Song of Rhanna (The Rhanna series) Read online

  Table of Contents

  About the Author

  Also by Christine Marion Fraser

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Map

  Part One: Late Winter 1964

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Part Two: Spring 1964

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Part Three: Summer 1964

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Part Four: Autumn 1964

  Chapter Fifteen

  Part Five: Winter 1964/65

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Part Six: Summer 1965

  Chapter Nineteen

  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.

  Also by Christine Marion Fraser

  Rhanna

  Children of Rhanna

  Return to Rhanna

  Rhanna at War

  Storm Over Rhanna

  Stranger on Rhanna

  A Rhanna Mystery

  King’s Croft

  King’s Acre

  Kinvara

  Kinvara Wives

  Kinvara Summer

  Kinvara Affairs

  SONG OF RHANNA

  Christine Marion Fraser

  www.hodder.co.uk

  First published in Great Britain in 1985 by Fontana

  A division of HarperCollinsPublishers

  This edition published in 2013 by Hodder & Stoughton

  An Hachette UK company

  Copyright © 1985 by 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 76825 1

  Hodder & Stoughton Ltd

  338 Euston Road

  London NW1 3BH

  www.hodder.co.uk

  To Doreen, Ian and Karen. Lang May Yer Lum Reek

  Acknowledgements

  With grateful thanks to Doctor Bill Wilkie, Strone, for all his friendly help and advice, and Doctor David Walker, Kilmun, a real old country GP and a ‘gentleman chust’

  Part One

  Late Winter 1964

  Chapter One

  Ruth pegged the last of her washing on to the line and paused for a moment to listen to the wind keening low Over the moor, whining eerily as it buffeted the amber passes and whipped the gnarled heather stalks to a frenzy. through a gap in the trees she could see the tiny basin of Loch Sliach lying huddled under the lower slopes of Ben Machrie, a splash of blue contrasting with the green of the pines, its surface slashed to white where it was caught by the capricious elements. The trees were swaying madly, their branches creaking as they bowed submissively to the whims of the Rhanna weather. The smoke from the sturdy stone cottage sitting in the lee of a grassy knoll, spiralled briefly against the blue sky before it was snatched off unceremoniously in the clutches of the breeze.

  The wildness of the day made the interior of the house known as Fáilte, the Gaelic for Welcome, seem all the cosier, and Ruth looked round appreciatively as she went indoors. It was all so different from the clinical confines of the house in Portcull where she had lived with her parents before her marriage to Lorn McKenzie. Referred to as ‘the Temple’ by herself and her father it hadn’t been so much a home as a carbolic-smelling prison, and she hadn’t felt a single qualm on the day she turned her back on it. Her religious fanatic of a mother had made the Temple a hell instead of the haven Ruth had always longed for. It was different now, now that her mother was dead. Her father had painted and papered all the sterile-looking rooms, little by little erasing the coldness that had ruled his life, stamping it with his own personality which had been crushed for so long. Now he wrote and painted to his heart’s content, cluttering the rooms with homeliness, with warmth.

  As a young girl, Ruth had vowed to have a home of her own one day, a place that would be comfortable and warm: clean, but never too clean; an abode where it wasn’t a crime to dream by the fire, to put your feet up on the range if you so desired. The Temple had always been a bustle of senseless activity, a useless wasting of energy that Ruth had always felt could be spent on better things.

  Fàilte had always been an easy-going sort of house. In the day of Hamish, the big, good-natured Highlander who had been grieve at Laigmhor, it had bulged at the seams with homeliness, with dogs and cats lounging by the fire, with hens poking in the scullery. Matthew and his wife Tina had succeeded Hamish and they had carried on the easygoing tradition so that it seemed the house in some way attracted people of a certain type. Generations of cats had come and gone, now a new generation were arranged decoratively by the polished range, and a retired sheepdog with one eye good-naturedly allowed itself to be dressed as a baby, much to the delight of three-year-old Lorna Morag who was making full use of the pile of baby clothes her mother had given her for her dolls. The little girl played contentedly on the rug, her hair shining in the light from the window, her smooth cheeks fire-flushed, her whole being absorbed in the task of fastening the ties of a woolly bonnet under Ben’s thick white ruff.

  In the playpen in a corner of the room, eighteen-month-old Douglas Lorn McKenzie had rolled up his vest and with great interest was contemplating his little mound of a belly, chuckling with fiendish glee as he dug a fat, exploratory finger into the whorls of his navel. Distracted by a full bladder he sat back and frowned at the empty chamber pot placed invitingly by his side. Throwing his mother a wide-eyed cherubic glance he spat bubbles, crowed with the sly knowledge that he was master of his own small domain, and filled his nappy. With a screech of wicked triumph he seized the pot and jammed it firmly over his mop of curly hair, trying to see how much of his nose and mouth he could fit into the handle.

  Ruth glanced at the clock which told her it was almost midday. Lorn would be in soon for his dinner and a small stab of pleasure went through her at the thought. Much as she enjoyed the quiet morning routine of her home, she always looked forward to the dinner-time break with Lorn, enjoying hearing him talk about his work at Laigmhor, most of all enjoying his reassuring presence in her life. She set the pan of potatoes on the fire then went through to the pantry to fetch the bacon. Soon it was sputtering in the pan, the edges crisping to a deep golden brown. A frazzle of smoky fat bubbles exploded to release a tantalizing aro
ma which filled the kitchen and made Douglas forget about the chamber pot, his attention turning to the table and the activities around it. Lorna had risen from her corner and had fetched knives and forks from the sideboard which she clattered on to the table without ceremony. Clambering up on a chair she set about making an attempt to lay the table, a little task she had lately taken upon herself, growing quite annoyed if her mother intervened, even if only to show her how to properly position the utensils.

  Left alone, Ben took the opportunity to slither under the couch where he sighed deeply and set about worrying the buttons of the yellow cardigan fastened over his hairy chest. Lorna’s tongue was sticking out from the corner of her mouth in utmost concentration and Ruth had to hide a smile. At almost three years old the child was adorable, an entrancing mixture of baby habits and a small girl’s awareness of the bigger, more intriguing world which awaited her.

  ‘One, two, free,’ solemnly she counted the places, making sure her father got his own special fork, a big one which Ruth laughingly told him would be better suited for use in the garden. Douglas let out a bored wail from his playpen, a strength in his voice that promised greater things to come. Ruth turned from the fire and made to go to him but Lorna had beaten her to it, with a patient, elderly sigh abandoning the table to go to her baby brother and punch a furry toy dog at his nose. He squealed in delight, a row of pearly teeth showing between his laughing rosy lips. Looking to the window for a sign of Lorn, Ruth saw instead the red post van hurtling along the bumpy road to the cottage. A few minutes later, Erchy popped his balding, sandy head round the door and sniffed the air appreciatively.

  ‘My, my, that is indeed a smell to tempt the appetite of a hungry man. It will be a whily before I get my own dinner,’ he hinted gently.

  ‘Sit you down and I’ll get you a cuppy,’ Ruth invited hospitably. Within a short space of time a steaming cup of tea reposed at Erchy’s elbow together with a plate bearing thick doorsteps of buttery bread filled with piping hot, crispy bacon.

  Erchy bit into it with relish, wiping away the rivulet of melted butter on his chin with a stubby finger. ‘You’re a grand wee cook, Ruth,’ he said with conviction. ‘Lorn is a lucky mannie indeed. I could have done fine wi’ a wife like you when I was younger. Now I wouldny know what to do wi’ one, a man gets gey set in his ways after the age of sixty.’

  Ruth held on to her patience. Erchy was renowned for his enjoyment of a nice cosy gossip at each of the houses he had reason to visit, and took his time in handing over the mail. She eyed his satchel, wondering what was in it for her, but Erchy was too busy blethering to notice her look. Lorna was perched comfortably on his knee, her eyes following every bite he took while she played with the buttons of his jacket, Douglas screeched from his corner, demanding a share of the attention.

  Ruth busied herself at the fire, saying over her shoulder, ‘Didn’t you ever think about getting yourself wed, Erchy? Surely you must have had a favourite girl in your day.’

  Erchy’s face took on a bemused look. ‘Oh ay, and no’ just one, I might no’ be much to look at now but there was a time when I was a fine figure o’ a lad.’ He puffed out his chest. ‘I will never know how I managed to escape all those women who were aye chasin’ me but now I’m thinkin’ I managed it maybe a mite too successfully. There was one lass I had my eye on for years but . . .’ He stopped, abashed, and Ruth turned a quizzical gaze on him.

  ‘And who was that, Erchy McKay?’

  Erchy wriggled uncomfortably, an unusual flush spreading over his smooth-skinned face. ‘Ach, it was a long time ago, I forget her very name now.’

  Ruth’s dimples deepened. ‘Get away wi’ you, fine I know you’re lying. Tell me this minute. I won’t let you out of the house till you do.’

  Erchy’s face was now bright red with embarrassment. ‘Ach, women! You are all alike. Prying into the very corners of a man’s heart. If you must know, it was Morag Ruadh – your mother – ay, she was a bonny, bonny lass in her day and could have got any man if she had played her cards right. But that tongue o’ hers was sharper than a kitten’s claws, she just scared the breeks off all the men so that in time none o’ them would ask her out for fear she would hack them to ribbons wi’ a few choice words.’

  Ruth’s eyes grew dark. Could it really be her mother that Erchy spoke of with such fondness, Morag of the red hair and the fiery temper to match? To Ruth, her mother had always seemed middle-aged and entirely set in her ways. She couldn’t imagine a young Morag, fresh faced, attractive to men, yet when she had smiled in a certain way Ruth had glimpsed an echo of the girl she had once been, a girl who had been bonny enough to make men like Erchy remember her with blushing affection.

  ‘Strange,’ murmured Ruth almost to herself. ‘I never thought of what she must have been like as a young girl.’

  ‘Oh, she had looks all right,’ Erchy hastened to assure her. ‘No’ bonny in the usual way but a sparkle about her if you know what I mean. Those green eyes o’ hers, big and bright, and that red hair – like a beacon it was, shining in the light o’ day. I could aye tell Morag, even from a distance – ay – she was an attractive one – pity she went queer in the head but I don’t mind tellin’ you I shed a wee tear to – myself on the day she died. She was part o’ the old days you see, lass,’ he ended apologetically, fearing he had said too much.

  But Ruth smiled at him, an expression of gratitude showing in her eyes. ‘I’m glad you told me, Erchy. It’s nice to know there were some who wept when she died. I often used to feel sad thinking no one ever really liked Mam. She brought it on herself but it was sad just the same.’

  Erchy ran his fingers through his sparse locks and pushed back his chair. ‘Ay, it was that, too much religion makes some folks go daft altogether.’ He threw Ruth a sly smile. ‘At least she brought a daughter into the world she could be proud of. God, lassie, little did I know when you used to sit beside me in my post van you would grow up to be a famous writer.’

  ‘Ach, not that famous,’ protested Ruth, flushing. ‘Only the folks round here know that I have some stories published.’

  ‘Indeed, that’s where you are wrong, mo ghaoil. Some English towrists who were on the island last summer asked me where the writer lassie lived. They had read all your stuff and wanted to have a wee peep at you. I didny tell them though for I know fine you like to be private but it lets you see you are more famous than you think. Shona was telling me some whily back that you were writing one o’ they big novel books. Are you after finishing it at all?’

  Ruth made a dive to rescue Douglas who was in the act of slithering down the sides of his playpen, head first. ‘With these two at my apron strings! No, Erchy, it will be a whily yet before I get to finish my book.’

  Erchy swung his satchel over his shoulder. ‘Ach well, it will be something for us all to look forward to.’ He opened the door and the March wind whistled in through his legs. ‘God! Would you listen to the sough in that breeze!’ he exclaimed. ‘Shona was just after saying that the roof o’ her hen hoosie was blown off last night.’

  ‘Erchy,’ Ruth began anxiously. He came back into the room, closing the door behind him.

  ‘Talking of Shona,’ he grinned. ‘I maybe shouldny tell you this for she’ll want to be tellin’ it herself . . .’ He paused cryptically and Ruth, curiosity getting the better of her, cried in exasperation, ‘Tell me what, Erchy?’

  ‘Well, I took a letter to her – I couldny help seein’ it was from one o’ they foreign places, it had a real fancy stamp on it. She was gey excited by the look o’ it and tore it open there and then, and I couldny very well go away till I found out what it was all about. I’m no’ a nosy body as a rule but I canny help but be excited by letters from other countries – even though they might no’ be addressed to me . . .’

  ‘Erchy!’ Ruth cried in desperation and with a chuckle Erchy relented.

  ‘Well, as I was sayin’, she tore it open and began laughing in that way she has and then she grabbed me an
d whirled me round till my head was birlin’. She might even have kissed me she was that happy but I slithered out o’ her reach in the nick o’ time – no’ that I wouldny mind a kiss off Shona, she has lips on her to tempt any man but I was feart Niall might get to know about it and think – ay, all right, all right. My, you’re an impatient wee wittrock – and just remember, I haveny told you anything for I wouldny like her to think . . .’

  ‘You haven’t told me anything!’ yelled Ruth, all her reserve dissipating in sheer frustration.

  Erchy threw back his head and laughed. ‘Ach, don’t foul your breeks and listen to this. The letter was from Grant telling his sister there is going to be a wee one. Shona was as excited as if it was herself going to have it.’

  ‘And to think Fiona always vowed never to have bairns,’ laughed Ruth.

  Erchy shook his head wisely. ‘There’s many a slip between the boat and the jetty if you see what I mean. No doubt Shona will tell you all the facts herself for I know only too well how women enjoy a good blether.’

  ‘Women enjoy blethering! Erchy McKay, your tongue clacks faster than any woman I know,’ Ruth scolded, though her face was wreathed in smiles. ‘And though Shona might confide the facts to me I have no doubt you will have found out every single one before the week is out.’

  Erchy’s grin was unrepentant. ‘Oh ay, I admit I make it my business to find out about other folks – after all – a lonely mannie like myself has to have something to keep him going.’

  The wind rushed in as once more he opened the door. Ruth let him get halfway down the path and was about to shout on him when he turned abruptly and came back to push two letters into her hand. ‘One of them is for Lorn – from his brother – I recognize the stamp,’ he said without a blush. ‘The other is for you – from Rachel. I can aye tell her letters, usually the fancy postmark, though this one is from Glasgow, I know her writing well enough by now. You see the way she strokes her t’s? So high up it just about flies off the paper? Behag was after tellin’ me that is the sign o’ a very ambitious person. She read an article about handwriting in one o’ they wimmen’s papers she aye pretends no’ to read.’