by Valpy, Fiona
‘Hiya, Lexie,’ says Andy. ‘Good to see you again after all these years. What are you drinking?’ He insists on taking my order, and threads his way through the crowded room to the bar, stopping to exchange banter with several other men along the way.
I settle myself in the chair that Elspeth’s been saving for me and feel the tension in my shoulders ease a little. Perhaps it’s going to be okay after all. I thought I’d be a stranger, but I discover I’m among friends.
I turn my chair slightly so I can watch the musicians. There’s Davy on his guitar alongside an accordion player, a drummer with a bodhrán and a fiddler. They’re in full flow:
‘I’ve been a wild rover for many’s the year
And I’ve spent all me money on whisky and beer
But now I’m returning wi’ gold in great store
And I never will play the wild rover no more . . .’
The music swirls and flows, its tune as easy and as sure as the tides in the loch, rising and falling and sweeping us all along with it. Every foot taps along in time as the whole room joins in the chorus, raising the roof:
‘And it’s no, nae, never,
No nae never no more
Will I be a wild rover,
No never no more.’
As the song ends there’s a whooping and a cheering and then the band takes a break, leaving their instruments to come to the bar where they’re passed drinks on the house.
Davy pushes his way through the throng to where we sit and Elspeth shuffles along, making space for him between us.
‘So you came after all,’ he says, shouting to be heard above the din. ‘I thought you might get cold feet at the last minute and I’d be landed with Bridie for the evening instead.’
‘She’d have shoved me out of the house if I’d tried to stay. She and Daisy’ll be having a party of their own, I’ve no doubt, involving way too many chocolate buttons and very little chance of getting to bed on time.’
‘All the better for you then; she’ll sleep later in the morning. So you can have another drink and enjoy yourself. How d’you like the band?’
‘They’re good,’ I say. ‘Of course, the guitar player could do with some practice, but the others are great.’
‘Watch it,’ he replies, laughing. ‘We’ll be getting you up to sing later and then you might be thankful for a bit of guitar accompaniment.’
I duck my head, regretting teasing him, then meet his gaze and my eyes are wide and pleading. ‘Not tonight. Please, Davy, I’m not ready to sing again yet.’
He can see I’m serious. ‘Okay,’ he says. ‘We’ll let you ease yourself in gently. Tonight you can sing along with the others. One of these days we’ll get you up there though, Lexie Gordon. When you’ve music in your soul you can’t keep it to yourself forever.’
Elspeth nudges him on the other side. ‘Give her a break, Davy. She’s saving it for her new gig at the playgroup.’ She leans forward and tells me that another group over at Poolewe have heard about our music session and have asked to join in. ‘We could see if the hall’s free one morning and use that. That way more people can come and it’ll give the kids extra space to run around, too.’
Davy nods his approval. ‘There you go. What did I tell you? Music in your soul.’
The other band members are picking up their instruments again and he gets to his feet. ‘Looks like we’re on again.’
I watch him play. Despite my teasing, he’s really good. Various members of the audience step up at different points in the evening to play, backed by the band. There’s a guy with a penny whistle and a woman with a Celtic flute, a harmonica player and a second fiddler, and the girl who’s been serving drinks behind the bar steps up to sing a set, too. Davy alternates between his guitar and the mandolin and I’m impressed at how effortless his playing is, the notes flowing from beneath his fingers. The evening passes quickly and all too soon the bell rings for last orders. We sing ourselves hoarse with a last rendition of ‘The Bonny Lass o’ Fyvie-O’ and then it’s time to head home, with calls of ‘See you next time . . .’
‘I’ll chum you along the road,’ offers Davy.
‘It’s okay, I’ll be fine,’ I say.
‘I know you’ll be fine, but I could do with a walk to blow the cobwebs away. I’ll catch a lift back with Bridie, see her safely home too.’
‘There you go again, always looking after people,’ I say, teasing him again.
‘Ach well, you know me.’ He shrugs.
We walk the shore road in silence for a stretch, then I say, ‘That was a great evening. Thanks for inviting me along. Your band’s really good, you know.’
‘I’m glad you enjoyed yourself. And now you won’t be needing an invitation the next time, knowing you’re among friends.’
At Keeper’s Cottage the lights are burning in the windows of the kitchen and the sitting room, but when I peep in I see Bridie fast asleep in an armchair, snoring gently. Tactfully, I make a bit of a noise coming in so she has time to wake up and straighten her cardigan.
‘How was your evening?’ I ask.
‘Och, just grand,’ she says. ‘We had a few games and stories and then she went down without a murmur. How was the music?’
‘It was great! But don’t tell him.’ I nod towards Davy. ‘He’ll only get too big for his boots.’
Davy grins. ‘No risk of that around here with the two of you to keep me in my place. Thought I’d see Lexie back and then chum you home to yours, too, Bridie. You know what they say about two birds . . .’
She giggles, pleased to be referred to as a ‘bird’. ‘Always a gentleman, Davy Laverock. Night, Lexie, glad you had a good time. Call me whenever you need a babysitter again.’
When they’ve gone, I creep upstairs and peep into the cot where Daisy lies tucked up in the shell-pattern shawl, her arms above her head in a gesture of utter relaxation. I put a finger into one soft palm and she smiles faintly, her own fingers curling around it for a moment. Then I place a feather-light kiss on her forehead and tiptoe to my own room, the swirl of the music still playing in my head as I drift off to sleep.
Flora, 1941
The rumblings of war continued but they remained beyond the horizon, a far-off storm out across the ocean. Flora gave thanks daily for the hills cradling the loch that gave shelter to those she loved. In the east, Norway fell to German occupation and Hitler was said to be gathering troops along Russia’s borders; to the south, beyond the towering walls of the Scottish mountains, English and Scottish cities were being shaken by the Luftwaffe’s bombs as the Blitz rained terror from the skies, while their inhabitants remained defiant in the face of the onslaught.
The secluded waters of Loch Ewe still provided a safe haven for the ships of the British fleet, kept secret from the enemy, as well as for merchant ships that gathered there before they made the hazardous journey across the Atlantic to fetch supplies back to Britain from America. But then, one short night in June, that sense of security was shattered.
It was the urgent sound of a whistle from the anti-aircraft battery below the Ardtuath Estate that wrenched Flora from her sleep. As she surfaced from the depths of her dreams, she became aware of the insistent thrum of an aircraft engine drawing ever closer. She hurried to the window and drew back a corner of the blackout. A waning crescent moon cast its light across the water, adding its dim glow to the beam of a searchlight that swept the blackness of the sky. Suddenly, curtains of tracer fire flooded the darkness. Against their glare, she could see the vast barrel of the ack-ack gun turning skywards as its crew set their bearings. With a flash and a boom that shook the floorboards beneath her bare feet, anti-aircraft rounds illuminated the scene. Four planes swooped and then banked sharply, evading the shells that exploded around them. The gunners reset their bearings, following the course of the Junkers as they flew above the ships that lay at anchor in the bay below. They fired again, and the air reverberated with the thud and boom of more shells as the guns at Tournaig sprang into action to
o.
One of the planes took a hit, lurching and then wheeling off to the north-west, and then another shell exploded close to a second plane that also swerved off towards the Minch, a pall of black smoke obscuring its tail.
It looked as if the gun batteries had managed to disperse the attack but then, to Flora’s horror, a fifth plane appeared, its engines silenced, coming in on a flight path that was straight and low while the ack-ack guns were trained on the decoys elsewhere. It let loose its bombs over the ships out in the bay. The explosions made the walls of the cottage shudder and sent a plume of smoke and water high into the air above the loch. Then all the remaining planes banked and turned, climbing rapidly into the night sky, the sound of their engines fading as they fled. She peered into the darkness, straining her eyes for any glimpse of flames.
As the guns fell silent, she padded to the front door, opening it a crack and peering out. Her father and brother appeared in the hallway behind her in their pyjamas.
‘What’s the damage?’ Ruaridh asked.
‘It’s too dark, I can’t see clearly. But thankfully the bombs don’t seem to have made a direct hit. I can’t see anything’s been set on fire, at least.’
‘Best shut that door, lass,’ her father said. ‘You don’t want to be standing there if those planes come back for a second go.’ He turned to Ruaridh. ‘Looks like Jerry has discovered what Loch Ewe’s been hiding. Perhaps we’d better get that Anderson shelter built after all.’
Alec came to find Flora at the base the next day and they walked along the shore a little way. ‘I just wanted to make sure you were all all right,’ he said. ‘No damage done at the cottage? The bomb blast brought down a chunk of the ceiling in the dining room at the house. Ma was quite shaken, but my father is more annoyed about the cost of replacing the plasterwork and where on earth he’s going to find someone who can restore such intricate cornicing these days.’
‘Have you heard what happened?’ Flora asked.
Alec nodded. ‘One of the supply ships had a near miss, which did some damage, although luckily there were no casualties.’ He grinned. ‘Looks like Jerry mistook his target in the dark, because the only thing to take a direct hit were the rocks at the top of the island where the boom net is fixed. Their shape makes them look a bit like a boat.’ His attention was caught by something in the sky towards the far horizon, and his expression grew serious.
Following his gaze, Flora shielded her eyes with her hand, just able to make out a dark speck against the dazzle of sunshine. ‘What is it?’ she asked. ‘A buzzard? Or an eagle, maybe?’
He shook his head. ‘An eagle doesn’t fly in a dead straight line like that. It could be a reconnaissance plane. I need to go and report it, in case the lookouts haven’t radioed it in already. Tell your dad you’d best take shelter tonight. I reckon last night was just the beginning.’
Sure enough, over the next weeks German planes reappeared sporadically in the summer skies over Loch Ewe. Mostly they came at night and were seen off by the ack-ack guns, whose crews became adept at chasing away the attackers. But one afternoon, when Flora was returning from driving the commander from the base at Aultbea to the officer’s quarters down the loch at Pool House, she had to pull in and take cover beneath the branches of a pine tree when a lone German plane swooped from out of nowhere over the loch.
She pressed a hand to her mouth in horror as it flew low over the schoolhouse where the children were out playing in the yard. But to her astonishment, the pilot seemed to feather back his engines and dip his wings in a cheery salute, leaving the shocked schoolchildren frozen as the headmaster shouted frantically at them to get back inside.
Turning westwards, the plane’s engines roared back to life as the anti-aircraft guns began to fire. As if in slow motion, two bombs fell from the belly of the aircraft, engulfing one of the merchant ships moored beyond the island. As the plane disappeared beyond the hills, Flora leapt into the car and sped back to the base, from where a rescue operation was being launched to pick up the survivors from the stricken vessel, whose back had been broken by the blast.
After that final incident, though, it seemed the Luftwaffe found other, more pressing targets to pursue on the Russian front, and the air raids stopped. Which, as Alec later commented, was extremely ironic, as just a few days after the last raid, Loch Ewe was formally designated as an official naval base to be known as HMS Helicon.
‘What on earth . . . ? Look at that,’ Alec said, pausing to catch his breath.
He, Ruaridh and Flora had hiked into the hills one October afternoon to help her father stalk a hind. The game larder was empty and Sir Charles had no shooting parties organised until December, when friends would come to shoot game birds in time for their Christmas tables. So Iain had asked Ruaridh and Flora to lend a hand with the day’s hunting, with Flora in the role of pony ghillie leading the garron and Ruaridh helping with the guns. Alec, having heard about the outing from Flora, was keen to come too.
Below them, in the field that bordered the loch beside the local telephone exchange, a squadron of RAF technicians were busy inflating a huge silver balloon. As it filled with hydrogen it began to swell and lift away from the grass, turning its nose towards the water as the wind caught its fins. The men battled to keep hold of it until it was full enough with gas to be released skywards, bobbing at the end of the long wires that tethered it to the ground.
‘Funny, isn’t it?’ Ruaridh said. ‘We haven’t had an air raid for months. It’s a bit late to start putting up barrage balloons.’
‘But there are so many ships now. Even more to protect if those Jerry pilots decide to come back for another go,’ countered Alec.
The airmen began to work on another balloon, spreading out yards of silver material and attaching cables.
Iain shook his head. ‘Ach, it’s a bit of nonsense, if you ask me. How long do they expect yon monstrosity to last when the first gale starts to blow?’ The Highland pony, who’d taken the opportunity of a brief pause to snatch a few mouthfuls of grass from among the heather, pawed at the ground and tossed her long white mane, jerking at the leading rein in Flora’s hand. ‘Come on now, see, the garron’s getting impatient and we’ve still a way to climb to reach the hinds.’
An hour’s walk later, as they approached the higher ground, her father held a finger to his lips and gestured to them to cut around to the south, so that the westerly wind wouldn’t carry their scent to the finely tuned nostrils of the red deer hinds. He knew the hills like the back of his hand, his own father having kept the game here before him. They’d seen nothing so far, but were now skirting round beneath a rise that concealed a hollow where the female deer often gathered. He nodded to Flora, the sign for her to stop with the pony. She led the garron into the shelter of a bluff and tethered the leading rein around a jutting rock. She knew this place, having assisted her father and brother on occasion in the past, and sat on a tuffet of dry heather watching the men climb higher as the pony cropped the mossy grass at her feet.
As they reached the ridgeline they dropped to crouch beneath the rise, flattening themselves on to their stomachs. She knew the deer must be in the hollow when she saw Iain gesture to Ruaridh, who passed over the rifle.
Her father waited, taking his time, looking for a clean shot. He would be searching out one of the older hinds, mindful of the balance of the herd. He was always careful to cull in accordance with the traditional ways, once incurring the wrath of Sir Charles when he’d refused to let a guest shoot a stag just one day out of the season.
The gun cracked, making the pony flinch, and Flora heard the sound of hoofbeats drumming away into the distance. As she watched, her father reset the safety catch on the rifle and passed it across to Ruaridh, then stood up and beckoned to her to bring up the garron: he’d made his kill with a single shot.
Once Iain had deftly gralloched the carcass, leaving the innards on a flat rock where the hoodie crows would make short work of them, he resheathed his knife. Then the me
n loaded the hind on to the deer saddle and buckled the straps to ensure that the weight would be evenly distributed over the pony’s back while it made its sure-footed descent to the road.
As they came down from the hill, they were taken by surprise at the first glimpse of the loch. A dozen barrage balloons now flew from ships in the bay, gleaming like a shoal of huge silver herrings swimming in the skies above Loch Ewe. There was even one bobbing from the roof of the telephone exchange. Beneath them, the airmen continued to inflate more of the balloons, suspended at the end of their long cables that would clip a plane’s wings if it came in low over a target, bringing it crashing back to earth.
‘Whoa there, lass, you’re all right.’ Flora calmed the garron as it shied at the strange sight.
‘They’ve certainly been busy,’ her father grunted, his eyebrows disappearing beneath the brim of his deerstalker.
The path led down to the road, and as they walked back through the village to Ardtuath House several small boys came running.
‘Jings, look at that!’
‘They shot a deer!’
‘Is that your gun, Mr Gordon?’
‘Can I have a shot of it?’
‘My dad has a gun, too, in the desert in Africa. He’s shooting Germans with it.’
‘I bet you could shoot a German with your gun, couldn’t you, Mr Gordon?’
Iain calmed the clamouring children as they milled about the horse trying to get a better look at the hind’s carcass on its back. ‘Now, now, lads, keep away from the pony’s back legs. She’s liable to kick if you give her a fright. Yes, that gun certainly could kill a man, which is all the more reason to stay away from them at your age.’
Flora smiled at Stuart and Davy who hung back at the edge of the group, a little unsure of the garron’s evident power. ‘Here, look,’ she said, beckoning them forward. ‘You can give her nose a wee pat if you like. She won’t bite.’