by Valpy, Fiona
‘We’re being watched.’ He pointed upwards and she lay back, too, to follow the lazy circles that the eagle drew as it spiralled ever higher, climbing on a thermal over the hills. Alec reached for a pair of binoculars that he’d tucked into the hamper alongside the sandwiches and ginger beer. He handed them across to her and she focused the sights, just able to make out the graceful, finger-like primary feathers at the end of each wing. She passed the binoculars back and Alec took his turn. After a few minutes, he sat up and scanned the hills on the far side of the loch.
‘That eagle’s not the only one watching us,’ he said with a grin. He pointed towards the shoulder of land above the eastern shore, where she could just make out the grey walls of a concrete hut, one of many that had sprung up around the loch in the past months. ‘That’s the signal station. I’d better be on my best behaviour, because your brother is keeping an eye on me.’ He handed the binoculars back to her.
‘How do you know Ruaridh is on duty today?’ Flora asked, squinting through the scopes to try to see.
‘Look to the left, just beside the hut. What can you see?’
‘There’s what looks like a signal flag tied to a stick. A blue cross on a white background. What does it mean?’ Flora asked.
Alec laughed. ‘It stands for the letter X. Which is also used to signal the message “Stop carrying out your intentions and watch for my signals.” It’s your brother, all right. See, he hasn’t run it up the official signalling mast. It’s meant just for us. Or, more probably, for me!’
‘Well, what a cheek! I’m sure your intentions are nothing but honourable.’
Alec propped himself on one elbow, watching her profile as she scanned the landscape with the field glasses.
‘They certainly are honourable. But I do have intentions, you know, Flora, where you are concerned.’
She set aside the binoculars, laughing. ‘And may I ask just what those intentions might be, Alec Mackenzie-Grant?’
His expression was suddenly serious as he reached out a finger to brush a tendril of hair from her cheek. ‘I intend to spend the rest of my life with you, Flora Gordon. If you’ll have me, that is. I can’t give you a formal proposal just yet, as I have a few hurdles to cross before I’m in a position to do so. But once both of our families have realised how serious I am about you, once I’ve had a chance to square it with your father and mine, I’ll be asking you. Just so’s you know, in case you were in any doubt.’
She lay on her side, facing him, watching the play of sunlight and shadows on his face, and then she said, ‘I have no doubts whatsoever where you are concerned, Alec. But you were engaged to another woman just a few months ago. I’m not at all sure this is very proper.’
He picked up a fistful of sand and watched it trickle through his fingers, opening his palm to let the wind scatter the last grains across the beach. ‘I’m ashamed to say that I allowed my father to talk me into the idea of marrying Diana. A very suitable match, he said it would be. My heart was never in it. And clearly neither was hers, given the speed with which she replaced me once she got back to London. I won’t make a mistake like that again.’
‘Yes, but I don’t think your father will feel I’m the least bit suitable. The keeper’s daughter? For the son of the laird? We’re from two different worlds, you and me.’
He shook his head, his dark eyes alight suddenly, with the strength of his feelings. ‘This war has changed everything. There is only one world now, a world united in this fight. Don’t you see, Flora – the barriers have come down? And it’s made me realise what I really want in life.’ He hesitated, then reached for her hand, his fingers meshing with hers. ‘Who I really want. It’s you, Flora. It has only ever really been you.’
He gathered her close and she pressed her hands against his chest, feeling the warmth of his skin and the beat of his heart through the rough wool of his jersey. And then she raised her lips to his and sealed their promise of a future together with a kiss.
After lunch, they climbed back into the boat and Alec steered a course that hugged the western side of the loch, below the white cottages at Cove where the road became a rough track. They waved to Mrs Kennedy who was pegging her washing on the line in front of her croft house, white sheets billowing like sails in the stiff breeze, and then Alec brought the boat in close to the rock arch so that they could get a look at the nesting gulls whose calls filled the air and whose droppings whitewashed the dark craggy rocks in streaks and splashes.
Finally, as the sun slipped behind the hills of Gairloch and the waters of Loch Ewe began to darken, they turned the boat homewards.
The jetty was deserted as they offloaded their belongings. Alec made the boat fast and then they made their way back to his car. As he stowed everything in the boot, Flora glanced upwards, her attention captured by the sound of tapping from a dormer window on the top floor of the Carmichaels’ house. Following her gaze, Alex grinned and waved at the sight of Stuart and Davy, who had their noses pressed against the glass. With a struggle, Stuart managed to free the catch on the window and push it open.
‘Be careful,’ Flora called. ‘Don’t lean out like that; you might fall.’
‘What are you two rascals up to?’ Alec asked.
‘Nothing much,’ answered Stuart with a shrug. ‘We forgot the time when we were fishing and we didn’t get the digging done, so Mrs C has locked us in our room with no tea. We’re starving, ’cause we didn’t get much lunch neither. Mr C and her are away out now, for a meeting at the kirk. Davy’s been crying,’ he added.
‘You’d be greetin’, too, if your belly was hurting something cruel like mine is,’ his brother retorted. Then he leaned on the windowsill again, craning his neck to get a clearer view of the couple. ‘That ginger beer was awfy good,’ he said wistfully. ‘Is there any left?’
‘Sorry, no. I’m afraid we drank the other bottle. Tell you what, though . . .’ Alec rummaged in the hamper. ‘There’s a corned beef sandwich here, and a hard-boiled egg. We just need to find a way to get them up to you.’
‘Wait a sec,’ shouted Stuart, excited now. ‘I’ve got my fishing line here.’
A minute later, the line descended and Alec was able to catch the end without snagging himself on it. He wound the line around the neck of a paper bag containing the remnants of their picnic and secured it with the hook. ‘Easy does it! Wind it in slowly, that’s it.’
Triumphantly, the boys hauled in their catch with a cheer.
‘Don’t you go telling on us now,’ laughed Alec. ‘I wouldn’t want to have Mrs Carmichael after me.’
‘And just you remember to make sure you do as she says next time, boys,’ Flora warned.
‘We will, I promise. And we’ll not say a word. Thanks, Miss Flora, and Miss Flora’s sweetheart. You’ve saved us from proper starvation,’ Stuart called back.
‘His name’s Alec,’ she told him, smiling.
As they pulled away, Alec remarked, ‘So I’m officially Miss Flora’s sweetheart now, am I? Well, this certainly has been a red-letter day, despite the best efforts of Signalman Gordon.’
By way of a reply, she rested her head on his shoulder and he drove her back to Keeper’s Cottage in contented silence.
Lexie, 1978
Daisy enjoys herself thoroughly at Elspeth’s when we go to the playgroup. To my surprise, so do I. I feel a little awkward at first when Elspeth introduces me to the others, my years away making an incomer of me and a stranger in my own community. But children are a great icebreaker, and by the time Elspeth brings through the mugs of coffee on a tin tray we’ve already bonded over the sharing out of toys and a packet of sponge fingers. Daisy sits regally in the middle of a tartan rug, sucking the sugar from her biscuit, while Jack hands her a series of wooden animals from his Noah’s Ark. She sets each one carefully in her lap, unsure of what to do with them but pleased with the gifts nonetheless.
The other children are a little older, three self-assured toddlers who push cars up and down the r
amp of a wooden garage and build towers of plastic blocks that can be knocked down with cries of glee.
‘Typical boys,’ smiles Elspeth. ‘It’s nice to have Daisy here to tip the balance a bit.’
One of the other mums pats her belly, which is swollen with pregnancy. ‘Maybe this one’ll be a lassie, too,’ she says. Then she turns to me with a grin. ‘It’s about time. I’ve three boys already.’
I kneel on the rug to remove a lump of soggy sponge finger from Daisy’s curls, and Jack – ever the perfect host – brings me a brightly coloured xylophone. I take the sticks that he proffers with it and pick out the opening notes of ‘The White Cockade’. He looks surprised at first, then grins as I softly hum the tune for him and Daisy beats time with the sticky remnants of her biscuit.
When I hand him the sticks to have a go himself, he passes them back to me. ‘More,’ he says, firmly.
‘Okay,’ I say, and sing the opening lines of ‘The Skye Boat Song’. It doesn’t seem to matter to Jack and Daisy that my voice is a little rough around the edges. One by one, the other mums join in with the familiar words, ‘Speed, bonny boat, like a bird on the wing . . .’ And their boys put down their cars and bricks and come to listen.
‘Would you look at that?’ exclaims Elspeth when we finish a repeat of the final chorus. ‘It’s said that singing will charm the seals from the loch but I never thought it could bring the wee boys away from their games. They love it.’
‘Och, all kids love music,’ I say, passing the xylophone to one of the toddlers who is showing a keen interest in the sounds it makes.
‘It reminds me of how we used to hear those songs sung when we were wee. Our parents’ generation was brought up with them – playing, too. My dad learned the fiddle when he was tiny but somehow he never had time to teach me, or if he did, I didn’t have the inclination to learn.’ Elspeth rummages in the toy box and brings out a tambourine, which she hands to Jack.
‘They’re not taught at school either these days. There’s not so much time for music in the curriculum now,’ chips in one of the mums.
‘More’s the pity – look how much they enjoy it.’ Another of the mums nods at the group of toddlers who are now enthusiastically banging on anything they can lay their hands on in an attempt to continue the singing session.
‘Maybe we could include some of the songs whenever we get together? Teach them ourselves?’
‘Great idea,’ says Elspeth. ‘Lexie can keep us right.’ She gives my arm a pat. ‘You know the tunes, after all, and you can remember way more of the words than I can. I’ve forgotten half of them these days.’
‘I’d need to brush up a bit,’ I reply. ‘But I’m sure there’s an old songbook of Mum’s at the cottage. I’ll dig it out.’
Elspeth nods. ‘Your mum was the one who really knew all the songs. I remember how she’d sing as she cooked the stovies for our tea on days when I came back to yours to do our homework together.’
Soon after that, playtime descends into chaos as the children grow hungry and tired. I scoop up my dishevelled daughter, who is now attempting to chew the head off a wooden giraffe, wiping the gummy residue of biscuit from her fingers. ‘Time to go home, Daisy-Mae.’
At the door, I thank Elspeth for the morning. She gives me a hug, closing the last few inches of distance between us.
‘See you next time. It’s good having you home, Lexie,’ she says.
And those words make my heart feel as if it were a balloon on the end of a string, lightening my steps as I turn Daisy’s baby pushchair towards Keeper’s Cottage with a final wave to the others.
As we pass the jetty, another figure waves to us from beside a pile of creels. I raise a hand in salute.
‘Bat,’ remarks Daisy, approvingly.
‘Hello, Davy.’
His long legs, clad in his usual oilskin bib-and-brace trousers, cover the distance between us in just a few strides. His Land Rover is parked outside the house beside us, I realise. It’s one of the larger homes in the village, with dormer windows below its slate roof and a well-tended garden behind a wooden gate.
‘Hi, Lexie. And hello to you, too, Miss Daisy. Been socialising over at Elspeth’s, have you?’
I nod. And realise that I don’t mind that he knows how I’ve spent my morning. For a change, it feels reassuring rather than claustrophobic, the way that this small community watches over me and my daughter.
‘Well, I’m glad I caught you,’ he says. ‘The weather’s set fair for a couple of days. If you’re free tomorrow it’ll be an opportunity to come out in the boat. If you’d still like to, that is.’
‘Bat,’ Daisy says again, beaming at him and kicking her feet in the air.
We both laugh.
‘I’ll take that as a yes, then.’ Davy grins.
‘Okay,’ I say. ‘What should I bring?’
‘Just make sure you’re both warmly dressed. It’s always a wee bit chillier once we get out on the water. Pack some extra layers too. Some juice for Daisy, maybe? I’ve got life jackets and everything else we’ll be needing. We can leave mid-morning and have a bit of lunch on the boat if you’re happy to stay out a wee bit longer. But we can play it by ear, let you get your sea legs and see how the two of you like it.’
‘Thanks, Davy, that sounds great. It’s a date.’ I say the words without thinking, then catch myself and blush furiously. ‘I mean, it’s not a date-date, obviously. I just mean we’d love to . . . we’d really enjoy . . .’ I tail off in confusion.
His grey-blue eyes crinkle in amusement, but he keeps a straight face, kindly pretending not to notice the fool I’m making of myself. ‘I’ll come and pick you up at the cottage, then, shall I? About ten-thirty?’
And I smile and nod again, thankful for the breeze from the loch that cools my blazing cheeks. As I push Daisy homewards, I find that the balloon-on-the-end-of-a-string feeling is still with me and realise that under my breath, I’m humming to myself again.
True to his word, Davy pulls up in front of Keeper’s Cottage at ten-thirty sharp. He strides up the path, whistling, and I hurry to open the door. I pull on my wellies and jacket, scooping up Daisy who is already bundled into so many warm layers that she resembles an overstuffed teddy bear, her arms sticking out almost at right angles from the sides of her well-padded body. Davy stows the bags containing extra clothes, hats and gloves, nappies, a changing mat, a double-handled cup with a spout, two bottles of milk, a carton of apple juice, a bunch of bananas and a packet of custard creams into the back of the Land Rover.
‘I was only planning on going as far as Firemore Bay,’ he says cheerfully. ‘Looks like you’re ready for an Atlantic crossing!’
The loch is calm beneath a wide blue sky, its shallows and depths casting shot-silk stripes of light and shade across its surface. Along the shore, oystercatchers step purposefully across the sand, intent on picking out cockles or searching for mussels among the rocks to feed their young. Davy points out a pair of red-throated divers, who lift their long beaks skywards as we pass, showing off the silvered patches on their snakelike necks that will turn to blazes of scarlet in the summer.
The Bonnie Stuart is already tied up alongside the jetty and Davy jumps on board first, reaching back to take Daisy from me and then offering me a steadying hand as I step on to the deck. ‘Here you go,’ he says, handing me a pair of life jackets, one small, one large. ‘You can sit over there, if you like, and I’ll get us underway.’
I perch on the wooden bench that runs along one side of the boat and fasten the clips on Daisy’s life jacket. She waves her starfish hands happily at the gulls that swoop and circle in the blue above us in anticipation of a feeding opportunity as Davy starts the engine.
‘I’ve a few lines of creels to check and then we’ll head for the western shore,’ Davy calls over his shoulder from the wheelhouse. I nod and give him the thumbs-up, settling Daisy in my lap and holding her safe in the circle of my arms as we pull away from the jetty. Her eyes grow big and round as s
he watches a broad stretch of water begin to unfurl between us and the land. I plant a reassuring kiss on her forehead and she turns to give me her biggest smile, happy to be exploring this new element. The Bonnie Stuart cuts an easy path through the water, leaving a ribbon of lace foaming in our wake.
First we head towards the southern end of the loch, where a high pier juts from the shore beneath the pine-clad hills. It’s one of the few wartime installations that’s still in use, Davy explains, as a refuelling point for naval vessels. He points out some of the other remnants of the war – the grey stumps of concrete lookout posts, a signalling station and the anti-aircraft positions that once ringed Loch Ewe, protecting the ships that gathered here as the convoys mustered. And he shows me the black tideline that rings the rocks of the loch shore, where a slick of oil that floated on the water’s surface from all those ships once painted an indelible Plimsoll line, separating the tufts of heather and lichen above from the bare grey rocks below. It’s hard to picture how it must have looked when the loch was jam-packed with ships. Nowadays the water is crystal clear again, and its mirror-like surface reflects the hills around us.
‘It’s fine and calm today,’ he remarks. ‘But we’ll still stick to the shelter of the loch. Even on a day like this, there’ll be more of a swell out there on the open water. The Blue Men of the Minch never rest for long.’
He notices my quizzical look. ‘Och, and you call yourself a local? Have you never heard that particular piece of folklore, Lexie Gordon? The Blue Men are storm kelpies, sea spirits who inhabit the stretch of water out there that separates us from the outer isles. They’re always up to no good, looking out for sailors to drown and ships to sink. They’re said to have the power to summon up storms. The waters of the Minch are some of the most treacherous in the world: I’ve seen currents in the sea out by the Shiant Isles that flow like raging rivers when the tide is running. The Blue Men are supposed to inhabit caves in the islands’ cliffs. It’s certainly no place to try to land a boat.’