The Skylark's Secret

by Valpy, Fiona

  It’s to be a place where people will come from far and wide, and everyone will be made welcome: all generations and backgrounds, beginners and experts, people who want to make their own music. People who want to find their own songs to sing.

  I think my grandmother, Lady Helen, would approve, too. At the meeting in Inverness, Mr Clelland had explained to me that on her death, her entire estate – the proceeds from the sale of the house in London as well as the sale of the house and lands at Ardtuath – had been put into a carefully managed trust. She had specified that an amount was to be paid each month to Flora Gordon of Keeper’s Cottage, Ardtuath, to enable her to live there and raise her child. And on Flora Gordon’s death, the trust was to be dissolved and the capital made over in full to the then about-to-be-born grandchild of Lady Helen Mackenzie-Grant, who would be her sole heir.

  Once Mr Clelland had gone through the legalities of Lady Helen’s bequest with me, he’d then shuffled through his pile of papers and turned his attention to Mum’s will. She’d left Keeper’s Cottage to me, of course. But what I didn’t know was that she’d put almost all of her monthly allowance from the trust into her post office savings account, preferring to live simply and quietly as her parents had done before her on the little croft. She’d sent me a small allowance when I was studying in London, and I imagine she might have used her savings to pay the fees for me to attend stage school if I hadn’t won a full scholarship. But she’d always preferred to let me stand on my own two feet, proving to myself and to the world that I could make my own success, and all the while the money she’d saved had been accumulating quietly in the background.

  I smile at Davy as he joins the other musicians on the stage, picking up his guitar. He has a new part-time job here now as one of the teachers when he’s not out on the boat. Elspeth and I will work together running the administrative side of the centre, sharing the job and our childcare. She has little Katie now, Jack’s sister, and Daisy loves spending her days with them.

  I caress the gentle swell of my own belly as Davy begins to play ‘The Eriskay Love Lilt’. It’s still our secret, but I’ve no doubt that before too many more weeks have passed it will be general knowledge about these parts that Daisy Gordon is going to have her own wee brother or sister by the time the heather turns the hills purple again in the summer. My money’s on Bridie Macdonald being the first to know.

  As he sings the verse, he searches for me in the audience and looks straight into my eyes.

  ‘Thou art the music of my heart,

  Harp of joy, o cruit mo chruid,

  Moon of guidance by night,

  Strength and light thou art to me.’

  He’s the one who helped me come up with the idea for the centre. We’ve taken out a long lease on the house so that instead of it being shut up most of the year and only used for the occasional shooting party, it’s become a focal point of the community, open to all. There’ll be concerts and festivals and residential retreats on offer. And there’ll be music lessons for local children, as well as the toddler’s music and movement group that Elspeth and I will continue to run. We have plans to install a recording studio, too, so that the traditional songs can be preserved for posterity.

  Tonight, the windows of Ardtuath House no longer look like blank, dead eyes staring out at the loch, and the oppressive atmosphere of sadness and fear that used to linger in these rooms has been exorcised. Light spills on to the lawn, pushing back the shadows, and music floats on the air, bringing the night to life. Davy once said that Keeper’s Cottage had always been filled with song and good cheer, and that’s another way that Flora’s spirit has finally been allowed to inhabit the house where she’d once dreamed of living as Alec’s wife. Although that dream was destined never to come true, perhaps Fate has a funny way of making sure things work out in the end.

  Once the evening is over and the new centre has been well and truly launched, I walk from room to room, switching off lights as I go. I linger in the library and trace my fingers along the edge of the mantelpiece above the fireplace.

  While I’m standing there, Davy comes into the room. ‘There you are,’ he says, wrapping his arms around me. ‘What are you thinking about? You look so far away.’

  ‘I’m thinking of Flora and Alec spending an evening here together, and I wish that life had been different for us all,’ I reply. ‘I wish that he’d survived the war and that they’d been able to marry. I wish I’d known my dad. I wish that Mum had had him by her side instead of living her life alone for so many years. I wish your mum and Stuart were alive. And I wish they could all be here now to see this and share it with us.’

  He nods and kisses my hair. ‘But you know, Lexie, in your way, you’ve made sure they live on by filling this place with the music that was the soundtrack to their world. You’ve taken all that loss and turned it into something that’s going to benefit so many more people. If things had been different, you might never have found your own song to sing. That, above all, was what Flora wanted for you.’

  I smile and turn to kiss him. ‘We’ll keep her songs alive and pass them on from generation to generation. We’ll keep all their songs alive.’ I’m thankful that he and I have had the luxury of time to sort out ourselves and our relationship, a luxury that Alec and Flora never had. I’m thankful to have found him. And I’m thankful that we have each other and the music in our souls.

  I turn off the last of the lights and then we leave, closing the heavy front door behind us and turning the key in the lock before we make our way back along the path beneath the pines to Keeper’s Cottage. I glance back over my shoulder at the house just before its face is obscured by the trees. And, even though the windows are darkened again, it seems to me that Ardtuath House has awakened from its long sleep and is ready to live and breathe once more.

  The next day, I settle Daisy into her carrier and hoist it on to my back. Then we climb the hill to the lochan where the white lilies grow, singing as we go. As we cross the slope above Ardtuath House, the strains of a fiddle float from an open window, wafted towards us by the breeze from the loch. The notes meld naturally with the sighing of the wind in the pine branches, while the fluting calls of the larks on the hill add their own harmony over the melody.

  Below us, in the little graveyard, a new bench has been placed alongside the memorial to the Mackenzie-Grant family. On it is carved a dedication to Lady Helen and the words I chose from my favourite Gaelic blessing: Deep peace of the shining stars to you. At last her name is remembered there, beside her beloved son’s, even if neither of them lie beneath the nodding heads of the cotton grass.

  Out on the water, Davy will be setting off in the Bonnie Stuart to check his creels. If we’re lucky there’ll be squatties for our supper tonight.

  We reach the old bothy and I set Daisy down thankfully, out of breath with the effort of the climb. As I release her from the carrier I say, ‘Soon you’ll be too big for this. You’ll have to walk on your own two feet because your baby will be in the carrier.’

  ‘My baby,’ she says, pointing a stubby finger at my stomach. Then she potters off to pick some wildflowers from among the stones of the fallen walls.

  I lift my face to the sunshine and watch as a skylark rises from the gorse above us, soaring into the blue. Its song makes me think of Davy Laverock, who kept his secret for all those years. A secret within a secret, protecting my mum. It was his way of repaying her kindness to him and Stuart, part of the natural cycle of give and take that makes up life within a tight-knit community.

  A wind-scudded cloud crosses the face of the sun, obscuring it for a few seconds. And there it is again, that trick of the light that brings the ghost ships out on the loch. I picture Alec Mackenzie-Grant, and Ruaridh Gordon, and Hal Gustavsen, and Johnny, Matthew and Jamie Carmichael, and the many other young men who gave their lives to the war. I’m glad that they all knew this place, the hidden lochan covered in white lilies in the hills above Loch Ewe. I’m glad that they heard the song of the
skylark and knew how good freedom can be. So good that it’s worth fighting for.

  I gather Daisy to me and hug her tight, burying my face in her rose-gold curls. She’s the spitting image of her granny; everyone says so.

  Then I settle her back in the carrier and hoist it on to my shoulders for the walk home.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  ‘This is a God-fearing community and the local people are to be treated with respect.’

  Winston Churchill, in an address to naval personnel on the arrival of the Home Fleet in Loch Ewe. 13th September, 1939

  In writing this book, I have tried at all times to keep to Winston Churchill’s directive, treating the memories of the local inhabitants and their history with the utmost respect. For the purposes of the story, all the characters are fictitious. Any similarities to particular individuals are both coincidental and unintentional.

  There is no Ardtuath Estate, nor was there an Ardtuath House that could be transformed from a shooting lodge into a music school. However, I am pleased to say that a thriving traditional music scene and a resurgence in the teaching of Gaelic ensure that the old songs live on in the Highlands. The idea of a school to help promote traditional Scottish music was inspired, in part, by the National Centre of Excellence in Traditional Music at Plockton, which offers residential places for students from all across Scotland. The Traditional Music and Song Association is a good starting point for finding out more about the songs included in this book:

  www.tmsa.scot

  As far as possible, I have tried to stick to the historical timeline of events during World War II. I have made up or altered the names of some of the ships that Alec serves upon for the purposes of the story but again, wherever I could, I have reflected the historical facts as accurately as possible.

  Three thousand men lost their lives on the Arctic convoys. Those who served, undertaking what Winston Churchill described as ‘the worst journey in the world’, were finally awarded a special medal – the Arctic Star – in 2012. The medal was awarded to both military personnel and merchant seamen. Arctic convoy personnel are entitled to wear a white beret, earning them the nickname ‘Snowdrops’. In the garden of the Russian Arctic Convoys Museum in Aultbea, 3,000 snowdrops have been planted to commemorate those who lost their lives, re-emerging as a sea of white blooms each spring.

  The vestiges of Loch Ewe’s pivotal role as the muster point for the convoys can still be seen today. In 1999 a memorial was unveiled at Rubha Nan Sasan, the point overlooking the entrance to the loch, to commemorate the courage of all who took part in the convoys, which played such a vital role in the Allied victory.

  When I visited the memorial, among the poppies that had been left there in memory of those who never returned to the safe harbour of Loch Ewe, a stone had been placed, painted with a single word: Спасибо.

  It is the Russian word for ‘thanks’.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Thanks to the Russian Arctic Convoys Museum, Aultbea, a wealth of material has been preserved to keep alive the memories of those extraordinary years during World War II when that remote crofting community was suddenly transformed into a busy naval base and became home for over three thousand military personnel. The museum, staffed by welcoming and knowledgeable volunteers, is a treasure trove of information and well worth a visit. Its exhibits help to bring home just how terrible conditions were on the journeys to Murmansk and Archangel. Details of the convoys and the men who served on them are available via their website at www.racmp.co.uk.

  Similarly, Steve Chadwick’s book Loch Ewe During World War II is a wonderful reference work, recording local people’s reminiscences as well as the historical facts.

  All Hell Let Loose: The World at War 1939–1945 by Max Hastings has a chapter devoted to the Arctic convoys, which is a good starting point for anyone wishing to read more about their history within the wider context of the war.

  I was extremely fortunate to be given access to several first-hand accounts recorded by people who served on the convoys. I am grateful to Vivienne Giacobino-Simon who shared extracts from the diaries of her father, Noel Simon, the author and African wildlife conservationist. During the war, Noel was a fighter pilot with the Fleet Air Arm, flying Wildcats from the aircraft carrier Illustrious, one of the escort vessels accompanying several convoys. He was mentioned in dispatches for his bravery.

  Jamie Jauncey very kindly shared with me his grandfather’s book, the Random Naval Recollections of Admiral Sir Angus Cunninghame Graham, who commanded the destroyer Kent on Arctic convoys at one point during his illustrious naval career.

  I am also grateful to Sandra Nicholl of Tamarac, Florida, for sharing photos and memories of her parents’ careers in the RAF and WRNS, including mention of the WRNS guard of honour at their Scottish wedding.

  My neighbour, Ernie Carrol, told me stories of his father’s army career, which helped inspire some of the scenes in the book. I hope his dog, Braan, doesn’t mind me borrowing his name. I also appropriated the name of my friend Kiki Fraser’s dog, Corrie, with her kind permission. And my friends Peter and Wendy Miller very generously shared information about refugee children attending a west coast school during the war years.

  Jamie Elder of West Highland Marine took me out on to Loch Ewe in his boat, the Striker, and gave me an excellent and informative tour of World War II sites around the loch from the water. He was very well placed to do so, having fished the waters all his life, along with his father before him, and – on one occasion – having found an unexploded bomb from the war years on the seabed.

  Heartfelt thanks, as always, to my agent, Madeleine Milburn, and to her brilliant team for supporting and promoting my books around the world.

  A massive thank you to my editors, Sammia Hamer, Mike Jones, Gill Harvey and Monica Byles, as well as to Emma Rogers for another stunning cover design, and to the rest of the Lake Union team at Amazon Publishing. You are life-changers.

  Another big, heartfelt thank you goes out to all the friends and family who encourage me and keep the hugs coming. Especially: Lesley Singers and her family; my mother, Aline Wood; my aunt, Flora Crowe; Karen and Michael Macgregor for west coast inspiration; James and Willow; Alastair and Carey.

  And, finally, I am so grateful to all my readers for their support and I would like to thank you personally for reading my books. If you have enjoyed The Skylark’s Secret, I should be very grateful if you would consider writing a review. I love getting feedback, and I know reviews have played a big part in helping other readers to discover my work.

  With best wishes,

  Fiona

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Photo © Willow Findlay

  Fiona is an acclaimed number 1 bestselling author, whose books have been translated into more than twenty different languages worldwide.

  She draws inspiration from the stories of strong women, especially during the years of World War II. Her meticulous historical research enriches her writing with an evocative sense of time and place.

  Fiona spent seven years living in France, having moved there from the UK in 2007, before returning to live in Scotland. Her love for both of these countries, their people and their histories, has found its way into the books she’s written.