We Fought for Ardnish

by Angus MacDonald

  My parents were waiting at the station. I buried my face in my mother’s neck, unable to hold back my tears. Mother held me at arm’s length and regarded me intently. ‘We were told you were dead,’ she sobbed. ‘We mourned for months. I was prepared to mourn for ever.’

  I couldn’t speak. Instead, we three hugged each other tightly.

  ‘Why the crutches, darling?’ Mother asked. ‘Have you sprained your ankle?’

  Mother was always the talker, the gregarious one, the optimist. I could tell my father had felt my withered arm when he hugged me, but he didn’t mention it. Typically, he would wait for me to explain. We climbed into my parents’ new Buick – the scent of shiny new leather was lovely – and drove home.

  As we entered the house, I felt dizzy. It looked and smelled exactly as I remembered, exactly how I had visualised it in my darkest moments. I walked from the hallway into the sitting room, stroking the furniture, feeling the curtains, absorbing everything.

  ‘Your mother didn’t say earlier,’ Father said, ‘but we received a most sympathetic and charming letter from a fellow soldier of yours.’

  I could feel the hairs stand up on the back of my neck. ‘Really?’ I replied as calmly as I could.

  ‘Yes. He, too, believed you were dead and wanted to offer his sympathy. Try as we might we couldn’t get any information at all about where you were. Top secret, we were told. In fact, come to think of it, another letter arrived, addressed to you this time, with French stamps on it. It arrived a couple of days ago.’

  I was itching to get my hands on the letters but I forced myself to spend time with my parents, catching up on the family news.

  At last, Mother handed me the letters and I went to my bedroom to read them in private. And then I read them again. And again.

  My eyes filled with tears of happiness. How lovely it was to have him share my own feelings! Clutching the letters to my breast, I twirled around the room, oblivious to the pain in my feet. I was floating in mid-air, giddy. I wanted to write back immediately – but where was he? France, most likely, though by now he could have been in Scotland, London, anywhere. I rushed downstairs to tell my parents everything.

  ‘Your face is lighting up the whole house,’ said Mother. ‘It’s good to see you looking so well.’

  The familiarity of home was such a comfort: the predictable yet delicious food, my parents looking so healthy, the endless chatter. And now this love letter. What more could a homecoming soldier want?

  I should have been carried along on a tide of euphoria, yet over the following two weeks, as the pace of life slowed from frantic celebration to normal daily routines, the horrors I’d been through began to seep into my mind. I had nightmares of the torture I had endured and I would wake up screaming and thrashing around in a sweat. My mother would rush in to hold me, to try to settle me down, but the thought of falling asleep and having to face again these images terrified me. I grew more and more exhausted and emotional.

  My parents were all too aware of my mental state, but I couldn’t talk to them about what had happened. My father had heard from the dentist that my original fillings had been removed and replaced with poor quality ones, and what with my injured arm and smashed-up toes, they definitely knew I’d experienced something extremely untoward. They tried to question me gently, but I would just shrug and say something bland. Soon, my tone of voice made it clear I wanted no further interrogation. The misery I was going through must have been almost as distressing for them but there was nothing I could do. My parents weren’t even aware of the fact that I’d been an agent in France let alone of what had been done to me in Sallanches. I vowed never to tell them.

  My mother coaxed me along to social events and invited my old girlfriends around – some of whom had delightful children – but everyone could see how depressed I was and they soon gave up. My father did a remarkable job fixing my damaged feet. I wanted to be able to go for long walks as soon as spring arrived and that was now a possibility, but I knew my arm would never regain its former strength. I had written to Angus via the SOE HQ at Baker Street, but after two months hadn’t heard back. It was crushing. When my mother had given me those letters on my return home I allowed myself to believe that we might have a future together, but that hope was flickering now. I stopped rushing to be the first to get to the post.

  Michelle came to stay for a few days from Halifax. She was a down-to-earth, cheerful sort who worked as a reporter for the Halifax Herald, and I felt more relaxed with her. She and I would go for walks around the town; I could do three miles now without crutches and without too much pain. My parents were thrilled to have her there. We shared a bedroom; this was Michelle’s idea to see if I would settle, and I think it helped.

  ‘What is the name of the regiment Angus is in again?’ she asked one morning, looking at me over the top of the newspaper.

  ‘The Lovat Scouts.’

  ‘A Scottish regiment has just arrived at the transit camp at Windsor, but it doesn’t say which regiment. They’re quarantined with scarlet fever, poor things . . .’

  *

  One day, I was sitting on the porch looking out to sea when I noticed I a man on horseback coming along the main road towards the house. It was a common enough occurrence and I went back inside, being disinclined to engage in conversation with strangers. My father was climbing into his car. Through the kitchen window I could hear them talking.

  ‘Yes, that’s me,’ my father said. ‘Why don’t you come up to the house?’

  My heart sank. I didn’t care for visitors.

  A few seconds later, Father entered the kitchen, the visitor in his wake. ‘Look who I have here,’ he said quietly.

  Our eyes locked together. Neither of us moved for an age. Angus stepped towards me and pulled me into a tight hug. Not a word was said.

  I eased away and recovered myself. ‘Father, this is my soldier from Scotland.’

  Father was late for a visit with a patient so made his excuses. Mother, who had heard the voices and come downstairs, fussed around Angus and chattered away in French. Angus and I could only glance at each other as she monopolised the conversation. My heart was pounding and my face was flushed. I slipped upstairs to calm myself down, put on some lipstick and brush my hair.

  A little later I suggested that we go for a walk along the river, so we could have time to ourselves. Mother was enjoying the new guest so much that she was all set to join us, but my furious whispering persuaded her otherwise.

  ‘Your mother’s lovely,’ said Angus, ‘I’m so glad to have met them at last.’ He turned to face me. ‘I can’t quite believe this. An hour ago I was expecting to be consoling two weeping parents and talking about what a gorgeous daughter they had. Instead I arrive and there’s sunshine, daffodils and lambs all around!’ We laughed as he repeated a favourite line of his that I’d heard before.

  We talked politely about the weather, my sister in Montreal, how he had enjoyed his ride here, how the regiment was quarantined – everything, in fact, but what had happened to each of us over the last year.

  I had to bring up the topic, so I took a deep breath and asked the question: ‘So, tell me, Angus, what have you been doing this past year?’

  ‘All training,’ he replied. ‘Going around various locations, and a wonderful couple of months in the Rockies. I didn’t want to leave. If I didn’t have Ardnish to go home to, I’d go and live there. Mountains, snow, sunshine, lovely people, what else could you ask for?’

  ‘I’m glad you’re safe and well,’ I replied.

  We settled on the riverbank and glanced awkwardly at each other.

  ‘Françoise, it’s your turn to tell all,’ he encouraged.

  ‘First of all, I’m not Françoise,’ I said, squirming a bit with my subterfuge. ‘That was my nom de guerre. My real name is Sophie Lacroix.’

  ‘I know,’ replied Angus, grinning. ‘Baker Street told me. I got to know them pretty well. I was constantly pestering them about you.’

&
nbsp; ‘I don’t want to talk about these things, Angus. I’m sorry. Not yet.’ I paused, seeing his crestfallen expression. ‘But I will tell you that I was taken to Fresnes Prison. I had a lucky break when the partisans freed one of their own from a prison vehicle I was in. I took the chance and escaped in Paris. I walked the length of France, mainly at night, before meeting up with the Maquis and getting a boat back to England. Then I was shipped back here a couple of months ago.’ I looked at him pleadingly. ‘Please don’t ask any more. Oh, and my parents know nothing so please don’t call me Françoise. You’ll confuse them!

  We had been sitting a little apart from each other. At that moment, looking into my eyes, Angus took my hands, raised them to his lips and kissed them.

  Michelle was right – I had fallen in love.

  Chapter 17

  Angus

  That night, I tried to respond to Mrs Lacroix’s many questions about my time in the army, my family, Scotland, and the peninsula that I came from as best I could in French. I brushed off questions about where Sophie and I had met as it seemed their daughter had told them little about her last year.

  ‘I’ve travelled widely now and I can tell you that, even though it’s lovely here, on an early summer’s day, lying on the beach in front of my village, when the sun is on the hills opposite, the sea is glistening, and eagles are soaring above you, everyone would want to live there. I was blessed with the happiest childhood.’

  Of course, I was exaggerating the beauty of Ardnish to try to interest Sophie in the place.

  ‘My grandfather, Donald John, was in effect my father as I grew up, but he died at the end of January when I was in the Rockies. He was an old man and he slipped away peacefully, but it was still a shock. I’d seen him quite recently, and he’d been in fine fettle.’

  Sophie touched my arm. ‘I’m so sorry, Angus.’

  I squeezed her hand. ‘It’s the end of an era for Peanmeanach, my village. There are only three people on Ardnish now – my mother, my grandmother and her friend Mairi – and none of them were born there. When my father was growing up there were twenty-five people and three settlements, and a hundred years ago there were six communities on the peninsula.’

  I took a sheet of paper and sketched Ardnish. ‘This is our church, and the four-mile path down to Peanmeanach. Singing Sands is a glorious beach just half a mile beyond, and there were people living on the western point when I was young, but they are long since dead. Loch na Uamh, here, is where the ship sank that may well have French treasure on it. And there’s a golden eagle that nests there, and this is where the best fishing is to be had.’

  ‘It sounds glorious,’ said Mrs Lacroix.

  I turned back to my drawing. ‘Laggan is the farmhouse that I’ll take over – it’s here. It needs some work on it now, but it’s a beautiful spot.’ I pointed out Roshven, Arisaig and Inverailort Houses, and where the islands of Eigg, Rum, Muck and Canna lay in relation to the village. ‘The land is owned by the estate and it’s not great farmland anyway. The sea provides a basic living, but it can be miserable and dangerous, especially in the winter. Aside from the farm there’s little money to be made.’

  I explained to them about my tenancy of the farm and how it made a good income at the moment, but that my newly widowed grandmother was in her eighties and no longer wanted to run the farm. ‘The women are waiting for me to return, and then they’ll move away.’

  ‘So what are your plans?’ asked Sophie.

  I hesitated. ‘Well, first I need to go back to the army. There’s a big push on and the end seems to be in sight . . .’ I didn’t want to talk any more about the farm to Sophie and her parents. It was far too soon. What was I thinking? ‘I need to be back in Mabou in three days’ time to meet Andrew and then we go back to Halifax.’

  That night as I lay in bed I suddenly heard a voice shrieking loudly in panic. I came out of my room and listened. Sophie was being comforted by her mother, sobbing quietly now. Perturbed, I slipped back into my room where I lay awake imagining the worst.

  The next morning, no mention was made of the incident.

  ‘I’ve arranged to borrow a horse,’ said Sophie, ‘so we can ride upriver and have a picnic. I know a lovely spot.’

  As we rode alongside each other we chatted.

  ‘Mother thinks you’re perfect,’ said Sophie. ‘A handsome, gallant captain – an officer now! Riding up on your charger. It was so kind of you to write and then to come and visit them.’

  The countryside around Chéticamp was pleasant; new grass was sprouting through the ground that had been covered in deep snow for six months and the river was in full spate due to the snowmelt. We dismounted by a waterfall and tethered the horses.

  ‘My friends from school and I always came here to swim,’ she said. ‘You can jump off the rocks into the water over there. Do you want to?’

  Keen though I was to impress her, I shivered at the thought. ‘It’ll be freezing!’ I said. ‘Let’s just enjoy our picnic.’

  After gorging ourselves on delicious lobster on homebaked bread, Sophie turned to me shyly and said, ‘Angus, I need to show you something so you might understand.’

  Watching for my reaction, she took off her coat and pullover, and rolled up the sleeve of her blouse.

  Involuntarily, I put my hand to my mouth. ‘My God, Sophie, I had no idea. What have they done to you?’

  ‘I had a bad time in France,’ she said. ‘I’m damaged – and not just physically. My arm was badly broken and my feet are in a mess. I know you must have heard me screaming last night. I have nightmares that are so awful I’m scared to go to sleep. Father gives me pills to help, but if I take them they just prolong the nightmares . . . Angus, I don’t think we can become too close. I would make your life miserable, too.’

  She started to cry. I put my arm around her and pulled her to me as her body shook. I held her face, wet with tears, in my hands and kissed it all over. ‘Don’t you worry, my darling, we can beat your demons together.’

  ‘Thank you for coming, thank you for coming to me,’ she said again and again as I rocked her gently.

  ‘There are men who come back to their wives from the trenches who never talk again – broken men. But you and I will fight through it and win, I promise. I can help. I want to help.’

  At last, she smiled. ‘Can I ride with you to Mabou when you go?’

  ‘I’d love it,’ I replied.

  That evening, as Sophie and her mother prepared supper, the doctor and I settled in the sitting room and shared a brandy.

  He looked at me. ‘My friend, I can see how important you are to my daughter. With you here, she is happy. Before you arrived she wouldn’t see her old friends, wouldn’t eat, had the worst nightmares. I’m only a general practitioner, I have no idea what to do with a patient in this psychological state. Few soldiers have returned to this area. My wife and I are glad you’re taking Sophie away for a few days, though we’re worried about how she’ll be when you return to your battalion.’

  I had been concerned that he wouldn’t be happy about us going off together. After all, they had only known me for a short time. But I could tell that he was desperate to see his daughter happy again, and for that reason was prepared to overlook his religious concerns.

  Our ride down the coast was glorious. Farmers were working their horses in the fields and we could see tiny fishing boats bobbing just offshore. Sophie became more animated as she told me all about Cape Breton and the way of life here.

  We arrived at an inn just north of Inverness and shyly registered as Mr and Mrs Gillies. We could not look at each other as we signed the book at reception and then, giggling, took our bags up to our bedroom.

  We lay side by side, gazing into each other’s eyes and gently caressing each other. We had known even before we left Chéticamp that we would make love here tonight, for the first time.

  But as I began to explore Sophie’s body more intimately, she suddenly became distressed. Her face contorted and her b
ody was writhing away from me.

  She lay against me, sobbing gently. ‘I’m so sorry, Angus. All I can see is Kaufmann. I just can’t tell you what he put me through.’

  I reassured her with soft words and she soon fell asleep in my arms, but my mind was racing. What had that monster done to my beautiful Sophie? To her body, mind and soul?

  And yet, as shocked as I was, I knew that she was the one for me. I loved her. It was that simple.

  The next morning, Sophie turned to me, squeezed my hand. ‘I need to tell you what happened to me, so that you’ll understand me.’

  And over the next hour, she told me everything. I sat in silence until she was finished, and then embraced her gently. She was composed and self-assured again. Something dark had lifted.

  *

  That evening we found ourselves in Mabou. The contrast was extraordinary. It was as if we had ridden from deepest France to the Highlands of Scotland. There was a Maclean Road, a MacLennan Road and a Macdonald Lane. The letterboxes were labelled MacDonald, Rankin, MacEachern. It was impossible to see how the two communities, so close geographically, could mix. Here Gaelic was spoken and in Chéticamp it was nothing but French.

  Andrew had arrived with Sheena shortly before us, full of tales of the mill. They gave a warm welcome to Sophie. ‘Ah, the girl we heard so much about, and alive and well too.’

  ‘I’ve never worked so hard in my life as at the mill,’ said Andrew. ‘Even the fifteen-year-olds were stronger than me. I loved every minute of it. Let’s ring the adjutant tomorrow before we set off; there’s a ceilidh at Glencoe Hall and I’d love to go to if we have time.’

  Sheena had arranged for a few of the locals to come over for supper. ‘They’re all from the Braes,’ she said to Andrew, ‘so their parents and grandparents would have known your people.’