Children of Rhanna

by Christine Marion Fraser

  Winter came early to Rhanna that year, with some weeks to go before Christmas. The winds swept in from the Atlantic bringing sheets of freezing rain that seemed to go on perpetually, blotting out the hills and bringing early darkness night after night.

  ‘I hate when it’s like this,’ Kirsteen sighed one morning, glancing out of the window to the wind-tossed, rain-sodden landscape. ‘I wish it would snow instead.’

  Fergus got up from the table to stand behind her and nuzzle her ear. She leaned against him, enjoying the strength of his hard body, then with a little self-conscious start she moved out of his reach and ran her hands ruefully through her crisp hair. ‘Don’t,’ she murmured, her fair skin flushing. ‘You’ll see my white hairs.’

  He pulled her to him and kissed the tip of her nose. ‘In this light?’ he murmured teasingly. ‘All I see is a beautiful woman who can still drive me crazy with her feminine wiles – besides, what can be lovelier? Silver threads among the gold.’

  ‘Oh Fergus, don’t,’ she said uncomfortably, ‘that makes me sound like a hundred – and fifty-three is bad enough.’

  ‘Don’t be daft,’ he said tenderly. ‘I still think of you as a girl and always will. Still, it’s strange,’ he continued thoughtfully. ‘How quickly the years pass. I don’t feel much older than I did at thirty, and it hits me hard when I realize I’m fifty-nine. Bob was right. I always mind him telling me that at sixty I would be thinking much the same things I did at forty – only then I didn’t have a grown-up family, nor was I a grandfather.’ He sighed. ‘I often think I wasn’t cut out to be a father, sometimes I feel I’ve failed in some way. I mind Murdy Travers telling me to treat my sons the same, but that hasny been easy the way things have turned out. I feel I have to protect Lorn and often wonder if Lewis feels left out.’

  She stared at him. ‘But – oh, my darling, I know it hasn’t been easy. We went over all this some years ago and tortured each other with nasty words – but – you’re wrong! I think Lorn is the one who feels shut out. I know you’re shielding him because of what happened last year, but he’s all right now, Fergus, and quite able to do as much as Lewis around the farm. Oh, don’t look like that, darling! Sometimes when you’re wrapped up in people you love it’s very hard to see things in black and white – oh, look at the time, I must start breakfast.’

  Slowly Fergus resumed his seat, his black eyes troubled. Surely – surely Kirsteen was wrong. Lorn couldn’t think – mustn’t think things like that . . . His thoughts were interrupted as the door opened and a cold blast of air catapulted Bob and the twins inside. Although Bob was in his eighties, he was hale and hearty, wirier and tougher than many a man half his age, though he now walked with a slight stoop and used his shepherd’s crook more often to aid him over rough ground.

  He now took most of his meals at Laigmhor. Kirsteen couldn’t bear to think of him eating solitary makeshift meals in his lonely little cottage on the slopes of Ben Machrie. Folks said he was ‘a crafty auld bugger’, for it was known that he was quite capable of looking after himself, but Kirsteen shut her ears to the gossip and made the old shepherd welcome. The new arrivals crowded to the sink to have a hasty wash.

  ‘I think old Rosie has a touch of milk fever,’ Lewis called over the running water. ‘She kicked the pail out of my hand when I touched her udder. It would be grand if Niall was here to see to things like that.’

  ‘Ay,’ Fergus responded absently. Lorn sat down opposite and Fergus glanced at his thin young face. ‘You’re good at things like that, Lorn,’ he said, drawing his porridge towards him. ‘You’ll maybe look at her for me.’

  Lorn didn’t look up. ‘Ay,’ was all he said and lifted his spoon. Fergus frowned. Was Kirsteen right after all? Surely not! This boy was the one nearest his heart. They understood one another, had so much in common a telepathy seemed to exist between them. The joy of having such a son was an uncommonly rich and wonderful experience. Murdy’s words came to him, ‘Never show you have a favourite son’. He never had, by word or deed. Biddy’s last words came to him: ‘Look to Lewis; with your guidance he will turn out to be a good man.’

  Had he in his anxiety to set Lewis’s steps in the right direction unwittingly neglected Lorn? Lorn with the inner strength that glowed out of his eyes, who had been born physically frail but fiercely courageous. Had he in his eagerness to protect this fine son of his somehow only succeeded in making him feel cast out? The questions whirled round in confusion in his mind. What was right? God in Heaven, what was the right thing to do in his role as a father? He sucked in his breath and searched his mind for something to say that would be right. With a glance at the rain streaming down the panes he said more harshly than he meant, ‘Maybe you’ll come with me today, Lorn, and help me to take feed up to the yowes on the hill?’

  Lorn, lost in his own deep thoughts, didn’t answer, and Fergus, connecting his sullenness with the things Kirsteen had said, felt frustration boiling in him, tensing his jaw, darkening his eyes. Hell! Why did it all have to be so complicated? He was too busy a man to have the patience for all this – and patience had never been one of his strong points.

  Lewis dug into his porridge and smiled. ‘Don’t fret over him, Father, he’s just love-sick.’ He nudged his brother, who scowled and drew away his arm. ‘Never mind,’ Lewis continued unruffled. ‘The Laird’s ceilidh should cheer us all up. A real grand do it will be from all accounts.’

  ‘The Laird’s ceilidh?’ Kirsteen questioned, puzzled.

  ‘Ay, Matthew was telling us about it in the dairy just now. Burnbreddie is throwing open his doors on Christmas Eve for all his tenants. There’s to be a band, a bar, and a buffet table. In other words, a real grand affair, so you’d better think about getting Mother a new dress,’ he finished cheekily.

  ‘Things have indeed changed since her leddyship passed on,’ Bob observed. ‘I hear tell the old house has had its first coat of paint in years. The old lady wouldny allow a thing to be changed – said it all had to be as it was when old Balfour was alive.’

  The atmosphere lightened as everyone fell to discussing the latest piece of news. Only Lorn remained silent and as soon as breakfast was over he went upstairs to throw himself on the bed and gaze at the ceiling. He should ask Ruth to the dance. She wouldn’t go otherwise, as Dugald wasn’t a tenant of the Laird. He had bought his house when he had taken over Merry Mary’s shop. Lorn moved restlessly. The ache that had lain dull in his heart for months was growing worse. Was this what love was? A yearning that tore relentlessly at the senses, a burning emptiness that nothing could fill? Sleepless nights, a longing for more and more solitude in which to think – think of her? That shy lovely girl with her grace and sweetness and her uncertain awareness of her feminine power. For she did have power. For all her reserve, for all her shyness she was possessed of a power that overwhelmed him. He had to talk to her more, pluck up the courage to ask her to Burnbreddie’s ceilidh – but would that witch of a mother of hers allow her to come?

  Lewis bounded into the room but stopped short at sight of his brother. ‘Thinking of her again? You’re all flushed, Lorn my boy. No bloody wonder! Thinking’s no use, doing’s the thing.’ He threw himself onto the edge of the bed. ‘How the hell you’ve managed to wait so long for a girl beats me – no wonder I hear your bedsprings creaking in the night. You wake me up with your tossing and turning. Have you never done it with a girl?’ he asked bluntly.

  Lorn threw a hand over his eyes. ‘Shut up! I’m trying to think.’

  ‘From the look of you, you’ve succeeded. Why don’t you ask Ruth to this dance? Burnbreddie’s got some fine haylofts up yonder. I can recommend them.’

  ‘Do you think I should?’

  ‘What? Get Ruth into a hayloft?’

  ‘No, daftie, ask her to the dance?’

  ‘Of course you should. I’m worried about you. It’s time you spread your wings a bit – after all, we’ll be eighteen in a few days’ time. If I get some birthday money, I’m saving it to buy Rache
l a really fine birthday present.’ He grew serious. ‘I’m a bit like you at the moment. I can’t get Rachel out of my mind. Funny, she’s been here all along, yet last time I saw her it was for the first time somehow. What a figure that girl’s got! I’ve sweated over girls before, but Rachel – phew!’

  Some days later Lorn and Ruth came face to face in the village. The wind was biting in from the sea and had whipped her skin to roses. ‘Lorn, I was hoping to see you,’ she greeted him breathlessly, a combination of swift heartbeats and fighting the wind. She rummaged in her pocket and with difficulty withdrew a bulky parcel, which she pushed at him. ‘I’ve been carrying it around for days so it’s a wee bit squashed. Happy birthday. I – I knitted it myself, so don’t look at it too closely – I’m better with a pen than with knitting needles.’

  Wordlessly he took the parcel. For a long tremulous moment he gazed at her. The wind lifted and tossed her fine golden hair about her face. Her eyes were the colour of the purple-blue clouds racing over the sky, her lips were parted slightly showing her white teeth. For what seemed eternity he gazed at her mouth, then he dropped his eyes and said gruffly, ‘Thanks for the present, Ruthie, I’ll – I’ll have to go now.’

  ‘Ay, me too, I’ll – I’ll be seeing you.’

  They started to walk away from each other though an invisible bond seemed to be tugging at them, slowing their unwilling steps. He stopped. ‘Ruthie.’

  She whirled round. ‘Yes, Lorn.’

  ‘Will you – do you – would you come to Burnbreddie’s dance with me?’

  Her colour deepened, the answer rushed to her lips though it came out slowly. ‘Ay, Lorn, I’d like that.’

  They stood apart, staring at one another, eyes bright with longing, then she turned and hurried away, blood pulsing, heart singing, even while she wondered what her mother would say when she asked her permission to attend the dance with Lorn McKenzie.

  Lorn rushed home and went straight upstairs to tear open the parcel. It was a scarf, a blue knitted scarf, so long it took ages to pull it from the folds of tissue paper. Inside was a card, which simply said ‘From Ruth to Lorn, with love’. With a little whoop of delight he wound the scarf round his neck and surveyed himself in the mirror. She had knitted this for him, especially for him. With her very own hands she had knitted and knitted and knitted – for him. He picked up the card to read it again. The word ‘love’ leapt out at him and he raised it to his lips to kiss it.

  Lewis came in with a rush. He had just returned from Oban. ‘It was grand in Oban, though too bad Rachel’s in Glasgow now, or we could have met up. Murdy’s getting a bit doddery. He keeps losing things and Maggie follows him around like a sheepdog finding all the things he’s lost. I laugh all the time when I’m there.’ He sat up and said eagerly, ‘Wait till I show you what I got for Rachel.’ Rummaging in his case he withdrew a flat box out of which he extracted an oyster satin nightdress.

  Lorn stared. ‘It’s a nightdress – and so thin you can see through it.’

  Lewis laughed deeply. ‘Top marks! Can you picture her in it? I can, and I hope I’ll get a chance for a private showing.’ He paused. ‘What’s that you’ve got twined round your neck?’

  ‘A scarf,’ Lorn’s tones were defensive. ‘A birthday present from Ruthie.’ Lewis scrambled up and hugged his brother. ‘Well, things are moving at last! Get in there while the going’s good – if not, somebody else might beat you to it. The way Ruth looks these days she won’t be known as the white virgin for much longer. Too bad you didn’t ask me to fetch her something from Oban. Girls love to get presents – and I don’t mean things like woolly gloves or scarves that reach to your ankles!’

  Lewis chattered on, but Lorn wasn’t listening. He was furious with himself. Still, someone else was bound to be making a trip to the mainland before Christmas. He wondered what he could get her. He wouldn’t have the nerve to give her a nightdress, only people like Lewis did things like that.

  The Laird’s invitation had given the villagers something to look forward to. Best clothes were hastily unearthed to be inspected, aired, and repaired. All over the island women sighed over the contents of their wardrobes and dropped broad hints to their menfolk about Christmas gifts. Kirsteen gazed at her collection of dresses in disgust. They were years old and out of date. Normally she never bothered to keep up with changing fashions, but now she longed for something new. With a sigh she got out her best old dress and set about altering it on the little treadle sewing machine Fergus had bought her after the twins were born.

  Ruth was in the worst dilemma of all. She didn’t want to go to the Burnbreddie dance dressed in the same boring white. She couldn’t ask her mother for a new dress. In fact, she couldn’t ask for anything till she first asked her mother if she could go to the dance with Lorn, which she kept putting off, knowing the showdown that would surely follow the request. She thought of doing it through her father, but he had been ill recently with flu, and she felt she couldn’t burden him with anything else. She was in despair and resigning herself to the fact that she must tell Lorn she couldn’t go with him, when Shona, who was home for Christmas, came to her rescue.

  ‘I am hearing Lorn has asked you to the dance,’ Shona greeted her. ‘What are you wearing?’

  ‘Nothing!’ Ruth wailed, her violet eyes dark with unhappiness. ‘I haven’t asked Mam if I can go yet because she’ll only say no.’

  Shona’s blue eyes snapped. ‘Oh, is that so! We’ll see about that! It’s time you got to enjoy your life. I’m sure if your father knew he would move heaven and hell for you.’

  ‘Och, I know that, Shona, but he’s been ill recently and still very weak. He’s not able to take trouble at the moment, and Grannie and Granda are over in Barra for a few days so I can’t get them to help.’

  Shona’s nostrils flared. ‘Well! You’ve got me then! Ask me back to your house for a strupak – now.’

  Ruth looked at the lovely determined face, the fearless tilt of the auburn head, the fiery sparkle in the wonderful blue eyes – so like Lorn’s. ‘Will you come home and have a strupak with me, Shona?’

  Shona proved a spirited and competent ally. Over tea and scones in the carbolic smelling kitchen she smiled warmly at Morag and said conversationally, ‘I was delighted when Lorn told me he had asked Ruth to the dance at Burnbreddie. She’ll be the belle – no doubt about that. Nothing can be more exciting than a girl’s first dance. I mind when Niall took me to mine – oh, it wasn’t a grand affair, just a ceilidh in a barn but –’

  Morag’s cheeks had flamed, and her tones were ominous. ‘What’s that you say? Lorn taking Ruth to the Burnbreddie dance? It’s the first I’ve heard o’ it – of course, I’m the last to hear of her goings on these days. Well, you can tell your brother he needny bother, she won’t be going. All thon dancin’ and caperin’ wi’ boys is just a temptation to the de’il, and I made a vow that my lassie would never be tarnished by pleasures that are just excuses to dabble in the unseemly – a vow to the Lord it was and I will no’ change my mind now.’

  Ruth turned away to hide the tears of frustration and disappointment. ‘The Laird has already included her in the guest list,’ Shona lied sweetly. ‘All the young girls will be going.’

  ‘Well, my Ruth will no’ be one o’ them!’ Morag returned in tight-lipped outrage.

  ‘I’m thinkin’ you’re wrong there, Morag,’ Dugald, white-faced and hollow-eyed, spoke from the rocking chair by the fire. ‘I’m the man of this house, and it’s time I damned well made you aware of that fact! Ruthie will go to the dance with young McKenzie, and that’s final. It’s time she started to enjoy her young life.’

  The crimson flowed from Morag’s face to stain her neck. Her tight lips parted as rage boiled in her, but before she could utter a word Dugald held up his hand and said firmly, ‘Don’t say it, Morag, you’ll only be wasting your breath. Ruthie is going to this dance – and I tell you this – that will only be the start of it. If Lorn wants to take her out anywhere in fu
ture, he has my permission. She is, after all, my lassie as well as yours,’ he finished softly.

  The blood drained from Morag’s face, leaving it deathly pale. He was warning her that he knew – knew that she wasn’t entirely sure that he was Ruth’s father.

  ‘I’ll buy the dress myself, Mam,’ Ruth’s voice came, anxious yet tinged with delight. ‘I saved some money from –’

  ‘No!’ Morag’s voice was taut with frustrated temper. ‘There will be no new dresses. You can go to this dance, my girl, but you will go in one of your own white frocks!’

  ‘But, Mam –’ Ruth began tearfully, but Shona flashed her a triumphant smile.

  ‘Your white dresses are lovely, Ruth, with a bit of alteration . . .’

  ‘I will not alter one single stitch,’ Morag stated. ‘And that is that! I’m far too busy a woman for any o’ that frivolous nonsense.’

  ‘Och, don’t worry yourself, Morag,’ Shona said, her smile remaining fixed, though she could gladly have torn Morag’s hair out by its red roots. ‘Kirsteen is a dab hand with her wee sewing machine. Come on, Ruth, we will go and look at your dresses, choose the best one and take it back to Kirsteen – now.’

  Dugald turned his face quickly to hide a smile as Shona, her head high, marched Ruth out of the room, leaving Morag standing speechless in the middle of it.