Grant felt awe ripping through him. For the first time in his young life he smelt and tasted real fear.
The crash as the Magpie hit the reefs threw the men to the floor. Grant heard the propellers racing uselessly, heard Skipper Joe’s terrified curses as he realized the Magpie was caught amidships by two massive fragments of jagged rock. The deck tilted and swayed. Grant was thrown to his knees. Through the thudding of his heart he heard the sea snarling over the rocks; heard the groaning screams of the Magpie as the Sgor Creags began ripping her apart; felt the cold finger of death hovering over him, eager to reach out and carry him off in its pitiless clutches.
Todd was now holding the stage, his cheeks puffed into red pouches. The skirl of the pipes set everyone hooching and they whirled gaily round the floor, stirring up the chalky dust from the floorboards. The children climbed down off the platform and went to sit in the corner beside Ruth. The bench was immediately under the platform, hidden from the rest of the hall, and the children giggled as they received an unparalleled view of Todd’s hairy legs under his swinging kilt. Ruth felt happier. Her mother couldn’t see her from this angle and she was able to chatter to Rachel in peace of mind. Lorn was beside Ruth and all at once he grasped her arm and choked in a strangled whisper, ‘Look, Ruth, Todd’s drawers are coming down.’
Sure enough Todd’s knees were being obliterated inch by inch by folds of wind-bleached cotton. The children clutched each other and gave themselves up to ecstasy.
Lewis leaned across to his brother and hissed, ‘I bet you twopence they’ve got his initials on. Mollie puts initials on all her washing when the tinks are on the island.’
‘I’m not betting,’ Lorn stated with a grin. ‘I know they’ve got his initials on – I saw them on the washing line yesterday!’
Old Mo spluttered into his whisky as he too espied the slow unfurling of Todd’s underpants. ‘Bejabers and bejasus, the bloody lyin’ cheat,’ he mumbled to Bob. ‘Was he not after tellin’ me just two minutes ago he never wears knickers under his kilt!’ Todd was stomping his sturdy legs, keeping time to the music, obliviously abetting the descent of his drawers.
‘Mercy on us, no!’ stuttered a red-faced Mollie. ‘He could never bring such shame to our good name. I told him, I told him this very mornin’ he was needin’ the elastic mended, but would he listen to me? No, oh no! I am just his wife! It’s shamed I am just.’
A deadly hush had fallen over the floor as word spread like wildfire. The Laird had been discussing farming with Fergus and his was the last voice to die down, tailing off with a cultured if explosive, ‘Poor old chap, I don’t think he’s aware of what’s happening.’
Todd wasn’t. In an inebriated haze he was blasting away merrily, stamping his feet, his eyes closed in his perspiring face.
‘And there’s a hole in them too!’ Mollie almost sobbed. ‘Right where I patched them on the seam!’
With a triumphal flourish the underpants slid down to lie in dazzling folds at Todd’s thick ankles.
‘Ach God!’ Kate clutched her stomach. ‘He’s unfurling his banners in style is our Todd! I wish I had a pair o’ bellows. That would put the wind up him right enough!’
Todd was now aware of his imprisoned feet. With a drunken grin splitting his face he shouted, ‘Ach, the hell wi’ them!’ and calmly stepping out of the cotton layers he stooped down and, picking them up, threw them with a flourish over his shoulder, intending in a burst of showmanship to catch them on the tasselled drones of his pipes. Instead they sailed over his head to land gracefully on the golden head of Squint, who was lying peacefully at Rachel’s feet. The little dog looked with comical cross-eyed surprise through one of the wide legs before he shook the garment from his head and got to his feet to sniff blissfully, his inquisitive nose poking into the torn patch. For a moment the drawers hung suspended on the end of his muzzle then he went wild with delight. Although he had all the points of a good gun dog there was also something of the terrier in his nature. Holding the cloth firmly with his front paws he began pulling it up and down like strings of gum before gathering the lot in his soft jaws to go racing round the hall, throwing the drawers into the air, catching them, exposing to the hysterical gathering the initials T. McD. emblazoned red on white.
The hall went into an uproar with everyone clutching each other for support. Dodie’s screeching wail of a laugh rang out; Biddy cackled so heartily her glasses slid to the end of her nose; the minister leaned helplessly against his dumpy little wife, who was wiping her streaming eyes with the first thing that came to hand – a corner of Merry Mary’s new dress.
‘Poor auld Todd,’ Niall sobbed. ‘He’ll never live this down as long as he lives!’
In the corner the children were rendered speechless. Lewis had fallen against Rachel; and Lorn’s earth-brown curls were touching Ruth’s golden locks – in the sheer ecstasy of their mirth they had both forgotten their shyness and were now in harmony with each other, as was every other laughter-racked person in the room.
Alick was standing beside Kirsteen. ‘Only on Rhanna could this happen,’ he commented breathlessly. ‘I always seem to get more laughs when I come home here.’
‘You get other things as well – such as a bruised face and a split lip.’ She looked him straight in the eye and he returned her gaze, his heart quickening slightly. ‘Thank you, Alick,’ she said quietly. ‘I’m not going to ask what it was all about – I think I know. And I think you’re a really special person – I just want you to know that. You’re quite a man, Alick McKenzie.’
Alick flushed and turned away. Her words made him feel ten feet tall. Quite a man – at last – quite a man. He felt complete and proud to be a McKenzie.
Fergus looked over at his wife. They hadn’t spoken a single word to each other yet; they were like shy children not quite knowing where or how to begin. Kirsteen felt excitement beating into her as she looked ahead to when they were alone, anticipated the first tentative kisses, the first gentle caresses . . . Then Scott Balfour was climbing onto the platform followed by the minister, the doctor, their respective wives. The band re-assembled and Squint took up his position by Rachel’s side, Merry Mary blushingly arranged herself between Phebie and Lachlan and the presentation speeches began. Plaudits were showered on the little Englishwoman from each of the menfolk in turn, and then the Laird made the presentations. The village had done Merry Mary right well: face afire with embarrassment, she received an elegant carriage clock to grace her mantelpiece; with trembling lips she stared in speechless gratitude at the silver tray complete with tea service, a personal gift from the Laird and his wife for ‘keeping the Burnbreddie larder stocked through war and weather’ – and when she was presented with a discreet plain envelope containing ‘a wee thing from every man, woman, and child on the island’, a sob caught at the back of her throat. Finally, when a tiny tot stumbled onto the platform bearing a huge bouquet, which she handed to Merry Mary with a big shy grin, the tears spilled over.
‘Thank you, thank you everyone,’ Merry Mary said and fumbled for her hanky. ‘I meant to be very grand and to say things that were light-hearted and funny – but now I find – I can say nothing except thank you to every one of my dear friends on Rhanna.’ In confusion she melted into the background and resumed her seat. A rousing cheer went up then the Laird went on to the business of officially handing over the shop to Dugald, who, with his tall straight figure and mop of shining white hair, made a dignified figure on the platform.
Dugald wished Totie could have been there with him, but she had decided it might not be a wise thing. ‘I’m jealous, Doug,’ she had said bluntly, ‘and I don’t think I could bear to be in the same room with Morag and not show her my claws.’ Dugald’s eyes fell on Ruth sitting on the bench in the corner, and his heart twisted. Poor lonely wee lassie. She was gazing at him with pride in her huge violet eyes. For her sake he had to stick by Morag; a child as sensitive as Ruth might never get over the scandal of a divorce . . .
Mor
ag listened while Dugald made a short but appropriate speech. Something tugged at her heart. She felt pride and something else, an affection that bordered on love – he was such a good man. They could have been happy together – if only – if only her soul wasn’t so tortured by guilt . . . Morag shook herself angrily. He was a man like any other, men wanted things from a woman that made a mockery of so-called love. Always on the female scent they were – like – like dogs sniffing after bitches in heat. It wasn’t clean – nor decent . . .
The Laird was holding up his hand, asking once more for attention. To everyone’s surprise Biddy was being invited up onto the platform.
Hearing her name Biddy grunted and stirred out of a rum-induced stupor but had no time to gather her senses. Babbie was beside her, helping her to her feet, escorting her up to the platform, placing her in a chair beside the minister.
‘My damty specs, I canny hear without them!’ hissed the old nurse, and with a smile Babbie retrieved the glasses and placed them on the end of Biddy’s nose.
‘It isn’t my intention to steal Merry Mary’s thunder,’ the Laird began in his well-modulated, rather nasal voice, ‘but I have a very special presentation to make, and while we are all gathered here tonight I can think of no better opportunity to carry out a duty that has fallen to me and that I am particularly honoured to fulfil.’ He went on to explain that some time ago Lachlan had written to the Prime Minister recommending that Biddy, in view of her long and faithful service to Rhanna, be considered for an award.
The gathering in the hall gasped when the Laird read out the letter that Biddy had received from the Prime Minister’s Principal Private Secretary, which ended by saying that His Majesty would be graciously pleased to approve that Biddy be appointed a Member of the Order of the British Empire.
The Laird cleared his throat. ‘Biddy replied saying that she would be pleased to accept this mark of His Majesty’s favour, but she explained that she was too old and – hm – somewhat infirm to personally attend an investiture – and,’ he said smiling, ‘I have an idea that she thought that was that and promptly forgot all about the matter.’
Biddy glowered at Burnbreddie through the spikes of silver-white hair that escaped her hat. She was rigid with embarrassment. Had not the doctor coaxed her to write that damty letter of acceptance? It had all been just a lot of palaver that she didn’t understand, and she had forgotten about it. She sucked in her lips with annoyance as a ripple of amazed comment bounced round the hall. She knew that forever more she would be teased and tormented because she had omitted to tell anyone about the letter.
Her eye fell on Behag’s sagging jowls and popping eyes. If it had been that cailleach, she would have told everyone: boasted, strutted, preened like a constipated peacock . . . Biddy sat up straighter and, puffing out her scrawny chest, peered haughtily down her nose. She was going to enjoy this after all, make the most of it, show old Behag she was somebody, an important personage of the island, a mother figure . . . After all, she had delivered three generations of Rhanna children . . . Ay indeed, she smiled and nodded, was she not nurse, mother, grandmother, to just about everyone present there that night? She folded her hands on her lap and settled herself back in her seat.
The Laird was continuing. ‘Doctor McLachlan and myself contrived between us to make sure that Biddy would receive her award, and I now have the honour, in place of the Lord Lieutenant of the county, who could not be here at this time, to carry out His Majesty’s command . . .’ He turned to Lachlan, who handed him a scroll and a small box, and then he went to stand by Biddy, his hand on her shoulder. ‘It is with a feeling of great privilege and pleasure that I bestow upon Biddy the emblem and warrant of a Member of the Order of the British Empire as a token of His Majesty’s awareness and gratitude for the many, many years of service our beloved nurse and friend has given to this island. She was just a slip of a lass when she took on her slim shoulders the great responsibility of nursing a community single-handed. She has through the years proven her worth, and has devoted her life to caring for others. Now she is an old lady –’
‘Like a good whisky, the older the better,’ Biddy interposed sourly, and a giggle went up.
‘– she is now an old lady,’ the Laird went on unperturbed, and with a smile, ‘and as she says, like a good whisky she has improved with time. I know that all of you here share my hope that she has got many a good year left in her yet. She has assisted many here tonight into this world – she has watched us come – and – yes – she has known the heartache as deep as the mothers themselves of watching the sons of Rhanna go marching into two world wars – many of them never to return.’
Biddy’s eyes were filling and Babbie squeezed her arm comfortingly.
The Laird turned, and with genuine affection, he said softly, ‘Ay, indeed, she has watched us come and she has watched us go, she has burped us and she has blessed us and – as if all that wasn’t enough – she has now brought great honour to our island community.’ Leaning forward he pinned the insignia on the old nurse’s jacket and, handing her the warrant, he took her rough old hand in his and shook it firmly.
Biddy stared down at the silver medal mounted by a crown attached to a red ribbon. A swelling pride surged in her breast. ‘A damty fine brooch,’ she said huskily and sniffed loudly while the Laird helped her to unroll the ornately inscribed warrant and then held it up for everyone to see. There were gasps of awe followed by thunderous applause. Babbie hugged the old nurse and whispered, ‘I’m proud of you, you dear old cailleach – and – if I serve this place half as well as you have done, I will be well pleased.’
‘Ach, wait you, I’m no’ finished yet; I still have a few bairns to deliver before I go out.’ Biddy tried to sound firm but her voice came out in a wobble, and as she was surrounded by people, hugging her, shaking her hand, patting her shoulders, the tears finally spilled over and she wept copiously into Babbie’s hanky.
‘Wonderful, wonderful,’ beamed Mrs Gray. ‘Now I’m sure you could do justice to a nice cuppy.’
Biddy scrubbed her red eyes. ‘Ay, indeed, a cuppy is just what I need, all this fuss just because I have done a job I have loved. The good Lord knows it hasny been easy, and betimes I could fine have seen it all far enough, but ach! It’s my life, what I was put here to do, and there is no need to go giving me medallions for it.’
The minister was giving the vote of thanks, and Mrs Gray stepped discreetly from the platform. She had spent a good part of the morning baking delicious scones and pastries, which had been added to the batches prepared by the village womenfolk. These delicacies had been put to heat in the ovens of nearby houses and several of the women had already bustled away to fetch them, leaving Mrs Gray and her helpers to preside over the ancient but efficient tea urn. A lull followed during which everyone juggled with piping hot sausage rolls and mugs of strong steaming tea, discussing between mouthfuls the events of the evening. Quite a crowd was gathered round both Merry Mary and Biddy to admire the respective awards; old Mo was announcing in a loud voice that he had to pee or burst, and there was a scramble to get him down from the platform and outside; several children were gathered in the alcove by the platform, giggling as they dared one another to dart out and grab extra helpings from the trays; the courting couples had sneaked into the loft, and through the general buzz Rachel’s keen ears heard the rafters creaking. She smiled and, nudging Ruth, she pointed above her head.
‘I know, I saw them go up,’ Ruth said, and laughed. ‘Jean and that skinny-ma-link Harry the Bus – and I saw Colin McKinnon go up with Betty Alexander. He’s only fourteen and she’s just twelve, yet Mary told me that Betty lets Colin put his hand inside her –’ Ruth lowered her voice to a shocked whisper – ‘inside her blouse. Her bosoms began to grow when she was only eleven.’ Ruth was thoroughly enjoying herself. She was a naturally outgoing little girl who had been unnaturally stifled, and normally she kept a tight rein on her tongue. Only with Rachel could she unwind and reveal in some measure
her true self. Morag Ruadh had hovered around earlier but now she was helping dispense tea and Ruth felt unfettered.
Rachel listened to her friend with avid enjoyment. It had been a wonderful evening, one she would remember: Jon’s playing, Merry Mary’s tears of joy, the dancing and singing, Biddy’s old eyes filling as she looked with pride at her brooch. Rachel loved the old nurse with her whimsical ways, her snowy hair, her grumbling good nature, her continual search for her specs and her teeths – Rachel stiffened – her father had burst into her thoughts, so real and near she could see his brown skin, his grey-flecked beard, his brown eyes wildly staring. The little girl felt a strange, cold premonition of danger touching her, pulling her down into a chasm of dread. She had had these feelings before, things she didn’t understand, but never before had she experienced such force in a vision, such powerful intensity of transferred thought it was as if her father was inside herself, hammering at her brain, clenched fists screaming at her to let him out – no – no – get him out – get help. She trembled and put her hand down quickly to Squint’s soft head, reassured herself of reality by touching his cold nose, stroking his muzzle. He gave a little whimper, and she knew that she had conveyed her unease to him.
‘Dad.’ The word she had never been able to speak beat inside her head. She loved him, more than her mother, more than her brothers. He was tough, dour, silent, ignorant about many things, but often she sensed his love for her reaching out of his aggressive spirit to caress her, without words, without touch. When he was away at sea she ran wild; when he was home she became calmer, stayed nearer to home to cherish each minute he spent there. Sometimes he lifted her up in his swarthy arms and his beard scuffed the smooth bloom of her cheeks. Once, his dark, strangely gentle eyes had regarded her for a long time before he said in his gruff voice, ‘My lassie – if only you could speak, tell me your thoughts. Those bonny eyes o’ yours say things but I canny understand everything that’s in them – I – you’re my special bairnie.’ She had laid her small hand on his arm and nodded, and from that day she had known what she meant to him. Now – now he was in danger – trying to reach her – to let her know . . . She felt ice-cold: her dark eyes were wide and big as if she was watching some terrible disaster unfolding before her.
Children of Rhanna Page 18
