Daughter of the Tide

by Leah Fleming

  ‘Pardon? What the fucking hell was that all about?’ They all laughed.

  ‘Just another little test, mon ami. You are definitely English.’

  Non, je suis écossais… D’Ecosse, compris?’ They smiled, not caring about the difference.

  ‘Welcome, monsieur. Now we can move you to somewhere more comfortable and try to mend your leg. You cannot go on your way with such a leg ballooning out of your trousers.’

  He was laid on an old door and carried through woods to the edge of the village where he was rested in the attic of the curé’s presbytery under the widow Eugénie’s watchful eye. The room was sparsely furnished: a bed, a skylight window with shutters, a candle and an old armoire with space for him to crouch in if there was a raid. He was ordered to make no sound night or day. There were those only too willing to report unusual movement in an empty house. For his comfort there was a marble washstand with a cupboard for his potty.

  He would have to stay immobile until his wound healed and try to keep up his strength and muscle tone with silent exercises. If his bed-ridden legs grew weak escape might prove difficult. It was going to be a long and boring convalescence.

  André brought him tomes of ancient books to read and a dictionary for translation. There were some wonderful old illustrations that in desperation he began to copy on the bare walls to distract himself. He had loved drawing at school but no one had ever encouraged his talent, thinking it too girlish a hobby for a minister’s son. Here he began to fill the walls with pictures of stone cottages and boats, the rigging of sails in Kilphetrish harbour and the faces of his friends and his beloved Minn.

  The curé was amused at this initiative, pointing in admiration to Minn.

  ‘Votre femme?’

  Ewan smiled, putting his hands together in prayer. ‘Not yet but soon… when I go home.’

  The curé himself took his own sketch pad and pencil when he travelled over his parish hamlets close to the coast. He tried to memorize any coastal defence systems and gun enforcements visible from his parish round. These he drew carefully, stuffing the paper down the spine of his missal, which was passed under the noses of guards and Milice down the line of known Resistance workers.

  They were trying to accrue as much useful information as possible to help in the final assault on the coast of the Pas de Calais.

  Ewan was impatient to get stronger and fitter and he began to exercise in his room, pacing the floor, bending and squatting, standing on his head and hands to strengthen his shoulders and arms. How had Eugénie managed to find such food for him? There was fruit and ham, bread and hot nourishing broths that lined his stomach and brought colour back to sunken cheeks.

  How could he ever repay his hosts for such generosity? Only by getting fit and leaving them quickly to distemper over the evidence of his stay in the attic.

  Sometimes he was allowed to roam the woods at night, silently tracing the secret poacher’s path that twisted around the village to avoid patrols and guards. The comité met in the isolated farmhouse of Monsieur ‘Didier’. Here the group planned their offensives: one small link in a larger chain of resistance and Maquis operating around the towns and cities in the forests and villages.

  If only Ewan had found another canoeist from the squadron on the run, another survivor, they could have attempted to paddle back across the Channel. Others had made such attempts when the tides and weather were favourable. Weakened and alone it was unthinkable. Soon he would be passed along the secret escape line, putting so many other lives at risk. Yet Ewan was tempted to delay his escape and pit his wits alongside the Maquis using his training to teach them demolition tricks. It was the least he could do. He begged the cure to let him stay.

  ‘It’s not safe for you to stay. There is already suspicion in the village. It is enough for us to know we have helped one more soldier to return to fight once more. That is our reward. Tomorrow you will leave. Take care, trust no one. Use your instinct, if something feels wrong avoid it. At dusk I will take you through the forest where someone will come out to meet you with the password. You have no papers or identity. You must not go near an open road. It will be a long walk for you. God be with you.’

  ‘How can I thank you?’ Ewan was almost in tears.

  ‘Get yourself back safely to your island and return one day to see us when victory is ours. May the cross of Lorraine be your guide.’ The priest raised his hand in a blessing.

  As Ewan dressed in his thick trousers and pullover and borrowed boots like a farm labourer, his black beret pulled over his eye, he knew he was dark enough to pass as a Frenchman, except that his accent would let him down.

  Someone surely had transmitted his position by now to Britain. Once his family and Minn knew he was safe perhaps he could make himself useful to the next Resistance group and earn his rescue. His folks in Phetray would understand this delay.

  *

  He was passed slowly from village to village, hidden under sacking in vans, walking kilometres on his gammy leg through dense forests. His papers were basic. He was posing as a wounded soldier now doing agricultural labour. The documents claimed that he was deaf in one ear and not very bright. They would not pass tight scrutiny.

  It was a time of despair and betrayal in the countryside. Only in villages was he protected from discovery. In a small village the Resistance knew who was for them and who was a possible informer. He was tested and checked over many times. Sometimes he was allowed to go out on the reception committee to torch in a Lysander dropping supplies or a secret agent. He taught young boys how to make fuses and detonators, to lay explosives on the railway track, to swim under bridges and place charges. There were hit and run raids on isolated guard patrols but the consequences of such offensives were appalling for the local village. Hostages were shot in reprisal.

  His schoolboy French quickly became rough and fluent but his accent was unfit to be spoken in public without arousing suspicion. He lived rough in the woods where his survival training made him an excellent scout.

  Sometimes they holed up in shepherds’ huts, roasted birds over fires, sleeping by day, moving by night. Sometimes when there was paper he found himself sketching the black weary faces of his amis, firelight drawings to amuse that were thrown on the fire just in case. He played with scenes of home in his head, the colours of the island, the textures of pebbles on the shore so different from this world of the green wood and darkness.

  Rules were strict and punishments harsh. There could be no risks. If the signs outside a house were wrong, the curtains closed instead of open, the bottles on the wrong step, they would make long detours, criss-crossing their tracks to see if they had been trailed.

  Their small raids would not alter the course of world action but cutting telegraph wires and sabotaging points and track slowed down the enemy in their region. Making a nuisance of themselves spelt out that there were those whose day would soon come again.

  Many months after his rescue, when winter had set into the forest, Ewan awoke to hear the repeated hooting of some imitation owl from the loft of the farmhouse hideout. He was up and dressed in seconds, shinning up on to the roof, his eyes straining to see a line of grey uniforms snaking up the path towards the ruined farmhouse. His companions were down the back of the roof and into the forest along a trail before the searchlight would beam out on their escape.

  Ewan could feel himself sweating but strangely clear headed. If he was caught he would be shot. His progress through France had been untroubled so far. Now came the day of reckoning and he had a head start. It was planned that he should race on alone towards the river and, should anything happen, get himself out of the region as quickly as he could and make for the south-west coast of France. At least he knew this present terrain.

  Ewan always felt safer close to water and he knew where there was a small dinghy hidden, but to his dismay the boat was not in its usual place. Had they been betrayed by one of their group? Was someone now screaming out in agony the names of their cell?
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  There was nothing for it but to swim across the chilly water, strip off his clothes and, tying them in a bundle around his neck, lie them on his back. Ewan sensed sniffer dogs making their way through the wood. He hoped the others had managed to make their way to prearranged rendezvous for just such an emergency. Nothing had been left to chance, but he wondered why the Jerries were on a manhunt.

  Had some aeroplane ditched and they were hunting for a crew of airmen? Had some sabotage plan gone wrong? Thank God no one used real names. Real names meant death and torture. You couldn’t reveal what you didn’t know, could you? He prayed he’d never find out.

  The chill of the water numbed him for a second, but it was fast flowing and he struggled to ford a straight line. The current was forcing him forward and he thought of Agnes and his own fear of drowning. This was the third time he had been at the mercy of water. Would his luck hold? He must find a branch, an overhanging branch…

  Ewan forced his neck high to catch a glimpse of the riverbank and saw in the distance a clump of trees. This was his only chance to snatch at a branch and haul himself up from the current. He could feel himself tiring with the effort of keeping his clothes on his back.

  When he saw the arm of the branch reaching out he lurched with his hand to grab it and cling on long enough to bring up his other arm like a trapeze artist. He pulled himself forward until he could feel the rocks beneath his plimsolls. He shivered in the moonlight as he spread out his sodden clothes.

  He lay in silence listening for telltale signs but there were only the night sounds of the forest to comfort him. Then he cut swathes of leafy shrubbery to pleat into a makeshift shelter, piled dried leaves from the forest floor on to himself and rubbed himself back to life. Perhaps he might tickle some trout for breakfast, he mused wryly. This was no joking matter. He was back at square one, alone behind enemy lines. He was far from the coast with no proper papers. All that was going for him was a cursory map in his head, animal cunning and a better grasp of the lingo than before. Then there was his nose for open sea. Not much to go on but it would have to suffice if he wanted to see Phetray once more.

  Seven

  Phetray

  As the bleak winter months dragged on with still no news of Ewan’s fate, Minn relied more and more on the cheery presence of Sergeant Broddick and his transport crew to brighten the dullness of her routine. They would often meet at the harbour or pass each other on the roads round the island. The boys would stop the trucks for a quick cup of tea, inviting her to watch their football matches and camp concerts.

  Life was going on around her as if Ewan no longer existed. It was hard to cling to the belief that somewhere he was alive. The temptation was to go out, especially when there were weekly cinema screenings on offer at the base, but if Ewan was a captive now she would not be shaming him by going out to enjoy herself. She would stay indoors and knit scarves and balaclavas, boot socks and gloves for the sailors’ comfort fund; anything to keep her hands from trembling.

  There was no news from the Red Cross, and his commanding officer wrote a letter of condolence to Ewan’s parents that duly found its way to the stone cottage at Kilphetrish Bay.

  Minn’s spirits sank to their lowest at his words but that stubborny streak inside her could not believe that Ewan would not return. She withdrew into herself, finding it harder to put on a brisk business-as-usual mask for the troops and took to taking long walks along the shoreline, no longer able to smile to customers behind the post office counter when people asked if there was any news of the minister’s son.

  Even her mother was deserting her now. ‘You have to face the truth after nine months, mo ghaoil. Since those sad words came to the manse there’s been not one word that he lives. It’s time to be putting away your hopes and getting on with your life. There’s plenty of handsome blue fish in these waters only waiting to jump into your net. I want to see you provided for like I never was. Don’t waste your looks in tears over what can never be. Grief has made me an old woman before my time. Anyone can see yon young sergeant has taken a shine to you.’

  ‘You’ve changed your tune,’ was all she could reply. Her sadness weighed heavy. How could she even look at another man?

  Sometimes it felt as if the whole island was watching to see what she would do next. The coming of the handsome pilots and their bombers, the madcap Polish crews and all the staff needed to run such a huge operation was giving Phetray a ringside seat in the Atlantic theatre of war.

  Yet Minn felt only frustrated and trapped by the restrictions imposed by her work and her mother’s needs. She had so little to offer the war effort. Working in a factory did not appeal but she desperately wanted to get off the island away from her sad memories. Had she not promised Ewan to stay put and help in the fields with the harvest, support the community and do her bit in this small world? She was trained for little else but service. Staying on was a way of showing faith that one day he would return.

  *

  By early 1944 doubt was creeping into her mind that Ewan could still be alive. Why was there no news? She walked along the beach, taking comfort from the roar of the crashing tide

  ‘How can I keep loving a man who is no longer alive? How can I mourn the loss of a love that won’t go away? Where are you now?’ she cried into the wind as memories flooded over her. John Mackinnon’s words about accepting loss were ringing in her ears. Fear of being without Ewan had blinded her to the reality, shielded her from the pain of facing the truth. He was not coming back, not ever.

  If he was gone then all their promises were null and void too. Perhaps with this New Year coming it was time to take the plunge and begin a new life after all. She was earning enough to go to the mainland, to see the world across the water that once she had glimpsed so briefly in Oban a lifetime ago.

  How can you live by yourself? she wondered. Who will you turn to in a big city?’ A fear flooded over her, crushing any resolve to leave. Perhaps it was better to stay put in case Ewan did return.

  Then there was always Sergeant Ken, her ever-present shadow. He was good company. He brought her parcels back from his leave. He wrote to his mother and brought photos of his family and postcards of a place called the BlackPool, with its sandy beaches and seaside fun. He would sit round the fire with Mother or walk with Minn across the machair in search of duck eggs. He mended her tyre punctures and taught her how to maintain the van.

  ‘Good old Ken.’ When he was on leave she missed his honking horn at the passing places on the new tarmac road. He wrote to her and his mother added her own invitation.

  ‘Do come and visit us. We have heard all about your lovely island. We’ll make you welcome. A friend of Ken’s is a friend of ours. He is such a good son to his mother…’

  Minn was tempted and Mother sensed she was weakening.

  ‘You could do far worse for yoursel’. I know he can never be a minister’s son but he has a good position and a steady way with him. His eyes mist with longing when he looks on your face.’

  ‘I can’t think of him like Ewan. I hardly know the heart of him,’ Minn argued, puzzled at her mother’s eagerness to see her settled with a man.

  ‘Don’t waste yer chances dreaming about what you canny have. Use what the Good Lord has given you,’ Eilidh offered.

  ‘How can you say that after all those dire warnings about men only being after one thing?’ she argued.

  ‘Aye, but once a girl’s wed then no one can shame her if she lets him have his way. A bonny lassie like you needs a ring on her finger against temptation. I’m after thinking.’

  They were sitting in the darkness of the cottage, and Minn looked around at the sooty walls and pressed earth floor, the humble furniture, longing for the space of the Crannog.

  ‘When I look at Ken Broddick, I see a square honest face, muddy hair and hazel eyes. Nothing more do I feel inside but gratitude that he helps me out.’ She was trying to be honest.

  ‘He’ll be the sort of man to shower you with presents and
kindness, with a pair of strong arms to protect you from the icy blast of loneliness. Do not live as I’ve done at the beck and call of ungrateful men. Ken’s a good man. You could do far worse,’ Mother replied.

  ‘But I don’t love him!’

  ‘Ach away! What’s love got to do with the price of beef? Just some silly notion of our betters to make our drudgery more appetizing, I’m thinking. Look to your future, mo ghaoil. I won’t always be here to guide you. Perhaps it’s time you made provision for our old age.’

  ‘Mother!’ she was shocked at her mother’s bluntness, but how easy was the temptation to find a safe haven in a stormy sea. Once the idea lodged in her mind, it was hard to ignore. Perhaps a future with Ken in some romantic place called the Black Pool sands would warm these cold years of loneliness.

  If Ewan was lost, then she didn’t care much what happened. How could she ever love twice in the same way? This first love would always be the deepest and the best but she had to be practical. Better to grab what was on hand, said her angry heart. You might as well make the best of things and live for today not tomorrow if you want to get rid of this pain.

  She looked up at the little china shepherdess and boy shining on the mantelpiece. It was just an ornament, a silly romantic ornament. It was time to put it away in a box. It looked out of place in this poor shabby room.

  She must put away her mourning drabness and find some colourful stuff to wear. It was time to smarten up and get out of this dark house to make a future for herself.

  *

  The courtship was brief. Ken was ardent and Minn was too numb to care. Once she flashed her sparkling blue eyes in his direction, stunning him with rays of undivided attention, dancing to his tune flirtatiously, singing duets around the piano at the ceilidhs, Ken was easy pickings, caught in the spidery web of love.

  They kissed and cuddled in the van but she would never take Ken near any place where she had lain with Ewan. That was sacred ground, out of bounds.