by Pam Rhodes
“If you’re booked on the Ancient Orkneys trip this morning, you’ll be visiting a World Heritage site dating back to 3000 BC, which includes Skara Brae, Maeshowe Chambered Cairn, the Standing Stones of Stenness and Orkney’s own Stonehenge, the Ring of Brodgar. Your coaches should be ready to leave in approximately ten minutes.
“Going North is our third excursion this morning, visiting the most northerly cathedral, royal residences and distillery in Britain. I’ll be calling you for your coaches within quarter of an hour.
“Also waiting on the dockside at the moment is the coach for one of Orkney’s most famous relics from the Second World War, the Italian Chapel. Can passengers booked on that trip kindly make their way down to the transport now?”
“What did she say?” asked Raymond, his smile as beaming as ever. “Is that us?”
“It certainly is,” said Peter Fellowes, who was sitting next to him. “Ready for the off?”
“Neil,” snapped Iris, “I will allow you to escort me, but only if you promise not to dawdle. Harry, try to keep up!”
“Tell you what, Uncle Harry,” whispered Claire, linking her arm through his. “Let Iris do all the rushing around. You and I will take our time so you can just slip into the seat she’s saved for you.”
Clifford, who was working his way towards the exit along with Brian and Sylvia, heard a voice behind him.
“Good morning, Clifford. Did you enjoy Andrew’s playing last night?”
Clifford swung around to see the eager faces of Maureen and Bill Bragnall directly behind him in the queue. Andrew was with them, but he was distracted by the extremely attractive young lady beside him, along with a tall, handsome young man whom Clifford instantly recognized as the talented lead singer in the ship’s company of performers.
“We were so proud to see Andrew being applauded like that,” enthused Maureen. “And he looks really elegant and mature in his dinner suit. My little boy is all grown up.”
“He certainly did very well,” agreed Clifford, smiling towards Andrew, who was now aware of their conversation. “You’ve got a wonderful feel for the music, Andrew. You’re a talented musician.”
Andrew couldn’t keep the delight from his face.
“This is Sharon,” he said, drawing his companions into the group. “She’s head girl of the show dancers. And here’s our lead singer, Michael.”
Clifford shook hands with both of them, smiling warmly as he congratulated them on the company’s performance the previous evening.
“It’s good to see you all taking some time ashore,” he added, “especially to visit the Italian Chapel. I remember coming here years ago. It was very moving.”
“It’s nice to get off the ship sometimes,” said Sharon. “Andy, Mike and I have made a pact that we’ll try and go on trips at least a couple of times a week. It’s easy not to bother, especially when we’ve all been working late the night before. But if we don’t, we could end up cruising round the world and seeing nothing but the sea.”
“They don’t have to pay, you know,” beamed Maureen. “Because they’re staff members, they go along as escorts on the coaches, counting passengers on and off and handing out the bottles of water and mints when they come back on board. It’s a very responsible job.”
“And we’d better go,” said Sharon, sensing Andrew’s embarrassment at his mother’s comments. Hurriedly saying their goodbyes, the three of them headed for the exit.
“Legs up to here,” quipped Bill, watching appreciatively as Sharon walked away. “A talented couple, Andrew and Sharon – one providing the music and the other one dancing to bring it alive. The perfect pair.”
“Mr Davies,” said a commanding voice to one side of their group. Clifford turned to see Carole Swinton looking directly at him. “I wish to arrange a time when you and I can have a little chat.”
“Certainly, dear lady,” said Clifford smoothly. “Perhaps during afternoon tea this afternoon, before the gospel choir rehearsal? I do hope you plan to come along to that.”
“I wouldn’t miss it for the world.” Carole’s reply sounded as if every word was loaded with meaning.
“Morning, all!” The jaunty greeting came from John Curtis, who had stopped beside them to give Barbara a chance to make last-minute adjustments to her camera. “This Italian Chapel’s a must for us. A living legacy from the Second World War.”
“We’ve been looking forward to seeing it since we first read the itinerary for this cruise, haven’t we, dear?” trilled Barbara, looking adoringly at her husband. “And I’ll capture every moment on my camera. I’ve been meaning to say to you all, by the way, that if you want copies of my photos once we’re back home again, I’ll be pleased to organize it.”
“She’ll be the group’s official photographer before we know it,” chuckled John. “You should be very proud of what you’re doing, love.”
“Oh, it’s nothing really,” giggled Barbara, glowing at the compliment. “I’m only an amateur.”
As they all filed out towards the coach, Julia and Ida were just settling into the front seat, next to Arthur and his family. Handing over their tickets, the rest of the group clambered into seats further down the bus.
“Ahoy there, shipmates!” called Brig as he and Daisy arrived last.
“There are two seats up the back,” directed Daisy. “Keep moving!”
Deirdre and Mark were already sitting close together in the middle of the bus, their hands lightly touching.
“I can’t believe it,” he said so that only she could hear. “After all this time, longing to get to know you better, it’s taken a trip like this for us to get our act together at last. This feels so special, Deirdre. It’s a dream come true.”
“For me too.”
“Please tell me if it gets too much – if I’m crowding you and you want a bit of space…”
“I’ve had nothing but my own space for far too long,” she smiled back at him. “It never occurred to me that anyone would find me interesting enough to want to get closer.”
He gazed directly at her. “I do. I hope you’ll let me be closer still.”
“You may not like what you find.”
“What do you mean?”
She shrugged her shoulders. “It’s early days, isn’t it? Let’s just take it as it comes.”
“Of course,” he agreed, weaving his fingers around hers. “But I need you to know my heart’s in this. I think I’ve been a little in love with you from the first moment I saw you.”
A faint flush coloured Deirdre’s cheeks before she spoke again. “I’ve always wondered what brought you to St Jude’s in the first place.”
“Work. I head a research team that moved to new premises in Derby. I was tired of living in a city. I wanted a house in the country…”
“… with roses round the door?”
He shared her smile. “Exactly. That’s just what I found when I discovered Sunnyside Cottage. It felt like home the moment I walked through the gate.”
“Have you always been a churchgoer?”
“Not really. That was work too. I travelled a lot and often didn’t make it back at the weekends. I made all sorts of excuses not to go, probably because I never found a church where I felt really at home. My faith’s never been in question, though.”
“Aren’t scientists supposed to find faith and science totally incompatible?”
“Quite the opposite for me. Every time I look at life in minute detail through a microscope, I’m even more amazed at the intricacy of creation. I don’t believe perfection can be random. It’s not just my heart and soul – my logical brain tells me there must be a creative power behind it all. Being a scientist has made me even more of a believer.”
“So once you’d settled in Burntacre, you decided to pop into St Jude’s?”
“Yes. It was late September, and it turned out to be harvest festival. The church was all decked out with sheaves of corn, flowers and vegetables, and there were lots of children there. The who
le building felt full of life and laughter. One of the hymns was ‘We Plough the Fields and Scatter’, and I hadn’t sung that for years. There was a shaft of sunshine streaming through the stained-glass window, and I just felt swept up in the fellowship of it all. I wanted to belong. I needed to put down spiritual roots again and be part of a Christian community. So I went along the next week and the next, and before I knew it, I was on the readers’ rota and joining the tenors in what passes as the choir.”
“We couldn’t believe our luck when a proper tenor joined us,” grinned Deirdre.
“You noticed me, then?”
“I certainly did.”
“You didn’t say much.”
“Well, I wouldn’t. That’s not me at all.”
“I did try and talk to you a few times. Do you remember?”
“I remember very well, but I’m not good at small talk with people I don’t know.”
“Is that shyness?”
“Perhaps, a bit. I always find myself trying to fade into the background in mixed company.”
“Why? Is there anything in particular that worries you?”
Deirdre looked as if she was about to reply, then changed her mind.
“I’m sorry. I don’t mean to pry,” he said, giving her hand a reassuring squeeze.
“You’re not. It’s a reasonable question.”
“I guess,” he said slowly, “you’ve been badly hurt in the past…”
“You could say that.”
“Tell me to mind my own business, but does that have anything to do with Brendan’s father?”
“I’ve heard nothing from him since before Brendan was born. Twenty-four years ago.”
“Were you married?”
She looked him squarely in the eye. “No. I’m an unmarried mother. Does that shock you?”
“It only shocks me that you’d think for one minute I’d judge you in any way at all. It’s Brendan’s father who disappeared. You, on the other hand, have been a wonderful mother – everyone says so. And as a teacher, your whole life is devoted to children. I’m not the only one who admires you.”
For a moment he thought she was going to cry, but instead she simply looked down at their clasped hands.
“Thank you,” she whispered, and the two of them fell silent, words no longer needed when their interlocked fingers seemed to say it all.
As the coach started to pull away from the dockside, the microphone crackled into life.
“Good morning, everybody, and welcome to Orkney!” The smiling guide’s weathered complexion and practical jacket and jeans indicated someone well used to an outdoor life. “My name’s Morag, and I’m pleased to be your guide as we travel from Kirkwall across the Orkney mainland, over to the small island of Lamb Holm. There we’re going to visit a remarkable chapel, quite unlike anything you’ll find anywhere else in the world.
“To get to the start of its story, we need to go back to the dark days of World War Two. Here, to the east of Scapa Flow, there were four channels leading into an anchorage for naval ships. There were sunken ships conveniently blocking these channels, so it was thought an attack by sea from that direction was impossible. Not so. On 13th October 1939, a brilliantly planned and executed attack by the Germans took everyone completely by surprise. During an exceptionally high tide the commander of U-boat U47, Lieutenant Gunther Prien, found a gap in the defences of Holm Sound. He managed not only to penetrate the Flow, but also to get U47 safely back out again, having sunk the battleship Royal Oak killing eight hundred and thirty-three men.”
“That German captain had a lucky break,” called out Brig from the back of the bus. “Their U-boats weren’t a patch on our subs, and their men weren’t ever as well trained. Who won the war, then? It wasn’t them, was it!”
“Brig!” commanded Daisy, plainly embarrassed. “People can’t hear what she’s saying.”
In fact, it seemed that Morag hadn’t heard the interruption, because she simply carried on with her commentary.
“That episode taught the navy a hard lesson, so a major plan was put in place to lay massive barriers of stone and concrete on the sea bed from island to island. It was going to take several years to build them, bearing in mind that about one and a half miles of barrier needed to be constructed in water up to sixty feet deep.
“It soon became clear that the work was moving too slowly and that more labour was needed. So, in early 1942, Italian prisoners of war were shipped up to this windswept northern isle to work on the huge building project.
“These prisoners came from a land of sunshine and song. They were devout Roman Catholics who missed their churches but cherished their faith. What we are going to see was their solution to that dilemma: their very own chapel. It was made from nothing more than scrap bits and pieces, but it still stands today as a beacon of resilience and inspiration to every generation that’s followed them.”
By this time, the passengers realized they were travelling across a narrow road with sea on both sides.
“The barriers were immediately named after the man who commanded they should be built – and so, ladies and gentlemen, we are now driving across the first of the Churchill Barriers. Once we reach Lamb Holm, we will be turning off towards the place where prisoner-of-war Camp 60 once stood. Several hundred Italian soldiers, captured during the North African campaign, were sent here. At the start, they were greeted by about thirteen cheerless huts, but the Italians soon got busy improving things. They built concrete paths and planted flowers. They even made a statue of St George in the camp square as a symbol of their triumph over defeat and loneliness during their years of captivity on Lamb Holm.”
The coach parked and the passengers followed Morag up a path towards the low red and white building. There she waited beside a large, beautifully carved figure of Christ on the cross. Once everyone had gathered around her, she began to speak.
“Whatever other work the prisoners did to improve their rather bleak living conditions here at Camp 60, what they missed most of all was their church. It wasn’t until late in 1943 that the camp padre persuaded the new, very supportive, camp commandant, Major Buckland, that two Nissen huts should be made available to create a chapel. And what you see here are those two huts, laid end to end and joined together. But it’s not until you step inside that you realize what a masterpiece this chapel is.”
They all made their way through the chapel entrance, and what they saw quite simply took their breath away. They no longer stood in a Nissen hut, but in an ornate, beautifully decorated church, with brickwork walls and carved stone vaulted ceilings leading up to a chancel, complete with a beautiful painting of Madonna and Child looking down benevolently from behind the altar. It was only on closer inspection that they realized that all the depth, perspective, shade and contour were created purely with the skill of a paintbrush on basic flat plasterboard.
“Wow!” breathed Claire. “This is amazing.”
“All you see,” continued Morag, “was planned and created by a great artist, Domenico Chiocchetti. He was just one of the prisoners, and yet you can see that his artistry was superlative. He led a small band of workers who had the right skills to make his plan a reality – a blacksmith, a cement worker and a couple of electricians. A year later, on 9th September 1944, the prisoners were released from Orkney to return home, but they left behind this exquisite chapel, which has been looked after with love and pride by Orcadians ever since.”
“Would you mind,” asked Father Peter who, like everyone else in the group, was plainly touched by what he saw, “if I said a prayer of thanksgiving while we’re here?”
There was a general murmur of agreement as heads bowed in quiet reverence.
“Heavenly Father, as we stand here together now, we hold in prayer the hardship, the endeavours, the fellowship and the skill of those who created this wonderful chapel. We thank you for Domenico Chiocchetti and all who worked with him in faith and love, inspired by their need to worship and praise you. How could they
have known that their creation would draw others to worship here too, just as we are now? We feel united in spirit with those prisoners of war more than seventy years ago, and with all who have stood here in prayer ever since.
“Lord, we are humbled by the beauty and resilience of the human spirit, just as we are moved by the beauty and resilience of this glorious part of the world through which we are pilgrims together.
“We pray in the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen.”
The passengers were allowed about an hour to look around before it was time to get back on the coach. Val and Peter eventually found a low wall where they could bask in the breezy sunshine while they took the weight off their feet. It wasn’t long before they were spotted, first by Brian, Sylvia and Clifford, and then by Neil and Claire, who all came over to join them. After a few minutes, their conversation slowed to a halt as they watched Carole and Garry striding across the path some way ahead of them.
“She’s asked to speak to me,” said Clifford.
“I can imagine what that’s about,” replied Neil. “The bishop collared me this morning.”
“I hear,” added Brian, “she has a degree in music.”
“Well, that doesn’t mean much,” scoffed Clifford. “I haven’t got a degree. Have you?”
Brian shook his head with a chuckle of laughter. “My mum taught me. For years she was the organist at the church I grew up in. She still is – in her eighties! That’s my only qualification.”
“Me too,” agreed Clifford. “I learned to play the piano in the pub where my dad was part of the resident band three nights a week. Couldn’t read a note of music until I was seventeen and realized I’d never get a job playing for variety and musicals unless I could read along with the others. I taught myself in a week, got a job at the Plaza in Stockport, and that was the start of forty years of never being out of work unless I wanted to be.”