‘Come along then,’ Shona said, and giggled. ‘Might as well make a party of it. We’re calling in at Laigmhor for Grant.’
Fiona’s bright eyes snapped. ‘Dimples McKenzie! No thanks! I’d rather spend my time looking at amoebae through my microscope.’
‘Fiona, you’re the limit. Why do you and Grant grab one another by the throat every time you meet?’
‘Because he’s rude, bad-mannered – and – and vulgar!’ Fiona snapped then flounced away.
‘He called her a cold fish the other day,’ little Helen piped up. ‘That’s why she’s mad at him.’
Shona laughed at the sight of her small daughter standing at the kitchen table enveloped in one of Elspeth’s aprons, which was liberally sprinkled with flour. The old housekeeper had grown less spicy over the years, and though she could still wield a very able tongue, she had a lot of time and patience to spare for ‘wee Ellie’ as Helen was affectionately known. Shona looked at her angelic-looking little girl and a memory came of herself learning to make scones under Mirabelle’s patient guidance. The child was very like herself at eight years old, though she had also inherited much of Niall’s even temper. Shona would have liked more children, but time was passing, she was thirty-three now and still Ellie was an only child. ‘We said we would fill the world with our children,’ she had said rather sadly to Niall, but he had just answered quietly, ‘We will, mo ghaoil, but just now Ellie fills our own little world, and if that’s how it was meant for us then it canny be helped.’
‘Are you coming with us, Ellie?’ Shona asked, hiding a smile as the little girl energetically wielded a rolling pin.
‘No, you and Father can go without me for a change.’ She glanced up and her golden-brown eyes glinted with devilment. ‘I’ll let you have a rest from me and I’ll torment Elspeth instead.’
‘You’ll do nothing of the sort, madam,’ Elspeth said with asperity. ‘Stop rubbing your nose with that floury hand this meenit! No one will want to eat scones covered in germs.’
‘Och well, I don’t mind. I’ll get them all to myself then,’ the child returned placidly.
Niall grabbed Shona’s hand and they ran outside giggling. ‘I’ll say one thing for our wee Ellie,’ he grinned. ‘Unlike her mother she always “keeps the heid” as they say in Glasgow. She must have taken her good nature after me.’
‘And her good looks from her mother!’ Shona flashed. ‘No one could ever accuse her of looking glaikit – not like a daft wee boy I once knew who called me names in the Post Office and was the cause of me getting a good skelping from Mirabelle.’
‘Served you right – the best cure for that red-haired temper of yours!’
They arrived at Laigmhor in reminiscent good humour. Fergus came out of the byre, his black eyes lighting at sight of his daughter, who was a picture with her glowing face and her hair the colour of bracken on an autumn day.
‘About time you two paid us a visit,’ he greeted them. ‘Kirsteen was saying only last night you’ve been neglecting us.’
‘We’re only here to collect the boys,’ Shona explained. ‘We thought we should pay Dodie a visit.’
Fergus looked thoughtful. ‘Ay, he hasny been around for a time. He’ll be taken up with the new calf, but it’s as well to make sure he’s fine. Grant and Lorn are in the barn, but you’ll not get Lewis – he’s supposed to be cutting the top field but a fine lot of work he’ll get done with Eve at his elbow. Oh I know she’s a dab hand around the farm, but lately she’s taken to mooning about with her head in the clouds.’
Shona detected a note of annoyance in Fergus’s tone, but she kept her counsel. Grant came out of the barn and hailed the visitors with delight. ‘Nice of you to stop by once in a while to visit your ageing parents.’ He ducked to avoid the swipe Fergus aimed at him and went to rummage in the shed for paint. Soon all four were swinging along the narrow road winding through the moors, waving to the groups of islanders who were up by the peat hags building the slices of turf into mounds to dry in the wind and sun. Except for a few sheep and some Highland cows cudding contentedly in the shade of the house, Dodie’s place was deserted with not a single tourist to disturb the stillness.
Grant fetched a rickety chair from the porch, and climbing onto it he saw that the roof of the wee hoosie was in a poor state of repair, the nails holding the metal tailpiece to the wooden slats rusted through in places. He called down, ‘I’m surprised it hasny blown away years ago, there’s only one or two good nails holding it down.’
‘We’d best repair it before we paint it,’ Niall suggested, and went off whistling to look for a hammer.
Lorn went with Grant to rummage through a tiny hut that held a jumble of driftwood and other things hoarded by the old eccentric, who could never bear to return from the shore empty-handed. Nails were obviously low on his list of useful items. A search in the barn and the byre, where Ealasaid was reclining with her new calf, also proved fruitless, and Grant ran a hand through his black curls in disgust. ‘The old bugger collects everything but nails, as far as I can see. I’m away to look in the house, he’s probably got box-loads hidden away in some corner.’
Lorn wasn’t listening, he was too taken up with the new calf, and Grant stamped away. He had never been over the threshold of Dodie’s house but boldly marched inside to gaze with interest at the dim interior. Ashes spilled from the grate, cobwebs hung from the rafters – more durable-looking than the ancient net curtains draped over the windows. The two car seats from Madam Balfour’s abandoned car sat comfortably on either side of the grate. From the ceiling hung a bundle of onions, and Grant smiled, recalling Shona’s tales of Mirabelle and her onions, and wondering if the old eccentric had somehow hit on the cure for ‘a host o’ germs’. Grant forgot about the nails and wandered up the short passageway to the bedroom. On the threshold he paused, mouth agape, hardly able to believe the sight that met his gaze. The room was literally papered with money, Jamaican ten-shilling notes – hundreds of them covering the dingy walls, dozens of them pinned jauntily round the muddy mirror of an aged dressing table. Grant stared in breathless wonder, his black eyes crinkled, and he hugged himself with pure delight. With a fingernail he scraped one of the notes away from the wall and it came off readily, having only been stuck on carelessly with a paste made from flour and water.
‘The money from the Politician,’ Grant breathed. ‘God Almighty! The fly old bugger.’ Racing outside he called to Lorn.
Shona and Niall had wandered away to look for Dodie but at the sound of Grant’s excited voice, they turned quickly and ran over the turf. Soon all four were gazing dumbfounded at the treasure trove. Niall slapped his knee and exploded. ‘Well, bugger me! It was always said that some old boy was sitting on a heap of Jamaican money!’
‘And fancy it being old Dodie,’ Lorn said, his thin face alight at the surprise of the discovery.
Shona’s brilliant blue eyes were sparkling, as they had done on another occasion when she and Niall had come to the cottage and seen that Dodie had managed to collect his share of the ‘spoils’ from Madam Balfour’s car. ‘He’s the limit, so he is,’ she said, giggling. ‘But I’m glad he got it instead of the Crown Agents – it’s just a pity he can never get to spend any of it.’
Grant’s eyes gleamed. ‘Oh yes he can –’ he started to say but was interrupted by a wail of indignant outrage from Dodie, who had arrived home. All week he had been doing jobs to Burnbreddie in order to gather enough money together to contribute towards the purchase of a headstone for Biddy’s grave.
‘What are you doing in my house?’ he babbled, terror rising in his pale eyes. ‘I never stole it! I found it, years ago, comin’ in on the tide. I knew it wasny real money so I dried it and stuck it up on my walls to make them look nice.’ He sank down on the bed, and burying his face in his hands, began to cry in a storm of abject fear. ‘Dinna tell the police! I don’t want to go to jail! I would die in jail so I would. I couldny bear never to roam free again, and Ealasaid and my bon
ny wee Biddy would die too!’ He rocked himself back and forth in an agony of stark misgiving. Grant went quickly to sit beside him and put an arm round the shaking shoulders. ‘Weesht, weesht, Dodie, nobody’s going to tell. We’re all glad you found the money and you’re wrong – it is real money, and you’re going to get to spend it. Dry your eyes and listen to me a minute.’
Dodie drew a greasy sleeve over his face. Through tear-filled eyes he looked at Grant, who was one of his favourite McKenzies. Since the boy had joined the Merchant Navy he had sent postcards to the old man from all over the world. Erchy’s post van stopped regularly at Dodie’s cottage, and together they gazed at pictures of ‘furrin parts’. The cards were pinned proudly above the fireplace, and on long winter nights Dodie delighted in scrutinizing them over and over again, smiling primly at pictures of ‘exotic leddies wi’ belly buttons’, screeching at the haughty expressions on the faces of camels, puzzling as to why ‘dark leddies’ walked with pots attached to their heads.
‘You know I visit places all over the world?’ Grant started. ‘Well, I could take some of your money away with me and change it for you. Only wee amounts at a time, mind you, but it means every time I come home I would have some money to give you. As long as the Jamaican notes remain legal tender I can go on changing them for you.’
Dodie understood very little of this beyond the fact that Grant could somehow change his bits o’ fancy paper into real money. ‘My, that would be grand,’ he said enthusiastically. ‘I could buy lots o’ baccy and we could get Biddy a real fine headstone and,’ he said, brightening further, ‘maybe I could build Ealasaid a new byre.’ His eyes roved round the walls and his face fell again. ‘But – my bonny walls, they’ll no’ look the same without these.’
Shona smiled. ‘You can buy real wallpaper, Dodie . . .’
‘And I’ll put it up for you,’ Lorn promised rashly. With his interests lying mainly out of doors, he had had little experience of home decorating but the smiles stretching Dodie’s lips heightened his resolve.
Niall moved to the door. ‘Come on, bairns, we’d better get the painting done before the rain comes.’
Dodie gave a great sigh of contented appreciation. ‘I aye said that the doctor and McKenzie o’ the Glen had good bairns,’ he said, and nodded magnanimously.
Grant’s laughing young face became suddenly stern. ‘Not a word of this to a soul, Dodie, or we’ll all be in jail.’
Outside Grant repeated his warnings to the others, but Lorn knew the message was for him. He must not say anything to Lewis who, in his exuberance, often let things slip that had been told to him in confidence. It wasn’t lack of loyalty that made him like this, just a love of the limelight, which loosened his tongue often much to his own regret.
‘I won’t say anything – to anybody.’ Lorn’s tones were sullen. Lewis was his twin, the bond between them was so strong that a strange telepathy existed between them. They confided everything to each other.
Shona saw his discomfiture and murmured softly, ‘Some things are best left unsaid, Lorn – for the sake of other folks.’
Lorn stirred the paint energetically and said nothing. Dodie came galloping up, his arms filled with great sticks of juicy red rhubarb. ‘These is for your kindness,’ he told them joyfully. ‘I washed it in the burnie and I have made wee polkies and filled them wi’ sugar. Come you inside and eat it now, a fine treat it is – the best rhubarb on the island – ay,’ he said, ‘the very best you could get.’ He disappeared into the house. The four young people looked at one another; Niall and Shona held their breath, remembering a long ago day of sunlight, of argument and laughter – of Dodie divulging to them the secret of his flourishing rhubarb patch. Niall pulled Shona to him and kissed her burnished hair. The laughter bubbled up and out of them, echoed by Lorn and Grant, who, with paint streaked over their faces, had collapsed against one another in agonies of smothered snorts of mirth.
PART IV
CHRISTMAS 1959
CHAPTER 15
The awakening of Lorn’s love for Ruth was like the slow opening of the tender buds of spring. But he wasn’t sure if she returned his feelings. Whenever she saw him she seemed nervous, which gave her a remoteness that made him long for her all the more. Sometimes she smiled, a lovely, sweet, uncertain smile. The magic of her smile, the violet of her eyes turning to night, her exquisite stillness, sent pangs of aching hunger gnawing through every nerve in his body – but they seemed unable to find anything to say to each other. None of the things that meant anything. After the usual polite salutations she would walk past him and limp quickly away. Neither of them had matured yet: they hadn’t passed beyond adolescent dreams, or the awkwardness of extreme youth and all the agonies of self-doubt that went with it. But she had blossomed over the years in other ways: the plainness of childhood had disappeared gradually, till now there was about her an almost unearthly quality of beauty: her pale silken hair framed an oval face, her slightly turned-up nose was lightly sprinkled with freckles, her skin was exquisitely clear – and her mouth: it was beautifully shaped and oddly sensuous. She was small-boned, and rather too thin, though her breasts were full and firm, curving enticingly under the loose frocks her mother made for her. She had rebelled against having to be continually garbed in white and had had quite a scene over the affair, resisting fiercely the idea that she shouldn’t be allowed to express her individuality. But Morag Ruadh had remained tight-lipped, adamant, and shocked at the idea of ‘my very own daughter turning on me’. And after a few days of charged silences, of seeing her father and grandparents bearing the brunt of her mother’s tongue, Ruth had given in. Nevertheless, she had managed to make it plain that she was a girl with a strong mind and a will of her own, and that it was for her father’s sake that she had unbended and not because she went in fear of the Lord.
Ironically, Morag’s intention to label her daughter as untouchable only served to heighten her desirability to the opposite sex. Despite her limp she walked with a grace of movement that was oddly rhythmic. To see her wandering along the hillsides on a mist-shrouded morning, clad in her white dress, her pale hair shining, added to the impression that she was a vision who was not quite real. It was also a temptation to the young males of the district to find out for themselves whether she was after all flesh and blood like other girls. But they kept their distance, partly because to do otherwise would be to incur the ungodly wrath of Morag Ruadh, partly because Ruth’s shyness was in itself an almost insurmountable barrier, and partly because for any boy to be seen walking with the white virgin would have meant endless teasings and tormentings from young contemporaries.
But Lorn would have cared nothing for the teasing. He longed to walk with Ruth; to hear the sweet singing quality of her voice; to touch her; to find out if she would respond to him; to know if she felt even a little of what he felt for her. But he didn’t know how to make the approaches and cursed his lack of self-confidence. Also there were other things to contend with. Only last year he had suffered a setback when he had collapsed while guiding the plough. He remembered the squeezing pains in his chest, the breath forcing itself from his lungs, the terror of not being able to get breath, the stifling panic of slipping gradually into unconsciousness. He had been taken by helicopter to Barra, and from there by plane to Glasgow where he had undergone emergency heart surgery. Dramatic though it had all been, the the complication hadn’t been a serious one. Lachlan had reassured Kirsteen and Fergus on that point, but Lorn had seen all the old doubts back in his father’s eyes. He had forbidden the boy to use the hand plough. ‘You’ll just have to make do with the tractor,’ he had said sternly. ‘We’ll keep the Clydesdale, though. She can live out her days in the fields, she deserves that much.’
So Lorn had bottled up his frustrations while Lewis strode with Fergus in the fields, shared his manly talk and laughter. More and more Lorn felt shut out and rejected. Everyone except him seemed to be getting on with their lives.
Ruth had become a successful
writer, contributing regularly to Scottish magazines. The islanders eagerly devoured her tales and had grown so used to having an author in their midst they no longer went in awe of her, though they were quick to point her out proudly to visiting relatives. Ruth remained unaffected and unspoiled. ‘I don’t feel different or special,’ she confided once to Lorn. ‘Just silly when people look at me as if I had horns.’ Then she had added with a mischievous smile, ‘My ambition is to get a book published. If that happens I might look down my nose at everyone.’
Lewis had become an excellent farmer, though he never let work interfere with fun. Often he came home unsteady and giggling after a night of ceilidhing to recount his latest romantic venture to Lorn. He did everything with a dangerous abandon. When he went out riding he went bareback, galloping his horse at a reckless pace, his blue eyes snapping with exhilaration. When he went swimming he swam further out than anyone else dared. Even while working he had fun, yet no matter how much he tempted Providence he invariably emerged unscathed. Life to him was one great adventure to be enjoyed to the full. He said things that only he could get away with. Girls fell at his feet and made fools of themselves in their efforts to get him to notice them. His manner was charming, witty, outrageous, infectious – and though many an eyebrow was raised at his feckless ways, very few were able to resist his engaging grin.
‘He loves people does Lewis McKenzie,’ Kate had summed up. ‘And there’s no’ many who canny take to him.’
‘Ay, he was born wi’ a silver spoon right enough,’ Merry Mary had said and frowned slightly. In her opinion ulterior motives lay behind his bland talk and suave manners, her disapproval of him having arisen from the day she discovered that he had collected money from every child on the island after she had very painfully cracked her nose on the handle of her shovel, knocking off her wart in the process. Lewis had been helping her that day and had affected great surprise that the shovel had been left in a particularly slippery part of the vegetable patch. She had felt slightly uneasy as he had tried to hide a triumphant grin even while he fussed over her and marched her off to the doctor’s to have the bleeding nose seen to. ‘I prefer Lorn myself,’ she had continued thoughtfully. ‘Quiet he may be, but there’s a strength there, ay, that there is. He’s truly kind-hearted, too, for all he’s suffered. I mind he came to help me in the garden after I hurt my nose thon time, and no’ a penny piece would he take for it. His brother never came back – he got what he had been waiting for.’
Children of Rhanna Page 27
