The Skylark's Secret

by Valpy, Fiona

  ‘Bridie, stay and look after Daisy for me, would you? I’m going to go to the point.’

  She nods, as if this is the sensible thing to do in the middle of the night with a force 10 gale blowing. But then we both know, without saying it, that if he’s coming back from the Shiants he’ll be heading into Loch Ewe past Furadh Mor.

  ‘Take his Land Rover,’ is all she says. ‘You’ll be able to get along the track. Be careful, Lexie.’

  I nod, tucking my pyjama trousers into my wellies and grabbing Mum’s coat from the hook. As I fasten it, my fingers brush against the sweetheart brooch which I’ve pinned to it, and the feel of the silver beneath my fingertips gives me a little jolt of courage, reminding me that Mum made this same journey on a storm-lashed night all those years ago.

  I pull up next to Davy’s Land Rover, which is parked in front of his house, the keys left in the ignition as usual. The engine splutters once, twice, then turns over and I shove the car into gear. The clutch takes a bit of getting used to and I jolt on to the road, the driving rain hammering on the metal of the roof. I wrench on the steering wheel as the wind buffets the vehicle, trying to blow it into the ditch. Thankfully there’s no one else out on the road tonight. I glance up to the heavens, wishing there was at least a glimmer of starlight to keep me company, but the storm clouds have blotted out the constellations that Davy pointed out to me the other night. Without them, how can he find true north? I just pray that the compass on the Bonnie Stuart will be pointing out a steady course against the wildness of the sea.

  At last I reach the croft houses at Cove and the end of the road. I crawl a little more cautiously along the track, unable to see anything beyond the beam of the headlights. I’m horribly aware that the ground starts to fall away steeply to my right here, as the full force of the storm howls around me. At last I’ve gone as far as I dare, and I jerk to a stop, yanking on the handbrake. I dip the headlights for a moment, hunching forward over the steering wheel to wipe the condensation from the windscreen with my coat sleeve, scanning the darkness for any faint glimmer of light. And then I see it. A tiny pinprick, as faint as starlight, that appears momentarily and then disappears again as the waves overwhelm it. I wait, holding my breath, straining my eyes. And it appears again. Definitely a boat! But it’s on the wrong side of Furadh Mor and it’s close to the coast, turning in too soon, unable to see the vicious teeth of the headland in the darkness.

  Frantically, I switch the headlights back to full beam, conscious that the light seems to peter out all too close to the car, swallowed by the darkness. But if the boatman – whether or not it’s the Bonnie Stuart out there – glances up, he’ll see the faint beam of the light and realise that there’s land between him and the mouth of the loch.

  I jump out of the Land Rover and the storm grabs me, almost blowing me off my feet, knocking the breath out of me. I stumble towards the cliff edge, grabbing on to handfuls of heather to anchor myself to the solid ground. And there it is again, the tiny light struggling against the waves. But it’s still heading towards the rocks, and I scream and wave my arms, even though I know that I can neither be seen nor heard above the roaring of the sea.

  ‘Turn away!’ I scream. ‘Turn away!’

  I jump back into the car and frantically dip and raise the headlights, flashing out a warning.

  The pinprick of light appears, then is swallowed once again by the waves.

  And then I give a sob of relief. Because the next time it appears it’s changed course, heading away from the treacherous rocks of Furadh Mor. Its progress is painfully slow as it struggles against the force of the storm. Then it disappears completely for a few interminable minutes, battling the oncoming waves and hidden from view on the far side of the island. When it reappears to the right of the headland, safely past the rocks, I gasp in air, only then discovering that I’ve been holding my breath as I’ve waited to catch a glimpse of the dot of light again, that tiny glimmer as fragile as starlight in the black expanse of the ocean.

  I wait until the boat is well clear of the point and can turn to starboard, running into the mouth of Loch Ewe with the waves. And then I reverse carefully back along the track until I reach a place where I can turn. As I drive back around the shore of the loch, I crane my head at every turn in the road where it’s possible to see out across the water. I’m rewarded here and there by glimpses of the light, ploughing steadily onwards now towards Aultbea. The darkness seems a little less dense, at last, and the faint gleam of dawn creeps beneath the blanket of thick storm clouds above the turbulent, pewter-dark waters of the loch.

  I drive the Land Rover on to the jetty. Word has got out and there are men gathered there, waiting to catch the ropes Davy throws and help him bring the Bonnie Stuart into the shelter of the harbour. Hands reach to pull him ashore and he shouts his thanks above the raging of the wind. They clap him on the back, each thankful that one of their own is safe home once more, snatched back from the grasp of the storm kelpies. And then he sees me, waiting beside the stack of creels, and he strides towards me. I step forward, meeting him halfway, and hold him more tightly than I’ve ever held anything before.

  ‘So,’ he says, when at last he’s got his breath back enough to speak, ‘who’s the rescuer now, might I ask, Lexie Gordon?’

  Flora, 1944

  As the day of Alec’s departure approached, she sensed the darkness growing in him once more. The precious couple of days they’d spent camping in the old bothy had brought them closer than ever before, and for a little while she’d been able to convince herself that her love really could be enough to heal him, keeping the shadows at bay. But as the coming weeks of separation loomed, she could feel him pulling away from her again, distant and distracted. Her doubts came rushing back in to fill the gap.

  She’d wanted to spend every moment she could with him, but her work at the base kept them apart. And her anxiety increased still more when he stopped coming to Keeper’s Cottage for his usual evening visits to sit in the kitchen with her and her father and Ruaridh and share a dram or two of whisky.

  The activity in the harbour had taken on a greater sense of urgency, signalling the imminent departure of the convoy, and Flora was struggling to concentrate on the engine she was fixing. She glanced up when she heard the crunch of boots on the shingle, pushing a stray lock of hair from her eyes with the back of one oil-streaked hand.

  ‘Alec!’ Her heart gave a bound at the sight of him.

  He returned her kiss, but not her smile, and his eyes didn’t quite meet hers.

  ‘It’s good to see you,’ she continued. ‘I was worrying you’d be off soon and we might not get a chance to say our goodbyes.’ She wiped her hands on a rag and tucked the loose strand of hair back into her braid.

  He looked out across the bay to where the Kite was anchored. ‘I’ve come to say them now,’ he said. ‘We’ll not be sailing until the morning, but I won’t get a chance to see you again before I go.’

  ‘Won’t you be able to come to the cottage tonight, then? You know Dad and Ruaridh would love to see you.’

  He shook his head. ‘I’m afraid not. I’ve a few things to do at home. And then I have to be on board early to make ready the ship before we catch the tide.’

  It was there again, the unnerving distance between them. She wrapped her arms around him, trying to reclaim a little of the closeness of that night when she’d lain in his arms beneath the stars, but it was as if he’d already left her, his mind anticipating the next brutal journey stretching ahead of him.

  ‘Och well then, I’ll be seeing you.’ She hoped the familiar words would make him smile, but his expression was still serious as he stooped to kiss her one last time. And then he turned and walked away, back up the beach towards Ardtuath House.

  Trying to shrug off the fear she felt – for him, for them – Flora watched him go, hoping he’d turn and smile and wave so she could tell herself that everything would be all right. But he carried on without a backward glance. As he disapp
eared from view, she reluctantly picked up a wrench and turned her attention back to the job in hand.

  She was just finishing up for the day, returning her tools to the store at the top of the base, when she saw the car. The driver and his passenger didn’t notice her standing by the corrugated tin wall of the hut, but their windows were open to make the most of the light and warmth of the summer’s evening, and she saw them quite clearly.

  As Alec accelerated, a lock of Diana Kingsley-Scott’s blonde hair fluttered in the breeze, mocking Flora as she watched them drive away.

  A surge of fury and humiliation – the culmination of all those times before when she’d felt the shame of her exclusion from Alec’s world – coursed through her veins. Diana couldn’t just have arrived at Ardtuath House out of the blue. She must have been there for a few days and Alec hadn’t told her. Not only that, he’d been avoiding her: it explained the sudden end to his usual evening visits. He’d have been enjoying fancy dinners with his parents and Diana in the dining room of the big house. It stung so much more after the days and nights they’d spent together on the hill. What a fool she’d been, believing his protestations of innocence when Diana had been there in December for the shooting weekend. This must have been going on ever since, and all that time he’d been using her. She wouldn’t be humiliated by him again though. Her fingers closed around the sweetheart brooch in her pocket, gripping it so hard its corners pierced her skin.

  She pulled it out and looked at it where it lay in the palm of her hand, where the silver of the laurel wreath was tarnished with a rust-coloured bead of her blood.

  She ran up the path to the house, tripping over the roots of the pines in her haste. She didn’t want to see Alec so she needed to drop off the letter before he got back from wherever he’d been going with Diana. To her relief there was no sign of his car, and the outer front door stood open. She laid the envelope containing her note and the sweetheart brooch on the silver salver where the postman left the daily post, so that Alec would find it on his return. And then she turned and stumbled back down the path, thankful for the darkness beneath the trees as it swallowed her up.

  After a sleepless night, Flora rose early, before the others were about. Wrapping her plaid shawl about her against the chill of the dawn dew, she tried to ignore the merchant ships that were beginning to manoeuvre into position for the convoy on the far side of the loch as she picked wild raspberries from the tangle of canes growing above the cottage.

  The fruit would be a welcome addition to the breakfast table. And then she’d talk to her father about the plan she’d hatched as she’d tossed and turned in her bed. She needed to leave Ardtuath, to get away from Alec and his family. She couldn’t bear the thought of his deception, of seeing him with Diana again. Her presence here would be awkward for everyone, not least for her father and brother who depended on the estate for their home. But now, she told herself firmly, she’d discovered skills she could put to good use to support herself, and a voice of her own. She would ask for a transfer to another base and that would get her away by the time Alec returned. Then, once the war was over, she’d find work somehow, wherever she ended up. She’d miss her family and friends, she knew, with a pang that made her heart constrict. And she’d miss singing with the Aultbea Songbirds. But there’d be other opportunities, other chances. Even, perhaps, another man one day, one whom she could trust and who would love her back as she loved him.

  A movement in the shadows among the pines made her glance up, and she set down the bowl of berries and wiped her hands on her apron as Lady Helen approached, hurrying down the path.

  ‘Good morning, your ladyship.’

  Lady Helen brushed aside the greeting. Her ordinarily pale cheeks were flushed and she seemed a little out of breath. ‘Flora! I’m so glad I’ve found you.’ She seized Flora’s arm. ‘Please, you have to believe me when I tell you Alec loves you and only you.’ Her words tumbled out with none of her usual reserve.

  Flora looked at her in speechless astonishment.

  ‘My husband is guilty of the most terrible interference. He considers it his right to control the lives of everyone around him. For too long I’ve allowed him to do so, but I cannot stand by and watch him destroy my son. Alec loves you. He told me about your letter. Yes, Diana has been staying for a few days, but at my husband’s invitation once again. Alec was furious and he didn’t want to tell you, knowing it would only upset you. Yesterday he had an almighty row with his father and he told Miss Kingsley-Scott in no uncertain terms that he wasn’t the slightest bit interested in her. He got back late, after driving her to the train. It was then that he found your letter. He’s devastated, Flora. You’re the girl he loves. And now he’s had to go and get on that bloody ship and sail away again, thinking you don’t love him any more, and it’s breaking my heart . . .’

  She’d never heard Lady Helen utter so many words and in such a forceful tone. And one of them a swear word, too! As she got over her initial shock and the words sank in, Flora pressed her hand to her mouth. She spun around wildly towards the loch where the merchant ships were lined up in their positions now, waiting for the off.

  ‘No!’ she cried. ‘Alec! I have to go to him! I have to tell him I got it all wrong.’

  She tried to turn, to run towards the pier, but Lady Helen hadn’t yet relinquished her grip. ‘Here,’ her ladyship said. ‘Take this with you.’ She pressed something into Flora’s hand. ‘Now go!’

  Flora’s feet flew down the path, across the road, along the shore. But she was too late. As she watched, gasping for breath, the Kite slipped into its position at the head of the convoy and began to lead the line of ships towards the mouth of the loch. She waved both arms above her head, hoping that he might glimpse her there, but knowing he was already too far away. She dashed the tears from her eyes and then opened her hand to look at the sweetheart brooch that Lady Helen had given back to her. She took it and carefully pinned it on to her shawl as she stood watching the convoy leave.

  ‘Come back to me,’ she whispered. And the breeze took her words and scattered them out across the silver waters.

  It was late August, a week after Alec had left. Honeysuckle spilled from the hedgerows and the song of the skylarks drifted on the summer breeze. Flora was walking home from the base when she saw the Laverock boys jogging towards her along the road. It was one of their evenings to help Iain at Ardtuath and they’d come straight from school, their socks bunched around their ankles above scuffed shoes, knees as knobbly as pine knots. She smiled and waved, but then stopped in her tracks as she saw the look on their faces.

  ‘What is it?’ she asked, automatically reaching to smooth Stuart’s fringe out of his eyes.

  ‘We seen that postie. On his bike. He turned in at the gates to the big house.’ Stuart gasped for breath, panting out the words.

  ‘Who was it? Mr McTaggart?’

  The boys nodded their heads in unison.

  Flora blanched. A telegram then. Alec.

  She hesitated, wanting to know but not able to march up the drive to Ardtuath House and face the Mackenzie-Grants. Sir Charles’s anger would be bad enough; Lady Helen’s grief might be even worse.

  But the not knowing was unbearable. So she was about to steel herself to do it when she caught sight of another figure in a Wrens uniform hurrying along the road towards them from the base, arms outstretched, capless brown curls askew. And as Flora’s legs gave way beneath her, Bridie reached her and grabbed her just before she fell.

  Lexie, 1978

  Mairi’s voice is gentle as she recalls the facts of my father’s death. I’d heard them before, from Mum, of course. The Kite was accompanying that summer convoy through the Barents Sea when she was hit by a torpedo. She went down fast, taking with her the crew of 239 men. Only nine were saved, pulled from the waves by a rescue vessel, as the rest of the ships continued on their way to Archangel.

  So my father lies, like so many other sailors, in a grave that I can never visit. His nam
e on the family memorial of the Mackenzie-Grants in the graveyard doesn’t seem nearly enough, but I suppose it was all Mum had. Those wildflowers that we laid there every Sunday were all she could offer him. He left not knowing that she loved him still. She had to live with that for the rest of her life. And he never knew that she was carrying his child.

  And then Bridie tells me how, after the memorial service in the kirk, Sir Charles accosted Ruaridh in front of everyone, his rage and grief spilling over, and told him he should be ashamed of himself, sitting safe in a shelter on the hill in a job that Alec had made sure of for him, while his son’s bones were lying under a hundred fathoms of icy sea. Ruaridh stood there and took it, saying nothing, but his jaw was clenched, his face as pale as a ghost with his own grief at the loss of his childhood friend.

  Flora begged him not to go, but the very next day Ruaridh marched down to the base and asked for a transfer to the escort ships. And, because they needed a signalman, he was given a berth on the Cassandra, whose name indeed turned out to be a portent of doom. Ruaridh was lost as the last-but-one convoy was returning to Loch Ewe after a safe run through to Murmansk, the ship’s bows shot away by a German torpedo.

  And so it was that the next time Mr McTaggart cycled along the road towards Ardtuath, he passed the gates of the estate and turned in at Keeper’s Cottage with the telegram that would break – again – the hearts of Iain and Flora, just three months after they’d learned the news of Alec.

  ‘So that was it, then,’ I say, once I’ve digested the story that my mother’s best friends have told me. The tragedy of it makes me want to weep.

  No wonder Mum found it hard to talk about my father. She must have felt so guilty about writing that awful letter to him. About him sailing to his death not knowing how much he was loved.

  Then the awful realisation hits me, too, that she might have felt responsible for her own brother’s death. Sir Charles’s fury at Alec’s love for Flora must have played a part in his grief-stricken rage, detonating his outburst at Ruaridh. Both my father and my uncle were war heroes, but now I understand how complex Mum’s feelings must have been about the part she imagined she’d played in their deaths.