The mouthful of burning spirits revived him and Rachel spun round to Biddy with hope in her tempestuous eyes, a look that said, ‘He’s going to get well, I knew he couldn’t die.’
The old man reached out to her, and his damp horny hand closed over her wrist. ‘Mavourneen,’ he whispered, and there were tears in his eyes. ‘Did not we make good music with our fiddles? The finest ever heard in any tink camp.’ He gripped her wrist tighter, his other hand scrabbled frantically under the blankets and he withdrew his treasured violin. ‘Here she is, me beauty.’ He pushed it at Rachel. ‘She’s yours now. Take her and look after her as I have done – and I tell you this, me lass, she played well for me, but she’ll play even better for you. Give me a tune now – “Danny Boy” – ay – no finer tune to play an old timer off the stage. Go on now, mavourneen.’
With tears flowing down her face Rachel took the beautiful instrument, and the strains of the haunting melody filled the tent. It was like some sort of signal to the other tinkers. In minutes a crowd had gathered outside to pay their respects to old Mo.
His eyes were closing. Rachel put down the violin and laid her cool hands on his brow. A smile touched the corners of his mouth, and the fear that had engulfed him some minutes before dissipated like mist. A strange peace stole over him. ‘You have the touch of the angels in those hands, mavourneen. Indeed you have more gifts than you know of yourself – many of them at your fingertips.’
One of the women came in and whispered in Biddy’s ear, and the old nurse rose stiffly. There was nothing now to be done for old Mo and she followed the woman to a nearby tent where a young girl, awash with the sweat of childbirth, was in the last stages of labour. Biddy hastened to wash her hands and deal with the delivery while just a few yards away old Mo was breathing his last. His hands were still at his sides but a twinkle lit the dullness of his gaze as he instructed Rachel, ‘Be playin’ me out in style now – only – the best is good enough for – an Irish leprechaun . . .’
Rachel took up the violin once more. The old man’s respiration was shallow and irregular, and as he died peacefully to the strains of ‘The Londonderry Air’ the rising sun burst brilliantly over the sea, and the lusty cries of a newborn baby boy filled the air with life.
Stink moved into old Mo’s tent and pulled the blankets over the craggy old face. There was about it a serenity that had rarely touched it during the course of his tough life. The struggle for survival was over.
Rachel stumbled outside blinded with tears. The morning was filled with the glories of summer; the scents of the moor were sweet and strong; the languorous sounds of land and sea broke through the silence like a melody.
‘I’ll be havin’ that! It might fetch a few bob.’ A rough-looking tinker was stretching out his big fist for the violin.
Rachel’s nostrils flared and she held the violin to her breast, enfolding it protectively with both arms.
‘C’mon now, me fine lass, let’s be havin’ it.’ The Irishman made to grab at the girl to forcibly take the violin away from her, but Biddy intervened with a sharp, ‘Leave the bairn alone! The fiddle belongs to her now. The bodach told her so wi’ his very own dyin’ breath and I was there to bear witness. Get away from her, Paddy McPhie, or it’s the police I’ll be havin’ on you. A fine disgrace that would be to all of you, and you wouldny be welcome on this island again.’ She stood at the door of the tent, her lined old face yellow in the morning light, her white hair straggling over her eyes, her toothless mouth pulled in so that her nose almost touched her chin. She looked very old and very tired, but such an authoritative air emanated from her that Paddy’s meaty fists fell to his sides and he shuffled away in shame. ‘And I’ll be havin’ a good strong cuppy and a chair by the fire,’ Biddy told the other tinkers firmly.
You’ll be havin’ more than that, me fine old lass,’ beamed the young father of the new baby. ‘You brought my firstborn into the world, and helped old Mo go out of it in dignity.’ He escorted Biddy to the fire, then sent the children scurrying to fetch blankets and a torn but well-upholstered car seat. In minutes Biddy was comfortably ensconced, wrapped in a tartan blanket, drinking tea laced with whisky while she waited for breakfast to cook over the flames.
Rachel wasn’t hungry. She wandered away from the camp and sat with her back to a rock to gaze out over the moors to the golden sea. For over two hours she sat lost in thought while Biddy ate, drank tea, and dozed by the fire. Then she got up and went back to the camp. Biddy looked at the girl’s sad face, and, rising, she put her arms round Rachel’s shoulders.
‘Come on, my lassie, we’ll go home now. Don’t bother wi’ the cart, I could be doing wi’ a walk to ease my bones.’ Her face glowed suddenly. ‘Tis glad I am you came for me last night. It’s no’ often I feel needed these days – ay – it’s a wonderful way the Lord has – an old life goes out and a new one comes in, and I was there to deliver the bairnie.’
It was well after nine when they arrived at Biddy’s house. Woody was at the door, mewing a rather reproachful welcome. Biddy paused, her rheumaticky hand on the gate, her shoulders stooped. On an impulse Rachel took the old woman in her arms.
‘Ay, ay, go away now and get some rest,’ Biddy’s voice was husky. ‘You’ll greet for the bodach in days to come, my lamb, but remember – he was ready to go, that he was.’
Rachel turned, and walking quickly away, crossed a bridge over the river Fallan so that she could walk home over the moors. Skirting a heather knoll she paused for a moment to run her fingers over the smooth red-gold wood of the violin. The screeching of brakes on the road far below made her whirl round in horror. There, just outside Biddy’s house, Todd’s car had ground to a halt, from it ran an agitated figure – and lying on the road, like a tiny broken doll, lay the figure of Biddy.
Rachel’s flying feet hardly touched the ground. She heard her ragged breath deep in her throat, her heartbeat rushed in her ears. The American visitor was kneeling beside Biddy, her volatile cries of distress reeling through the air. She rose at Rachel’s approach and ran forward, a haggard, nervous-looking woman of about forty-five with sad eyes and suspiciously black hair. Her clothes were beautifully cut, yet looked untidy on her. The immaculate slacks had brought forth the usual nods of disapproval from the island women though the younger ones were reserved in their judgement as many of them had a hankering after the trowser themselves.
Rachel paused briefly in her flight to stare at the scene in disbelief before she turned the full fury of her gaze on the American. ‘Hey, don’t look at me like that, kid!’ cried the woman in near-hysteria. ‘It wasn’t my fault. The old lady just ran straight into my path – I wasn’t even doing thirty – she went after her cat . . .’
Rachel pushed past her and fell on her knees by Biddy, whose eyes were closed, and who was a ghastly grey colour, but other than some cuts and bruises there was no outward physical damage. Rachel felt the hills closing in on her. Frustration boiled in her belly. She had pretended to Ruth that she accepted the fact that she couldn’t speak but she had lied. She wanted to scream, to talk, to ask Biddy if she was all right. Gently she reached out to stroke the hair from the lined brow. Biddy’s lids fluttered and her eyes opened. She didn’t appear to be in any kind of pain, but her skin was cold and moist, her breathing shallow. The American woman came running with a coat, which she tucked round Biddy’s prone figure.
‘Rachel,’ Biddy murmured. ‘Lay your hands on my brow like you did wi’ the bodach.’ Rachel did as she was bid and a sigh came from Biddy’s pale lips. ‘The bodach was right – you have the gift in your hands to ease a body’s fears. Hold my hand, lassie, and don’t let go.’
There was another squealing of brakes as the island bus came to a halt at Downie’s Pass. Erchy had driven the vehicle at a spanking pace over the narrow roads and now, despite the sudden halt, not a single word of enquiry came from the tourists. They sat rigid, the white blobs of their faces peering from the bus windows. Erchy ran from the bus, followed by Jon,
who often rode with Erchy on his tours round the island. Close on their heels ran Kate, who had been spending the night with her daughter at Croft na Beinn. Erchy was removing his jacket as he ran, and in seconds he was tucking it under Biddy’s head. Her lips moved again. ‘Is that Kate McKinnon’s voice I hear? Are you there, Kate?’
‘The very one.’ Kate knelt and took the old woman’s frail hand in her big capable one. Kate was of an exuberant, earthy, boisterous nature, but she was also cool-headed, efficient, and calm in an emergency, and Biddy was grateful for her presence in those strange unreal minutes. She held Kate’s hand and gazing up at the green hills she murmured, ‘Oft, oft have I walked these purpled hills and watched the sun go down.’
The American woman wrung her hands. ‘Gee, she’s delirious, she’s going on about all the things she loves . . .’
‘Ach, it’s you who’s delirious,’ Biddy said with a touch of her old asperity, ‘I’m sick walkin’ the damty hills and watchin’ suns go down when all I wanted was my bed – I’m just tryin’ to pass my time on this hard road while somebody goes to fetch Lachlan.’
But Erchy was already away, turning Todd’s car at Biddy’s gate and setting it on the road to Slochmhor.
‘It will no’ be Lachlan who will come,’ Kate reminded her. ‘He’s away on holiday and won’t be back for a few days yet – but thon nice young doctor who’s doin’ for him will soon see you right.’
‘I don’t want him – he has hands like putty – I want Lachlan . . .’ She tried to raise her head. ‘Where’s my cat? The bugger ran out on me when I opened the gate . . .’
Jon came from the riverbank with the cat in his arms and placed him in his mistress’s trembling arms.
Rachel turned away. The pallor on Biddy’s face was the same as she had seen on old Mo as death had drawn near. She bit her lip and walked unsteadily to stand some distance from the scene of the accident. Suddenly Jon was beside her, taking her hands, making her sit down on the grassy bank. She looked at his honest brown eyes and the little beard flecked now with grey, like her father’s. It seemed the young German was always there when she needed comfort. He had also been with her the day she found Squint dead in his basket. Gently Jon had lifted up the little dog, and the glint of tears had been in his eyes as he had taken Rachel’s hand and said, ‘Come, jungfräulich, we will bury him in a quiet place on the moors and I will make a cross to mark his resting place.’
She remembered her hand in his as they walked over the Muir of Rhanna to bury the dog who had been such a wise and faithful companion to a little dumb girl. Out there on the open moors, with the wind sighing and ruffling the bracken, Rachel saw again a small golden spaniel, his floppy ears flying in the breezes as he raced towards her over the heather, the expression of joy in his gloriously comical face making her laugh as he flopped by her feet to look up at her in cross-eyed adulation. Jon had given her strength then, and she often went to sit by the simple elm cross that he had carved.
Now, here was Jon again, his words of comfort, spoken in his charming broken English, reaching out to ease her sorrow. Todd’s car appeared in a cloud of dust, and Rachel went back to Biddy’s side as the young locum jumped out. In a short while Biddy was being carried into her house, hurling abuse in the doctor’s ears and moaning for a cuppy. But her voice was weak and Kate’s face was grim as she set about helping to get the old woman into bed. The doctor took Kate aside and told her, ‘She is suffering badly from shock, which has affected her heart. I’m afraid it’s rather serious, but I’ll do what I can.’
Rachel crept away from the bedroom door and went slowly downstairs where Jon was waiting for her. He led her outside. ‘Come, jungfräulich, I will walk home with you.’ He glanced at the violin that she was hugging like a baby. ‘Your old friend has gone?’ he asked quietly.
She nodded and her head fell forward onto her chest. He felt her pain and misery and lifted a tentative finger as if to stroke the satin black of her hair, but then he thought better of it and his hand fell back to his side. ‘I told you once before, Rachel, cry your pain away. Old Mo would not want you to be unhappy over him. He gave you his violin in gratitude for all the happy times he shared with you. This is a very special gift he left you – a Cremonese, made by a great craftsman of northern Italy, it is very old and very valuable. I noticed it on the evening of Merry Mary’s ceilidh when the old man let me play it. It has the voice of the angels; under fingers such as yours it will make music such as is in heaven.’
Rachel knew that what Jon was telling her was of great importance, but just then she couldn’t fully take it in. Old Mo was dead, he had given her his treasured violin, and that was all that really mattered – the thought, not the value. She handed it to Jon and signalled for him to play. Reverently he placed it under his chin, and drew the bow over the strings. The notes swelled and soared to join the summer song of the birds. Rachel’s heart felt like bursting. She was sad, yet happy at the same time, and not even her mother’s stern face at the window penetrated her emotions.
Annie’s voice was sharp as she came to the door and cried, ‘Well now, miss! What is the meaning o’ this I’d like to know. Out all night, then comin’ home over the moor playin’ the fiddle wi’ a Jerry as if . . .’
Jon laid a hand on Annie’s arm. ‘Rachel and Biddy have been sitting all night with old Mo. He died at dawn, and Biddy has just been knocked down by a car. Rachel stayed till the doctor came.’
Annie’s hand flew to her mouth. ‘Auld Biddy! Oh dear God, no!’ She saw the anguish in her daughter’s eyes and felt something of her frustration and grief. ‘Rachel, ’tis sorry I am about old Mo. I was never happy about you spendin’ so much time up by the tinks’ camp, but I knew how much the auld de’il meant to you. I’m – sorry I shouted – I would have been angrier still at a lassie who had not the heart nor the courage to bide wi’ an auld man in his last breath.’ She held out her hand. ‘Come you in and sup – you too, Mr Yodel, you have always been kind to my poor dumb lassie and ’tis grateful I am indeed.’
Jon flinched. ‘Poor dumb lassie.’ Was that how Annie saw her beautiful talented daughter? Rachel was holding her head proudly, and he couldn’t tell if the words had made an impression or not. Her mother’s expressions were probably commonplace to the girl, but as he sat in with the family and shared their breakfast, he sensed that Rachel was never quite at ease throughout the meal, that she tolerated rather than enjoyed her home life, that when she spread her wings into a wider world she would never be hindered by homesickness. In these respects she was like him. He enjoyed going back occasionally to Germany, but he dreaded going home to Mamma. Rachel adored Rhanna passionately, but had little attachment to a home where no one took any real interest in her life. Her father had done so up to a point, but he was dead now, and she had no one.
Jon glanced over the table at Rachel. The sun was streaming over her, turning her skin to gold, her hair to blue-black satin. Her eyes were shadowed pools, glinting amber where the sun danced into them. She had him! Always she would have him – as long as she needed him.
CHAPTER 13
No titled lady in the land could have had more affection and attention than was lavished on Biddy over the next few days, but quite unlike the pampered rich, she had no need of wealth or position to further every whim that came into her head. The islanders came in a steady stream bearing delicacies to tempt her appetite and generally to make sure that her time spent in bed would not be weary. While gossip was exchanged in the upstairs bedroom, downstairs in the kitchen the kettle was never off the boil and tea was drunk in great quantities as everything from peat cutting to the price of sugar was discussed with energy. The menfolk sat on the crofter’s bench under the window, smoking and adding the odd piece of sage argument to the current topic, but occasionally the voices grew hushed as everyone wondered quietly ‘just how bad was auld Biddy’.
Kate came faithfully every day, but other than endless cuppies laced with brandy or whisky, Biddy ate very litt
le. After a few days a dismayed Kate realized that all her culinary efforts were in vain.
‘You canny live on whiskified tea!’ Kate scolded when yet another meal was rejected, but Biddy put a frail hand on her arm and said, ‘Mo ghaoil, my belly has been wi’ me for a long time and knows what’s best for it – besides,’ she said, sinking back on her pillows and sighing deeply, ‘there comes a time in a body’s life when no amount of food will ever do any good – and my time’s come.’
‘Away! You’ve years in you yet, you silly cailleach,’ Kate stated cheerfully, but when she turned away from the bed her eyes were sad and her steps heavy as she went downstairs to report the latest news.
If Kate hadn’t put a stop to it, the children would have been swarming into the house in their droves to visit the old woman they loved. Instead, Kate allowed them upstairs in ones and twos, and then only for a few minutes at a time. But at Biddy’s own request, a little impromptu concert was arranged and Jon, Rachel, Lorn and Lewis arrived to play their fiddles for her. One favourite tune after another filled the bedroom, and very soon her eyes were wet and she had to dab them furtively with a corner of the bedspread.
‘Damty grand,’ she said in husky appreciation.
Rachel threw back her head to stop her own tears spilling, and found Lewis’s hand in hers under cover of the valance. She looked at him quickly, her heart beating very fast, the way it always did lately whenever she saw him or sat beside him. He smiled at her sympathetically and squeezed her hand tighter, and she knew that for the moment sympathy was all that he felt for her. Half the girls on the island were under his charming spell. He went from one to the other like a bee in search of the sweetest nectar, and she knew one day her turn would come.
Children of Rhanna Page 24
