Ruth stood amidst the heather and closed her eyes. She wished she was more like Rachel, able to turn her back on the kind of love that seemed to bring more heartache than joy – but she wasn’t like Rachel. When she married it would be for love . . . Would she ever marry for that? She remembered running up to Lorn after the ceremony, taking his arm and saying quickly, ‘I’m sorry – dearest Lorn – I’m sorry I’ve hurt you so – if only you knew . . . I hope one day you will understand . . .’ He had stared at her dazedly as if he was seeing her from a very far distance. His earth-brown curls had been chestnut in a glint of watery sun breaking through the clouds, his eyes, for all their sadness, so intensely blue she could hardly tear her eyes away from them as for a brief moment they focused on her face. His lips had moved and he had whispered, ‘Ruthie, it’s you – it’s you, Ruthie.’
‘Ay, Lorn, it’s me,’ she had said, nodding, her voice so choked by tears she could hardly get the words out. His hand had come up to take hers, but she had stumbled away from him, away out of the Kirkyard to walk unseeingly past the schoolhouse and along the shore to the clinical confines of home.
Now as she stood on the brow of the hill, watching the sun go down behind the corries, she knew that she had to get away, away from Rhanna and all it meant. Yesterday she had met Shona, her auburn hair tossing in the wind, her blue eyes full of compassion as she said, ‘If you want somewhere to be at peace for a whily, you are welcome to stay with Niall and me in Kintyre. Sometimes it helps to get away, Ruth. It helped me once when my heart was as troubled as yours is now.’
The words rang in Ruth’s ears as she walked homewards through the darkening night. Her father was in the kitchen and she went to him, and putting her arms round him, said quietly, ‘I’m going away, Father, just for a whily. Shona has asked me to go and stay with her and Niall. They’re going away on the morning boat and I’m going with them. Don’t tell anyone where I am, not even Mam; I must be free of everything till I get myself sorted out. Och, I hate leaving you, I love you, Father – I’ll – I’ll write. I’ll send my letters to the shop and you can maybe answer them when you have the time.’
He seemed to expect the news because he held her at arm’s length and his grey steady eyes were full of understanding as he said huskily, ‘I’ll miss you, my babby, but I think you’re very wise. Don’t give up your writing – whatever else you do don’t give up your writing.’
She didn’t answer. Going to her bedroom she hastily packed a small case and the first thing she put into it was the marble paperweight given to her by Lorn on a far off night when the world had been full of laughter, life, and the first tender stirrings of love.
Very early next morning Ruth came downstairs dressed in a neat navy-blue suit and a violet blouse that matched her eyes. She had bought the clothes from a mail-order catalogue whilst she was on Coll, and had smuggled them away, never knowing when she would get the chance to wear them. Now her chance had come.
Her mother was at the fire, pounding vigorously at the porridge, but at the opening of the door she turned her red head and the sight that met her eyes made the blood drain from her face. ‘Where are you going, my girl?’ she said in a flat monotone. ‘And why are you dressed like that? Where is your white frock?’
‘I left it upstairs, Mam.’ Ruth’s voice was calm, though her heart was beating so fast she felt she would faint. This confrontation with her mother was what she had dreaded more than any other. The thought of it had kept her awake all night, yet now she felt a great sense of relief coming on top of her apprehension, and her dark purple gaze never wavered from her mother’s face.
Morag’s hand tightened on the wooden spoon till her knuckles were white. ‘So, you’ve sinned in the eyes o’ the Lord,’ she gritted. ‘Everything I told you, all the things I warned you against – you never heeded a word – no’ a single word . . .’ Her voice began to rise: ‘You wanton, brazen wee hussy that you are! You’re no better than that Jezebel, Rachel McKinnon! I warned you, I warned you about her, but did you listen? No, oh no! She contaminated you wi’ her flirting and caperin’ around wi’ boys of all kinds. Tell me, tell me, girl, was it that Lorn McKenzie? Was it?’
‘No, Mam, it wasn’t Lorn.’ Ruth wasn’t frightened any more, her heart was as steady as her voice.
‘Then who was it, girl? Who was it!’
Ruth’s eyes were big and bright and beautiful as she answered, almost triumphantly, ‘It was Lewis McKenzie, Mam, and he’s dead so there is no’ a thing in the whole world you can do about it.
Turning round she kissed the white head of Dugald who had been standing close behind her all the time she was speaking, then, lifting her case, she walked across the carbolic-smelling floor, slipped unhurriedly out into the clean air of morning, and walked with her head high towards the steamer tied up in Portcull harbour.
PART VI
AUTUMN 1960
CHAPTER 19
Kirsteen walked slowly upstairs and into her bedroom. Going to the dresser she pulled it open and took out the big family Bible that lay there. The pages fell open at the book of Job. Here lay the papery-brown fragments of the two rosebuds Fergus had plucked on the night their twin sons were born. How long ago it seemed – yet how near – the joy, the pain, the laughter – the uncertainty of those early days when Lorn’s life had hung in the balance – the later uncertainty when he had undergone one operation, one crisis after another. Now he was big and well and strong – physically. Mentally he was ill. Since the death of his brother he had retreated into a world where nothing, no one could reach.
Everything that had meant anything in his life had gone out of it – first Lewis, then Ruth . . . Kirsteen lowered her head and a tear fell onto the withered roses pressed between the pages. The sounds of the late September evening came through the open window – the barking of the sheepdogs, the lowing of the cattle from the byre. A calf had been born that morning, new life, just as it had been at Laigmhor the night her twin sons were born . . .
Fergus came up behind her and pressed his lips against her hair. He knew how her heart ached, the same deep pain lay heavy in his own heart – yet – he knew they had to go on – that life had to go on. Shona would be coming back to Rhanna the following spring, back to stay after more than nineteen years’ absence. He couldn’t help looking forward to her coming home, was unable to stop the little surge of joy that lifted his spirits every time he thought about it. He couldn’t help but feel a small stab of hope on this sweet evening in autumn when the air was filled with the scent of peat smoke, and the golden leaves that littered the cobbled yard were frisking in the breeze. Yet, he couldn’t shut out the sadness either nor help but feel something of Kirsteen’s pain. He put his strong right arm around her waist and whispered in her ear, ‘You must try not to feel so sad, my darling, it’s not easy I know but you’ll have to try.’
She shook her head. ‘I know, but I can’t help it. I’m sad for Lewis, for life – the beauty of it, the passing of it. Perhaps I cry for it all, all the remembrances – Mirabelle – Biddy – Alick – so many people who lived and loved and died. I might be crying because I am growing a bit nearer death myself. Oh – not yet! But it’s nearer today than it was yesterday. Ay, I think I cry for that – and . . .’ she turned and buried her face into the warm flesh of his neck, ‘I cry for you too, my dearest, dearest love – just because I love you so much and don’t know what I would ever do if anything happened to you.’
He drew her in close to him, conveying some of his strength to her as he soothed her tenderly. ‘Weesht, weesht now, my darling, you mustny think such things. We have many years together yet – we’ll live till we’re a hundred – if the Lord spares us, of course.’
She smiled and gave a watery sniff. ‘Of course we will, how could I ever think we might only live to be ninety-nine?’ She leaned against him. ‘Oh, if only Lorn could find some happiness, I think then I might begin to live a wee bit myself.’
‘Anybody at home?’ Lachlan’s de
ep voice came from below. He was sitting in the inglenook in the kitchen when they came down, his fine, sensitive face full of something that neither Fergus nor Kirsteen could define, a muted excitement mingled with a slight apprehension. Although he was past sixty he had never lost his boyish look. His hair, though slightly threaded with grey, was in the main still dark and thick. ‘Sit you both down,’ he instructed in his quiet pleasant voice. ‘But before you do I think it might be a good idea if you fetched us a dram, Fergus. What I have to tell you might hurt and upset you – on the other hand it might take some of the weight from your hearts and help you to understand better the last few months of Lewis’s life.’ He smiled ruefully. ‘It will lift a burden from my own mind, too. Ay, and poor Phebie’s as well . . .’ He hesitated. ‘Actually the things I am about to tell you were meant to keep a whily longer, but I got a letter from Ruth this morning that changed my mind.’
‘From Ruth?’
‘Ay, as you know she’s staying with Shona and Niall, and seemingly they got a letter from you to the effect that Lorn was eating out his heart, not only with grief but with guilt. I had no idea he blamed himself for Lewis’s accident.’
‘Neither did we until last week!’ Kirsteen cried. ‘On the night Lewis – died – Lorn came racing home here shouting that he had killed Lewis. We knew it was just shock, of course, and he never said any more on the subject. Then last week it all came spilling out. He and Lewis had had a dreadful fight. Lorn chased him over the shore and – Lewis fell off his horse. Lorn thinks that somehow he is to blame!’
‘Ay, they did fight – about Ruth – as you’ve probably guessed,’ Lachlan said gently. ‘Ruth had no idea of this. Like everyone else she assumed the boys were joyriding on the beach when the accident happened. Shona confided certain things in your letter to Ruth, who immediately contacted me . . . You see, with the exception of Phebie and myself, Ruth was the only other person who knew the truth about Lewis.’
‘What truth?’ Fergus asked harshly.
‘I’ll explain – where is Lorn by the way?’
‘Out in the stables with the horses,’ Kirsteen said rather wonderingly. ‘He spends a lot of time in there nowadays.’
‘Ay, well best to leave him where he is just now. I want to talk to you both first.’
And talk he did. The hands of the clock crept round, but not one of them noticed the passage of time. It was almost midnight when Lachlan finally sat back, his brown eyes full of compassion as he looked at the two people sitting close together on the settle. Kirsteen was staring at her hands lying on her lap, Fergus’s arm was round her, holding her very tightly. Finally she looked up, her blue eyes misted with tears as she whispered, ‘Our laddie was a wild, wild devil in his day. Times were he was so fickle I could fine have skelped some sense into him but – oh God! He died a man, Lachlan, a fine young man with a brave brave heart.’
‘Ay, he did that, Kirsteen,’ Lachlan agreed softly. Reaching inside the breast pocket of his jacket he withdrew a bulky package. ‘This is for Lorn – would one of you give it to him? The sooner the better.’
Fergus stood up. His eyes were very misty as he said huskily, ‘I’ll take it to him now – and – he held out his hand to grip Lachlan’s firmly, ‘thank you, Lachlan, for everything. You and Phebie are more than friends of this family – you’re part of us.’
He went quickly outside to the stables. They were warm and steamy and smelled of hay. Lorn was sitting in a corner, close by the big Clydesdale Myrtle, whom he loved fiercely. He was polishing her harness, talking to her quietly. He spent many of his free hours in the stables, grooming the horses, cleaning the stalls, thing himself out so that by the time he crept up to bed, often in the small hours of morning, he was too tired to think – to remember. He didn’t look up as Fergus came in, but went on rubbing at the harness, which was already shining from previous care lavished upon it. Fergus’s shadow danced in the light from the lantern hanging from a beam. He held out the package, his eyes black with love and compassion for this haunted son of his who had blamed himself for his brother’s death and who had lived neither in the land of the living nor of the dead for five long, weary weeks. ‘This is for you,’ he said softly, ‘from Lewis.’
Lorn did look up then, his blue eyes wary, his voice harsh as he cried out, ‘What do you mean – from Lewis?’
‘Just what I say. Read it and read it well, son. I’ll leave you in peace, for peace is what you need now, and I hope the things that Lewis has to tell you will bring you peace of mind in full measure,’ Fergus said and went out, closing the door softly behind him.
For fully five tremulous minutes Lorn stared at the brown paper package on top of the golden bale of hay, then with a little cry he snatched it up and withdrew the contents, a large diary bound in red leather and a letter. He laid the letter to one side and ran trembling fingers over the gold-edged pages of the book. He had given it to Lewis last Christmas – the Christmas of 1959 – the day after that terrible evening of the Burnbreddie dance. His heart was beating very fast as he opened the diary. The first few pages were blank but just after the end of February 1960 the writings began, Lewis’s large untidy scrawl filling the pages, and as Lorn read he heard the echo of his brother’s voice inside his head so that even as he was reading the words it was as if Lewis was reading them out, keeping him company there in the stables with Myrtle and Dusk and the ponies peacefully lying in their stalls. Lorn settled himself back among the hay, and as he read the message, written to him alone, it was as if he and Lewis were the only two people alive in the whole of the quiet night world.
3rd March 1960
Lorn, by the time you get this I will be up in the great blue yonder. I don’t think I will go to hell. I haven’t been an angel but I haven’t committed any great crimes, either. I have a brain tumour. Lachlan told me it was perhaps there when I was born but only started to become active recently. So I didn’t escape after all. At first it was just bad headaches, which got worse. And then I went to Lachlan. I am not afraid – I am terrified! From the time I knew what death was all about it scared the breeks off me. Maybe some unbolt instinct warned me that my time on earth was to be short. I don’t know. All I know is I’ve been in hell since I found out, and I’ve put those I love most in hell with me. I wouldn’t let Lachlan tell any of you. Mother and Father will suffer enough when it is over and done with, so why make them suffer now. I have been to Glasgow and had tests done and the doctors told Lachlan the tumour was inoperable. That is why I went away. Not to see Rachel, but to go to hospital. It was gey lonely there, I can tell you, and the longest month I ever spent. I’m going to enjoy the time left to me. I’ll have a bonny time and to hell with tomorrow. I’m tired now, my head hurts a lot and I see things double. I’ll speak to you again later.
April 1960
The spring is coming in and I’ve never been so aware of life as I am now. Lachlan wanted me to go to Glasgow for treatment, but I wasn’t having it. I don’t want to prolong the agony. Lachlan gives me painkillers. He and Phebie are wonderful. Have you ever noticed Lachlan’s eyes when he knows you’re feeling pretty damned sick and there’s nothing much he can do to help? Of course you have, little brother, you’ve known illness since you were born. I’m not good at describing things, but Lachlan has God in his eyes.
These last few weeks I’ve been running wild. There’s so much I want to do. If I sit still I begin to think and I get scared so I get up and go. I wander up to Brodie’s Burn a lot and I remember the day we met Ruth up there. It helps just to sit and think about her tales of the past. I used to hate dwelling in the past, now it’s all I ever want – I don’t want to think of the future. As well as being sick in the head (don’t laugh) I’m pretty sick at heart just now. I’ve got Rachel on the brain! She grows in there and, like the tumour she won’t go away. Funny how girls can do that to men. I’ve had a lot of girls in my time. They meant nothing, I never felt for them the way I feel for Rachel. She’s different, like a wild rose blo
wing in the wind, so beautiful I shiver whenever I think of her smooth golden skin and those big dark eyes of hers. That doesn’t sound like me, eh? For the first time I feel there’s more to all this love business than just a quick roll in the hay.
Rachel has told me she’s going to marry Jon. I can’t believe it! Yet – I can. He can be trusted; he’s like her father. I think that’s what she needs, a father figure. Rachel has got a strength in her that’s a wee bit eerie at times. She knows where she’s going, what she wants from life; and she’ll get it, too. I looked into her eyes today and an odd shiver went through me. The old ones are right. Rachel has the power. Whatever it is, she’s got it.
May 1960
I watched you today, Lorn, and saw myself. You’ve grown, little brother. I won’t be able to call you that much longer. You’re getting stronger and I’m getting weaker. You deserve it, you skinny wee rabbit! (You can’t hit me where I’m going.)
I watch Father and Mother too. I’ve taken to watching people. Mother is beautiful, more from inside now she’s getting older. Yet, in some ways, she always seems young. Father is getting older too, it shows in his hair and the crinkles round his eyes – but that’s all. His back is straight, he’s hard and strong as an ox. In a way I’m glad I won’t see them growing really old, they’ll always be as they are now. I can’t imagine Mother a wee old woman or Father a grey auld bodach. I’m smiling writing this, so you smile too – go on – smile, you bugger! The time for weeping is over. I’m thinking now of how I love our parents. Mother is a very easy person to love but my love for our father isn’t so easy to explain. I’ve respected him all my life and there have been times when I have felt really close to him but never like you and him. He understands you because you’re two of a kind, but I think I always worried him a wee bit. He’s a hard man to live up to – not because he’s ever been a Holy Wullie, God forbid! He’s got a lot of ideals, though, and I think I was born without a single one. He’s a dour, stubborn bugger – like you – but I love you both. Shona’s a lot like the pair of you – stubborn as a mule’s arse but there’s a wonderful sunny side to her nature. She must have taken that after her own mother. She’s always known I was a coward about death and sickness but she always had a lot of understanding for me. Many’s the time I’ve blessed having a big sister like her. Grant’s the happy-go-lucky one of the family – a bit like me but with more sense of responsibility. Maybe I should have gone round the world like him, but then I would have missed everything that’s here on Rhanna. I’ve loved every minute of my life here and I thank God for letting me be born on a Hebridean island – here I can breathe and be as free as the wind – I’m talking about God now, thinking about Him in a way I never did before. Ruth has helped me there. Somehow, through all the hellfire and thunder dinned into her ears since she was born, she’s managed to extract the truth from her Bible and to see God. She told me there was a time when she hated God, but the years have opened up her eyes to the truth and beauty behind it all – and now I’m going to sleep. Tomorrow I will write more – tonight my head hurts and I’m seeing everything double – even you lying in your bed snoring. I’m writing this by the light of a torch and it’s strange to be writing to you when you’re here beside me in the room.
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