I hoped not to see him all through the next day, though I saw him there before me every waking minute, the heat of his arm next to mine in the moment before he moved towards me, the kiss of him breaking over me like the sea, drowning me deeper into a world where only the sea people swam, twining round and round in a dance of the sea.
For I had become a new creature now, born of a longing only for him, every minute of every hour, and as the brightness of the day began to turn towards the summer dusk then I found myself once again drawn to the glow of the lamp in his bothy, as a moth is drawn inescapably to the flame.
He was, I could see, sitting by the window, reading a book, catching the last of the light and supplementing it with the lamp.
I stood for a long while a little way along from his cottage, pressed against the flank of the old byre’s rougher stones and hidden away from the village. I could hear the sea breathing in and out, the sad calling of the birds on the shore for all the things they will never have. The dusk was erasing the steep rise of Mullach Mòr with the blue stones bleeding out from its slope, while I stood on the flagstone path, a pilgrim on the edge of all I hoped for.
There was a flutter in the light in his window and I saw that he was leaning down with his hands on the sill to look out over the sea, too restless to read. He looked out over the sweep of the bay that leaves and then returns to us at the village, and the broken part of the circle where all the Atlantic lies open and unbounded. I took a step away, but he had seen me, or felt me there perhaps, because he came to the door that stood open to the evening air, a pale figure framed in the darkness of his home. I came closer, and on his face the look of someone who has held a thing in the mind, and wonders and disbelieves to see it there.
My steps walked me towards him, solemnly, unstoppable. I stood before him on the threshold, shy of a sudden, ashamed of my boldness, my shawl pulled tight around my shoulders. Then he reached out and took my wrist so very lightly and led me inside.
I had never been alone with him at evening before, unsure what I should do or where I should go. He led the way into the kitchen, which was set out as like our own, but with a sense of makeshiftness in the things around the room, scoured as they were from abandoned things or loaned from the manse and the factor’s house. He’d taped pieces of newspaper across the top of the hearth to draw the smoke as the chimney was not ventilating away as it should that evening. There were notebooks and drying socks and baccy tins and tins of cocoa and all the untidiness of a bachelor at evening time. There was the kettle hanging from a chain as there always was, and he played the host and filled it with water from the pail and set it to boil. He took the books off one of the chairs and I sat down to watch him spoon tea from a tin and set the pot to warm in a way that was touching to see in a man. I could not settle, but walked around the room, picking up cups from the dresser as if I had never before seen them, each single thing rare and wonderful because they were his, even the line of pebbles and shells in the windowsill.
The water boiled, he tipped it in the pot and poured it into two thick mugs patterned round with blue flowers and pink lacy patterns. I sat back down in the chair, the mug, too hot to hold, set down on the kist by me, and I picked up a book, turning the pages as if this were the very thing I had come to see. Wondering in my head just what might happen if he came near, and already knowing the answer.
I stayed too long and what was done can never be undone now. He held me tight after, and said we would be married one day.
When I left and went outside I was surprised to see the bay still there and the village unchanged. Oh, but it was changed for me. I went up behind the village a way, came back along the path before the bothies so that it was not clear where I had come from, which was a deception I was ashamed of, but it was not time yet to tell the world of what Fred and I would become one day soon – what we already were. Though I knew all the happiness of it was writ clear in my face, for Fred and I had made our solemn vow to never be parted for the rest of our lives. The joy of it was so great in my chest that I longed to shout it out to the bay, but I knew I must not yet. Instead, it came out in songs and tunes that I pealed out across the hillside as I walked alone over to the glen.
CHAPTER 27
Fred
PARIS, 1941
In the hard cold of February and a thick, city fog, our next passeur appeared, or rather, our passeuse, a dark-haired woman of around thirty who wore an elegant hat and tailored suit that must have cost a small fortune. She was medium height, a generous curvy figure inside a well-cut suit, her hat tilted over dark curly hair. It seemed as though the whole of France, from poor farmers to wealthy wives, were in a secret conspiracy to thwart the great battalions of tanks that had sliced across their cornfields in early June like a plague of mechanized locusts.
We shook hands, a firm grip, warm and confident, someone used to ordering around her cook and driver, I thought. Nancy Fiocca looked more like a woman from the pages of the Tatler than someone who could cope with the strain of shepherding four English-looking men through France, especially since we were going to have to cross the tightly guarded border from occupied France into Vichy territory on foot, dodging any guards.
‘Enchanté,’ I began.
‘Oh, do speak English,’ she said, her dark eyes twinkling, a solid Aussie accent. ‘And I know what you’re all thinking, but don’t be deceived by all this beauty,’ she gave a half twirl. ‘I’m tough as old boots. All this is my secret weapon.’
Nancy, we learned, was married to a wealthy French businessman, part of the cream of Marseille society, and ready to risk her life for the four strangers before her. Along with her accent she had retained the no-nonsense capability of a girl who had grown up on a farm in the outback, caring for her brothers and sisters from a young age. She’d escaped at sixteen to travel the world, a journalist and an independent woman, determined never to marry, and ended up falling in love in Marseille.
She looked at us dubiously as we came over one by one to shake her hand.
‘I see I’m going to have to teach you lot how to walk.’
She made us slouch across the sitting room, shoulders rounded, eyes on the floor, any lessons about stand up straight or hands out of pockets banished as a dead giveaway. She examined our shoes, donated by our hostess since our army boots were another red flag. The airmen had polished their shoes, but Nancy told us to scuff them up a bit, the French didn’t have a thing about shiny shoes.
Early morning, biting cold and the smell of chicory and ersatz coffee from the cafes at the entrance of the Gare Montparnasse, the concourse echoing with the hiss of trains and loud German voices. Judging by the number of German soldiers milling around in relaxed mood, occupied Paris was considered a holiday spot for the conquerors. The guards at the ticket gate were less sanguine, scowling at each ausweis as they checked tickets. I began to feel a prickle of sweat in spite of the cold as we moved with the crowd towards them. Nancy, a few steps in front, a charming smile, held out her arms prettily saying, ‘So, who wants to search me, boys?’ Smiles all round from the German guards, laughter, a bow. We slipped through with hardly any attention paid to our papers. But there would be more guards on the train. She forbade us to open our mouths and stationed us two to a carriage to dilute the Anglo-Saxon fairness of Angus and the airmen.
Hunched in the corner, I watched the bastions of Paris tenement buildings begin to disappear as the train jerked taut and the carriages pulled away, wisps of smoke coming in a gap at the top of the window. My neighbour asked permission to close it. My eyes shut, I pretended not to have heard him. He wrapped his coat around him, shut it and sat down. It was cold in the carriage. I would have given a lot for a cup of tea. More people got on at the next stop, the train so crowded that a woman came into our carriage and stood between the seats. We were half an hour from Tours, no hitches, when Bill Bowers woke up and saw the woman standing in front of him. He automatically leapt to his feet, all six foot of him, saying in English, ‘
Please, have my seat.’
The woman thanked him in English and took his place.
I froze, a long moment waiting for the ensuing commotion. No sound but the clacking of the train. All eyes averted as if the last few moments had never taken place. Bill stood swaying in the carriage, looking sick.
At Tours, we changed to a local train, got off at a small town near the River Cher – the line of demarcation between occupied France and supposedly free Vichy France. All bridges were heavily guarded, passes examined in detail, but Nancy had other plans. A fine drizzle was sifting down, cold in the wintery afternoon. We walked a mile along the river. Nancy was looking anxious for the first time, scanning the feathery rushes and willow brush along the banks.
‘Oh, for pity’s sake.’ Then her face lit up. ‘There it is. Who wants to row?’
Angus was used to manning fishing boats out to the islands along Uist. He volunteered to be the oarsman. We were to go over in two lots, Nancy and one of the airmen going first, the two of them waiting discreetly in the wooded thicket nearby while Angus came back and the rest of us rowed over.
I was helping Angus to pull the boat up the bank ready to stow it in bushes when I was horrified to see two Germans running across the field waving their arms, guns over their shoulders.
No point in running now. We were in plain sight and it would be an open admission of our guilt to try and escape. But they didn’t swing their guns round, reached us out of breath and laughing. They wanted us to row them over. I realized they thought Angus was a ferryman.
‘Combien?’ one of them asked.
Angus did his version of a Gallic shrug.
‘Dix francs,’ the German tried.
‘Vingt,’ I said.
They got in the boat. I gathered they were talking about girls they were going to meet in Tours, an evening at a pleasant estaminet.
Nancy thought our story of charging the Reich to let us escape hilarious. ‘But remember, it’s no laughing matter if the police or the Germans pick you up. You won’t make it as far as Marseille. You’ll be interned at one of the little prison camps around here.’
Ten miles to Louches where we would pick up the train for Marseille. We walked along the edges of bare fields of stubble or faded grass, sometimes passing hamlets of low, white houses with tall shutters and slate roofs. A mist was falling, chill with fading light, the thickets of bare woodland scribbled black at the margins. I caught up with Nancy, her heart-shaped face and thick black hair beaded with fine wet, dark eyes that were direct and kind.
‘You know we can’t thank you enough. And your husband, to let you risk doing this.’
‘I am my own woman, Mr Lawson.’ She smiled to herself. ‘The truth is, he backs me up one hundred per cent. Just one of the many reasons I love him. And I expect there’s someone special you’re longing to get home to.’
‘There was someone, once. We lost touch.’
‘Well, you’ve got to find her. Whatever went wrong?’
I walked on for a while, turning her question over. ‘I suppose I was young and too proud to ever try and really understand what happened. I let the years pass by.’
‘As soon as you get back. D’you hear me, Mr Lawson? If she’s the one, rip down every wall and find her.’
Ahead of us the pointed towers of a small town pricked the mist. Thankfully, the station halt was a little set apart. It was worrying to see two of the French police in their black uniforms going through each carriage as we boarded, but they were simply checking that the windows were sufficiently blacked out.
Nancy’s words, spelled out in her firm Australian accent, stayed with me as the train rocked its way towards the coast. Why had I given up? Too ready to believe the world had no happy endings, no good hearts. And yet here, in the middle of a war, I was finding people of such courage and kindness, people who would endanger their lives for a stranger.
And where was my courage? Oh, Chrissie, my dear, I had been a coward.
CHAPTER 28
Fred
ST KILDA, 1927
The end of August and Archie was back at last. I could see him standing up and waving on the dinghy from the tourist boat, the sightseers in their gabardines and woollen coats looking up in alarm.
Back in the cottage, he unpacked new books and provisions. Clearly, he meant to work.
And I could tell that he was in a strange mood.
He’d been down to London and joined in with what they call the season. ‘A host of girls in white looking for a man to trap,’ he muttered into a glass of whisky as the peat smoke soaked into his jersey that evening, evicting the lye and lavender of the Dunvegan laundries.
‘And were any of them successful?’
He bent to place another crumbling brick on the flames, young peat with the white turf roots curling in the heat and then dissolving.
‘Tedious, the whole business. Honestly, what do they want from us? They lead you on with a merry dance. You put one foot wrong and it’s all hell to pay.’
‘You mean there’s been an understanding?’
He laughed. ‘What? Am I engaged? Oh, I think not. They won’t let their precious daughters near me at the moment. There was a certain girl I liked – that much I’ll admit – but you know how girls like to make a fuss. All I wanted was to get back here where at least people are honest about what they want. I tell you, a girl from here would blow ten of those snooty types out of the water any day.’ He put down his glass, closing down the topic. ‘And so how have you been here?’ He gave me all his attention, sitting forward, firmly instigating a more cheerful tone.
‘One would always like more time, but I can see my paper being finished soon. Perhaps, even, by the beginning of term.’
‘Now I’m jealous. I should follow your example. There’s the reward of not wasting one’s time on the fair sex.’
I was quiet, dropping my head, deciding not to bring up Chrissie since he’d been so down on the whole topic of sweethearts, but he knew me too well.
‘Something else you have to tell me?’
‘I have to confess. Something did occur. That is, a realization.’
‘Spit it out, man.’ He took a large sip from the glass.
‘Chrissie. I’ve spent some time with her of late. And it seems to me... in fact, I know it. I really am very much in love with Chrissie.’
‘Chrissie, from here, from St Kilda? We are talking about the same village girl?’
‘Why, yes.’
‘Look, she’s a fine girl. We all love her, but it’s not really something one takes seriously.’
‘No, you are not listening to me. I’ve never been more serious in my life. I love her. I want to spend the rest of my life with her.’
‘And what does she have to say?’
‘She feels the same way.’
‘And so how far has this gone?’
‘I’m going to marry her.’
‘Now, hang on a moment. You think you are going to take Chrissie back to Cambridge with you? Your wife? Can you see that?’
‘Well, not easily, but there’s always a way when—’
‘Or are you thinking of staying here for ever? Climb down the rocks and wring birds’ necks for your supper. Fine to live the bucolic dream for a few months, Fred, dear boy, but for a lifetime? You’ve let this place rot your brains. You’ve let her sink her claws into you, like a cat with its prey, and you’ll not come out of it well if you keep up with this idea, I promise you.’
I laughed. ‘These are dark predictions. Chrissie Gillies is a wonderful girl, intelligent, strong, clear-headed.’
‘You have to break it off now.’
‘I can’t. I won’t.’
He put down his glass. His face was hard. ‘What promises has she got out of you? You don’t have to throw your life away in recompense for one heated moment.’
I felt the blood in my face, to have what we shared reduced to such a base transaction. ‘It isn’t like that.’
He stared at me
, eyes wide, and whistled. ‘So it has gone that far. And now you think you have to marry the little trollop.’
‘You can’t speak like that about Chrissie. And please. We’ll tell everyone soon enough, but for now, please, this is in confidence. You are the only one who knows about us.’
‘Listen to me, Fred, you really aren’t thinking. Drop this whole sorry business and come back with me to civilization. We’ll finish up here as fast as possible and then we’ll leave, before you go completely native and lose all you have achieved.’
‘I won’t change my mind.’
‘We’ll see.’ He poured another measure, drained it and banged down the glass. ‘That’s me turning in then.’ Standing up, he lingered a moment, looking at the blue flames across the peat. ‘You do know what this is really about, don’t you?’
‘What this is about?’
‘Chrissie and I, we go back years, to when we were children. And I admit I’ve always had a soft spot for the girl. The mistake I made was some childish promise we’d marry some day. I’d forgotten all about it, but I realize now how much she was hoping. It’s entirely ridiculous, and I’ve tried to let her down gently, tried not to hurt her feelings. But once Chrissie has an idea, she doesn’t give up, especially where pride is involved. Don’t you see that all this is just an attempt on her part to make me jealous?’
I studied his face, so sharp and taut. ‘So let me see if I have this correctly. This is all about Chrissie trying to get your attention?’
‘Well, yes. I’m sorry.’
‘Archie, go to bed. I think the world will keep on turning if you shut your eyes and fall asleep a while. It may even be a better place for it.’
‘I tried to warn you.’
All night I lay and worried that I’d told Archie too much. And I was angry with him for the cheap doubts he had cast on Chrissie’s love. I had always understood that Archie carried a wound, growing up as he did; his brother in the full sun of his father’s affections, Archie left in the cold shade. I’d always made allowances for my oldest and truest friend, forgiven his occasional spiteful outburst.
The Lost Lights of st Kilda Page 16