by Valpy, Fiona
‘I’m so sorry.’ I reach across and put my hand briefly over his.
He shakes his head, remembering. ‘We were on our way home after the game. We ran into a group of rival fans. They started in on me. Stuart stepped in, looking out for me as usual. Someone drew a knife . . . It was all over in seconds.’
‘That’s awful. I’m so sorry I never knew him.’
Davy gazes out to the waters of the loch, which are turning to gold in the evening light. ‘He loved this place,’ he says. ‘He’d have loved the fishing. I named the boat for him. And for my mam. She’s gone now, too.’
‘Bonnie? That was her name?’
‘Aye. She tried her best to be our mammy, but she was on her own and life was tough and when we came away so young she hit the bottle hard. She tried to shake it when we came back to her, but she never quite could. Losing Stuart tipped her right over the edge.’
We’re both silent for a few seconds: him lost in his grief, me lost for words.
‘I couldn’t rescue either of them. And that’s something I’ve had to live with ever since. So I painted their names on the boat when I came home to Loch Ewe, and they sail along with me when I’m out there.’
‘And ever since then you’ve turned your attention to rescuing everyone else you could, looking after Bridie and my mum and anyone else who needed a helping hand?’ The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them. I mean them kindly, but they come out sounding wrong.
He gives me a long look. Then says levelly, ‘I’m not so sure that’s true. It’s just the way it goes around here. We all look out for each other. Maybe that’s something you forgot in all those years you spent in London.’
Anger rises in my chest, but then I realise he’s entitled to defend himself against my bluntness. ‘Okay, good point,’ I concede. ‘I’ve got out of the west coast ways and perhaps that hasn’t been for the best.’ Admitting that comes as something of a relief I discover, cutting through the bramble hedge of defensiveness that I’ve grown to protect myself from my own guilt.
He pours water in my glass. ‘Sorry, Lexie. Maybe you’ve got a point, too. Perhaps I do have a tendency to try and rescue people.’
I raise my water glass to his. ‘Here’s to both our guilty consciences then.’
He clinks his glass against mine and sings the line of a song.
‘When all is guid an’ fresh an’ pure –
Nae guilt the heart to sting.’
I raise my eyebrows enquiringly.
‘An old, old nursery rhyme,’ he explains.
‘Part of your repertoire on a Saturday night?’
He laughs. ‘Not usually. We aim to create a slightly cheerier atmosphere. We don’t want to have our audience walk out on us in a gloom.’
I pass him the dish and he piles another handful of squatties on to his plate.
‘So when are you going to come along and listen?’
I shrug. ‘Not sure. I’ll need to try and find someone to mind Daisy.’
‘Bridie’s already offered,’ he responds, grinning as I automatically bristle slightly at the fact that they’ve been discussing my hypothetical social life and putting plans in place to make it a reality. ‘Och, would you get over yerself, Lexie Gordon. Let your friends help you every now and then. It’ll not kill you.’
I laugh, holding my hands up in defeat. I know I’ll enjoy having an evening in the bar listening to music, and I know Bridie and Daisy will have a fine old time of it themselves here at the cottage.
‘That’s settled then,’ he says. ‘This Saturday it is.’
‘How do you know I don’t already have something else on this weekend?’ I ask, in one last futile attempt to regain control of the conversation.
‘Just a hunch,’ he says.
‘Based, I suppose, on the common knowledge that I haven’t had anything on any weekend since I got here?’
‘Something like that,’ he says, and refills my wine glass. ‘Now, tell me about all those grand theatres you’ve sung in down there in London. What was the biggest one?’
Somehow the next time I glance at the kitchen clock it’s nearly midnight and we’ve talked for hours. Davy drains the cup of coffee that I made ages ago and pushes his chair back from the table.
‘Thank you for a lovely evening, Lexie. It’s been grand sitting at Flora’s kitchen table again, hearing her daughter laugh a bit. This house was always filled with song and good cheer.’
When he leaves, the cottage seems too empty. I’ve enjoyed his company and now I’ve been able to place him, I remember that Mum used to mention his name every now and then. As I clear the cups into the sink, his words echo in the empty kitchen. The range ticks softly to itself as it cools for the night and from the hill behind the cottage comes the ratcheting call of a corncrake. I wander through to the sitting room and pick up Mum’s picture from the mantelpiece. ‘I think it’s time this house was filled with song and good cheer again,’ I tell her.
And she smiles her approval back at me as I resettle the picture in its place and turn out the light.
Flora, 1940
On the Sunday evening, the day after she’d cooked for the fishing party at Ardtuath House, Flora sat on the bench in front of the cottage letting the sun bathe her in its light, its rays setting the red-gold tints in her hair afire as it traced a languid path across the western sky. She had her mending basket beside her and was sewing a button on to one of her father’s shirts. Securing it with a few quick stitches, she snipped the thread and folded the shirt neatly, setting it to one side. Before reaching into the basket for the next item, she relaxed for a moment, leaning her head against the cottage wall behind her, closing her eyes and lifting her face to the warmth.
Despite the peace of the day’s end, thoughts buzzed in her head like flies, irritating and persistent. The news on the wireless that morning had been deeply unsettling: only last week thousands of troops had been evacuated from Dunkirk in the face of the German advance, the Netherlands having fallen and Belgium having surrendered a few days earlier; a British aircraft carrier had been sunk off Norway by German battleships; Paris had been bombed, and Italy was issuing increasingly belligerent declarations. It had been a relief when the news bulletins had come to an end and the music programme had begun. But even singing along to the familiar tunes had failed to lift Flora’s spirits much. And then, as a reminder that the war affected those closer to home, too, she’d bumped into Bridie on a walk after lunch, who’d told her that a family at Poolewe had just received a telegram to say their son’s plane had been shot down over the Channel and he was missing, presumed dead. Bridie said, too, that while the evacuation from Dunkirk had saved many lives, news was filtering through that the 51st Highland Division had been trapped inland and many of the men taken prisoner. The threat of the war, which at first had seemed to lie far off beyond the wall of hills, had begun to insinuate itself into the little white croft houses along the lochside now, casting an ever-present shadow of fear even on days when the sunlight sparkled across the water.
It dominated all their thoughts these days, making Flora’s private concerns seem petty in comparison. And yet she still couldn’t help mulling over Sir Charles’s behaviour towards her yesterday. He’d been so cold. Usually he treated her with a brittle joviality, at best, or a casual disregard. But something had shifted since he’d become aware of the closeness between her and Alec. Her pride was still stung by the way in which he’d humiliated her. She tried to push those thoughts aside. She knew Alec loved her, but would he defy his father if it came to it? She’d sensed his anger yesterday and yet he’d been helpless to act. Both he and his mother were held fast in the steely grip that Sir Charles exerted on his family. Was their love strong enough to withstand that force?
She sighed, opening her eyes at the sound of a blast from a ship’s whistle out on the loch. Another battleship had pulled into the harbour, manoeuvring as it dropped anchor, and a tanker was drawing alongside to refuel it. Tomorrow morning
she’d be back on duty at the camp at Mellon Charles. At least that would be a welcome distraction, knowing she was doing her bit for the war effort.
She reached into her mending basket to pull out a sock in need of darning and began to thread a thick needle with a strand of Lovat green wool. The sound of footsteps on the path behind the house made her turn, expecting it to be her father back from seeing to the garron. But it was Alec who appeared, his face creased in a frown. His expression melted into a broad smile at the sight of her sitting there and he threw himself down on the bench beside her, sweeping her into his arms, narrowly avoiding being impaled by the darning needle in her hand.
He was quick to apologise for his father’s behaviour. ‘I can’t believe how awful he was yesterday, showing off in front of the Urquharts like that. Making a point of inviting the Kingsley-Scotts, too. He’s been impossible all weekend. Poor old Ma has retreated to her bed with a headache now that they’ve gone. He just refuses to accept that the war has changed everything.’
‘But has it really changed everything?’ Flora asked, resting her head against his shoulder and gazing out at the vast grey hulks anchored in the bay. ‘Is the world now so different that the likes of a laird’s son can be with a gamekeeper’s daughter?’
He drew back, holding her at arm’s length, trying to read her expression. His dark eyes were filled with pain and love. ‘Flora, I have never thought of you in that way. Nor your father, nor Ruaridh. They are like family to me, always have been. And you – well, you must know that I’ve loved you for years. And I want to love you more, for all the years we have left. In this uncertain world, it feels like my love for you is the only certain thing I have to hold on to. Whatever happens, for God’s sake, Flora, don’t let my father take that from us.’
She lowered her gaze, trying to hide the doubts she still felt. Very gently, he traced the line of her face with the palm of his hand, then tilted her chin upwards so that he could see her eyes again.
‘I know it’s not easy,’ he said, ‘but once this war ends, the power my father wields over us will be defused. We’ll be free to marry then.’
‘What about your mother, though?’ Flora knew how Alec worried about leaving Lady Helen on her own at Ardtuath House. Sir Charles had grown more and more irascible as the way of life to which he’d always felt entitled was further eroded by the war, and more than once, Alec had admitted to Flora that he’d seen telltale bruising on his mother’s arms, which he suspected to be marks of her husband’s temper. When he asked her how she’d come by the bruises, though, Lady Helen always made excuses, deflecting his questions. Anxious for his mother’s safety, he spent as much time as possible at the house, but was torn, too, between the demands of his job at the base and his longing to spend more time with Flora.
He sighed. ‘Maybe things will be better for us all once the war is over. My father will go back to spending most of his time in London and it’ll be easier for Ma again.’ He reached for her hand. ‘Please, Flora, you have to believe in us, as I do. The one good thing to come out of my engagement to Diana was the realisation that I could never feel about anyone the way I do about you. Last night was a ghastly ordeal for both of us. But one day, I promise you, you will be the mistress of Ardtuath House and you will take your rightful place at that table.’
By way of an answer, she entwined her fingers in his, tracing the sinews across the back of his hand with her thumb. She felt safe with him here. But as they sat looking out across the loch towards the western hills, the sky there began to haze over as clouds piled in from the ocean beyond, swallowing the sun. In spite of the warmth of the summer evening, Flora shivered slightly. The solid wall of the cottage she was leaning against still radiated the heat of the day. But she knew full well that this home – the only one she’d ever known – could be taken from her just as suddenly as the sea could change its mood, should Sir Charles’s anger at their relationship make him decide that it was time to let his gamekeeper go.
Flora’s duties at the naval base mainly involved driving officers to and from the jetty, or delivering and collecting the personnel who manned the lookout posts that had been built around the loch. On occasion, too, she drove larger vehicles – trucks and ambulances – when the need arose. She was sitting in the NAAFI with Mairi when the order came to take an ambulance round to Cove, on the far side of Loch Ewe. A Tilly – the nickname they gave to small utility vehicles in the services – had gone off the road and ended up stuck in the ditch, and its occupants had sustained minor injuries.
Flora drove, with Mairi at her side, and they sped along the shore to where the road narrowed to a single track beyond Poolewe. A mile further on they came upon the car in the ditch, listing alarmingly to one side. A sub-lieutenant was trying to wedge a large stone under one of the back wheels. His colleague – an ordnance officer deputed to service the anti-aircraft gun at the lookout point – sat dazed at the side of the road, with none other than Bridie busily attempting to fashion a sling out of what, on closer inspection, appeared to be a strip torn from her petticoat.
The two girls jumped down from their vehicle. ‘Bridie! Are you all right? What happened?’ Flora asked.
‘A sheep in the road,’ Bridie replied cheerily. ‘Had to swerve to miss it. I got away with just a few bumps and bruises, but I think this poor laddie’s arm is broken. The sheep’s fine, though,’ she added.
‘Here,’ Mairi said. ‘Let me take a look.’ She gathered dressings and a proper sling from the back of the ambulance and knelt beside the officer. Deftly, she examined his injury and strapped his arm gently but firmly to his chest to immobilise the wrist, which was already beginning to swell.
Leaving Mairi to attend to the casualty, Flora helped the other young officer to attach a rope to the bumper of the Tilly. Reversing the ambulance, she managed to pull the car free of the ditch, righting it so that they could have a good look at the damage.
‘Oops,’ remarked Bridie, ‘that rear axle doesn’t look too healthy.’
‘It doesn’t look at all safe to drive. We’ll need to tow you back and get it seen to,’ said Flora.
The young man glanced at his watch. ‘I’m overdue to relieve the lookout at the point. D’you think you could drop me there and then come back for this lot?’
‘Of course. Jump in.’
She drove past the row of whitewashed crofts at Cove – those same cottages that she and Alec had seen from the water on their visit to the rocky arch beyond Firemore beach in the spring – to where the track petered out just past the concrete shelter that had been constructed as a lookout post at the mouth of the loch. While the sentries carried out their handover, Flora walked to the edge of the clifftop. Far beneath her, the waves crashed against the jagged black buttress of Furadh Mor, a crag that reared from the water a little way from the shore, where the sea surged and foamed over the rocks as if tugging in frustration at the shelter the headland afforded the calmer waters beyond. She knew the power of the waves wasn’t the only danger out there in the North Atlantic, where German battleships lurked beyond the horizon and U-boats prowled in packs, hunting down their prey like hungry wolves.
The drive back to the base at Mellon Charles was slow, hampered by the weight of the damaged Tilly, which floundered behind the ambulance on its tow rope like a drunken whale with Bridie at the wheel. The stir of their arrival brought the camp’s commander out from his hut. He raised his eyebrows at the sight of the damaged car and they rose further, almost disappearing beneath the peak of his cap, at the sight of the injured ordnance officer.
‘Take that man to the surgeon. And you – Miss Macdonald, is it? Report to my hut once you’ve washed that oil off your hands.’
Flora shot a sympathetic look at Bridie, although her friend seemed unabashed at the prospect of a dressing-down from the commander himself. After all, it wasn’t the first time she’d had a run-in with a sheep, and there was also the occasion when she’d met another Tilly head-on and had a narrow miss, although t
hat time it had been the other driver who’d ended up in the ditch.
By lunchtime, Bridie had been reassigned from her driving duties to a role behind the counter in the NAAFI where the scope for wreaking devastation on the camp’s fleet of vehicles was considerably reduced. But, as she remarked cheerfully to Flora and Alec later over a port and lemon in the Jellyjar Tavern, she felt it was a role to which she was better suited, having gained valuable experience under Mrs Carmichael and the ladies of the Rural. Everyone came in and wanted to chat as well, so it was a good place to hear all the news.
And besides, the ordnance officer with the broken wrist had been in to see her and had invited her to go to the film show at the hall with him the following week to watch the latest Laurel and Hardy picture.
‘Goodness!’ said Flora, laughing. ‘Who would have thought there’d be so much excitement to be had in Aultbea, of all places?’
Lexie, 1978
By the time I’ve finished giving Bridie strict instructions about Daisy’s bedtime routine – even though I know she’s not paying the slightest bit of attention to what I’m saying as she’s too busy bouncing her on her knee and telling her stories about her granny – there’s already music spilling from the bar when I reach the hotel.
My stomach contracts with nerves as I push open the door and step across the threshold. Maybe it was a mistake to come out tonight. What if there’s no one here I know? Will the fact that I’m brazenly walking into a bar on my own reaffirm my status as a fallen woman?
But everyone in the warm fug, which is heavy with the smell of beer and cigarettes, is too intent on enjoying the music even to notice. Then I catch sight of Elspeth and her husband, Andy, and one of the other mums from the playgroup with her partner, sitting at a table in the corner.
Elspeth waves me over. ‘Lexie, we were wondering where you’d got to. Bridie told me she’s babysitting Daisy tonight – she’s been that thrilled about it all day.’