Everyone shrieked with laughter and the meal was a merry one with Fergus and Kirsteen giving the two young folk all the latest gossip and news about the island. When the table was being cleared Fergus went to the door and brought in his parcels, though he was careful to leave the huge bouquet of red roses he had brought for Kirsteen by the lobby door.
‘Peenies off,’ he ordered. ‘I’ve got something for everybody to be opened on Christmas morning, but these,’ he said, indicating the biggest packages, ‘are for now, for the two women in my life. I hope to God you like them. I’m not very good at choosing things for females, but Maggie helped me. Anyway, see what you think.’
Kirsteen and Shona were like children in their eagerness to discover what the parcels contained, though they were careful to preserve the precious pieces of paper and string. In awe they stared at the contents of the boxes.
‘Well!’ Fergus’s voice was frayed with anxiety, his cheekbones tinged red with embarrassment.
Kirsteen lifted up the silver-grey fur and looked at it in disbelief. ‘Fergus, oh my darling, it’s beautiful, the most beautiful jacket I’ve ever seen. How on earth? . . .’
‘Ask no questions. Presents should be accepted without question . . .’ His face relaxed into a smile. ‘All I can tell you is that we owe a lot to Maggie Travers not forgetting McDuff the Bluff of Oban.’
‘I’ll never get a chance to wear it,’ Kirsteen said, her voice was low, ‘but I shall treasure it always. Thank you, oh thank you, my dearest.’ She kissed him on the cheek. Her lips were warm and he could sense the depth of her emotions.
Shona had said nothing, she just stood staring at the gift, stroking the soft honey-coloured fur with trembling fingers, her blue eyes swimming with tears. ‘I don’t know what to say,’ she whispered shakily. ‘Oh, I do know!’ Impatiently she brushed her eyes. ‘But I can’t get my tongue to make the words come out properly!’
Niall put his arm round her slim waist and pulled her against him. ‘You’ll look so grand in that you’ll be ashamed to walk down Sauchiehall Street beside your poor tattered husband.’ He grinned at Fergus. ‘And I thought I was doing well getting a rabbit’s paw to put in the nylon stockings I managed to get her. Ach well, she can always put it in the pocket of her jacket – it will bring her luck.’
Later, when Niall and Shona were busy at the sink washing up, Fergus went to get the roses, and then, taking Kirsteen by the hand, he led her into the parlour where he made her sit down. Tentatively he presented the bouquet to her. She saw the discomfiture in the big ruggedly handsome Gael and her eyes filled with merriment, which made his own flash in chagrin.
‘Oh don’t,’ she laughed. ‘You looked so handsome holding them. You suit red roses, my darling. You should carry them more often.’
‘Even when I’m mucking out the byre?’ he hissed, and they both burst out laughing, though his eyes devoured the sight of her so vibrantly lovely in a blue wool dress, her corn-coloured curls clinging round her head, fine little tendrils crisping round the delicate shells of her ears. Her smooth skin was flushed, her eyes were very blue and she looked ten years younger than her thirty-five. They were acutely aware of each other. She put out a slender hand to him and his big work-hardened one closed over hers so tightly she gasped. ‘I’ve missed you so,’ she told him rather breathlessly. ‘And yet – I don’t know what to say to you.’
He fell on his knees beside her and enclosed her in his embrace, his lips caressing her hair. ‘Then don’t say anything,’ he breathed. ‘Just listen to me. I can’t remember when I’ve felt so happy. You have given me two fine new sons, but most of all you have given me your love and that means everything to me. It’s going to be a wonderful Christmas. I’m going to hold you and kiss you and love you. I want you all the time and never more than at this minute. You look like a wee lassie sitting there, your skin all pink and your nose like a shiny button off a Sunday dress.’
She lowered her head quickly to hide the tears that had sprung to her eyes. His two nights away from her had seemed like years and her heart beat swiftly at his nearness. She took his face in her hands and gazed deep into his eyes. ‘I am going to be very wanton and let you do anything you want with me – and I’m so much in love with you I almost forgot to ask – names – did you think of names for the twins?’
‘Ay, I did that. I couldn’t sleep my first night with the Travers and I got up at dawn to walk up to the Folly. The view gave me inspiration and I thought of Lorn and Lewis.’
She stared at him, and he reddened. ‘You don’t like them,’ he accused.
With a gentle finger she traced the curve of his rebellious mouth. ‘Fergus, my Fergus, they’re beautiful – perfect. Lorn and Lewis, they’re poetical. There’s more to my strong farmer than meets the eye. You have a romantic centre under that tough shell you show the world.’
‘Och, get along with you,’ he said uncomfortably, and she smiled and took his hand.
‘Come on, let’s go up and christen the babies. The poor wee souls are just numbers at the moment.’
He looked into the kitchen to bid goodnight to Niall and Shona and was astounded to see that the room was filled with rainbow-coloured soap bubbles. Squint was sitting entranced, one eye roving towards the ceiling, the other fixed on a large bubble that had landed on the tip of his nose. He snapped and the bubble burst, the look of comical surprise on his face sending Niall and Shona into shrieks of laughter. Fergus, too, laughed – though he asked rather sourly, ‘Am I to believe there is a sudden glut of soap? According to Merry Mary it’s more scarce than gold at the moment.’
Shona wiped her eyes. ‘Ach, don’t worry, Father. I gathered all the bits and pieces I had and made them into liquid soap. I brought a few jars with me, so we’re having a bubble party.’
‘Well, see and don’t flood the place,’ he warned, eyeing Squint who was joyfully skating about on the wet floor. ‘We’re having an early night, so see you two behave yourselves.’
‘We’ll get along over to Slochmhor the minute we’re finished here,’ said a rather flushed Niall, and Fergus nodded and went on upstairs.
Kirsteen had gone on ahead. The nursery was hushed and peaceful. The babies had cried a good deal that day but, now though awake, they were quiet, their huge blue eyes gazing in wonder at the dancing shadows on the ceiling. Kirsteen buried her face in the roses Fergus had brought her. They were exquisite, but not nearly as precious to her as the two rosebuds he had given her on the morning of the babies’ birth. She went to the dresser and softly pulled out the drawer where lay the family Bible. It opened at the book of Job in the Old Testament where the pressed rosebuds nuzzled the yellowed pages. Reverently she touched the roses, which though faded still retained a whisper of colour.
‘Lorn and Lewis,’ she murmured. She held the lamp higher and a sentence on the page seemed to leap out at her. ‘Though thy beginning was small, yet thy latter day should greatly increase.’ She mouthed the words to herself then said aloud to the silent room, ‘And so be it.’
‘Talking to yourself – or to them?’ Fergus came in and stood gazing down at the babies. ‘They’re awake, yet they’re not crying,’ he said in wonder. ‘Have you bewitched them, little witch?’ He put his arm out to her and drew her in close to him. ‘Which will be which?’
The youngest baby had a tiny dimple on his chin, a replica of his father’s. ‘This shall be Lorn,’ she said softly. ‘He will grow up to be strong like you, strong and self-willed, stubborn and wonderful. Oh, I know Lachlan is worried for him just now but it won’t always be so.’ She picked the child up and propped his downy head under her chin, very aware of his frailty. His heart fluttered swiftly against the softness of her breasts but she vowed silently never to let him be aware that his was a lesser strength than his brother’s.
Fergus scooped the other baby into the crook of his strong right arm, and in a mood of abandonment, danced with him round the room. ‘Lewis!’ he cried joyfully. ‘Lewis Fraser McKenzie! How’s that
for a grand title, eh, my bonny wee man?’
Kirsteen watched him and felt that all the joy on earth belonged to them in those wonderful moments. Fergus’s shadow pranced on the ceiling and she felt such an unbearable love for him rising in her breast she wanted to sing aloud in her happiness, knowing she would remember him like that, dancing with his son in his embrace, for the rest of her life. ‘And I have here his bonny lordship, Lorn Lachlan McKenzie!’ she said, her breath catching with the pain and passion of her emotions. ‘Lachlan has a few namesakes on the island but none will bring him greater credit than this precious infant.’
Fergus caught her by the waist and they danced together, their laughter ringing out, the babies in their arms gurgling in keeping with their parents’ mood.
Downstairs Niall grinned. ‘Would you listen to them up there? Like a herd of elephants. If that’s what babies do to people we must have what these two have.’
‘Not twins!’ Shona said, shocked.
‘No, babies will do,’ he yelled gleefully, and, pulling her to him, he kissed her deeply. She lay against him, cherishing the warm nearness of him. ‘Babies can bring pain too,’ she said eventually, and rather sadly. ‘I didn’t bring Father much joy when I came into the world, but things came all right for us in the end because ours was a mental rather than a physical battle. It won’t be so for Morag Ruadh. I feel sorry for her, but more for the bairnie – so bonny but for her poor wee leg. Other folk would just accept it as a natural thing, but Morag will see it as a damnation brought about by her throwing away all her saintly scruples and giving herself up to the lusts of the flesh. I know fine what I’m talking about, for the besom said the self-same things about me when I lost our wee boy and me with no wedding ring on my finger.’
Niall stroked her hair. ‘Hush now, my babby, these things are in the past now but I can well believe that Caillich Ruadh made your life a hell at the time. I can’t feel sorry for her, all my sympathies are with the bairnie and poor old Doug. Mark my words, she will become a religious fanatic after this, and she’ll drag Doug down with her. His life will be hardly worth living, though the bairn might bring him some comfort – even though it might not be his.’
Even Niall couldn’t know how apt his words were to be. At that very moment at Dunbeag House, Portvoynachan, Morag Ruadh held to her breast the little daughter to whom she had given birth a few days before. Moaning and crying in a paroxysm of remorse and shame, she rocked the baby back and forth, back and forth, then she laid it down and for the hundredth time since its birth, she clasped her long supple fingers to her lips as if in prayer. The child was beautiful, perfect, so perfect – except . . . Morag lifted up the skirt of the baby’s flannelette gown, and through a watery blur she gazed in disbelief at the skinny little legs; one completely normal, the other as twisted and shrivelled as a piece of unravelled yarn. Morag’s thoughts travelled back to the night of the Manse ceilidh held by the Rev. John Gray for the Germans who had arrived so unexpectedly on Rhanna. For the first time in her life, saintly Morag had thrown caution to the winds and had seduced two Commando guards in the minister’s fuel shed. Later, Dugald had also succumbed to her wild abandonment, and when she had discovered she was pregnant he had married her without question. But Morag didn’t know who the father of her child was; all she knew in those dreadful despair-filled hours after her daughter’s birth, was remorse so deep and tortuous she fully believed the child’s deformity was a punishment sent to torment her for the rest of her days.
She held the infant high above her head and cried aloud in her grief, ‘I did this to you, my babby, but I will make it up to you. From this day forth you are a daughter of God! As long as there is breath in my body no man will tarnish your purity! As sure as God is my Judge!’ The hair of the child was golden. Morag stroked it with reverent fingers, tears flowing from her eyes. ‘My bonny one, so bonny. Your name shall be Ruth. When words come to your lips you will say unto me, “Whither thou goest, I will go and thy God will be my God and nothing but death will part thee and me”. Don’t cry, my little one, no evil will ever befall you as long as I’m here to look to you. You will be a servant of God and the angels and I was aye a body who kept my word.’ She muffled her sobs into the soft folds of the baby’s neck. Dugald came into the room with a tray. Already he adored his tiny daughter. To him she was perfect and to him that was all that mattered.
Morag looked at her husband. His mop of silvery hair shone, his honest grey eyes regarded her with steady affection. She didn’t love him; she never had. Oh, he was a good man and she was fond of him, but she had only married him to give the child a name. She would be a good wife to him, she would cook, clean, sew – but never again would she share the marriage bed with him and in sacrificing her lustful and ungodly urges she would perhaps allay in some small measure the dreadful sins that lay in her mind like festering sores.
But it wasn’t due to sin that out of four babies born on Rhanna in the December of 1941 three of them had congenital defects. Lachlan suspected something other than coincidence when three days before Christmas in a cottage at Portcull he delivered Kate McKinnon’s daughter, Annie, of a healthy eight-pound baby girl who, though rosy and sound of wind and limb, made not the slightest whimper in her entry into the world. Annie was Kate’s youngest daughter and there were some who had said she should never have married Dokie Joe, a cousin twice removed. The child was their firstborn and Annie was thrilled at first sight of the chubby pink bundle, but her joy turned to dismay when several hours elapsed and no sound escaped the baby’s rosy lips. ‘She doesny cry, Doctor,’ Annie told Lachlan in a frightened voice. ‘She is bewitched an’ no mistake. There are some who would think it a mercy to have a bairnie who doesny greet, but I’m thinkin’ it’s no’ natural – I’m thinkin’ that my bonny wee Rachel has maybe been struck dumb. These folks were maybe right when they said that Dokie an’ me shouldny have wed. Even Mither said that close blood doesny make for wise bairns.’
But Lachlan dismissed this. If Annie and Dokie had been first cousins, there might have been something in what she said, though Rhanna was full of close blood marriages and one had yet to produce a defective child.
‘It’s early yet, give her time,’ he advised gently.
‘But she’s struck dumb, I’m tellin’ you, Doctor.’
He uttered words of comfort, though in his heart he knew that Annie had stumbled onto the truth. Lachlan thought about little Lorn with his weak heart and frail body, he thought of baby Ruth, beautiful but for her pathetic twisted leg, and he looked now at Rachel and knew that it wasn’t just chance that had brought about such tragic malfunctions. Desperately he sought the answers from his personal store of medical knowledge, from medical textbooks, but at that time there were none. He didn’t know the reason, and the knowledge of that brought him sleepless nights and frustrating days, for he was a man dedicated to his profession. In time, the answers would come, but not then, in the winter of 1941, when two sons and two daughters of Rhanna emerged from their mother’s wombs to breathe the sweet air of hill and sea; suckled at their mothers’ breasts fought their separate battles for survival in those first tender stirrings of life, in their dreamings and their awakenings as yet unaware that the delicate threads of their lives were even then being woven into a pattern binding them together in a tapestry already planned by fate.
PART II
SPRING 1950
CHAPTER 4
The last nine years had brought some changes to Portcull, the greatest being the conversion of the largest house, which was next door to the Smiddy, into an hotel. This innovation pleased all the menfolk, delighted Todd, but disgusted Mollie, who claimed the establishment not only brought the Smiddy down, but encouraged drunkenness.
Bed and breakfast signs had sprung up outside croft houses all over the island, many of which greatly puzzled and misled the tourists. One at Nigg grandly proclaimed ‘Bed and Breakfast with all conveniences’, the conveniences being the dry lavatory situated in the bus
hes at the back of the house and the rickety bus that shook and rattled its way over cliff roads only suitable for horse-drawn traffic. Another sign at Portcull laboriously extolled ‘Mrs McKinnon invites you to bed’. Here Tam had run out of space and in tiny letters at the bottom had added, ‘and breakfast with home-made mealy pudding and home-cured bacon.’ Outside old Joe’s cottage a large white notice screamed in red letters: ‘Fresh lobsters and crabs for sail. If owner out, take crabs from coal bucket – carefully, they nip – leave money in tin marked nails.’ Elspeth Morrison, though turning up her sharp nose at what she called money grubbing, nevertheless placed a minute notice on her gate, which read ‘Eggs laid while U wait – duck, hen, goose – take your pick – hard boiled for picnics in peat creel’.
At the bottom of the hill road to Nigg was the most mystifying and tantalizing notice of all. At Ranald’s urging, Dodie had finally capitulated to the ‘towrist boom’, and Tam, who spoke English but thought in Gaelic with its grammatical charm, painted a sign that even he could hardly understand when it was finished. ‘Is a head two miles,’ the sign read, ‘German swastika genuine – old relic from world war two. A hundred thousand welcomes all.’
Tourists had been baffled to follow the trail only to find an embarrassed Dodie working in his fortressed garden. Tempers had flared at the idea of him being the ancient relic they had laboured over hilly moor to find, but when it was discovered that the roof of his wee hoosie was indeed formed from the tail-piece of the Heinkel bomber that had crash-landed on the island, dismay turned to amazement and cameras soon began clicking. News of Dodie’s swastika soon spread, and regular visitors to the island brought friends to look. Over heather hillocks they scrambled to get a better view, and the tin that Dodie had hitherto placed too discreetly on a window sill was now painted pink with a bold sign on it saying, ‘Donations here, no buttons thank you. He breeah.’
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