Stranger on Rhanna Read online

  With a magician-like flourish he whipped a tea-towel from an innocent-looking cardboard carton which was reposing beside the brass coal box.

  At least half a dozen bottles of best malt whisky gleamed golden in the firelight, nestling beside them were a dozen bottles of beer, and, towering over everything, was an enormous flagon of schnapps with a picture of a fire-throwing dragon painted on its glazed surface.

  ‘The Uisge Beatha,’ Todd whispered in awe, ‘enough to sink a battleship.’

  ‘The Uisge Beatha?’ Otto repeated questioningly.

  ‘Tis the Gaelic for the water o’ life,’ Graeme explained willingly, ‘and, by God!, we’ll be doing the Highland Fling from Portcull to Portree once we have had some o’ that golden glory safely inside us.’

  ‘Ay, and it’s no’ a battleship I’ll be sinking,’ Tam said happily, ‘it is myself who will be drowning in it and never wasting a drop in the process.’

  For the next two hours they had a wonderful time. Otto played the piano for them while they got well and truly drunk, so much so that not one of them thought to question the fact that it was mainly Scottish music which flowed out from his nimble fingers.

  They danced and they jigged, they hooched and they yooched while they birled one another round, faster and faster, their tackity boots thumping the floorboards and rattling the cups in the dresser.

  Vienna, disturbed out of a quiet nap on Otto’s bed, padded downstairs to see what all the noise was about, took one look at the wildly cavorting figures and fled.

  Erchy, on his way over to Nigg with ‘the mails’ came up the path to deliver a letter and was soon absorbed into the happy scene. The whisky, the beer, the schnapps flowed as swiftly and as easily as the music. Todd forgot what ‘the saps’ had done to his liver and went about with a large glass of it in his hand shouting, ‘Prost! Prost! Drink up your saps and get lost! lost!’, while everyone else cried ‘Slàinte!’, which was the Gaelic for good health, to Otto, to each other, and even to the cat when at last she dared to put her little pink nose round the door.

  When eventually they reeled merrily from the house there was a unanimous vote to the effect that it had been a great ceilidh and that Otto was ‘the best bloody stranger ever to have set foot on Rhanna’s shores,’ though, when the various spouses beheld the state of their menfolk, they weren’t so sure and said he must be mad or bad, or a mixture of both to encourage such goings-on in the doctor’s house and all because of some ancient old piano.

  It took Erchy some time to resume his rounds, mainly because he had to sit in his van for fully twenty minutes whilst he tried to ascertain the difference between the gearstick and the handbrake. When at last he was satisfied, the vehicle lurched away to an interlude of adventure. On the high cliff road to Nigg it scattered the sheep who were partial to parking themselves in the passing places. Before Erchy knew it, twenty or so sheep were stampeding along in front of him, gathering more flocks on the way so that before long there were at least fifty ewes and several lambs thundering in a terrified mass along the treacherous road.

  At his first port of call, Erchy delivered old Meggie’s mail to young Maisie Brown whose three children gaped at him as he tried to insert a competition leaflet into a surprised collie dog’s left ear.

  At the next croft he posted a letter in Aggie McKinnon’s astonished mouth, informed her that that would keep her quiet for a while and also that she made a fine letter box, and went merrily on his way, feeling right pleased with himself.

  Before the turn-off to Nigg, the post van veered on to the moors to take a nose-dive into a waterlogged peat bog where it settled with a soggy groan and one or two slurping wheezes. And that was where, some time later, half a dozen angry crofters, one highly indignant Aggie McKinnon and eight yapping sheepdogs found him.

  As one, with the exception of Aggie who suddenly remembered she had forgotten her ‘teeths’ and went rushing away in embarrassment, they set about asking him ‘what the hell he was playing at scattering their flocks far and wide.’ They ranted and raved, the dogs barked and fought with one another and bedlam broke out on that normally deserted stretch of moorland.

  Erchy heard not a thing. With his head on his mail sack, his feet on the dashboard, he was dreaming happy dreams, a most beatific smile of joy stamped firmly on his ruddy features. For some reason that would only ever be known to himself, he had, at some point, removed his socks and had affixed them to the windows, one on either side of the post van. The wind had filled them and there they blew, looking like two elongated woolly balloons, the bits of sticking plaster that covered the holes in the heels standing out like two dirty pink crosses for all the world to see.

  Rachel wandered slowly along Burg Bay, lost in thought, her hands buried deep in the pockets of her green wool jacket. It was cold for early April, the wind soughed low over the Sound of Rhanna, churning up the white horses, tossing them contemptuously against the rocky outcrops which abounded in these dangerous waters. In the leaden grey of the squally sky the gulls were screaming as they fought the blustery breezes that tossed them about like bits of paper and often forced them to land on the grass-covered crags where they niggled and squabbled, or threatened one another with gaping, vicious beaks.

  It was wild and windswept and wonderful. Rachel’s ears tingled; her face felt the way it did on rising when she splashed it with cold water from the ewer on her dresser, fresh, alive and glowing; her hair was a mass of wind-tossed curls but she made no attempt to restrain it. The scarf that she had tied round her head before leaving the house had blown off soon afterwards and she had stood watching it as it went flapping away like a flimsy bird, soon to be lost in the marram grasses above the beach.

  She wondered why she had worn it: she had always hated anything that restricted nature, but living for so long on the mainland had robbed her of many things. Jon said it had tamed her; she had laughed at that and said it had maimed her, but deep down she was still the unfettered Rachel who had wandered the wild, free lands of her beloved Rhanna and whenever she came home she gradually rid herself of the chains of convention and reverted gladly to the island ways.

  Ruth had asked her to go over to Fàilte that morning but for some reason she had wanted to be alone just to think, and had promised to go over later.

  She paused for a moment to gaze at the awesome spectacle of Burg rising dramatically out of the sea. Black and forbidding it was pitted with dank caverns, criss-crossed with bare ledges where seabirds nested and screamed and drifted like snowflakes in the wind that eternally battered the exposed outcrop.

  Some of the basalt columns had become separated from the mother rock to form structures that looked like gigantic stepping stones and all around were the sharp, glistening fangs of the reefs piercing up out of the restless waves.

  Rachel caught her lip and gave a little laugh of sheer joy. She loved it, she adored its splendour and its solitude, its grandeur and its turbulence, and at times like these she wished that she wasn’t human but some drifting being who had the power to wander the wind and the storm, the oceans and the skies, for ever and ever and never feel the mortal need for human companionship and comfort.

  To be human was to want, to desire, to feel loneliness and to pine after things and people that you had thought you could do without just as long as you were free to roam the wilderness and to climb the high bens where it seemed that no other footsteps but yours had trod . . .

  She was missing Jon, it was as simple as that. She had needed to be alone, it had become imperative to her just to be by herself so that there was only the demands of her own body to be met and catered for; the freedom, the peace, had been wonderful, no rush, no hurry to obey the hands of the clock – there was only one clock at An Cala and she often forgot to wind it, the dawn, the day, the sun, the moon had been all the indications she had required to let her know that time was passing.

  But the moments, the hours, the days of solitude had served their purpose; the silence of An Cala that ha
d soothed her so much in the beginning was now becoming oppressive and though Jon had written to say that Mamma was on the mend and he would soon be joining her on Rhanna, it wasn’t soon enough for her. Hour by hour she was becoming more and more possessed by the old restlessness and she hated herself for being mercurial and foolish but could do nothing to stop the craving for excitement that was mounting within her.

  It was freezing standing there at the edge of the waves and with an impatient sigh she began to walk up the beach towards the shelter of the dunes.

  Burg Bay was vast, even with the tide coming in as it was now there was at least a quarter of a mile of shell sand and pebbly shore between the dunes and the sea. Pausing for breath, she closed her eyes for a moment. All around her was the moan of the wind and the surge of the ocean, now near, now far, pulsing, pounding, the heartbeat of the sea, mingling and merging with her own vibrantly beating heart – then she became aware of another sound, that of music, throbbing through air, time, space, powerful, passionate, compelling.

  Opening her eyes, she looked up and saw the chimneys of Tigh na Cladach. She saw the blue haze of wood smoke tossing about, she smelled its piquancy and knew its delight and quickly she walked up the beach till she could see the little garden ablaze with yellow trumpets blowing in the strong breezes – the daffodils that Megan had optimistically planted and which somehow survived the spring gales.

  From this house the music poured, swelling upwards in great crescendos of sound like the storm-lashed waves washing the winter shores. It was magnificent, breathtaking; Rachel stood entranced, her clenched fists held to her mouth.

  Down below, a stooped, black-coated figure passed by, leading a sturdy lamb on the end of a rope. Despite all Dodie’s efforts the frailest twin had died and though he had been heartbroken he had set about ensuring the health and strength of the survivor and now took it everywhere with him. It soon learned to follow him around like a faithful dog, even trotting to the wee hoosie with him when he had to obey the calls of nature.

  Rachel prayed he wouldn’t take it into his head to come and talk to her, this was her moment, her time, her personal private enjoyment of an experience so profound she felt the hot tears pricking her lids.

  But she needn’t have worried, Dodie had never been able to make much sense of her sign language – combined with his own speech difficulties it was all just too much for him. If by chance they did meet he was wont to shuffle his feet awkwardly or simply stand and stare at her as if he expected some miracle might restore her speech at any moment.

  He glanced up and saw her and the familiar ‘Tha brèeah!’ filtered to her thinly on the wind before he went on his way, his long coat flapping behind him like one of Ranald’s vampires.

  She let go her breath, then, as if drawn by a magnet, she followed the music to its source, opening the little gate set into the sturdy dyke that took so many batterings from the high, winter seas it had to be repaired every year. Tiptoeing to the window, she stood with her back to the wall and let the waves of glorious sound soak into her.

  So enthralled was she, she wasn’t aware that the music had stopped till the door in the solid stone porch was wrenched open and Herr Otto Klebb stood framed in the aperture, his head thrust forward to avoid banging it, having learned to his cost that he was too tall to go through the opening in the normal way.

  But to her it was a sign of aggression and she stared at him, her heart beating swiftly in her breast, all the sophistication and poise that had been hers for so long falling away in one short burst of apprehension so that she was left feeling like a small child who had been caught in the act of doing something that was naughty and forbidden.

  Chapter Eight

  Otto said nothing, instead, and without ado, he reached for her hand and pulled her inside, straight to the sitting room where he spun her round to face him, his expression dark and forbidding.

  Rachel held her breath; she didn’t want to feel like this, embarrassed, silly, utterly devoid of the pride that had always made her hold her head high, no matter the circumstances. She had felt more confidence on the concert platform, facing an audience of hundreds, than she did standing before this man who, in just a few short minutes, had robbed her of everything that had taken her years to master.

  Yet fierce as he appeared to her now, he had already endeared himself in the hearts of those islanders who had crossed his path. Tam and his cronies were full of him and they had forced everyone else to be full of him too. The tale of the ceilidh, his generosity and the wonderful Scottish music that had flowed effortlessly from his clever fingers had spread far and wide. He had become Mr Mystery Man Number One, and those who had walked on Burg Bay had been enchanted by the music pouring from the shorehouse, for, as well as the piano, Otto was accompanied by a full orchestral backing, using the tapes that he had brought with him to Rhanna.

  ‘It is like having a symphony concert on our very own doorstep,’ Barra McLean had enthused, even while something about Otto tugged at her memory. But for the moment she couldn’t quite think what that something was, and as she was a connoisseur of good music, she was quite content to enjoy Otto’s playing while she could. Later she might remember where she had seen him before, if indeed she had seen him at all.

  As far as everyone else was concerned he was just a man who happened to have an excellent talent for the piano, and though the kind of music he played wasn’t everyone’s cup of tea, the passion and the power of it enthralled them anyway and fitted in well with the wild, romantic setting of lonely Burg Bay.

  And now Rachel had heard that music for herself and had been even more appreciative than anyone, but she hadn’t bargained for an outcome of this nature and wished she hadn’t been so foolish as to venture near the house.

  She wanted to turn her head away in order to avoid the questions in his penetrating gaze, but no, she wasn’t going to let him see how much he had startled her! So she met his eyes with her own and as she looked at him fully for the first time awareness accelerated her already fast-beating heart. This man was no ordinary stranger! She knew who he was – he wasn’t Otto Klebb, he was Karl Gustav Langer, world-renowned concert pianist and composer, who had played in all the great concert halls of the world.

  He had composed modern classical music, for orchestra, films, and the stage and he had made recordings of all his own works as well as the great classical works of Mozart, Beethoven, Brahms and many others. Rachel had attended one of his concerts some years ago; she had been very young but she had never forgotten the experience, it was imprinted in her memory, both the music and the man.

  One of her greatest ambitions had been to play with him on the concert platform. She had played solo parts with many great symphony orchestras throughout the world but she had never achieved her ambition to play with Karl Langer, perhaps because he hadn’t been heard of so much in recent years. It had been rumoured that he had retired because of ill health; other sources said he had been weighed down by private and personal worries and had bowed out of the limelight only temporarily. Whatever the cause he had disappeared from the world stage – and now here he was, the great maestro and teacher, standing before her as large as life and twice as forbidding, his eyes raking her face as if he was trying to read her mind.

  And he did, quite brutally, as if he blamed her personally for having found out his identity. ‘You know who I am,’ he growled, a look of thunder darkening his brow. ‘I expected this moment of truth but I didn’t wish it to happen so soon and particularly when I was just beginning to enjoy my anonymity. When I encountered you at the harbour and saw the look on your face I knew that it would only be a matter of time before you recognized me. Tina told me who you were and I cursed the fates that put us on this island at the same time. Rachel Jodl, the beautiful, young violinist, already attaining dizzy heights on the international concert stage. Unable to speak but saying it all through music. You see, I know all about you, I have heard your name spoken amongst the stars; little did I think
I would bump into you on a remote Hebridean island.’

  She wanted to ask him so many things – why he had chosen Rhanna as his hideaway, where he had gleaned his knowledge about Scotland, why he was so interested in the McKinnons. She also wanted to shout at him, to tell him that she belonged here on this island, that her heart and spirit were rooted in the very soil from which she had sprung, but nothing, of course, would come out, only a very faint sobbing sound that was her soul trying to be heard.

  He studied her and he wondered if she knew how beautiful she looked with her wind-tossed black curls framing her face. The bracing air had made the roses bloom in her satin-smooth cheeks, her tall young body was graceful and sweet yet there was such an air of sensuality about her that it tantalized and teased and seemed to beckon, and all without any effort on her part. And those eyes – black and hectic with the life forces that he knew were churning inside her – at that moment they also flashed with anger, frustration and a hundred questions waiting to be answered.

  Again he seemed to read her mind and a wry smile twisted his mouth. ‘You and I, mein Frau, have come to this island for the same reasons: to rest, to recharge the batteries, to be the free spirits we can never be in public with a thousand eyes watching us. My time here will be short – six months – a year if I am lucky. I have much to do before my stay is up, I have come on a journey of discovery, a pilgrimage if you like. It will be a summer of sadness and of joy – but I go too quickly. All in the course of time, as I keep telling my good friend, Herr Tam. I only ask you not to give my little secret away. Karl Langer belongs to the world; Otto Klebb belongs on this island, everyone knows me as such.’

  Then he bent and kissed her, so suddenly she had no chance to take evasive action. His mouth was firm and warm and passionate, she didn’t struggle or move away, she was too mesmerized by the events of the morning to be surprised at any further happenings, and – something else – she was stunned and thrilled at being kissed by this man, the charismatic stranger who had turned out to be the maestro, the admired and adored Karl Gustav Langer. Famous as she herself was, it wasn’t every day that she found herself being kissed by someone of his calibre and she allowed him to kiss her, deeper and deeper till he let her go as abruptly as he had claimed her.