by Valpy, Fiona
‘Stuart and David Laverock, come back here this instant!’ Mrs Carmichael’s voice boomed across the road, stopping the boys in their tracks. ‘Honestly, they really are the limit. The seawater will ruin their good shoes.’ As they watched, Stuart slid down a boulder on his behind as he hurried to usher Davy back. She tutted. ‘And that’ll be another perfectly good pair of breeks with the seat torn out of it, I shouldn’t wonder.’
With that parting lament, she strode off to shepherd her charges home for their Sunday dinner and Flora, Iain and Ruaridh walked back to Keeper’s Cottage, where a shepherd’s pie was keeping warm in the oven ready for their return.
Alec seemed changed when the Isla finally returned to port. He was distant, his thoughts elsewhere even on the evenings that Flora and he spent together, safe in the warmth of the kitchen at Keeper’s Cottage. There was no repeat of their evening at Ardtuath House. Although Alec never spoke about it, Flora sensed that Sir Charles must have refused point-blank to countenance her presence there unless it was behind the green baize door, that stark reminder of a divide that – to his lordship’s mind at least – could never be crossed.
At first Alec was reluctant, too, to speak of what had happened on the convoy, but eventually Flora coaxed some of the facts from him, thinking it might make his pain a little more bearable if it were shared. He told her of the ships they’d lost sight of and never seen again, and of the men horribly burned when explosions ignited the cargo of gasoline in the hold on board the Induna. Those who weren’t killed outright faced an impossible choice, trapped between fire and ice: stay and be burned, or jump into the icy waters where death was assured, as they’d be pulled down by the weight of their heavy woollen duffel coats and their boots, which would instantly fill with water. A lucky few managed to survive in a lifeboat, which Russian spotter planes found days later. The survivors were brought to Murmansk and treated in the military hospital there, but many were too far gone and didn’t make it. Others had terrible frostbite from the days and nights spent exposed to the elements in the flimsy life craft, and several had lost hands and feet.
She watched his face as he spoke, noticing the way his features hardened, the shadows of his pain chiselling them into a stony mask. She clasped his hands in hers and held on tight, as if she were determined to keep him from sinking into the darkness by physical force. ‘How long will you have this time before you go back out?’
He shrugged. ‘The next few convoys are to leave from Iceland. It makes more sense to muster there, with the weather improving and the longer days. As the ice front retreats, the ships will be able to sail further north and at least that gets them out of range of strikes from the German airfields, for the most part. So I’m afraid I’ll be gone for a while. I don’t know when I’ll be coming back . . . although they’ll have to give us a bit of leave at some point in the summer. I don’t suppose I’ll be based here again until the autumn, though, when they’ll swap the muster point back to Loch Ewe.’
Flora tried hard not to let her fear and disappointment show. Although she was glad that the convoy route would be further from the German strike bases in Norway, the longer journey would take many more days. And every single one of those days would be filled with the lingering hours of Arctic light, making the ships more visible. She knew that Bridie and Mairi would be disappointed, too. The use of Iceland as the mustering point for the convoys lessened the likelihood that they’d see Roy and Hal back this way before the autumn either.
But the might of the Nazis threatened the whole of Europe, and with the other Axis powers now aligned, the war had spread to the furthest corners of the world. The newsreels that played in the makeshift picture house beside the remote waters of Loch Ewe spoke of RAF bombing raids in Germany and American troops on the ground in the Far East. Places that she’d never heard of before were brought to life in grainy black and white footage: Essen, Lübeck, Valletta, Leningrad, Rangoon, Darwin, Bataan . . . It seemed that nowhere remained untouched by scenes of devastation. And so she knew how vital every boatload of cargo would be in trying to help turn the tide of the war, and felt guilty that so many people were struggling and suffering when all she’d been praying for was Alec’s safe return.
On the final day of his leave, he came to find her at the stable block on his way to rejoin his ship. She finished refilling the hay bag and hung it in the garron’s stall, giving the pony’s broad neck a pat before bolting the half-door behind her. After brushing a few stray strands of straw from her trousers, she hugged Alec.
His face was pale; she noticed the dark circles beneath his eyes and how his cheekbones seemed more sharply defined, despite the last couple of weeks’ shore leave. He barely reciprocated the hug, seeming distracted, and she knew his mind was already out at sea.
For his sake, she kept her voice light, trying to stay cheerful, thinking it would make it easier for him to leave. ‘Well, take care of yourself. I’ll be seeing you.’
But instead of smiling as she’d expected, his face darkened, flushing with anger. And then, without warning, he lashed out, punching the render of the stable wall inches from her shoulder.
She flinched involuntarily, wincing at the sight of his bloodied knuckles, the smear of red on the whitewash.
‘Alec!’ she gasped, shocked and scared. ‘What’s wrong with you?’
In that moment she felt she hardly knew him. The kindness and gentleness of her childhood protector had disappeared and instead she glimpsed within him the possibility of terrible violence, of an anger and sadness that could overwhelm them both. It terrified her.
He covered his face with his hands, his body wracked by silent sobs.
Very gently, wary in case he lashed out again – and at her this time – she put her arms around him and drew his head on to her shoulder, holding him as he sobbed more noisily now.
‘I can’t . . .’ he said at last, when he’d calmed enough to talk again. ‘I just can’t do this, Flora. I can’t keep leaving you. I can’t go back out there. I can’t watch more ships being blasted out of the water. I can’t sail past men crying out for help. I can’t give more orders that I know will cause more death and more suffering.’
She soothed him, stroking his straight dark hair, smoothing it back from his forehead, searching out his eyes with her own. ‘Alec. Do you remember the day I found you here at the stables? The day you were going away to for school for the first time?’
He nodded, his eyes rimmed with red, scarcely able to look her in the face.
‘And do you remember what I told you then? That we’d be here waiting for you? Me, Ruaridh, the garron? Well, we will be. You will come back and I’ll be here. I promise you.’
Her words were more assured than she felt. Lashing out like that, in his helpless rage, was so unlike him and it had sown a seed of doubt in her.
She could sense the distance opening up between them again as he became more unreachable, drawing away from her. The physical distance that would come between them as he went off to do his duty for his country yet again was something she knew she could endure, but he was pulling away from her emotionally, too. And that was a distance that frightened her far more. It was a distance she wasn’t sure could be bridged.
She felt a twinge of guilt. Was it right to be encouraging him to go, to face again the terror and the tedium of the convoys? As a boy, his going away to school had undoubtedly had an emotional cost. Leaving to face the death and desolation of the Arctic Sea would take even more of a toll. But what was to be gained from begging him not to go? It would simply make things harder for him. She knew he couldn’t, and wouldn’t, desert his duties.
Once again, though, as they had done all those years ago, her words seemed to soothe and calm him. Slowly he raised his eyes to hers, the pain in them dissolving as she steadily held his gaze.
He took a deep breath and the shaking of his body slowly quietened as he regained control. She nodded, wordlessly reassuring him.
‘Sorry,’ he whispered.
‘It’s just unbearable sometimes.’
She raised his bloodied knuckles to her lips and kissed them gently.
From the loch, the sound of a ship’s whistle sounded, borne to them on the wind.
He squared his shoulders, pulling himself up to his full height, and she could see him steeling himself to go.
‘Come and say goodbye to Ruaridh and Dad first? We can clean up your poor hand as well.’
He nodded, shouldering his duffel bag, and she took his hand in hers, walking with him through the pines to Keeper’s Cottage, hoping that he’d gain strength from a few last moments with them all.
After he’d taken his leave of Iain and Ruaridh, he held Flora in his arms at the door and they stayed like that, in silence because there were no words to be said, as the final moments ticked away with the beating of their hearts. She wore the brooch he’d given her, pinned to her gansey. And she thought it might just be the only thing that was holding her heart together, stopping it from splintering into a thousand pieces as she watched him walk away.
Lexie, 1978
I hesitate before pushing open the door of the hall. It’s the first time Daisy and I have come back to the playgroup since her accident and I wonder how she’ll cope with the noise and the excitement. We’ve been home for about ten days now, but everyone’s been giving us time and space to recover. I’ve not seen anyone, apart from Bridie and Mairi who’ve been to deliver bread and milk and a large pot of home-made stew.
If I’m honest, I’m also feeling a twinge of defensiveness, wondering how the other mums will judge me. I can just picture them tutting, saying they’d never have let their own children run loose on the jetty like that.
But I needn’t have worried on either count. Daisy wriggles in my arms, keen to be let down to join the other kids, and wee Jack immediately comes over to give her a shy hug and a tambourine, both of which she accepts with a grin.
Elspeth hurries across to envelop me in a hug of her own before the other mothers surround us, saying how much they’ve missed us and how glad they are to have us back. If anything, they seem more supportive than ever. Perhaps I only imagined that they’d be judging me; perhaps it was only ever my judgement of myself that I feared. Maybe Davy was right and I do need to cut myself a little slack, not be so hard on myself.
‘It wasn’t the same without you, Lexie,’ says Elspeth. ‘I did my best to fill in, but I don’t remember the songs the way you do.’
‘What are we going to be singing today?’ asks someone else. I reach into my bag and pull out Mum’s old songbook.
‘I thought perhaps “The Bonnie Lass o’ Fyvie-O” would be a good one.’ I leaf through to find the page I’ve marked and then settle the music on to the piano. The children gather round expectantly and their mothers hand out the instruments we’ve cobbled together between us, which range from the makeshift (plastic jars filled with macaroni that can be shaken to make a satisfying rattle, and saucepans that can be bashed with wooden spoons), to the more conventional (several xylophones and a triangle). Elspeth settles Daisy on her lap and I smile my gratitude as I begin to pick out the notes. It feels good to be back with the group, after all, and there’s not a hint of condemnation from the others. Instead, I feel their support surrounding me, welcoming us. Our voices meld together, mingling to fill the room with the music handed down to us by our parents and their parents before them, as we begin to sing the songs that bind us to our shared past and to our children’s future.
After the session, I help Elspeth carry some of the paraphernalia back to her house, hanging a bag of instruments from the back of Daisy’s pushchair. She rescued it all from the jetty when I abandoned it there on the day of the accident and it makes more sense for her to continue to store it at her house, where there’s more space than in the cottage, and it’s nearer to the hall.
‘Will you come in for a bite of lunch?’ she says when we reach the yellow door. But Daisy is looking worn out after the morning’s excitement, so I tell her we’d best be getting back so I can feed her and put her down for a nap.
Elspeth nods. ‘The sunshine and fresh air will do her good on the walk home, put the roses back in her cheeks again. Take care of yourself, Lexie. We’ll be seeing you again soon.’
Daisy waves a chubby hand and I turn the pushchair, heading back in the direction of Keeper’s Cottage. As we go, I sing to try and keep her awake, not wanting her to be lulled off to sleep before I’ve given her lunch, and she joins in here and there, happily kicking up her feet when we get to the chorus.
When we reach the house by the jetty, our voices are joined by the sound of whistling, the tune tone-perfect and each note as clear as birdsong. Daisy stops singing and chuckles instead as Davy’s head pops up from behind the tangle of honeysuckle that scrambles over the fence in front of his house. He’s on his hands and knees, picking wild raspberries from the canes that have woven themselves into the hedge.
Our meeting is a little awkward, as we haven’t seen each other since the accident. Perhaps he’s been avoiding me. Or perhaps I’ve been avoiding him. I’ve been intending to call to thank him properly, but haven’t quite got around to it yet.
‘Hello, you two,’ he says, getting to his feet and brushing the earth from his knees. ‘Jings, it’s grand to see the pair of you back safe and out and about again. Been busy making music, have you?’
I reach over the hedge and hug him tight, lost for words for a moment. ‘Davy, I . . . Thank you. Thank you so much for what you did.’
He smiles at me, the corners of his eyes crinkling, and shakes his head, making light of my gratitude. ‘I’m so sorry it happened. I should have been watching more carefully.’
‘It was my responsibility to watch her, not yours.’
‘Well, I’m very glad she’s none the worse for it now.’ He reaches out a finger and strokes her cheek.
‘Go bat?’ says Daisy, pointing hopefully towards the jetty. Her accident doesn’t seem to have dampened her enthusiasm for the sea one little bit.
‘I’ve already been out this morning,’ he tells her, offering her the bowl of raspberries. She takes one and looks at it thoughtfully before putting it in her mouth. ‘Took the Bonnie Stuart out beyond the point and caught a lovely wild salmon.’
‘Sam,’ replies Daisy approvingly.
‘But we’ll go out in the boat again one of these days, shall we, when the wind’s a bit quieter? It’s still a bit fresh today.’
‘That’d be great,’ I reply, as Daisy is too busy reaching for another raspberry to answer herself.
I fish a tissue out of my pocket and wipe the wine-coloured juice from Daisy’s fingers. ‘And now I’d better be getting this one home for her lunch. Sorry, though, she seems to have polished off most of your pudding already.’
‘Bye, Daisy,’ he says, shaking her sticky hand in his. ‘Be seeing you, Lexie.’
I turn the pushchair towards home. ‘Okay.’ And I smile. ‘Be seeing you, Davy.’
And as we head on our way along the road, the wind carries with us the faint strains of someone whistling ‘The Bonnie Lass o’ Fyvie-O’.
Flora, 1942
The Scottish summer never usually seemed to last long enough, but that year it felt interminable to Flora, Mairi and Bridie. They tried hard to be thankful for the calmer weather and longer days, knowing that these were things that would make life on board ship a little easier for Alec, Roy and Hal and the thousands of others who sailed the restless northern seas. But when the three of them were together, they could confide in one another the secret longing they shared for the summer to end so that the winds of autumn would bring their men back to Loch Ewe.
Flora was thankful that her duties kept her so busy. She and Mairi had been selected to be given some additional basic medical training and they were spending more time driving the ambulance that they’d been allocated, working as a team. They knew the roads around the loch like the backs of their hands and made almost daily runs ferrying the ill and the i
njured back and forth between the sick bay in the base at Mellon Charles and the hospital at Gairloch.
‘I can’t get over how much it’s all changed,’ Flora commented. They’d been sent to pick up a Polish officer from his billet in Poolewe who needed treatment for an abscess on a tooth. He’d chatted with them on the way, describing how he’d escaped from Warsaw when the Germans invaded and how determined he and his comrades were to win back their country from the Nazis. They dropped him at the hospital and he saluted smartly as they drove off. ‘Who’d ever have imagined we’d be doing this?’ She patted the steering wheel of the ambulance.
‘I know, it’s strange, isn’t it? But at the same time, it feels so familiar now. I can’t imagine going back to how I was before, just helping with the farm and the bairns. Do you think our lives will ever be the same again?’
Flora shrugged. ‘The war will end one day. But you’re right: I think when it does we’ll find it has changed our lives forever – for better or worse, I suppose.’
Mairi turned to face her friend. ‘Did you hear? They’re wanting to organise some concert parties to help entertain the troops. I saw a notice in the canteen asking for volunteers. You should sing for them, Flora. They’d snap you up in a second.’
‘Oh, I’m not sure I’d have the courage to sing in front of an audience like that.’ Flora shook her head slowly. She was torn. She’d love to sing at a concert, really, but she could just picture what Sir Charles would make of it if he found out. It’d be another black mark against her – engaging in such frivolities while Alec was off at sea. He’d certainly disapprove. And her confidence wobbled a little as she wondered whether Alec mightn’t disapprove as well. His outburst of rage had sown a seed of doubt in her. She couldn’t quite put her finger on why it had unnerved her so, but in that moment she’d felt he’d become someone else, not the Alec she thought she knew.