Children of Rhanna

by Christine Marion Fraser

  She giggled and lay against him. ‘I wouldn’t put it past you – but seriously, you do work too hard. Never mind, though; in a few years’ time you’ll have the twins out in the fields with you. They can hardly wait to grow up and be farmers like their father.’

  ‘Lewis perhaps,’ he murmured into her hair, ‘though he’ll have to sow a few wild oats before he’s ready to settle down. He’s keen on the land, ay, but he’s a restless lad. He canny seem to settle his backside for two minutes at a time.’

  ‘Lorn will keep him steady, see he sows his oats in the right places. They’ll both be a credit to you . . .’

  ‘You set too much store on Lorn,’ he said rather sharply. ‘Don’t do it, Kirsteen, you’ll only end up getting hurt!’

  ‘And you don’t set enough store by him!’ she said, equally sharply, pulling away from his enfolding arm to glare at him. ‘Don’t you know he worships you? Only wants to be like you? . . .’

  ‘Dammit! These are hardly the qualities that will make a farmer out of a lad like him! Kirsteen, don’t let’s go over it again! Time will tell but I warn you now, he hasn’t the stamina for the land. The guts, ay, but the strength, no.’

  Kirsteen’s cheeks burned red. It was an argument they had had quite often in the past, but now that Lorn was getting older, more eager to follow the plough, the rows were growing more heated. ‘That’s because you coddle him, Fergus. That was all right in the beginning, but not now. Oh, can’t you see? He wants to grow, to expand, to have you show him how to do things the way you show Lewis.’ His eyes blazed like coals and he pushed her away. ‘Are you asking me to kill my son? Are you, Kirsteen? Because in his condition it wouldny be hard . . .’

  ‘Condition! Condition! You make him sound like a feeble baby! Oh, I know he’s not strong, but he tries so hard and you never encourage him . . .’

  ‘Kirsteen,’ Fergus said, his voice softer now, ‘I don’t want to raise false hopes in him. Can’t you see? It’s because I love him I can’t let him get hurt!’

  ‘But he is being hurt,’ she said bleakly. ‘You hurt him almost every day of his life by refusing to let him do the simplest tasks around the farm – and I don’t mean feeding the hens or – or patting butter into rounds . . .’

  ‘You can be very stubborn when you want to be, Kirsteen,’ he told her coldly. ‘You are splitting hairs, talking about hurt feelings – I am talking about physical hurt. I’m afraid for him. Dammit all! Are you too stupid to see that!’

  Her breath caught in her throat and her head went up proudly. ‘I can be stubborn! Well – if that isn’t McKenzie cheek, I don’t know what is. You’re the most stubborn, pig-headed boor of a man anyone could possibly meet! How I’ve put up with your tempers and your sulks all these years I’ll never know – and to think that only a few minutes ago I thought you were the most wonderful man on earth –’ She laughed mirthlessly. ‘The most thoughtless would be more apt.’

  ‘And what about you!’ he lashed back, his jaw working furiously. ‘The girl of my dreams – my nightmares more like! You never give me a minute’s rest; you demand all the time – even in bed! Nag, nag, nag. You’re getting to be like that auld yowe Elspeth Morrison and that’s no mean feat.’

  They stood glaring at each other, white-faced, nostrils aflare, in the heat of the moment having to exercise all their self-control not to lash out at each other physically. He had never raised a hand to her, but now she couldn’t stop herself any more from striking out, dealing him such a crack the force of it spun his face to the side.

  ‘So, I give you no peace in bed?’ she gritted. ‘And all these years I thought you were enjoying it. Well, if you’re worried that I might keep you awake in future, you needn’t fear. I’ll move your things into Grant’s room; I’m sure you can rake up some excuse. Why not tell him that at fifty you’re past it!’ She was horrified at the poison pouring from her lips, but she had lost control and raced on. ‘Alick and Mary will be here in a few days – Alick always liked me, didn’t he? Why don’t we swop? You have Mary for a few nights and I’ll have Alick – see what it was he was going to give me all these years ago.’

  She had gone too far, and she knew it. The time when Alick had tried to seduce her – with all its terrible consequences – was almost too much to even think about and now she had brought it to the surface where it reared between them like an ugly monster, spewing its venom over them.

  Fergus had turned so white she thought he was going to collapse. His eyes were livid black pools, full of disbelief, hurt, shock – and something that was almost hate. Roughly he gripped her wrist and jerked her towards him till her face was inches from his. With clenched teeth he ground out, ‘Never, never mention that again to me or you’ll be sorry you ever met me . . .’

  ‘What makes you think I’m not sorry now?’ Her throat was tight, she hated herself, but the words were out before she could stop them.

  Something deep in his eyes made her reel with pain, a hurt so raw he couldn’t stop it showing. She felt weak. She was immediately sorry for all the harsh things she had said, but it was hardly the time to utter a feeble apology, and nothing she had said could ever be taken back.

  His grip on her wrist slackened and she saw all the fire go out of him. He turned his head from her and the rays of the sun caught and gleamed on the snow-white hairs among the jet black.

  She pressed the back of her hand to her mouth and reached out to touch him, but he pulled his shoulder out of her grasp.

  ‘Fergus,’ she rasped, the unshed tears making her voice harsh. ‘I’m . . .’

  Janet came rather warily into the kitchen. She had heard the tail end of the row but was unusually excited about something and pointed out of the window. ‘Would you look at who’s coming up the road.’

  Fergus remained immobile, but Kirsteen went to stand by Janet. Up the winding glen came quite a procession led by Lorn and Lewis astride Conker. ‘It’s Shona and Niall!’ Kirsteen cried, hastily patting her crisp curls and wondering how she could act normally after what had gone before. Peeling off her apron she threw it on the draining board. ‘The wittrocks that they are – they’re several days too early – there won’t be enough dinner to go round.’

  Fergus had joined the two women by the sink, his hammering heart lightening a little at sight of his daughter, slim and lovely, her auburn hair shining in the sun. She was leading the way through the gate and Fergus couldn’t help saying, ‘Shona – we’ll have smiles about the place again.’

  Kirsteen reddened and hissed at him furiously, ‘Maybe I should go away for a while – it might be worth the welcome home.’

  His eyes snapped and he turned away. The kitchen was filling with Fiona and Grant, Shona and Niall, with clamouring children, with hens boldly strutting, together with two sheepdog pups eagerly sniffing for scraps. For several minutes chaos reigned. Lorn and Lewis were talking excitedly, describing the meeting with Jon, the events at the harbour.

  ‘Rachel made faces at the camera,’ Lewis chuckled gleefully.

  ‘Och, that Rachel,’ Janet said in exasperated admiration for the little cousin who laughed at all the conventions Janet herself hated but was too fearful to contravene.

  Helen was wobbling on chubby legs, chasing the hens round the table before dropping on all fours to join the pups in their quest for crumbs. Grant watched her antics and his deep laugh boomed. ‘Just as mad as her mother,’ he quipped, giving Shona a brotherly squeeze that left her gasping. Kirsteen put her hands over her ears and shrieked, ‘We didn’t expect you two for some days yet! How on earth will I feed you all?’

  Bob appeared and proceeded to remove his mud-caked wellingtons, which he clumped heartily against the outside wall. His dog, Meg, was immediately pounced on by her pups who proceeded to feed there and then, eyes blissfully closed as they clung to her teats, squeezing her belly with their fat puppy paws. Bob stopped his beating to gaze into the crowded kitchen with surprise. ‘My, my, the gathering o’ the clans right enough. I’m t
hinkin’ I’ll just get along home and have a sup o’ milk and a bite o’ bread and cheese.’

  ‘No, no, Bob, wait!’ Kirsteen cried rather dazedly, automatically picking Helen up from the floor to cuddle her. ‘I’m sure we can sort something out.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Kirsteen,’ Fiona said. ‘Shona and Niall can come home with me.’ She threw a meaningful glance in Grant’s direction. ‘You have your hands full here – all these helpless men to see to.’

  ‘Away you go then, Shona. If you’re lucky you might get frog’s legs for dinner,’ flashed Grant, glaring at Fiona.

  ‘Agree bairns, agree; for I hate to see peace,’ smiled Fergus dourly, not deigning to notice the resentful look thrown at him by Kirsteen.

  Shona hugged him. ‘We only dropped in to say hello; we’ll get away with Fiona. I’ll be along later this afternoon while Helen’s having a nap – come on, you wee devil,’ she said, and scooped her daughter out of the big wickerwork dog basket and made for the door.

  ‘Enjoy yourselves,’ grinned Niall and went rather thankfully to join Shona and Fiona by the gate. The glen was peaceful with the hills drowsing in the heat and great shaggy Highland cows browsing among the lush grasses by the river. In the blue sky above an eagle planed lazily on the air currents.

  ‘Phew,’ Niall took a deep breath as he took his little daughter into the crook of his arm. ‘To think Laigmhor used to be so quiet!’

  Shona laughed. ‘Och, it still is, we just disrupted everything, that’s all.’ She glanced around her with delight, her blue eyes brilliant with joy. ‘It’s so good to be back, to be home – oh, Kintyre is bonny but this,’ she said, spreading her arms and skipping along, ‘this is me somehow! Wild, peaceful, restless, dreamy – I feel like a daft wee lassie again when I’m back on Rhanna.’

  ‘You behave like one!’ giggled Fiona, taking the older girl’s arm and skipping with her.

  Phebie was in a chair by the table, napping in the rays of the sun pouring through the window of Slochmhor. She opened her eyes to see Niall standing grinning at her from the doorway and immediately she scrambled to her feet. ‘What on earth – what may I ask are you doing here? You should have phoned – are you forgetting we have the phone in now?’

  ‘Indeed no. I know you like surprises and we’re about the nicest you could get. Fang let me away early; we came with Grant on the Magpie.’ He advanced and Phebie made a clumsy scramble away from him. ‘Don’t you dare, my lad – I’m too auld for your capers now.’

  ‘Havers, you’re just a spring chicken, a nice plump one ready for the catching.’ Niall’s brown eyes were gleaming with devilment and Shona and Fiona smiled from the door, knowing what was coming. Round the table Niall chased his mother, the way he always did when he came home. Phebie shrieked, laughed, panted, and begged for mercy while Helen clung to her mother’s skirts and observed joyfully, ‘Gwannie’s daft! Gwannie’s daft!’

  A chair was knocked flying and Niall caught his mother to lift her high in his strong young arms. Phebie had grown plumper with the years, but that didn’t stop her son from running with her a few yards before he set her down, for good measure giving her a smack on her well-rounded bottom. Her round face was flushed pink and though she was breathless with laughter, she grabbed the dishcloth from the sink and swiped him over the face with it.

  ‘Enough, enough,’ he gasped. ‘You win, I’m beaten, I give up.’

  Lachlan came clattering downstairs, his thin face alight with enquiry. ‘What is all this?’ he grinned. ‘I thought it was an invasion.’

  ‘It is,’ Phebie said fervently, sinking into a chair to fan her hot face with a corner of her apron. Lachlan swept his little granddaughter into his arms and danced with her round the room. ‘My bonny wee Ellie,’ he sang and the child crooned with him and grabbed a fistful of his unruly hair.

  Phebie stopped fanning herself to say thoughtfully, ‘How strange, I just remembered; when Niall was a baby he used to call Shona’s mother Ellie.’

  ‘It’s nice,’ murmured Shona, tucking away a wilful strand of her long hair. ‘Not as formal as Helen.’ She stroked the baby’s satin-smooth cheeks. ‘How would you like to be called Ellie, you daft wee thing?’

  ‘Ellie, Ellie,’ the child repeated the name happily.

  Fiona sniffed. ‘The only thing is, Ellie could be short for Elspeth and who in their right mind would want to be called after . . .’

  ‘I heard that, miss.’ Elspeth appeared, cabbages clutched to her bosom, a streak of earth lying over her gaunt cheeks. She went over to the sink and laid the cabbages down, her shoulders sagging slightly.

  Fiona saw that her one-time dragon was now just a very lonely and rapidly ageing old lady and she was immediately repentant. Going over, she put her arm round Elspeth’s shoulders and gave her a hug. ‘I’m sorry, Elspeth, I’m a wee bitch to you, but you have to admit you’ve been an old one to me. I think Elspeth is a lovely name and to prove it I’m going to call my new white mouse after you . . .’ She darted away as Elspeth turned on her. ‘No really, it’s a compliment. My mice are very special to me. Please smile, you look really nice when you smile, which isn’t often.’

  ‘I think I’ve come to the wrong house,’ Niall said, shaking his head. ‘This is all very undignified for me, you know. After all, it’s not every day the son of this house becomes a junior partner in a thriving veterinary practice with his name just newly on the brass nameplate by the door.’

  ‘Niall!’ Phebie’s face was glowing with pride. ‘When? You never told us!’

  ‘I’m telling you now – and since I’m such an important personage – isn’t it high time I had my dinner? I’m starving.’

  He picked up a buttered scone and proceeded to eat it, earning himself a smart rap on the knuckles from his mother.

  ‘Just like old times,’ smiled Lachlan, sitting down at the table and scraping in his chair. He caught Niall’s eye and a glow of pride filled his heart. The tears and the laughter of his children’s growing years echoed in his mind, a distant yet an ever-present melody that reached into the present to bring him joy.

  Ruth let herself into the house. All was silent in the rather dingy, low-beamed, green-painted room, which, because half the things were packed in readiness for the move to Portcull, was even more spartan than usual. The air reeked of disinfectant. Twice weekly, Morag washed down the walls and floors with strong carbolic. The floor was bare wood, scrubbed white with only a rug at the fire to relieve the starkness. The mahogany sideboard, the bureau, and hard wooden chairs smelled strongly of polish, yet there was no shine on them. The house looked unlived in, there were no homely touches to add atmosphere, no cat or dog to give a welcome, as Morag had forbidden them in the house. The only ornaments on the walls were Bible markers, which were liberally scattered throughout the house.

  A quick check revealed that her father was not in, and Ruth reasoned that he had most likely gone to share Totie’s midday meal rather than have a solitary repast in that bare room. Ruth decided that a walk over to Totie’s cottage would be lovely on such a day, and she stepped into the sunshine gladly. The cockerel was crowing loudly in the grassy run, as if proclaiming his relief at being released from his Sabbath prison, an upturned peat creel from which he could see the activities of the outside world without being able to join in. This practice of confining the cockerel on the Sabbath was by no means restricted to religious beings like Morag Ruadh. On crofts all over Rhanna, and indeed on islands throughout the Hebrides, it was considered immoral to have a cockerel roaming loose amongst the hens, so into creels, lobster pots, baskets, and fish boxes they went.

  Despite everything, Ruth couldn’t help feeling happy as she limped along to Totie’s cottage perched high on the cliffs some distance from the village. The sun slanted over land and sea, making a bright mosaic of gold, green and blue; puffins, razorbills, and herring-gulls swooped, dived, and cried from the steep crags of the cliffs and rose up in thick clouds from the sea; the scents of wild flag and blu
ebells mingled with the dank salt smell of the tangle left by the tide to dry in the sun. Ruth lifted her head and felt life bubbling into her until she shivered. It had been a wonderful morning; she was looking forward to going to live at Portcull – and she would still see Rachel despite her mother, because they would meet at school. She would have at least one friend there – perhaps the twins would speak to her as well. She liked them, especially Lewis; he didn’t make her feel uncomfortable the way Lorn did. He was shy, like her; two shy people rarely invoked confidence in each other.

  The skirt of Ruth’s brown wool pinafore lifted in the wind. It was a hot, uncomfortable garment and the rough material made her knees itch. She wished she could wear a pretty cotton gingham dress like the one Rachel had been wearing that morning but she knew it was useless to ask her mother to make her anything that she considered to be flimsy and provocative. She hardly knew what that big word meant, but had an idea it was something to do with tempting boys – though she couldn’t see how any girl of nine years old could do that. Still, Rachel had looked lovely in the simple pink frock; it showed off her suntanned limbs and black curls to perfection.

  As Ruth hurried her calliper creaked slightly. She was to get a new one fitted soon, but even so she knew she would never be graceful or pretty enough to provoke boys.

  The merriment of the morning came back to her; a smile lit her solemn little face, and she skipped as she approached Totie’s cottage. As long as no one was watching she could skip quite well – and dance, too. Rachel had taught her how to do that in the shed behind her house and Ruth had forgotten her limp in the excitement of dancing with Rachel.

  Totie’s cottage, though windswept and bare of protective trees, was nevertheless well cared for and tidy, with its dazzling white walls and small patches of cultivated land. Totie was a capable woman who, despite all odds, grew all her own vegetables. The potato patch was in the process of being planted in a sandy soil sustained by great quantities of seaweed. A heap of seaweed and a barrowload of dung had been piled onto the earth, waiting to be dug in. Ruth walked over the unfenced springy turf to the door and was about to knock on it when her father’s voice froze her action. His was a quiet voice but strong and deep and she heard plainly the words, ‘Dear God, Totie, sometimes I don’t think I can bear another day in that house with that woman. My times with you are the only things that keep me sane. If it wasn’t for Ruth I swear I wouldn’t stand another day of Morag.’