The Skylark's Secret(14)
The flow of commands was interrupted suddenly by a loud crash from outside the hall.
‘What on earth . . . ?’ Mrs Carmichael bustled out of the door, followed by the rest of the Rural ladies.
At the back of the hall, a troop of soldiers were unloading sheets of corrugated iron from the back of a lorry.
‘Sergeant, what do you think you’re doing? Don’t you know we’re expecting a busload of children to arrive any minute?’
‘Sorry, ma’am, just following orders.’ The sergeant grinned cheerily at Mrs Carmichael, not the slightest bit cowed.
‘Well, why are you dumping all this metal here? You have a whole camp along at Mellon Charles. Don’t you have better places to store it there?’
‘It’s not being stored, ma’am. It’s for the new extension. To the hall.’
‘Extension? I haven’t been told anything about an extension! Who gave you these orders?’
‘The camp commander, ma’am. Her Majesty’s navy has designated this ’ere ’arbour Port A. For the Fleet. Assembly point and what not.’ He waved a hand in the direction of the loch, where the number of ships had continued to increase on a daily basis.
‘Well, honestly! Someone might have said. We’re about to house thirty children from Clydeside and now Loch Ewe will become just as much of a target for enemy bombs. You can’t just go designating places as ports willy-nilly. People live here, you know.’
‘I understand that, ma’am. But you’ll have to take it up with Mr Churchill. He’s the one what’s done the designating.’
There was silence for a moment as Moira Carmichael thought carefully about taking on the First Lord of the Admiralty.
She sighed heavily. ‘Very well then, what must be must be. We’ll just have to make the best of it, I suppose. After all, there is a war on.’
The sergeant saluted and turned back to his men. ‘Right, lads, look sharp. Let’s get these materials unloaded before the kiddies arrive.’
Mrs Carmichael turned on her heel and flapped her hands to usher the ladies of the Rural back inside. But she relented enough to say to Flora, Mairi and Bridie, ‘While we’re waiting for the bus, you might as well make a tray of tea and take it out to them. I expect they’d appreciate a cup once they’ve finished the job.’
As Bridie set tin mugs out on a tray, she speculated about the extension to the hall. ‘You know what this means, don’t you? There’ll be lots more soldiers and sailors. There might be dances. Imagine!’
‘Bridie Macdonald!’ Bridie jumped, clattering the cups, as the strident tones boomed across the hall. ‘A little less imagining and a lot more concentrating would do you no harm,’ Mrs Carmichael declared from her station at the door.
‘Golly, you were right, Flora,’ Bridie whispered. ‘She really does have the hearing of a wildcat!’
The bus pulled up in front of the village hall two hours later, disgorging its weary, travel-sick cargo. The winding roads had taken their toll. The driver and the women who’d volunteered to accompany the children to their destination clambered out first, taking thankful breaths of the fresh West Coast air. It had been a long day, involving an early start followed by seemingly unending hours spent incarcerated in the wet-wool-and-vomit-tinged reek that was the inevitable consequence of transporting thirty children, already on edge with nerves and excitement, over the hills and around the sea lochs fringing the jagged coastline.
Mrs Carmichael clapped her hands. ‘To your stations, ladies!’ She then hurried forward with her clipboard to direct the children into the hall, checking the brown labels pinned to their coats and ticking off their names as they filed through the door. Her nostrils flared as she bent closer. ‘Flora! Mairi! Bridie!’ she called. ‘Take the children and wash their hands and faces before they sit down, please. You’ll need to use some of the hot water. And don’t spare the soap!’
Flora smiled at two small boys as she led them to the sink. The elder one looked about eight, but the younger of the two was scarcely more than a baby – no more than three or four years old, she guessed. Their hair straggled in unkempt wisps over their ears and their knees were chapped and bruised where they protruded from beneath short trousers that were shiny with wear. She helped them push up the frayed cuffs of their coats and then dabble their hands in the basin of warm soapy water. With a flannel, she wiped the crusts from their eyes and noses, gently drying their hands and faces with a towel, trying not to rub the sore-looking, reddened skin where chilblains had nipped their fingers. She did her best to clean up the younger boy’s coat, which bore the evidence of the effect the west coast roads must have had on his stomach.
‘There you go. Good as new. Now, come and let’s find you a seat at the table and get you something to eat.’
‘Please, miss,’ the larger of the two said, ‘are you going to be our new mammy?’
Flora’s heart swelled with compassion for the two wee scraps. She shook her head. ‘I’m afraid it’s not me that you’re coming home with,’ she said. ‘It’ll be one of the other ladies. There’s no room in our cottage.’ She stooped to read the names on their labels. ‘Stuart. And David. The two of you will be just fine, don’t you worry. Now, sit yourselves down here and we’ll bring you a bowl of soup and some mince and tatties. You must be hungry after your long journey. Then the lady who’s going to be looking after you will come and find you and take you to your new home.’