‘Ach, dinna greet for me, laddie.’ She tried to sound brusque, but her voice was weak and she fumbled for her hanky. ‘See now what you’ve done?’ she scolded shakily. ‘I’m greetin’ for myself like a daft auld fool. My time has come, Lachlan, and the Lord is waitin’ for me – afore the de’il gets to me first!
‘Will you do something for me? When I’m in my box at the Hillock, say a few words in the Gaelic in that nice voice o’ yours. It was the only thing that kept me awake in Kirk, and, who knows, it might waken me from the dead just when everyone thinks they’ve got rid o’ me. I have asked Mr Gray to do the ceremony. There was a time when I wouldny have gone to the wee hoosie to hear him, but he’s changed over the years and is more like one of us now.’
The Rev. Gray had been touched when, on paying a visit to Biddy’s bedside, she had said with dignity, ‘After I am gone I will be feelin’ my mind easier if you would be doing the service. Thon young minister is a fine laddie, but we are not knowing each other well enough yet for him to know the right things to say – and be seein’ me out in the Gaelic. You haveny the voice for it, but at least folks will hear you – ay, even to the other side of the island, if you don’t mind me sayin’ so.’
The Rev. John Gray hadn’t minded. In fact, he had been so overwhelmed by the old woman’s request that he hadn’t been able to say anything for a few moments. It had been one thing to have been accepted by the islanders, but to be singled out in this fashion by one of the most venerable inhabitants was the highest tribute anyone had ever paid him. He was retired now but he and his wife had decided to stay on in the island that had been their home for so long. (‘We belong here, Hannah,’ he had boomed, ‘no sense in starting all over again in some strange place.’) He had patted Biddy’s hand and, swallowing hard had said, ‘My dear Biddy, thank you. It’s at times like these I know the work of my life has not been in vain. You are a brave woman to face up to death with such courage, and you can trust me to carry out your wishes.’ His stern strong face had relaxed into a smile. ‘If I don’t do things to your satisfaction you have every right to come back and haunt me.’
Lachlan got up, and, going to the window, gazed out at the shadowed night hills silhouetted against the midnight-blue sky. It was midsummer and on cloudless nights like this it would never grow truly dark.
‘They’re bonny, aren’t they?’ said Biddy softly.
‘Ay, mo ghaoil, the hills of summer, so feathery and soft with new green you feel you could go and lay down your head on them.’
Her eyes closed and she quoted on a sigh, ‘“I to the hills will lift mine eyes . . .”’
Lachlan forced himself to become brisk. ‘Phebie wants to come along and spend the night, if you’ll let her.’
Biddy held up a blue-veined hand. ‘Leave me, laddie. It’s kind o’ Phebie, but my house is no’ my own all day and I’m glad o’ night – for a bit peace . . .’
In a few moments Biddy looked to be asleep, and Lachlan went over and tucked her mohair shawl round her shoulders. He stayed for a long moment gazing down at her tired thin face, then with a shake of his head, he went quickly out of the room and tip-toed downstairs to join Fergus. Both men walked silently through Glen Fallan with heavy hearts.
Biddy stirred and shifted Woody from his favourite place in the warm crook of her knees. With trembling hands the old lady threw back the blankets and dragged herself from the bed. She couldn’t rest, not yet; there were certain things that had to be done first. Holding onto the furniture, her legs shaking beneath her, she walked slowly to the window and stood looking out over the moors to the glimpse of silver-blue sea beyond. Her eyes took long to focus, and soon became blurred, but she could still see the dark bulk of the mighty hills rising up before her. She smiled, a wistful little half-smile and murmured, ‘“Soft as the wind blows over your brow there will my feets go freer than now.”’
Weakness washed over her. Woody mewed from the bed. ‘Ay, I’m comin’ back, no mistake about that,’ she murmured. Some minutes later she crawled between the sheets, retrieved her ‘teeths’ from the glass, inserted them, and lay back on the pillows feeling strangely content. Her hand strayed to Woody’s head. It was warm and soft. ‘Bide a wee, my lamb,’ she whispered affectionately. ‘It won’t be long – not long now . . .’
Next morning, Kirsteen and Babbie found Biddy propped up on her pillows, her silvery hair carefully combed and tied with the blue ribbon. On the breast of her ‘goonie’ was pinned her silver M.B.E. medal. She had always referred to it as a damty fine brooch to the children who came and requested she take it from its box and pin it on them for a little while. Her hands were clasped over her bosom: grasped in one was the ornately inscribed warrant, in the other was Dodie’s sachet of wildflowers. The last breath, the final memory, had been of the moors she had trod for almost eighty-seven years.
Kirsteen went over and gently touched a lock of her snowy hair. ‘Goodbye, dear, beautiful old lady. You leave behind a great army of bairnies who will grieve sorely for you in the days and years to come.’
Babbie stood at the foot of the bed gazing at the face of the old nurse who had befriended her, guided her, given Anton and herself a home when first they married. In life Biddy had often looked grumpy and harassed, though a twinkle had never been far from her eyes. Latterly a sweet tranquillity had settled on her features though this was sometimes usurped by fatigue. Now she lay, a gracious, noble figure. Death had swathed her with peace, dignity, and an ethereal quality of grace that could only have sprung from a soul satisfied with a life well spent. Babbie knew she would mourn for Biddy, but gazing upon the calm dear face, she felt an odd peace stealing through her entire being. It was as if the old lady was reaching out beyond the grave and saying to her, ‘Don’t weep for me, lassie, I was weary and the Lord saw I needed to rest.’
‘Look, Kirsteen,’ Babbie said, indicating the empty glass at the bedside. ‘She put in her teeths for the occasion. She used to say the one thing she dreaded was to die in her sleep without them.’
Kirsteen took out her hanky and blew her nose. ‘She always did try to wear them for special occasions, and this was one time she didn’t forget to remember.’ Stooping she lifted the sleepy cat from Biddy’s side. ‘She asked the twins to look after Woody for her, and I’m thinking this is one cat who is going to lead the life of a very special lord – it’s the least we can do for an old lady who always treated animals like humans – like her bairnies they meant everything in the world to her.’
CHAPTER 14
If Biddy could have seen the masses of people who came from all over the island and beyond, she would have shook her head and said, ‘Ach, it’s just a lot o’ damty palaver anyways.’ But she would have folded her hands over her stomach and smiled rather proudly too, for she had often commented, ‘Why can folks no’ have their funerals while they’re alive and able to see who will turn up? A fine lot o’ good it does a dead body no’ to be there to count how many friends come to see them off.’ But it is doubtful if she could have counted the streams of men, women, and children who crowded into the Kirk and overflowed over the Hillock to listen to the burial ceremony. The flowers ranged from elaborate wreaths to bunches of wildflowers held in the hot grubby hands of the children, and it would have been these that Biddy would have treasured above all others.
Shona and Niall had come home for the funeral, and they stood close together as the coffin was carried from the Kirk to the graveside.
Lachlan began to say in Gaelic the words of the hymn, ‘“I to the hills will lift mine eyes.”’ His clear resonant voice carried through the still air. When he was finished there was not a dry eye in the whole gathering.
Niall squeezed Shona’s hand as he felt her shoulders trembling. ‘I can’t help it,’ she gulped. ‘She was so much a part of Rhanna; she gave so much. I’ll never forget how kind and understanding she was to me when you were away at war and I was dreading telling Father I was expecting a baby. She never lectured or went all sou
r about morals – she just helped.’
‘I know, my babby.’ Niall put his arm round her shoulders and drew her close. ‘Rhanna will never be the same without auld Biddy. She helped us all when often there was no one else to turn to. We would like the Biddys of this world to live forever, but it canny be. Weesht now – and – and give me a loan of your hanky.’
Ruth and Rachel stood close together at the back of the crowd. Morag had been playing the organ for the service inside the Kirk, and it would be some time before she would emerge. Ruth put a comforting arm round Rachel’s shoulders. Rachel had taken Biddy’s death very badly, blaming herself for it happening. Coming on top of the death of old Mo, it was almost beyond bearing, and she leaned against Ruth gratefully. Through the gleam of tears in her eyes she saw Lewis McKenzie go forward to the graveside with his brother Lorn. Biddy had requested they play a wee tune on the fiddles at the graveside. Rachel had not been able to face it, and Jon had decided it would be more fitting for him to opt out too and leave it to the twins. Jon watched Rachel’s face as the haunting notes of ‘Amazing Grace’ hushed the crowd. Her dark eyes were glazed with grief. As she listened to the beautiful music her face turned white, her eyes strayed beyond the branches of the elms to Lewis standing with his face resting on the gold wood of his violin, his earth-brown curls ruffling slightly as a breeze blew up from the sea. Rachel’s eyes were dark with grief, hurt, and naked yearning. Jon turned away, and some of the feelings of inadequacy that had plagued him in his early youth returned with renewed force.
In her white dress Ruth stood out from the black-clad crowd like a lone snowdrop on bare winter earth. Not even for this occasion would Morag Ruadh unbend, and quite a few shocked glances had been cast at Ruth, though everyone reasoned, ‘That besom, Morag Ruadh! Calls herself a Christian and doesny even allow her lassie to respect the dead.’ But Ruth didn’t feel as badly as she thought she might. Biddy had seen to that. ‘Be wearin’ one o’ they bonny white dresses to see me off,’ she instructed. ‘I’ll never know why folks deck themselves out in thon awful black. They a’ look as though they were worshippin’ the de’il! Ay, no doubt that rogue has a snigger up his black sleeve when folks turn up wearin’ his colours for Christian burials.’
Through the tracery of green on the elm trees Ruth glimpsed Lorn as he played. Why did she keep remembering the way he had looked at her in Biddy’s bedroom? A flushed, admiring, furtive look. Their eyes had met only briefly, but it had been enough for her heart to start fluttering too fast. The leaves swayed in the breeze, and he was lost to her momentarily – only to appear before her gaze with renewed force some seconds later. His hair was lighter than his brother’s; a lovely coppery tinge gleamed through the rich earth-brown. Her violet gaze rested on him and stayed there, then quite suddenly he glanced up and seemed to look straight at her. Her heart bounded. He couldn’t make her out from that distance of course. It was stupid! But he could, he could! Her white dress, her pale hair. She stood out a mile away. A glow warmed her heart – then she saw a movement in front of the Kirk and an unmistakable red head. The glow in her heart vanished and she fingered the white ruffle at her neck nervously.
Grant stood beside Fergus and Kirsteen and looked to where Phebie watched the ceremony with Fiona, who had just arrived the day before. At twenty-two, she was a tall, attractive, assured young woman with lively eyes and an air about her that exuded something of the excitement and wonder of living. She had graduated with honours the year before, and had won a two-year travelling scholarship to study marine biology. Grant had heard Phebie confiding certain things to Kirsteen about her daughter: ‘She will never settle down to normal life like other girls of her age.’
‘Oh, she’s enjoying herself.’ Kirsteen had smiled. ‘Plenty of time to settle down. At the moment she’s playing the field.’
‘I know, I know!’ Phebie had cried. ‘One affair after another, but she never wants to be tied to any of them. She always said she would never marry.’
Grant remembered that too. He couldn’t help feeling amused as he recalled her passionate childhood sentiments. ‘I’ll never marry!’ she had vehemently and often declared. ‘Boys are smelly and noisy. Their minds are as dirty as their habits. All they ever seem to do is pick their noses behind their reading books and try to look up girls’ skirts.’
A playful wind lifted Fiona’s skirt slightly and moulded it to her hips, which were seductively rounded; her legs were long and very shapely. She turned her head and caught Grant watching her, and her nose went into the air. He reddened. Her opinions of him hadn’t altered anyway.
The Rev. Gray began the service. He stood beside the coffin, and as he gazed round at the crowds filling every space he felt a lump rising in his throat. He straightened his shoulders, a fine figure of a man in his robes. Strength was in his face; his thick thatch of white hair was startling against his black cloth. It was a calm day with occasional meek puffs of wind. The sheep bleated from the mist-filled corries of the hills; a dog barked from some distant croft. Mr Gray cleared his throat, and as he began The Lord’s Prayer in Gaelic, everyone joined in, murmuring the well-known words in whatever language was best known to them. Mr Gray then conducted a short but sincere service and all the old Gaels present thought how different were his sermons now to the dry theological affairs that had reverberated in the Kirk for so many years. Then, as the coffin was being lowered, Mr Gray began to sing a Gaelic lullaby that had been one of Biddy’s favourites. It was so unusual to end a burial service in this manner, that at first the gathering was silent. Then, one by one, every man, woman, and child took up the song and it seemed, as the voices rose heavenwards, that there could have been no more fitting tribute to one who had all her life nursed children on her knee, and crooned lullabies to them in her lilting voice. The song was taken up by those who stood outside the mossy walls of the Kirkyard, and by others even further back, till it seemed the whole of Rhanna was singing in that final moving farewell to Auld Biddy. The tears flowed, for Biddy, for other loved ones gone before, for the uncertainty of life itself. Then the first scatterings of earth were being thrown over the coffin, and everyone was dispersing slowly, as if unwilling to relinquish the feeling of unity that the singing of a Gaelic lullaby had created.
When the graveyard was finally empty, a pathetic stooping figure crept rather than walked over to the fresh grave with its mounds of wreaths and flowers. Dodie had always believed in seeing the departed off in style. Funerals and ceilidhs were the one thing he made the effort to dress up for because he felt it was the least he could do for a departed friend. On this occasion though he was dirty and threadbare. The grey stubble on his face was days old; his eyes were sunk in his thin face and had a haunted look about them; the skin on his cheeks was rubbed raw from endless weepings and wipings. He loomed over the grave, a vexed lost soul, quite unable to take the harsh blow of Biddy’s death. The tears poured afresh, a large drip gathered at the end of his nose. He shuffled his feet and then with an embarrassed movement reached up and removed his greasy cap to reveal a downy head of baby-fine white hair. Twisting the cap in his big workworn hands he bowed his head and sobbed, ‘I’m – sorry I didny dress up for you, Biddy. I – I’ve no’ been feelin’ like myself since you went. I’ve looked after your bonny boxie, she’s all polished and standin’ at my bedside where I can be lookin’ at her and be mindin’ o’ you. Ealasaid had a new bairnie last week, a real bonny wee calf – you would have liked her, that you would – I hope you dinna think it cheeky but I’ve called her Biddy after you. You’re no’ a cow, I know, but I felt I aye wanted to speak your name so dinna be girnin’ about it.’ He fumbled under his coat, and withdrawing an untidy wreath of meadowsweet, purple clover, and white heather, he laid it at the foot of the grave. ‘It will bring you luck up yonder,’ he said with childlike conviction and, turning, he stumbled blindly out of the Kirkyard.
A week later Lorn walked with Grant, Niall, and Shona over the hill road to Dodie’s cottage. No one had s
een the old eccentric since Biddy’s death, and Lachlan, mindful of him since he had contracted a stomach ulcer after almost starving himself to death, had said to Niall that morning: ‘I’m worried about Dodie. I’ve a mind he took Biddy’s passing very badly. Maybe you and Shona could go along and see if he’s all right.’
‘I was thinking the same thing myself,’ Niall admitted. ‘Grant said something about painting the roof of his wee hoosie, so we’ll call in at Laigmhor on the way.’
Shona immediately set about filling a basket with foodstuffs from the larder. Slochmhor had been her second home for years now. She was often ashamed of herself for thinking of the lovely rambling old house on the Mull of Kintyre as just ‘the house’. She and Niall had lived in it for the past five years, yet she knew she would never think of it as home. Her roots lay on Rhanna, and she knew that one day she would come back to live on the island. She had talked the matter over with Niall and had discovered that he felt as she did. ‘Give me a whily to build up some capital, mo ghaoil,’ he had told her. ‘Then we’ll start seriously thinking about moving back to Rhanna. I fancy the idea of being an island vet. Island hopping is one way of making our dreams come true.’
Shona came out of the larder and bumped into Fiona, who eyed the full basket quizzically and enquired eagerly, ‘Going for a picnic?’
‘Just for a strupak over to Dodie’s house.’ Fiona’s face fell till Shona added, ‘We’re going to paint the roof of his wee hoosie.’
Next to dabbling in pond life, Fiona enjoyed dabbling in paint of all kinds, and she said, ‘That’s different! I could maybe paint some flowers on it instead of that German sign.’
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