by Leah Fleming
Minn took this job seriously, checking her engine, her supplies and the dates on her pass on to the site as if she was on a mission. Hers was the neatest, cleanest canteen. All her old training at the Crannog stood her in good stead. She collected fresh supplies of home baking when rations would allow: Forfar bridies, sausage rolls, jam tarts and shortbread. Everything was labelled up and stacked neatly in her own military operation.
Once the flap was lowered for a shelf, the urn brought to boil and the cakes and snacks displayed under lacy cloths to shield them from the dust there was just room for a slim whippet of a girl to stand behind and take orders.
Sometimes Minn’s own daily trip around the island was held up by lines of supply vehicles jamming the tracks just off the ferry transport. She would park up in a passing place until the sand settled down. Then there were grouses and grumbles if her van was late for a shift. In all weathers she wore sensible overalls and a turban round her hair, even when her feet were frozen and the van was rocking in the westerly gale. Standards were kept up and nothing was stored away until it was washed up, polished, ‘Mirro’ed until sparkling and all her surfaces spotless. Then the crockery was boxed and strapped up, the shelf raised and the van locked for another morning.
She was getting to know all her regular customers’ likes and dislikes. She tried to provide a variety of biscuits but supplies were erratic especially when the boat could not land. Then an SOS call went out to the island bakers to do their bit. She never let the men down even if all that was left on the shelf was a cheery smile and fresh gossip as they warmed cold hands on a hot mug of Bovril.
This was the safe little cocoon she was building around her promise to Ewan; being useful in her own sphere was valuable war work and worthy of respect. She saw herself in the service of her country. Does not an army march on its stomach? Phetray was far removed from the horrors of bombings and blitz on the Clyde and the terrible carnage among the convoys crossing the Atlantic, but familiar names were appearing in the casualty lists in the Oban Times nevertheless.
Then came that terrible accident when a Halifax doing its routine training of circuits and bumps stalled when coming in to land. She had been serving teas and watched in horror as it crashed in flames on the beach. The smoke could be seen across the island and people came running thinking Hitler had landed.
Eight good men were incinerated in a tin coffin. Such a waste. She had worked through the night to keep the investigators plied with warm tea, feeling sick at the thought that the young men would be buried in coffins filled with sand.
Minn polished her porcelain each night like a talisman, safe in the knowledge that Ewan was protected by her daily rituals, until the night when the minister stood in the doorway of the cottage, dripping with rain from his oilskin cape. She was hoping for a letter in his pocket until she saw his face drained of all expression. ‘Minna, mo ghaoil… bad news I’m afraid.’
Minn led him to the fireside to Uncle Niall’s empty chair and Mother poked the fire nervously at this unexpected visit.
‘What’s happened? It’s Ewan, isn’t it?’ Minn’s voice quivered. His silence was frightening her.
Reverend Mackinnon nodded sadly, his cheeks sunken and his mouth tight with controlled emotion. He looked an old man in the firelight trying to hold back his tears. ‘You’ll have to be brave. Ewan is missing, presumed drowned in some action at sea. I have few details. The telegram said nothing more.’
‘What ship was he on? Was it sunk?’ Minn’s voice seemed to come from far away. She was standing rooted to the rug like a wooden post, unable to move.
‘I don’t think he was sunk. It is something to do with the Marine Units… some hush-hush encounter. We knew he was doing undercover work. He never said much, only hinted, but obviously no one will tell us.’
‘Then he could have been taken prisoner,’ Minn insisted stunned by the discovery of Ewan’s secret war work.
‘The boat was hit, child. No one survived. This much I was told when I rang.’ At this bleak news Eilidh started to wail, rocking and moaning, in the old way, back and forth, distracting them with little moans.
‘Whisht! Mother let’s hear him out.’ Minn was cold with fury. ‘How can they be sure? He could have been picked up in a lifeboat? Where did it happen?’ She knew all about the air sea rescue units scattered around the islands that went out in search of pilots and crews ditched in the Atlantic and the aeroplanes that skimmed the surface of the water to spot life rafts. There had been some spectacular rescues.
‘It was not that sort of operation, child. I fear we’ll never know the truth of the matter,’ he whispered, trying to hold back his tears.
‘And poor Mistress Mackinnon to be losing her two bairns. How is she the now?’ Eilidh shook her head in disbelief.
‘We’ve put her to bed with a draught from the doctor. It was seemly to be telling you before the rest of the parish. I’m so sorry, child.’
Minn stood rigid, stabbing her chest with her fists. ‘He’s not feeling dead… not here in my heart. I would be knowing in here if he was gone. Until there’s proof I shall go on hoping. The sea shan’t have him!’ she cried.
‘Don’t build on false hopes, mo ghaoil. The fall is always the harder to bear. Better to accept now and move forward slowly,’ replied the minister shaking his head.
‘But we don’t know for certain. Until I know for sure… Thank you for telling me. I know I was never your first choice for a daughter-in-law.’
‘Minna! Remember who it is you’re speaking to!’ snapped her mother, bowing her head with embarrassment.
‘The truth is told and the devil shamed. I speak as I find. We loved each other from the start, Ewan and I. Don’t make me give him up for dead yet. Hope is all I have to cling to. I shall call on Mistress Mackinnon when she feels able to receive me. You do understand?’
‘Yes, of course. Believe what you must but the Lord will guide you in due course. We shall be praying that you are right and we are wrong.’ The minister rose and made for the door.
It is a pity that the Good Lord could not have guided Ewan’s boat to safety in the first place, Minn thought as she bowed her head, but bit her lip. ‘Thank you for coming Minister.’
He paused at the door looking her straight in the eye. ‘This is not an occasion for thanksgiving, I’m after thinking.’ The man stooped under the lintel out into the rain.
Minn marched out next day to Traigh gaodh nan seinn, to their special beach, where memories of Ewan were strong. She scoured the grey-green sea for comfort, watching the tide racing over the sands throwing seaweed and flotsam over the shingle. She stood like a finger of rock battered by the wind, unbending in her anger. If his spirit was waiting for her there she would know. There was no one there.
‘Listen to me. The sea shan’t have him!’ she cried into the wind clutching on to their love token, polishing it with a cloth like Aladdin’s lamp. Ewan can’t be dead. His name must never be scratched on the war memorial. He’s just missing. No news was good news. How could such a strong swimmer, a human seal, and such a survivor not find his way out of the sea to return home again? He must come back. Her whole happiness depended on it.
Then she thought of his sister, Agnes. She must take flowers to the grave and beg his sister to help them bring Ewan back to Phetray once more.
Word soon flew around the island of the fate of the minister’s son and the gossips clacked and turned to eye Minn with pity and not a little relief. It did not do for cottar girls to get above themselves in marriage. Minn stood behind her counter stoically refusing to be comforted. He was still alive. She could feel his pulse in her heart.
She rattled along the dirt track planning all sorts of crazy schemes to rescue him. First she would join the Wrens or the Waafs and go in search of him, but no one was going to tell her where to look. He had lied to her about the nature of his posting. She had thought as had the islanders that he was in the navy. Now she was told he was in the Marines.
There was news of daring raids on French shipping ports. Was it in one of these escapades that he had been lost? Perhaps he was wandering alone, dazed and in danger. One of these days he would roll off the Hebrides with his knapsack over his shoulder like jolly jack tar, his cap stuck at the back of his head, laughing and grinning… She was too busy dreaming to take much notice of the long grey road misted by sea haar.
There was a slide and a bump and a crunch as her van veered off the track into the watery ditch among the bog grass and the horsetails. In her daydreaming her concentration had lapsed and her precious van was stuck fast in a rut. She banged on the steering wheel in frustration and burst into tears, tears long overdue
‘You stupid cailleach! Silly stupid bitch! Half your crockery will be broken, pastries reduced to crumbs, the back axle probably snapped, the whole van in ruins and no one will get their elevenses!’
Rivers of tears poured down her face soaking her handkerchief. She was sobbing as if her heart would break.
A face appeared at the window, a worried leathery face. ‘Are you all right, miss?’
‘It’s gone off the road. It’s all my fault, Ogh…’ Minn babbled in Gaelic and the face looked puzzled.
‘She’s in a right state, speaking double dutch. Have we a Teuchtar to translate?’
Minn heard his comment and looked up through her tears. ‘I can speak the King’s English when I have to. Can you please get me out of here?’
The young man smiled and touched his cap. ‘In two shakes of lamb’s tail, miss. Just let’s be having you out of there.’
There was a convoy of canvas trucks lined up, with blue berets poking out and men jumping down with ropes. The rope was attached and the van lifted back up on to the straight and narrow track none the worse for its accident.
Minn stood there snivelling, feeling foolish, red faced, mouthing her thanks to anyone in earshot.
The young sergeant smiled and showed her the few bumps that would need knocking out. ‘Just a bash on the wing. You were lucky it didn’t turn over. Let’s open her up and see if there’s any damage inside. I suggest we make a cup of tea and wave these lads on. You look as if you’ve had a nasty shock, miss.’
Minn could feel herself shivering with shock and relief as she opened the van door and saw that nothing had shifted from its secure shelf. She soon had the water on the boil and the collapsible stool took the weight of her trembling knees. ‘How can I thank you? My mind wasn’t on the job, I’m afraid.’
‘Just let’s get some sweet tea down you, miss. That’s the stuff to give the troops as’ve had a bad turn. Sergeant Broddick at your service.’ He smiled, holding out his hand and she clasped it, looking up into a square face with a neat moustache over the lip and warm brown eyes; not a handsome visage but open and weathered, creased up like corrugated paper.
‘I’m Minn Macfee.’ She was still shaking from the shock.
‘Come out in the fresh air and sit down. We’ll soon fix you a cuppa. The cup that cheers but don’t inebriate as my old mother keeps telling me, but she’s never tasted Naafi tea. That strong it could fuel a Spitfire!’ he paused, seeing the smile on her face.
‘That’s better, a smile on yer face, at last. Don’t look so worried. Get that down the hatch.’
Minn sipped the piping hot tea and surveyed her team of rescuers rolling onwards toward the camp. ‘Just arrived?’
‘We have that, a right rum do on the boat, rocking from side to side, worse than the Big Dipper at Blackpool. My giddy aunt! My stomach was wrapped round me throat. It’s a bit of a bleak hole, if you don’t mind me saying so, just sheep, cows and a few stone cottages,’ answered Sergeant Broddick, looking around him with disappointment.
‘You were lucky to land at all, these September tides are rough,’ she replied.
‘Well now I’m here I intend to make the most of it, miss, and things is looking up already, don’t you think, lads?’ Sergeant Ken Broddick winked at his driver and crewmates.
Minn ignored his flirty manner, anxious to be on her way to the far end of the island. ‘Thank you but I think I’ll manage fine the now, Sergeant Broddick.’
‘Any time, any place, at your service. It was a pleasure to be of assistance. Hope to meet you again but not in a ditch. Byesy-bye, toodle pip.’ He waved.
She climbed back into her van to clean up their mess. Thinking about Ewan was dangerous when she was driving. From now on she must concentrate on one thing at a time and wait for his return. He was not dead, of that she was certain.
Six
France, 1943
Ewan awoke on a mattress of straw covered by a horse blanket. He could hear rustling in the hayloft, suddenly alert to strange surroundings and the sounds of the night stable. Where was he? Everything was a blur of images, thrashing in the water, salt in his mouth. Then the arm was grabbing him, pulling him into the boat.
He was alive, but where? A stab of pain in his knee jolted him. He could just about finger a rag bandage round his leg; its throbbing worried him. In the half-light he saw the enamel jug and glugged down its water with relief. He was feeling hot. His stomach stirred to life.
Lying back to assess his predicament he tried to piece together the raid, the explosion and his rescue. Hellfire! He must be still in France behind enemy lines. The odds against evading capture were stacked against him.
In the heat of the escape he’d had only his life vest and combat trousers and his plimsolls. Where were his belt and his escape equipment? At the bottom of the Channel or waiting at some police station? He heard someone climbing the stairs, panting with the effort.
An old woman in long black skirt and apron appeared. ‘N’ayez pas peur, mon ami, vous êtes avec amis.’ She smiled a toothless grin.
‘Vous parlez français?’
‘Pas beaucoup…’ Ewan answered in his best schoolboy French, struggling to lift himself. How long had he been here? Days, by the smell of him.
‘Vous êtes soldat?’
He nodded.
‘Mon mari était soldat aussi… Verdun…’ The widow gave him a chunk of black bread and some cheese smelling as ripe as his armpits.
‘Merci beaucoup, madame.’ The pain in his leg made him wince and fall back.
‘Eh la!’ She examined the bloody bandage, shaking her head. ‘Vous restez là… bientôt Monsieur le Curé… arriverai.’
He lay back. There was nothing he could do with a festering wound. How on earth had he managed to gash it so badly? It was enough to know the old woman was risking her life in hiding him here. How many others were shielding him? His leg needed attention. Perhaps the priest would bring a doctor and he could be on his way, but how the hell could he move on when he had not the faintest idea where he was heading?
The priest came when the sun was high bringing more bread and cheese and a bottle of good wine. He had a little English and between them they were able to understand each other. He examined Ewan’s wound carefully. The priest called himself André and told him that he would be addressed only as Etienne.
‘You were rescued by fishermen on the coast and passed down the line to us. A bullet went through your leg. It is safer you stay here a while longer until all is prepared. I’m afraid there is no one to see to your leg. Monsieur le Docteur was arrested a month ago. It does not look good for him. Things are rough here in Ste Eulalie. Many are taken prisoner. The defences are strong. We wait for the coming of allies but after the raid on Dieppe…’ The curé shrugged his shoulders. ‘Ah well, patience. God alone knows… I will speak to the committee now that you are able to talk.’
‘Committee?’ Ewan looked puzzled.
‘We have to take care. They will ask you questions. They have to be sure before they send you down the line. Let me see the leg.’ The stench was bad. ‘We’ll have to deal with this the old way. I will come back later when I can.’
He returned when it was dark with hot water and some strips of clean linen. There was a pot of foul-smelling green paste. The pri
est smiled sadly and apologized. ‘Pardon, Etienne, but there is something we must do first.’ He produced a jar of writhing maggots.
Ewan turned his eyes from the sight of them, trying not to squirm. All his tough special training, eating insects and other unmentionables, but the thought of those creatures on his leg made him feel faint. The cure placed the maggots in the open wound and covered them with the jar. ‘It is primitive but some of the old ways are best. They will feed off the pus wound so we can dress it afresh.’
Ewan was in no position to protest. He did not want to saw off his own gangrenous leg without anaesthetic!
The next day, under cover of darkness and curfew, the room was filled with a bunch of tough-looking men from the village. One of them held a lantern into his face. ‘Your name, rank and number.’
Ewan produced his dog tag out of his boot heel. He could not tell them his real commando unit but his naval cover was sound.
‘We will check that you are who you say you are. Spies are planted on us to break the groups and evasion lines. If we find you are Boche… You will never leave this barn alive.’
Ewan nodded weakly, feeling the fever kicking into his system again. ‘Je comprends.’
A man delved into his pocket for a slip of paper that he shoved under Ewan’s nose. ‘Vous dites?’
The words wobbled before his eyes but he smiled as he repeated, ‘She sells seashells on the seashore… And the shells she sells are seashells I’m sure!’ adding the extra line for good measure. They seemed to visibly relax at this, but Ewan sensed there were more tests to follow. He was putting all their lives at risk. They had to be sure of him.
‘Why are you here in the Pas de Calais?’ asked their leader.
Ewan was on guard. Perhaps they were the traitors, waiting to trick him.
‘It was a training exercise. There were difficulties and the engine broke down… a fiasco!’
‘How did you get the wound?’ Suddenly one of the men crept round behind him and blasted some insult in his ear.