘What . . . nobody singing yet?’ he bellowed lustily. ‘Where is Morag Ruadh? She should be at the piano by now!’

  Isabel McDonald knew that her red-haired, quick-tempered daughter was passing the time at the door with two Commando guards. For long, Morag had been a source of worry to her elderly parents because though past forty she had, as yet, failed to find herself a suitable marriage partner. Morag, with her red hair and nimble body was not an unattractive woman but she laboured under the delusion that she alone was responsible for the welfare of her ageing parents. This had embittered her outlook on life to some extent and her scathing tongue quickly scared off any would-be suitors. Contrary to Morag’s beliefs, her parents were longing to be free of her spicy tongue and they were quick to encourage the attentions of any men who chanced their daughter’s way.

  ‘Morag has been kept back tonight, she will be along later, Mr Gray,’ Isabel said glibly.

  The minister’s voice thundered out imperatively. ‘Where is everybody? We must have more men for the singing. Bring in the guards! There’s no need for them to be out there now!’

  ‘There I must disagree wi’ you,’ Jim Jim said in tones of slight reproof. ‘You mustny be forgettin’ there is still another Hun to be caught. You wouldn’t like a big German charging in here to us defenceless people and shootin’ us all down like dogs. Would you now?’

  ‘Pray God, of course not, but –’

  ‘Then leave the sojers be the now. You can be bringin’ them in when the other lads bring in the Hun, we’ll be needin’ guards then wi’ three Jerries in the place.’

  ‘Well, all right . . . yes, surely, you’re right, Mr McDonald.’

  Jim Jim sat back amid nods of righteous approval from the gathering while outside Morag Ruadh was carrying on in an unusually abandoned mood.

  Earlier in the evening she had complained to Kate McKinnon of feeling ‘a cold coming down’ and Kate had made her drink a generous amount of the Uisge-beatha. After the first mouthful and the first indignant spate of outrage at what she told Kate was ‘an evil trick, just’, she had thirsted after more of the water of life, whereupon a liberal Kate had sold her a pint for just ninepence. Arriving home Morag had informed her parents she was going into the scullery to ‘steam her head’. With a great show of preparation she had put Friar’s Balsam into a bowl of hot water and then repaired to the privacy of the scullery where she spent a solitary hour alternately ‘steaming her head’ and tippling from the cough bottle that she had carefully filled with whisky.

  Now she was ready to throw caution to the winds. She was neither drunk nor sober but had arrived at that happy state where no obstacles loomed in the horizons of life and all things were possible, even for a forty-two-year-old spinster. Her gay mood showed in a softening of her ruddy features. She looked almost pretty with her green homespun shawl reflecting the green of her eyes and showing to advantage the bright gleam of her fiery hair. It mattered not to her that the Commandos were years younger than herself. They were men, exciting men at that, so different from the withdrawn, easy-going males of the island. She giggled and gave the guards sips of whisky from the innocent-looking brown cough bottle. The men were glad of the diversion. The superb-tasting whisky was a welcome change from the endless cups of tea provided by the kindly Mrs Gray and the surprising heat of the home-brewed malt quickly melted any doubts they might otherwise have felt at being obviously seduced by a middle-aged spinster.

  Morag looked at the black tracery of the elm branches lurking in the chilly mist. With an exaggerated shudder she drew the folds of her shawl closer round her neck. ‘Look you, it’s a bitty cold out here,’ she said softly, her legs beginning to tremble in a mixture of anticipation and surprise at her audacity. She lowered her voice to a hoarse whisper. ‘It’s – it’s warm in the fuel shed over yonder. A nice bundle of hay there too . . . just to be resting in for a whily.’

  She drifted away into the mist and the older of the two men handed his gun to his companion. ‘Me first, Thomson,’ he said with a chuckle. ‘She’s asking for it and I’ve got it. By God, I’ll put a smile on her face that will stay there for the rest of her days.’

  While Morag was arranging herself enticingly in the hay, the minister was loudly bemoaning her delay in arriving. ‘We must have Morag Ruadh for the piano!’ he cried, running an impatient hand through his thick mop of grey hair. ‘I asked her to come early! What can have happened to her? Morag has never let me down yet.’ He swung round to Isabel who was gazing sleepily into the fire. ‘Can something have happened to her?’ he demanded.

  ‘All things are possible,’ the old lady murmured, hastening to add loudly, ‘Do not be worrying yourself, Mr Gray. Morag was feeling a cold coming and you know she is always feart of gettin’ stiff hands and feets, her a spinner needin’ all her fingers – and there is the organ, too, of course. Morag would never forgive herself if she was never fit for the organ on the Sabbath. She has already steamed her head, now she will likely be rubbing herself with liniment to keep supple. She’ll be along right enough in her own time.’

  ‘Well, we’ll have to do without the piano!’ The minister frowned round at the motley company. He felt very disappointed. His big idea of showing the Germans a real display of Scottish hospitality wasn’t getting off to a good start. He had visualized a devoted Morag Ruadh stolidly accompanying an enthusiastic crowd singing rousing songs of praise all evening. Instead there was only a handful of dejected-looking islanders who were being unnaturally polite to each other. They were also inclined to murmur to one another in Gaelic, which made the minister even more frustrated.

  Suddenly Jon Jodl startled everyone by getting swiftly to his feet. His thin, boyish face was alight as he addressed the minister in excited German. The exchange brought a smile of delight to the Rev. Gray’s face.

  ‘The boy’s a musician!’ he boomed joyfully. ‘And he has offered to play for us. Be upstanding everyone and give thanks to the Lord. Then we will start with the 23rd Psalm – and I want to hear every voice raised to the Almighty . . . in English.’

  ‘Balls,’ old Jim muttered but his wife nudged him and hissed a warning ‘Weesht, weesht!’ but he paid no heed, standing up to sing, defiantly, the 23rd Psalm in Gaelic. The well-known strains drifted out into the frosty night where the solitary Commando guard began to hum under his breath while he strained his eyes into the ghostly darkness surrounding the Manse and awaited his turn with Morag.

  Shona didn’t see Niall till well after tea when he came walking down Glen Fallan with Babbie. She was securing the hen-houses and heard their laughter long before they reached the gate in the dyke.

  ‘We’re away over to the Manse!’ Niall called. ‘Are you coming along, mo ghaoil? Mother is going to keep your German friend amused so he doesn’t need you to hold his hand!’

  The sarcasm of his words and the sight of them toge
ther brought fresh anger and a swift rush of jealousy to her heart. She felt hurt and cheated. When she spoke her voice was high with a mixture of rage and tears. ‘No, you two get along! I’m – I’m busy and I’m in no mood to go ceilidhing.’

  ‘Shona, please come,’ Babbie pleaded. ‘I – can’t bear to see the two of you like this . . . after all the waiting.’

  ‘Ach, go away, go away and leave me alone!’

  Niall said nothing. He just stood looking at her for a long moment and then linked his arm in Babbie’s and pulled her swiftly away. Shona stood looking after them, unable to believe the turn of events. She couldn’t believe that Niall and Babbie were nothing more than casual acquaintances. Was it possible that Babbie, whom she loved like the sister she’d never had, could have engineered her stay on Rhanna in the hope that she would be near Niall? Their surprise on seeing each other had seemed genuine enough . . . yet they certainly appeared to know one another quite well, there was no denying that – or the looks they had exchanged in Anton’s room. She felt sick with misery and shivered uneasily.

  She looked back at the big farmhouse with its soft lights glowing from the windows. It was warm and inviting but in her present mood she felt it wasn’t inviting her. Kirsteen’s light laugh rang out followed by Fergus’s deep happy voice. For a moment she wished it was just herself and her father again. She could have talked to him in the intimate way they had adopted through the years. Sometimes just a word from him made her world seem right again; he had a knack of making her worries seem trivial . . . Then she remembered the years of his loneliness and she hated herself for grudging him one moment with Kirsteen. If it was difficult for her adjusting to the new way of things, then how much more difficult it was for them, starting off together in married life and her throwing tantrums like a baby . . .

  When she went back inside Fergus turned from the table. He was enveloped in a large pink apron that was liberally coated with flour. ‘This daft woman is showing me how to bake bread!’ he said, his black eyes snapping with delight. ‘Me who knows better how to plant grain! But I’ll show her the McKenzies aren’t to be so easily beaten, eh, mo ghaoil?’ There was a message in the laughing words and their eyes met in a moment of understanding.