Stranger on Rhanna Read online

  Rachel studied her friend – she looked so happy, fair-haired, violet-eyed Ruth, so fragile-seeming with her small-boned figure and the limp that had been her legacy since birth. But Ruth was stronger than she looked: she had triumphed over a difficult childhood when she had been under the rule of her fanatically religious mother, red-haired Morag Ruadh, who hadn’t so much played the kirk organ as attacked it and who had almost broken Ruth’s spirit with her warped and sanctimonious outlook on life. Somehow, Ruth had emerged from those years virtually unscathed, though there were times when she could be strange and unforgiving and very unyielding. That time with Lorn, for instance, she had very nearly broken his heart by taking Lorna away with her . . . Yet who could really blame her: it had been a terrible time and she, Rachel, had been the cause of it all . . . She shuddered and turned her mind away from such dark thoughts and forced herself to talk of lighter matters. It was like old times – as the young women talked and laughed, Rachel visibly relaxed and forgot herself. She was an island girl again, carefree, abandoned, vowing to herself that as soon as the weather was warm enough she would roam her old haunts, barefoot and free, just as it had been when she was a wild, unsophisticated child with few problems to complicate her life.

  Excitedly she recalled those early days, when she and Ruth, Lorn and Lewis McKenzie had wandered the island together.

  ‘Oh, it was good, Ruth,’ her fingers formed the words, ‘so very, very good. I remember Lewis so well, he was so different from Lorn: he was as devilish and daring as I was myself, as strong as a young horse, while Lorn was quiet and delicate. Oh, how the years have passed – so quickly. Everything has changed: Lewis is dead, Lorn is as strong as his brother used to be. You and I were bound up with the two of them – right from the beginning . . .’

  She stared into the fire, her great dark eyes burning as she remembered Lewis. How passionate they had been together in the all-consuming desire of their young love, how much they had hurt one another with their stormy, youthful arguings, how much they had hurt other people . . .

  She would never love another as she had loved that wonderful young McKenzie – yet she had left him for Jon because she had always known that there could be no future for her with Lewis, and then he had died and there had been no future for him – with anyone.

  Ruth looked at her friend. The firelight was glinting on her raven-black hair; her supple young body, though clad simply in a red jersey and blue jeans, still conveyed that air of erotic sensuality that drew men to her like a magnet. She looked still and composed by the fire, but Ruth knew that beneath the calm exterior she burned with thoughts of two young men, Lewis and Lorn, the twin sons of McKenzie o’ the Glen, both of whom had been captivated by her in their turn . . .

  Ruth lay back in her seat and she too remembered Lewis McKenzie and how the course of her life had been changed by him during those sad, terrible days when he had told her he was dying. By then, Rachel had left the island with Jon, and in his fear and loneliness Lewis had turned to Ruth for comfort. Lewis had died but his seed had lived on in his daughter, Lorna McKenzie, now nearly six years old. Lorn had married Ruth to give the child his name even though he had at first been devastated to discover that the girl he loved was carrying his brother’s child.

  Lorn . . . darling Lorn. Ruth had nearly lost him too but in quite a different way from Lewis. Hurtful memories came flooding back. She glanced at Rachel and resentment burned for a few moments. This black-eyed, passionate creature in whom she had always placed a rather childlike trust had had an affair with Lorn behind her back when she had been ill in hospital. It had been a dreadful time, she and Lorn had almost split up because of it . . .

  Ruth gave herself a mental shake: it was all in the past, she mustn’t think about it, Rachel had made a mistake, she truly loved Jon and would never do anything to hurt him again . . .

  ‘Lorna is Lewis’s child!’ Rachel’s hands moved swiftly, impatiently, as she made the statement.

  Ruth gasped. ‘How did you know that?’

  ‘I guessed.’ Rachel’s hands made a succinct reply.

  ‘But – why did you bring the subject up now? It was so long ago. Lorn accepts Lorna as his daughter, everyone, with the exception of family, thinks she’s his child.’

  ‘I was thinking of Lewis, remembering how it was with him, wondering, I suppose, what my life would be like now if I’d had his child.’

  ‘You want a baby very much, don’t you, Rachel?’ Ruth spoke softly, sympathetically.

  ‘Yes, I do. I can sense Jon’s longing to have a child, and, of course, Mamma Jodl never stops hinting that it’s all my fault we haven’t got children. But . . .’ Rachel looked straight at her friend, ‘I know for a fact it isn’t: I went to see a doctor, several in fact, and they all said the same thing. There is nothing wrong with me, I am fit and well and quite able to conceive.’

  ‘Then – you think – the problem lies with Jon?’ Ruth spoke slowly, unwilling to touch on such a sensitive subject, even though she sensed that Rachel needed someone to confide in. She had always been deep, had Rachel, fathomless some said. She had never spoken to her mother about things nearest her heart, Jon’s mother was as close to her as the man on the moon and she obviously didn’t feel able to discuss the matter with her husband, which left Ruth, to whom she had always disclosed her innermost thoughts

  ‘I’m not absolutely sure if there really is a problem,’ Rachel replied morosely. ‘Our lifestyle isn’t exactly a restful one, we have never been able to relax properly and give ourselves up fully to one another. We never have the time, always there are matters more pressing than our private life together. I haven’t told Jon that I saw those doctors, I’ll wait awhile yet.

  ‘We have the summer ahead of us, possibly the autumn as well, we are both going to take time off and have a long, long holiday together. He’ll come home to Rhanna after his visit to Mamma Jodl in Hamburg; we’ll have time for one another again, all the time in the world. Who knows what will happen.’

  Ruth’s eyes were sparkling at the idea of having Rachel on Rhanna for a whole summer. ‘Och, Rachel, that’s wonderful!’ she cried. ‘I forgive you for not letting me know you were coming home. It’s going to be a wonderful summer, I know you’ll want to spend a lot o’ your time with Jon, but I also know you’ll spare some for me. Kate will be delighted, she aye loves it when you’re home and she can show off her famous granddaughter to her cronies. Oh, look at the time! I must fly. Lorna will be home from school soon and I’ve still to feed the hens and get some messages from Merry Mary’s, also I need some things from the Post Office.’

  Rachel smiled as she followed her friend to the door. Douglas ran on ahead, eager to be off; one small adventure was over with, now he was impatient to see his sister and tell her all about the pictures he had coloured in that afternoon.

  Rachel and Ruth stood for a moment at the door of An Cala. The gorse bushes were coming into flower, the sweet perfume was already invading the air, the Highland cows were browsing amongst the little sheltered hillocks, a nearby burn foamed over a tumble of stones on its way to the sea. How peaceful it was, Rachel thought happily, it was going to be lovely spending the coming months on Rhanna, everything slow-paced and tranquil, no need to hurry anywhere, no noise, no bustle.

  Far below, the steamer hove into view. With mild interest both girls watched it sailing past Mara Òran Bay on its way to the harbour.

  ‘The tourist season will be starting soon,’ Rachel observed.

  ‘Ay, it has already,’ Ruth nodded.

  ‘We’ll have strangers on the island,’ Rachel continued, a frown on her brow.

  ‘Ach, don’t fret,’ laughed Ruth. ‘They won’t intrude on you or Jon. Whatever else the islanders might be, they’re loyal to their own and won’t tell anyone you’re here. They’re quite protective of their famous violinist.’

  She waved and hurried down the path to catch up with her son. Rachel remained at the door, watching the steamer, and a strange
sense of apprehension shivered through her, even though the sun broke warmly through a bank of cumulus that had covered it for the last hour.

  Chapter Two

  Doctor Megan Jenkins brought her little red Mini to a spectacular halt at the harbour, though her somewhat unreliable brakes were only partially responsible for the sudden stop. A pile of Ranald’s lobster pots absorbed the rest of the momentum she had gathered on her rush down the Glen Fallan road and she tumbled out of the car, her hair in disarray, her face red with anxiety.

  ‘You’ll do yourself an injury, Doctor Megan,’ observed Erchy the Post, keeping one eye on the steamer as she tied up in the harbour. ‘If it’s the boat you think you’ve missed you needny worry your head, she’s just come in this very minute.’

  ‘Thank heaven for that,’ Megan said a trifle breathlessly. ‘I was visiting Murdy when I looked from the window and saw the boat heading round the bay. I’m afraid I left poor Murdy half dressed with a thermometer sticking into his armpit and my stethoscope in a heap on top of his chest.’

  Erchy grinned and scratched his balding head. ‘Ach, he’ll have a wee play wi’ it while he’s waiting for you to come back. Murdy was aye fascinated wi’ tubes of all sorts. The inner tubes o’ that old bike o’ his are more often out than in and I mind once, when Auld Biddy had to give him an enema, he was that taken up wi’ all the wee tubes it was all she could do to make him leave them alone so that she could do what had to be done wi’ them. Now, any normal body would be fair affronted at the goings-on of enema tubes but not Murdy – oh no – they just gave him an even keener taste for them – if you’ll forgive the expression, Doctor.’

  He paused cryptically and slid her a sidelong glance but her attention was taken up by the passengers who were starting to come down the gangplank.

  ‘It was a terrible thing, just, what Murdy did to himself the next time he was constipated and needin’ Biddy wi’ her tubes.’

  Erchy spoke heavily and was gratified to see that he had aroused Megan’s curiosity. ‘Did to himself?’ she asked with a faint smile.

  ‘Ay, he thought he knew all about it, having watched Biddy wi’ the tubes and the soapy water, so he made his cailleach wash out an old bicycle tube and bring it to the bed along wi’ a great bucket o’ hot water piled high wi’ soap suds. Well, both him and the cailleach between them tried for hours to get things moving wi’ the old inner tube. Soap suds were everywhere, on the bed, the floor, even in the cat’s ears, everywhere but where they were supposed to go. In the end the pair o’ them were that exhausted they fell asleep together in the wet bed. When Biddy heard tell about the affair she was over there like a shot to give them a piece o’ her mind. “Is it an elephant you think you are, Murdy McKinnon?” she roared. “I’ve never heard the likes in all my days as a nurse and it would just have served you right if you had ruptured your bowels and we would all have had some peace without them.”’ Erchy shook his head sadly. ‘Ay, Biddy was never a one to stand any nonsense from anybody. Never again did Murdy try anything so drastic wi’ his inner tubes but it didn’t put him off his liking for them – or any tubes for that matter.’

  ‘Quite a story, Erchy,’ said Megan drily, though her eyes were twinkling. ‘We can only hope he’ll be safe with my stethoscope till I go back and rescue it from him.’

  ‘Ach, poor old Murdy.’ Erchy’s tones were solicitous now. ‘I am hoping there is nothing serious wrong wi’ him, he never calls a doctor out if he can help it.’

  ‘Just old age, Erchy, and the pains and aches that go with it.’

  ‘Ay, indeed, it must be terrible to be getting old.’ Erchy’s face was perfectly straight, his words absolutely sincere, for although he was well past retiring age he vowed he would only stop working on the day he dropped dead, and since, in his own mind, such an event was ‘years and years away’ he went on happily with his work and was as wiry and fit as a man half his age.

  ‘You’ll be waiting for someone coming off the boat, then?’ Erchy craned his neck and followed the direction of Megan’s eyes. Erchy’s interest in other people’s affairs was legendary.

  ‘No, not quite.’ Megan kept her face composed. ‘I was wondering, can you see any sign of a flying saucer? I’m expecting one to land at any minute and was told to wave my hanky as a sort of guide.’

  ‘Ach, Doctor!’ Erchy scolded huffily. ‘There is no need to be sarcastic. I was only making polite conversation. It is the way o’ things here, we keep ourselves to ourselves and just get on wi’ our own affairs, but it would be unnatural no’ to show a wee bit interest in what’s going on round about.’

  But Megan hadn’t heard him. ‘Oh, that must be him,’ she murmured, her eyes on a tall, masculine figure descending from the boat.

  ‘And who is “him”?’ questioned Erchy eagerly, forgetting that he was supposed to be getting on with his own affairs.

  Megan didn’t answer. Leaving Erchy to observe the bustle of the harbour with avid eyes, she somewhat tentatively approached the stranger who had alighted from the boat and was standing looking around him in a questioning manner.

  ‘You must be Herr Otto Klebb.’ Megan extended a friendly hand. ‘I’m Mrs James, better known as Doctor Megan – or just plain Megan if you like. My car is just over here, it’s very small, I’m afraid . . .’ Doubtfully she glanced at his large frame and wondered how such a big man could possibly fit into her small car.

  A great stir of interest greeted the newcomer, heads bobbed, a dozen pairs of eyes followed his progress along the harbour.

  Herr Klebb was not the usual sort of visitor to alight on Rhanna’s shores. He was definitely foreign-looking, which fact alone was enough to rouse curiosity, but there was more to this stranger than just the stamp of a continental. He was a Presence, that was how Robbie Beag put it to Ranald McTavish, who was retrieving his scattered lobster pots with mutters of annoyance.

  ‘A Presence wi’ a capital P,’ Robbie added. ‘He’ll be a Somebody, you can aye tell by the look they have on them, as if they owned everything and everybody and expect to get things done for them wi’ just the snap o’ a finger.’

  ‘Do you suppose Doctor Megan will help me gather up my lobster pots if I snap my fingers at her?’ Ranald enquired sourly.

  ‘Ach no.’ Robbie’s genial face broke into grins. ‘She’s too busy wi’ the foreign gentleman to be bothered wi’ you and your pots. You shouldn’t leave them lying where folks can crash into them wi’ their motor cars – one o’ these days someone will break a leg tripping over them and it will serve you right if you get sued for damages.’

  Ranald’s yelp of indignation was lost on Robbie who had gone to join an inquisitive group all stretching their necks to get a better look at ‘the foreign stranger’ as he had quickly been labelled.

  Robbie, in his own, ingenious way, was right, Herr Otto Klebb was a Presence and a Somebody. Megan sensed these things the moment she had gazed into his piercing, deep eyes. He was at least six feet tall, well built, distinguished-looking despite a mop of dark hair that the sea breeze was blowing into disarray. His black beard was clipped to a neat point, his face was strong and ruggedly handsome but rather severe in its unsmiling repose.

  It came to her that she knew very little about the man beyond his name and the fact that he had leased her old home, Tigh na Cladach, for an indefinite period. ‘I need a place where I can have complete privacy. I have been working very hard and my doctor has advised me to take a long rest,’ he had written in reply to her advert in an English newspaper, ‘your house sounds ideal and I will require to move in as soon as possible. Please let me know when it is convenient and also please forward the timetable for steamer connections to Rhanna.’

  Megan had married the Reverend Mark James on Christmas Eve just over two months ago and had moved into the Manse, which was a big, old house with enough rooms to allow the two of them to conduct their respective professions comfortably. They had both thought it a good idea to let Tigh na Cladach but hadn’t expected
that it would be taken quite so quickly.

  For some reason Megan felt unnerved by Herr Otto Klebb and she was rather glad when Erchy strolled up to help her lift the man’s cases into the boot of the car and to batten down the rusty lid with the aid of an old webbing belt. She immersed herself in the task, not daring to look to see how Herr Klebb was managing to tuck his bulky, overcoated frame into the sagging front passenger seat. But somehow he had made it and, breathing a sigh of relief, she went round to the driver’s door.

  ‘He’ll be staying at the Manse, then?’ Erchy hadn’t offered his services for nothing, and he was most annoyed when Megan merely smiled sweetly at him before getting into the little red Mini.

  At the first turn of the key, the engine burst into life so vigorously Megan was taken aback. Normally it coughed and died, choked and spluttered, before permitting itself to putter weakly into action, and she was so ridiculously pleased with it, it was all she could do not to laugh outright.

  ‘I hope you don’t mind,’ hastily she covered the bubbles of laughter in small talk, ‘but I have to make a quick stop in Glen Fallan to collect my tubes – er – I mean, my stethoscope. I was out on my rounds when the boat came in and had to leave my last patient in rather a rush. My husband would have collected you but Thunder – that’s his car – wouldn’t start when we tried it this morning . . .’ She paused. She was beginning to sound like an islander and at the very thought of Thunder, with its rattles and draughts, its broken seat springs and disconcerting habit of grinding to a halt in the most awkward places, she felt the laughter rising again. For never, never, could she imagine the dignified figure of Herr Otto Klebb ensconced in Thunder’s worn interior, the cracks and crevices of the leather upholstery packed with dog hairs, dusters wedged into the windows to keep out the rain and the wind, the smell of ancient pipe smoke permeating every nook and cranny . . .