by Valpy, Fiona
‘Flora!’ he exclaimed. ‘I didn’t know you’d be here this morning.’
‘No, but here I am. Your father asked me to come. You know I’m always happy to help your mother out when she has so many guests staying.’
He moved towards her as if to give her a kiss, but she ducked her head and turned away.
‘I’d better get back to the kitchen,’ she said. ‘And you’d better get in there.’ She pointed towards the dining room as a gust of laughter escaped from behind the closed door.
He reached for her hand. ‘Flora, wait, I . . .’
But whatever Alec had been about to say was cut short by the appearance of Diana.
‘Good morning, sleepyhead,’ she teased him. ‘It’s a good thing you’re up. Your papa’s just sent me to knock on your bedroom door and tell you to get a move on if you want any breakfast before we get going.’
Flora spun on her heel and hurried back to the kitchen, her cheeks burning. She was furious that Sir Charles had managed to remind her, yet again, of the difference between her world and Alec’s. And she was angry at herself for being manipulated in that way. She tore off her apron and let herself out through the back door.
‘Whoa there, what’s the great hurry, lass?’ her father said, steadying her as she collided with him on the path.
She shook her head by way of reply, breathless with anger and humiliation. Then, swallowing, said, ‘They’re almost ready for you. The picnic’s in the boot room. And you’re to fetch the Beretta for Miss Kingsley-Scott.’
And as she strode along the path back to Keeper’s Cottage, she dashed furious tears away with the back of her hand, not sure who she was angriest at: Sir Charles, or Alec, or herself for ever thinking she might one day fit into Alec’s world.
Lexie, 1978
It’s a wild, wet day. The tail end of an Atlantic storm drives sheets of rain across the loch, sending squalls barrelling across the water to whip the waves into a seething chop. Days like this are a reminder of how quickly the conditions can switch from benign to tempestuous. One day all is calm, the next it’s hard to imagine that the sun will ever shine again. There’s a west coast saying that if you don’t like the weather, wait five minutes and it’ll change. I’m starting to get used to it again, accepting that the elements dictate the day’s plans. Here, sunshine is a precious commodity.
This morning, Elspeth has booked the hall and we’re running an extended playgroup there to include a music and movement session. Mothers and toddlers are coming over from Poolewe and even as far as Gairloch. I’d originally planned to walk along to the village, with Daisy in her pushchair, carrying the musical instruments and tape player that I was going to use. But the weather has put paid to that, and instead I’m going to need to dash back and forth to the car, trying to keep everything dry and get Daisy into her car seat without turning into a drowned rat myself in the process.
I take down one of Mum’s old coats from the hooks at the door, one more suited to the stormy conditions than my own London coat. Putting it on, I shove the car keys into one of the pockets and pick up a bag containing the cassette player and tapes. I leave Daisy sitting in her high chair finishing off a slice of toast and honey in the warmth of the kitchen, and hurry down the path to the car. Groping in my pocket for the keys, my fingers close around something else. I draw out a small brooch. It’s ornately cast, a crown and anchor set in a wreath of leaves. It’s badly tarnished, but when I rub it with my thumb a glint of silver shows through the layer of black. As I stand there with it in the palm of my hand, the rain drips from the hood of my coat and glistens, like tears, on the scrolls of the leaves. This was the coat that Mum wore every day. She would have put her hand in the pocket and held this brooch, closing her fingers around it as she walked to the shop or went to visit Bridie.
A gust of wind buffets me, so strong it almost blows me off my feet, reminding me to get a move on. I put the brooch back in my pocket and fumble for the car keys. I’ll show Bridie the brooch next time she comes for tea. Maybe she’ll be able to tell me more about it.
The playgroup in the hall is the perfect way to spend a morning when the wind and rain keep us indoors. There’s a good turnout, and the children seem to love listening to their mums singing, accompanying them on drums, xylophones and rattles. Those who don’t have an instrument dance about while they wait their turn. By the end, everyone is laughing and breathless as we share out drinks and biscuits.
Elspeth and I are tidying everything away afterwards and a couple of the mothers have stayed behind to lend a hand.
As one of them helps me stack chairs, she says, ‘Do you think you’d maybe come and run something like this over in Gairloch sometimes? We’ve a playgroup there and I know the kids would love it. You could charge a fee – we’d be happy to pay, to cover your time and your petrol.’ She scribbles down her phone number on a scrap of paper. ‘Give me a call and we’ll get it organised.’
Elspeth grins at me. ‘Well, I would say that was a success. It was good getting so many of the young mums together, too – it can be lonely for them. We could see if the hall is free on a regular basis . . . maybe do this once a fortnight.’
As I drive back to the cottage, Daisy sings in her car seat, kicking up her legs in time, making me laugh. The lowering clouds crack open for a few moments and a shaft of silver light makes the waves sparkle. Instantly, my spirits lift like the seabirds that soar on the wind above us, buffeted by the gusts of the storm but still flying high.
Flora, 1942
Flora had hardly had a chance to see Alec after the shooting party, and when she did, she’d been unable to contain her feelings.
‘But Flora darling,’ he’d remonstrated, ‘Diana is nothing to me. It was my father who invited her up for the weekend. I didn’t even know she was going to be there until she appeared with her parents. She’s had a bit of a hard time of it, being jilted only a month before the wedding, although I’m sure she’ll find someone else now that she’s back in London.’
Instead of reassuring her, every word Alec spoke seemed to fan the flames of Flora’s insecurity. She was well aware that if Sir Charles had anything to do with it, Alec and Diana would be engaged again in a heartbeat. But she’d relented a little on his last day, not wanting to wave him off with that horrible distance yawning between them. She’d told him she loved him and allowed herself to relax in the circle of his arms.
But now that he was gone on duty with the convoys, she bitterly resented having argued with him at all. She missed him dreadfully, she confessed to Mairi as they crossed the parade square at the base, making for the canteen.
When they walked through the door, Bridie hurried out from her place behind the counter, her face pinched with grief. She was wiping her hands on a teacloth and continued to twist it in her distress as she told them the news.
‘The Carmichaels have had a telegram. I saw the postie knocking at their door on my way here this morning, so I popped in to ask Miss Cameron about it and she said it was bad news about Matthew, but she wouldn’t say if he was captured or hurt. He’s the one who was out in the Far East, isn’t he?’
Mairi nodded. ‘Last we heard. His battalion was in Malaya and then they were forced back to Singapore. I know she was worried about him when news came through of the surrender there. Mum was talking to her about it just the other day.’
‘Do you think we should call in after work?’
‘Let’s leave it until we know more. Mum’ll have gone round, I expect. We’ll hear soon enough.’
Flora reached over and gently took the dish towel from Bridie. ‘Sit down for a moment. This is a shock for us all.’
Matthew had been in the year above them at school, and his younger brother, Jamie, had been in their year. Johnny, the eldest, was three years older. All three of the Carmichael boys were courageous and skilful shinty players. In her mind’s eye Flora could see them practising with their sticks on the beach, their long limbs stretching with athletic ease as the
y flicked the ball from one to another. Loch Ewe was a far cry for the three of them now: Johnny and Jamie were fighting in the desert in North Africa. She tried to picture where Matthew might be – in a prisoner-of-war camp, perhaps, among his friends from the Argyll and Sutherland Highlanders. She pushed away another image, a more haunting one, of a body spreadeagled on the jungle floor, helpless beneath thick green foliage whose shade could offer no respite from the tropical heat.
Once their shift was over, the three girls decided to walk into Aultbea to see whether Mairi’s mother had any news. On the way, Flora spotted the Laverock boys down on the shore. They had makeshift catapults and were practising aiming pebbles at a larger rock.
‘Stuart! Davy!’ she called, hurrying across the damp sand.
She saw Davy flinch at the sound of his name, and wariness was written on their faces as they turned towards her. Both boys were shivering in the damp chill of the February dusk.
‘Hello, Miss Flora.’ Stuart relaxed visibly at the sight of her, although his face was pale in the fading light.
‘We heard there was a telegram for the Carmichaels this morning.’
Stuart nodded. She could see from his expression what he was going to say next. ‘Matthew’s dead. Mrs C went to pieces. We didn’t want to go back there after school, so we stayed out here instead.’
Davy held up his slingshot. ‘We’ve made gutties from a bit of one of those balloon things. We’re practising so that if the Germans come we can get them.’
True to Iain’s prediction, the barrage balloons hadn’t lasted the winter. They’d bobbed over the loch for a few weeks, but the merciless westerly storms had ripped them from their cables, scattering tattered sheets of the material far and wide. It wasn’t uncommon now to see a shed with a silver roof, or a haystack cover that gleamed in the watery sunshine, where enterprising crofters had put the remnants to good use.
‘Well, it’s time you were home now. No matter how upset she is, Mrs Carmichael will be worrying about you. Here, we’ll take you back.’
Reluctantly, the boys wound up their catapults and stuck them into their coat pockets as Flora shepherded them back to the roadside, where Bridie and Mairi waited. Catching her friends’ eyes, Flora pressed her lips together and shook her head, that single gesture telling them all they needed to know. Bridie’s breath caught in a sob and Mairi took her arm to steady her as they walked along the road, a ragged cluster of figures who dragged their feet, their sorrow a heavy load to bear.
Flora knocked on the Carmichaels’ front door. The blackout had already been closed, giving the windows the appearance of unseeing eyes that had turned inwards on a house frozen with grief. It was Archie Carmichael who opened the door. He seemed to have aged in a day; his cheeks were sunken and his normally brisk and capable manner was gone.
‘Ah, there you are, boys,’ he said, his voice wavering. ‘Come away in out of the cold. And you, too, Mairi, Flora, Bridie. How good of you to have brought them home.’
‘Thank you, but we won’t stop,’ said Mairi. ‘We just wanted to chum Stuart and Davy back safely and to say how very sorry we are for your loss.’
‘Och well, that’s very kind of you, lassies . . .’ His words petered out as his eyes glazed over. With an effort, he pulled himself together. ‘I’ll tell Moira you came by. She’ll be pleased that you did. I’m afraid she’s not herself just at the minute . . . Doctor Greig has been and he’s given her something to make her sleep.’
‘Of course. If there’s anything we can do, please just say.’ Mairi laid a gentle hand on his arm.
‘So very kind of you,’ he repeated, his words automatic. ‘Your mother’s been round and has been a great comfort to Moira, I’m sure.’
Flora cast an anxious glance at the boys who stood in the doorway, reluctant to enter the house. ‘Can we bring you something for your supper, maybe?’ she asked. ‘I’m sure you’ll be needing something to eat.’
‘Don’t you worry. We’ve some soup that Mrs Macleod brought with her. We’ll be grand now, won’t we, boys?’ He made an attempt to sound reassuring. ‘Will you come away in out of the cold?’ he asked, repeating himself again, his eyes far away.
It broke the girls’ hearts to turn away and walk down the path, the door closing quietly behind them on a house to which one of the young men who’d called it home would never return.
From the kitchen window at Keeper’s Cottage, Flora watched as day by day the merchant ships began to gather on the far side of the island. Some had sailed up from the south, hugging the safer shores of the east coast and then facing the unforgiving seas of the Pentland Firth to reach the haven of Loch Ewe. Others had braved the Atlantic, bringing supplies and equipment from America. These ships travelled in convoy and had already risked being hunted by the packs of U-Boats that roamed the ocean, looking for prey. At least out there the predators had had thousands of miles of water to cover and so the convoys had a better chance of slipping past undetected. But some of those ships would now join the Arctic convoys, running the gauntlet through a relatively narrow corridor of sea, hemmed in on one side by ice and on the other by German attack planes and battleships stationed on the northern cape of Norway. And Alec would be out there, too, as part of the small escort sent with a convoy to defend the merchant ships.
He’d told her about the destroyer he’d been assigned to, reassuring her that its defences were impressive even if its open bridge left the ship’s crew exposed to the bitter Arctic weather. But Flora had overheard two of the officers she’d been driving just the other day discussing how vulnerable the convoys would be without air cover.
‘Sitting ducks,’ one of the men had said.
‘I hear they’re putting guns on some of the merchantmen,’ replied the other. ‘Although that’s a bit like giving a child a popgun and telling him it’ll protect him against a Messerschmitt.’
‘Our boys are going to have their work cut out for them if Jerry gets wind of the flotilla.’
‘Not if, but when. They send out spotter planes from their airbases in Norway every darned day. They’re already keeping an eye on Spitsbergen and Iceland. So they’re going to be very interested when they see a dozen ships heading for Russia’s back door, accompanied by some of our finest.’
Flora’s fingers had gripped the steering wheel, her knuckles whitening as the full implications of the risks that Alec was about to face had sunk in. No matter how difficult it was for them to be together, she knew she loved him and believed him when he told her that he loved her.
She was still shaken when she returned to the base at the end of her shift. Mairi and Bridie were finishing up for the day, too, but Bridie was keen for her friends to come with her to the Jellyjar Tavern that evening. She’d been standing in front of a couple of Americans from one of the merchant ships in the post office queue and had got chatting.
‘They asked what there is to do about these parts, so I told them about the films and the dances. Then one of them asked if there was anywhere a sailor could buy a girl a drink! Can you imagine? Right there in the post office in front of Miss Cameron! Anyway, they’re going to be at the hotel tonight and I can only go if the two of you will come too. Mother would have a fit otherwise. Please will you?’
Mairi had to nudge Flora to get her attention. She’d been distracted by the sight of a destroyer waiting out near the mouth of the loch as the tugs manoeuvred the boom nets to allow it to enter the harbour. She couldn’t make out which it was, but was hoping Alec might be on board.
Mairi nudged her again. ‘What do you think?’
‘Hmmm?’
‘About chaperoning Bridie with the Yanks tonight?’
‘Oh yes, all right. I’ll see if Ruaridh can come, shall I? He’d enjoy meeting the Americans, too.’
‘Good idea. And there’s safety in numbers, in case one of them tries to sweep Bridie off her feet and take her away to New York.’
‘Chance’d be a fine thing!’ Bridie retorted, although the hopef
ul look on her face gave away the fact that she’d already been imagining exactly such a scenario.
As they came in out of the frosty night, a cosy fug greeted them in the packed tavern, the atmosphere heavy with beer fumes and cigarette smoke. Ruaridh pushed his way through the throng, the girls following close on his heels. Men were standing three-deep at the bar and the cacophony of voices was a rich blend of accents and languages: Flora picked out Scots, English, Welsh, American, Polish and French, as well as some other foreign languages she couldn’t identify. Just as they were despairing of finding a seat, they heard a shout of, ‘Miss Macdonald! Over here!’
A tall, blond-haired American was waving them over to a table in the corner that he and several friends had commandeered. Three of the men stood, offering their chairs to the girls, as Bridie’s new friend made the introductions.
‘It’s swell you came. Quite a joint you got here. We weren’t expecting Scotch hospitality to be like this!’ The sailor pumped Bridie’s hand enthusiastically before turning to Flora and Mairi. ‘Hal Gustavsen, pleased to meet ya. That’s Stan, Greg and Ralph. And that there’ – he gestured towards an even taller young man with the same flax-coloured hair – ‘is my big brother, Roy.’
Hal insisted on buying the next round of drinks, refusing Ruaridh’s offer. ‘No way, buddy. The drinks are on Uncle Sam tonight.’
The Americans’ easy manners and generosity had infected the whole room. Several merchant ships were in port and their crews were happy to have a few days’ respite after the perils of the Atlantic run. The Arctic journey loomed ahead, but tonight they could relax and enjoy themselves. Hal monopolised Bridie, and Flora and Ruaridh chatted with the others, answering their questions about the best places to play golf and the best beaches to walk to in the area.
‘February’s not exactly the best month for exploring, though,’ Ruaridh pointed out.