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  Table of Contents

  About the Author

  Title Page

  Also by Christine Marion Fraser

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Map

  Part One: Winter 1960

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Part Two: Spring 1961

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Part Three: Summer 1961

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Part Four: Winter 1961

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Part Five: Autumn 1962

  Chapter Eighteen

  About the Author

  Christine Marion Fraser was one of Scotland`s best-selling authors, outselling even Catherine Cookson, with world-wide readership and translations into many foreign languages. She was the author of the much-loved Rhanna series. Second youngest of a large family, she soon learned independence during childhood years spent in the post-war Govan district of Glasgow. Chris lived in Argyll with her husband. She died on 22nd November 2002.

  Praise for Christine Marion Fraser

  ‘Christine Marion Fraser weaves an intriguing story in which the characters are alive against a spellbinding background’ Yorkshire Herald

  ‘Fraser writes with a great depth of feeling and has the knack of making her characters come alive. She paints beautiful pictures of the countryside and their changing seasons’ Aberdeen Express

  ‘Full-blooded romance, a strong, authentic setting’ Scotsman

  ‘An author who has won a huge audience for her warm, absorbing tales of ordinary folk’ Annabel

  ‘Christine Marion Fraser writes characters so real they almost leap out of the pages . . . you would swear she must have grown up with them’ Sun

  RETURN TO RHANNA

  Christine Marion Fraser

  www.hodder.co.uk

  Also by Christine Marion Fraser

  Fiction

  RHANNA

  CHILDREN OF RHANNA

  RHANNA AT WAR

  SONG OF RHANNA

  STORM OVER RHANNA

  STRANGER ON RHANNA

  A RHANNA MYSTERY

  KINVARA

  KINVARA WIVES

  KINVARA SUMMER

  KING’S CROFT

  KING’S ACRE

  KING’S EXILE

  KING’S CLOSE

  KING’S FAREWELL

  NOBLE BEGINNINGS

  NOBLE DEEDS

  NOBLE SEED

  Non-fiction

  BLUE ABOVE THE CHIMNEYS

  ROSES ROUND THE DOOR

  GREEN ARE MY MOUNTAINS

  First published in Great Britain in 1984 by Fontana

  A division of HarperCollinsPublishers

  This edition published in 2013 by Hodder & Stoughton

  An Hachette UK company

  Copyright © 1984 Christine Marion Fraser

  The right of Christine Marion Fraser to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library

  eBook ISBN 978 1 444 76822 0

  Hodder & Stoughton Ltd

  338 Euston Road

  London NW1 3BH

  www.hodder.co.uk

  For Gran: The Speyside Seanachaidh

  Acknowledgements

  The author wishes to thank Commander John Douglas, OBE for his help and advice on matters marine

  Part One

  Winter 1960

  Chapter One

  Shona hummed a gay little tune as she energetically polished the big oak sideboard which sat solidly in the living-room of the sturdy stone house in Glen Fallan. Huddled into the lush green slopes of Ben Machrie, dwarfed by the great humping bulk of Sgurr na Gill, the house looked small and rather desolate, yet its weathered walls had stood so long they were part of the scenery and didn’t intrude into the wild, solitary grandeur of the glen.

  For more than eighty-six years it had been home to Biddy McMillan, the nurse who had devoted her life to the population of Rhanna, and though it had lain empty and rather neglected since her death some three years ago, to everyone it was still ‘Biddy’s house’, and not one of the islanders ever passed it by on their travels without a smile touching their lips as they remembered the kenspeckle old figure with her black spindly legs and her eternal searchings for her specs and her ‘teeths’.

  Shona paused to gaze round, her blue eyes shining as she pictured what the house would look like when all the furniture was brought over from her house in the Mull of Kintyre and arranged in the rooms in Biddy’s house. She still thought of it as such, though come the spring it would be home to her, her husband Niall McLachlan, and their twelve-year-old daughter, Ellie.

  Kirsteen was making new curtains for all the windows and Shona’s father was going to paint and paper the house with the help of Doctor McLachlan, Niall’s father.

  Always eager for an excuse to get over to Rhanna, Shona had arrived the day before to spend a week or two getting the house cleaned and ready. Tucking away a wilful strand of auburn hair she forgot about work and wandered slowly through all the rooms. Each one evoked a memory of Biddy and when Shona’s steps finally stopped in the kitchen, her eyes were shiny with tears. She clasped her hands and put her thumbs to her mouth. It was very quiet. She could hear plainly the bubbling of the burn that tumbled from Ben Machrie and into the River Fallan which flowed under the bridge on the opposite side of the road. She remembered how Biddy had helped her through some traumatic times in her life, given her sound, straightforward advice, comforted her and taken her to her scrawny old bosom with genuine affection. Somehow Biddy had always been there when she was needed and her going had left a great gap in the lives of everyone who had loved the old nurse. But she had left behind a legacy of treasured memories in countless men, women, and children who had been ‘her bairnies’. The house in which she had been born breathed of peace; the timeless feeling of old world serenity was so tangible it was like a living thing, the very walls and the bits of furniture that Shona had decided to keep had absorbed the character of the old woman who had lived there for so long. Nothing would have made Shona part with the solid wooden kitchen table, the dresser, and the crofter’s bench which sat under the window.

  Shona sighed deeply and with an effort dragged her thoughts away from the past and back into the present.

  ‘This will be a happy house, Biddy,’ she said aloud to the empty room. ‘I promise you will never have cause to regret our intrusion into it.’

  A bubble of sheer happiness burst into her heart, the first real happiness she had known for some time. Recently she had undergone the heart-rending experience of losing a much-longed-for baby. The pregnancy had been in its early stages but, even so, she had already formed a mental picture of how the child would look, definitely fair haired with
Niall’s brown eyes and perhaps her dimple in the middle of its chin. She hadn’t visualized its sex, enough that it was a baby, warm, living, real, so welcome into the bosom of the family after all the years of frustrated longing. With delight she had hugged the knowledge of her condition to herself, welcoming the subtle changes each day brought, not even minding the occasional feelings of nausea; they let her know that her baby was alive and growing a little more each day. Only those closest to her had shared the lovely secret with her and only they had known her torment at the terrible loss she had suffered. She was glad now that she hadn’t told anyone else about it, and she wondered now, deep down, if it was because perhaps she had been afraid something might happen to rob her of the thing she had wanted more than anything else in the world. It was as well she was coming back to Rhanna, back to stay after an absence of more than nineteen years. She had enjoyed her time on the Mull of Kintyre but this was where she belonged, where her heart had always lain.

  She knew that Niall was slightly apprehensive about leaving his successful veterinary practice to try and make a go of it on the islands, but she shared none of his unease. She couldn’t wait to start a new life and, despite what had happened, was optimistic and enthusiastic about the future. They had to look forward, it was no use dwelling on what might have been.

  Turning down the sleeves of her dress she gazed round with satisfaction at the results of her morning’s work. A ray of October sunshine spilled over the shining blood-red tiles on the floor; the newly black-leaded range gleamed like satin; the shelves with their rows of cup hooks had been scrubbed to a sandy whiteness. For a moment she wondered how she would take to cooking on a kitchen range after the ease of using a modern electric cooker but quickly she shrugged her doubts aside. She had been brought up at Laigmhor without the amenities everyone on the mainland took for granted and there was no earthly reason why she couldn’t adapt back again. At least Biddy’s house had running water and there was a good copper washtub in the wash-house situated off the kitchen. Her eyes grew dreamy again. It would be rather nice going back in time, rather like the old days at Laigmhor with paraffin lamps to light the way to bed and the warm glow of firelight to sit by in the evenings. She and Niall would have more time to talk, perhaps recapture some of the romance that had been neglected in the busy round of mainland life . . . A movement outside the window caught her eye and going over she looked towards the bronzed slopes of Sgurr na Gill. The hills and glens were ablaze with the rich hues of late autumn. The red berries of the rowans were like blobs of blood against the russets and golds of the dying bracken; the rusty purple of the fading heather was still bright against its sombre brown foliage. A wisp of green moved against the darker green of the lower slopes and Shona might not have noticed it but for the startling brightness of a mane of pale golden hair which she recognized as belonging to Ruth Donaldson, daughter of Dugald and Morag Ruadh, the red-haired, quick-tempered weaver and spinner of Portcull.

  Ruth was walking slowly, lost in thought, the grace of her young body hampered only by the limp she had had since birth.

  Shona went to the door and opening it she called out Ruth’s name, but the girl appeared not to hear, her head was bowed and she kept on going as one in a trance.

  Shona shook her head indulgently. It was quite usual for Ruth to be lost in daydreams. She was often to be seen wandering over the hills, lost in her own world of fantasies, thinking out plots for stories and poems. She had had her first story published when she was just fifteen years old and had been a regular contributor to magazines and journals ever since. She had confided to Shona that one of her greatest aims in life was to have a book published and Shona knew that she would never be satisfied until she had achieved her ambition.

  Shona went down the path and, opening the gate of the weed-choked garden, ran swiftly over the road. At the sound of footsteps behind her Ruth looked up, startled, the violet of her eyes darkening to purple in recognition of the auburn-haired figure swishing through the heather.

  ‘Shona.’ Her soft voice spoke the name with pleasure yet there was a certain wariness in the tones. ‘I’m sorry, I was daydreaming. I came out here to be alone for a whily.’

  Despite the implication of the words Shona’s smile remained warm. ‘Ach, don’t bother to apologize. At your age I was forever wandering about with my head in the clouds. I was wondering – would you come over and have a strupak with me? I could be doing with a cuppy and it would be nice to have company after a morning on my own.’

  Ruth hesitated, glancing nervously over her shoulder to the white houses of Portcull in the distance. It was as if she expected to see her mother following her but the only people to be seen were Todd the Shod trundling home from the moors, his cart piled high with peats, and Dodie, the island eccentric, galloping to catch up with Todd’s receding figure.

  Still Ruth hesitated. ‘I – don’t know,’ she said doubtfully, ‘I left Kate in charge of the shop and Mam would be mad if she found out. You know she always finds fault with Kate, especially with her tongue worse than ever since Tam has been laid up after breaking his toe.’

  Shona clicked her tongue impatiently. ‘Ach, your mother talks too much herself. Don’t you worry your head about her. This is Saturday and if I know Morag she’ll be too busy seeing to the kirk to have much time to spare for anything else – besides, it’s dinner time, you have the right to some time off, surely?’

  Ruth’s face cleared and a smile lifted the corners of her mouth. ‘Ay, you’re right enough, Shona, Grannie and Granda love Saturdays, it’s the only day they get peace and Father feels free to go over the moors and write his poetry. I suppose ten minutes or so wouldn’t do any harm.’

  Shona linked her arm through Ruth’s. ‘That’s settled then – and ten minutes nothing! An hour more like.’ Her voice was firm. ‘To be truthful I’m longing to give my first strupak to somebody. I’ve given hundreds in my time but never in my very own house on Rhanna. It won’t be much, mind, just a cup of tea from my flask and sandwiches and buttered scones.’ She paused to study Ruth’s face. It was tired and drawn with dark circles under the eyes making them look bigger than ever. Shona frowned. ‘You’re pale, Ruth. Working in a shop isn’t for you; what about that book you were going to write? You’ll never get it done at this rate.’

  ‘Someone has to mind the shop. Father comes in whenever he can but he’s not as fit as he was. I worry about him. Och, I know he’s no’ as young as he was, he’s past sixty now, but somehow he never seemed his age. To me he was always bright and cheery, but now there’s a weariness about him that I don’t like.’

  Shona checked her tongue. She had been on the point of telling Ruth that anyone who lived with Morag would be weary. Her incessant quotations from the Bible were enough to try the patience of a saint and Shona had heard it rumoured that Morag’s behaviour was stranger than ever of late. According to gossip she had once or twice wandered to kirk in her nightgown to play the organ at midnight and Dugald had had to follow her to fetch her back home. Though there was no concrete evidence of this, and because the rumour had originally sprung from the malicious tongue of Behag Beag, the gossiping postmistress of Portcull, it couldn’t be certain if there was any truth in it or not; nevertheless no one, not the least Shona, would have been surprised to learn that this was perhaps the reason for Dugald’s look of utter fatigue.

  Shona shook her bright head. ‘I know how you feel about your father, Ruth; just the same, you mustn’t let it interfere with your own life. What about you and Lorn? He was telling me only last night that he hasn’t seen you for a whily. He’s quiet about it but I gathered from his attitude that he doesn’t understand what’s gone wrong between you. Yet when you came back to Rhanna a few weeks ago you couldn’t see enough of him.’

  Ruth turned away, shutting the gate carefully behind her, paying a lot of attention to the clasp which hadn’t been used for years on the rusty hook.

  ‘On you go, Shona.’ Her normally musical voice was t
inged with sharpness. ‘If I don’t fasten this the sheep will get in and eat everything in sight.’

  Shona glanced round in bemusement at the wilderness that had been Biddy’s garden. It would take months of hard work to get it into any kind of shape and the intrusion of the sheep was a welcome one as they at least kept the turf cropped to a bowling-green smoothness. But she sensed a strangeness in Ruth’s mood and bit back the laughing remark that had sprung to her lips. Leaving Ruth to fiddle with the fastening she went back into the house and through to the sunny kitchen where she had left her flask of tea. Throwing herself on one of the sturdy kitchen chairs she ran her fingers through her hair and sighed as a feeling of foreboding needled persistently at her consciousness. At thirty-seven she looked like a girl in her mid-twenties. She was as slender as she had been before Ellie’s birth; except for laughter lines at her mouth and eyes her skin was smooth and golden; the turbulence of early years had left eyes which still retained traces of childlike candour. More often these days they glowed with the confidence of ripe womanhood and sparkled with the love of life, though there were still the frequent occasions when temper got the better of her. These were the times that Niall teased her into tears of frustration by calling her ‘Caillich Ruadh’, the Gaelic for red witch, though he could just as easily bring her out of her mood by either leaving her to work it out or laugh her back into good humour. At his flattering insistence she had never succumbed to the temptation to cut her hair, though often enough she had actually reached the point of having the scissors poised ready, but at the last minute had contented herself with arranging the thick tresses over the top of her neat head.

  That morning she had tied it back with a blue scarf though she had worked so vigorously it had come undone long before she was finished and now it tumbled about her shoulders, adding to the illusion of a child-woman. Over the years her face had changed; always cameo-like, its beauty was now further enhanced by a fine sculpting of the cheekbones and Ruth, coming in, was struck as always by the feeling that she wasn’t in the presence of an older woman but one more akin in years to herself, though Shona’s maturity had given her a wisdom from which Ruth had greatly benefited many times in the past. She had also been an excellent ally, stoutly coming to Ruth’s defence when her life looked like becoming unbearable owing to the strict discipline laid down by her mother.