by Valpy, Fiona
Davy hid behind his brother, but Stuart was braver and reached out a tentative hand to stroke the pony’s muzzle. ‘Why is its hair so long?’ he asked, marvelling.
‘It’s called a mane. It’s so she stays warm in the winter and it keeps the flies from her eyes in the summer.’
‘C’mon!’ shouted the ringleader of the gang. ‘Let’s go and look at those balloon things again.’
The children swarmed off towards the jetty, but Davy hung back for a moment. ‘Miss Flora? What are those big balloons for? Stuart says they’re airships and they can go on fire and kill people.’
‘They’re just barrage balloons, Davy. They’re here to keep you safe, in case there’s ever another air raid.’
‘Mrs Carmichael says there’s been air raids in Glasgow. I hope my mammy is safe.’
‘I’m sure she will be. Does she write you letters?’ Flora asked.
Davy looked doubtful. ‘Sometimes. But Stuart says she’s busy at work, making bombs to kill the Germans with, so she can’t always be writing to us.’
‘Here,’ said Flora, taking a piece of apple from her pocket. ‘Do you want to feed the pony? Hold your hand flat, that’s it, like that. There you go, well done, see – there’s nothing to be scared of really, is there?’
Davy beamed at her, shaking his head vigorously, and then, hearing his brother shouting his name from the shore, he turned and ran back to join his friends.
Back at Keeper’s Cottage, Flora left her father, Ruaridh and Alec to deal with the carcass and unsaddle the garron while she hurried inside to stoke the range and get supper on the go. Out on the water, another silver balloon bobbed into the air, joining the others that swam in their strange shining shoal above the anchorage against the backdrop of the purple hills.
Lexie, 1978
I’ve managed to coax a bit of information out of Bridie at last, getting her to talk about what it was like when the war arrived in Aultbea. I resorted to stealth tactics, in the end, inviting her to Keeper’s Cottage for a regular tea date on Wednesday afternoons, shamelessly using Daisy as an enticement. She’s very good company, in fact, and I find myself looking forward to her visits. Offering her tea and a bit of a chat seems the very least I can do when she’s been so kind to me. She’s rapidly taken on the role of a surrogate mother and granny, something I know my mum would have loved.
Her face lights up when she talks about being a Wren, and she brings an album of photos to show me of her and Mum and Mairi in their uniforms. The three of them laugh out from the pictures, looking neat as pins in their tailored skirts and ties. Their double-breasted jackets have shiny brass buttons down the front and the Women’s Royal Naval Service badge stitched to the sleeve, proudly displaying the embroidered emblem of crossed anchors beneath a crown.
‘It must have been extraordinary,’ I muse, offering her a plate of chocolate biscuits. ‘Loch Ewe going from a community of just a few hundred folk to a military base of over three thousand personnel almost overnight.’
She nods, chewing thoughtfully. ‘They certainly were extraordinary times. Exciting, too. All those people suddenly arriving from all over the world. We had Poles and Indians, Americans and Russians around the place. And there was great camaraderie in the WRNS. We had lots of girls posted up from England and Wales, so we made loads of new friends.’
Daisy has crawled over to Bridie and pulled herself up to stand, attempting to climb up beside her on the sofa.
‘Here you go, darlin’, upsy Daisy!’ Bridie scoops her on to her lap and Daisy nestles happily in the crook of her arm. ‘Of course, there were downsides to having the military here as well. We were issued with security passes that we’d to carry with us at all times. The roads beyond the loch were sealed off at Laide, Gairloch and Achnasheen with checkpoints, and no one was allowed in without showing their papers. I kept forgetting mine, but luckily most of the guards knew me from the NAAFI and let me through. And there were the sad times, too. A lot of our local boys were away fighting the war, and every now and then a telegram would arrive with news that someone had been killed. It hit the community hard, every time we lost one of our own.’
Her eyes mist over as she remembers those losses. But when I try to ask for specifics – especially about my mum and dad – she veers away again like a startled deer, sticking to more general stories.
As I watch her playing with Daisy, I think what a wonderful mother and grandmother she’d have been if she’d ever had children of her own. Her life would have been very different.
‘What about you, Bridie?’ I ask. ‘With all those soldiers and sailors about the place, did you not have any romances?’
Her face becomes radiant for a moment and I catch a glimpse of how pretty and vivacious she must have been back then. But, like a cloud covering the sun, her expression changes again. ‘Oh yes,’ she says, ‘the war brought opportunity for some. But, you know, for every story of new love there are ten more of loss and heartbreak.’ She fishes a hankie from the sleeve of her cardigan and blows her nose. Then she turns her attention back to the photo album beside her. ‘Now then, did I tell you about how the Arctic convoys started? I’d been transferred to the NAAFI canteen when we heard the news . . .’
Flora, 1941
The wind was bitter that afternoon, sending the reflections of the clouds scudding across the waters of the loch, and the light was already dimming as the short winter’s day gave way to another long night. Flora sat opposite Mairi at one of the long tables in the NAAFI, her hands clasped around her teacup, absorbing the last of the warmth from the thick white china.
The canteen was unusually quiet and Bridie had time to come over and join them, refilling their cups from the large metal teapot that she wielded with gusto, and setting down a plate laden with three slices of the dry cake that was staple NAAFI fare. The men referred to it as the ‘Yellow Peril’, as it was made with dried custard powder and crumbled into sawdust in the mouth, necessitating more gulps of the watery tea to wash it down.
As usual, she was eager to share the latest gossip with her friends. ‘All the men have been called to a briefing,’ Bridie said. ‘It must be something important.’
It came as no surprise that the role of the base might be changing. The war seemed to be spreading like wildfire, and it felt as if the map of the world was changing colour in front of their eyes as more and more countries were consumed by the flames. Only the other evening they’d seen newsreel footage of the aftermath of an attack by Japanese bombers on a place far away on the other side of the world called Pearl Harbor. The images of broken ships, half-sunk in the oil-slicked water, and of stretchers bearing burned bodies had silenced the usually talkative audience in the hall. Although the devastation was thousands of miles away, to those watching beside the anchorage in Loch Ewe it seemed all too close to home. Those ships could have been their own. Those broken and bloodied bodies could have been their friends and shipmates.
‘Now that the Yanks are in, maybe we’ll be getting some American visitors,’ speculated Bridie hopefully. To date all her romantic liaisons had fizzled out, usually ending in tears due to deployment elsewhere or, in one case, the discovery of a fiancée back at home.
Mairi laughed. ‘D’you think they’ll be a better bet than our British boys then? They’re even more likely to be just passing through.’
Bridie took a bite of cake, considering this. ‘Yes, but they might bring things with them. Wouldn’t it be grand to have some perfume again? And a lipstick? Maybe even some stockings that don’t make your legs look like they belong to a heavyweight wrestler?’ She sighed disconsolately, scratching at her calf; the thick wool cladding was perennially itchy.
‘I’d settle for a bar of soap,’ Mairi said. ‘It’s to be rationed too now, did you hear?’
‘That’s rich, coming from you, Mairi Macleod,’ retorted Bridie. ‘You never settle for anything.’ Flora knew that in Bridie’s opinion, Mairi was far too picky, having turned down several young men who’d a
sked her for dates.
‘There’s nothing wrong with waiting for Mr Right to come along,’ chipped in Flora.
‘It’s fine for you to say that.’ Bridie sighed again. ‘You’ve already got your Mr Right.’
Mairi shot Flora a sympathetic glance. Her friend had confided that Alec’s father was standing in the way of their betrothal. He’d threatened to pull some strings with his friends in high places and have Alec transferred to Portsmouth unless his son’s ‘absurd liaison’ with the gamekeeper’s daughter ended. They knew that this was entirely within his powers, as was his ability to replace his keeper, so they met in secret now, being careful not to rock the boat.
The wind had begun to fling scatterings of sleet against the sides of the corrugated tin huts by the time the briefings ended. Those personnel who were off duty sprinted across the dark parade ground to regather in the warmth of the NAAFI and Bridie hurried back to her post behind the counter to brew another gargantuan pot of tea.
Ruaridh and Alec joined Flora and Mairi, removing their peaked caps and setting them on the table to dry, and quickly filled them in on the latest news. With Russia fighting against Hitler’s army on several fronts, keeping the Soviet supply lines open was essential. But in the south the borders were controlled by Germany now. The only way to get vital munitions and equipment in would be through the Arctic. Convoys of ships would have to run the gauntlet past the northern cape of Norway, now defended by German battleships and U-boats as well as the Luftwaffe. And Loch Ewe was to be one of the mustering points from which these convoys would depart.
The mood in the canteen – which was usually light-hearted and jocular, the noise of friendly banter mingling with the clatter of cutlery and the hissing of the hot water urn – had become more serious all of a sudden. What they had seen up until now had only been the beginning.
As Bridie topped up their cups, the three girls exchanged a look of fear as they realised that the safe harbour alongside which they made their homes had just become a strategic focal point in a world torn apart by war.
The hilltops were blanketed in a layer of fresh snow the next morning, and Flora blew on her hands to warm them a little. She’d just had to change a spark plug in the ambulance she was to drive that day, which had refused to start, and her fingertips were frozen. She climbed into the cab and tried the engine again, breathing a sigh of relief when it started with ease. Her orders were to transfer two patients from the sick bay at the base over to Gairloch, where the hotel had been turned into a military hospital. She scraped the layer of crisp frost from the windscreen and then, as she waited for her charges to be brought out, thrust her hands deep into the pockets of her navy-issue greatcoat and paced back and forth in an attempt to keep warm. Her attention was caught by the sight of a familiar figure emerging from the command hut across the parade ground.
‘Alec!’ she called, waving to attract his attention.
He appeared to be deep in thought, but his eyes, which had been fixed on the path, lit up as he saw her.
He hurried over. ‘Flora, I’m glad you’re here. There’s something I have to tell you.’ The tone of his voice was flat, and she realised that behind his smile his expression was taut with tension.
‘What is it?’
‘Well, the good news is that I’ve been promoted to lieutenant commander.’
‘Why, Alec, that’s wonderful. I thought you still had two more years to go?’
‘I did. They’ve speeded things up a little.’
She searched his face, confused by the lack of enthusiasm in his blunt response.
‘But . . . ?’ she prompted.
His jaw clenched as conflicting emotions played out across his features. ‘But with my promotion comes a new role. I’m going back to sea again, joining one of the destroyers. They’ll be needing them for protecting the convoys to Russia.’
She was silent while she digested this news and its implications, automatically glancing out across the pewter-dark waters of the loch to where the unforgiving sea stirred restlessly, surging and seething among the rocks beyond the point.
‘It could be worse,’ he said. She could tell he was making a deliberate effort to sound cheerful, trying to reassure her. ‘We’ll be mostly escorting ships from Iceland, but I’ll be back here from time to time so I’ll be able to see you still when I’m home. And I’m not leaving immediately. I’ll be here for a couple more weeks – until after Christmas, at least.’
She swallowed hard, choking back the anguish that had closed her throat. ‘That’s something, then,’ she replied when she could get the words out, trying to echo his positive tone.
Just then the two patients were brought out from the sick bay, one managing to walk with the aid of a pair of crutches and the other carried on a stretcher by a pair of orderlies.
‘Sorry, Alec, I have to go. We’ll talk later?’
He nodded miserably.
She longed to wrap her arms around him and feel his warmth, holding him in the safety of her embrace, but constrained by her duty, had to make do with giving him the bravest smile she could manage.
She opened the doors at the back of the truck, helping the walking wounded case to climb in.
Alec lingered alongside the cab, loath to let her go.
‘Drive safely,’ he said. ‘The roads will be icy.’
She caught sight of his reflection in her wing mirror as she pulled out of the camp. He still stood in the middle of the square with his hands thrust into the pockets of his dark blue jacket, his breath hanging above him in a frozen cloud, watching until she lost sight of him.
As she drove along the shore road, she spotted a supply launch as it bounced into the choppy waves from the munitions store in the secluded harbour below Inverewe House, making for one of the ships in the anchorage. Would its deadly cargo be enough to protect the ship if it came under attack from the enemy? And did the men on board know there was another enemy, too, that threatened lives out there beyond the protective arms of Loch Ewe? Quite apart from the Nazi menace, the Arctic seas were treacherous, storm-wracked wastes, cold enough to kill in seconds, filled with swirling, shifting fog thick enough to hide a battleship until it was almost upon its prey.
She knew how brave Alec was, and how capable, too, but the thought of him out there, facing the cruelty of those twin foes without her, froze her blood more than the bitter chill of the day.
The December shooting parties were organised for the second and third weekends of the month so that the Mackenzie-Grants’ guests would be able to take home game birds in time for Christmas. Once again, Sir Charles demanded Flora’s presence in the kitchen of the big house. She agreed cheerfully enough when her father passed on the request; she didn’t mind helping Lady Helen and it just might give her a chance to spend a few extra moments with Alec. Every second they had together was all the more precious with his departure for Iceland looming large.
She arrived early and began setting out the hampers and baskets that would accompany the shooting party to the hill. There were flasks of hot soup to prepare and piles of sandwiches. She cut slices of Madeira cake and wrapped them in brown paper, to be slipped into jacket pockets and eaten in between drives. It was a far simpler picnic than in the days before rationing, but she did her best to make it look as appetising as possible.
As she finished laying it all on the table in the boot room for her father to collect, the kitchen door opened and Lady Helen appeared.
‘Good morning, Flora. I’m so very grateful to you for helping us out again. I hope you’ve managed to find everything? I’ve come in search of more bread – we’re running out in the dining room. Can you spare a few slices of that loaf?’
‘Of course,’ Flora smiled, wielding the breadknife once more.
She turned, hearing another set of footsteps approaching, hoping it might be Alec. But the smile faded from her face as Diana Kingsley-Scott swept into the kitchen.
‘We’re out of hot water. I wonder whether your girl
might fill this and bring it back to the dining room.’ She addressed Lady Helen, but handed the silver teapot she was carrying to Flora, scarcely acknowledging her.
‘Certainly, Diana. I’m sorry you had to come through yourself. Would you mind, Flora dear?’
Flora shook her head, not trusting herself to speak. It hadn’t escaped her notice that Diana’s hands were bare of rings as she took the teapot from her. What on earth had happened? Wasn’t she supposed to have had her wedding at the family estate in the autumn? Where was her husband? And – more to the point – why hadn’t Alec mentioned that Diana would be coming to stay for the weekend?
She refilled the pot from the kettle simmering on the stove and followed the two women through the green baize door. The hallway, which had seemed so oppressive when she’d been there at Hogmanay, closed around her again, heavy and forbidding. She squared her shoulders as she pushed open the door to the dining room.
There was no sign of Alec, but Diana was seated to the right of Sir Charles, who was digging into a plate of bacon and eggs with gusto as he regaled his houseguests with tales of previous shoots. He glanced up at the sight of Flora.
‘Ah, the estimable Miss Gordon. How good of you to have graced us with your presence this morning.’ Flora knew his bonhomie was false, an act for the sake of his audience. ‘Tell your father that Miss Kingsley-Scott is going to require the Beretta, would you?’ He turned towards Diana. ‘As it’s your first time out, we’ll start you off with something a little lighter, my dear.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘I wonder where Alec’s got to . . . although after that jolly good dinner last night, it’s not surprising he’s having a bit of a slow start this morning, what?’
Flora’s hands shook as she set the teapot on its stand on the sideboard, fully aware that Sir Charles was making a point for her benefit. She left the dining room with as much dignity as she could muster. In the hall, she almost collided with Alec as he hurried down the stairs. He wasn’t paying attention to where he was going, intent on fastening the buttons of his tweed shooting jacket.