The Skylark's Secret(18)
‘That doesn’t look good.’ Mairi frowned.
Flora wrung her hands in frustration at not being able to do anything, not knowing whether Alec might be among the casualties.
‘Clear the way now! Go back to your homes! All non-naval personnel are to leave the area immediately.’ Mr Carmichael bustled forward importantly, his ARP helmet firmly on his head, asserting his authority. Then he caught sight of the two boys who were hopping from foot to foot, caught up in the excitement of the drama unfolding on the water. ‘Stuart and David Laverock, what are you doing here?’ he bellowed. ‘Get yourselves home immediately.’
Flora gave them a sympathetic smile and nodded her head. ‘Best get back now. Mrs Carmichael will be worrying about you. And it’s nearly lunchtime.’ She shooed them gently towards the house next to the jetty.
She and Mairi walked with Bridie as far as the Macdonalds’ house, where they stood at the gate for a moment, watching the activity out on the loch. Painfully slowly, and listing heavily to one side, the bulk of the Nelson drew into view, closely flanked by two destroyers, making for the harbour.
‘You know, we should join up,’ Bridie said. ‘One of the sailors I was talking to on the jetty said they’re recruiting Wrens. Apparently they need drivers and all sorts.’
‘But we can’t drive,’ pointed out Flora.
Bridie waved a hand dismissively. ‘We can learn. And there must be other things we can do, too.’
Mairi nodded. ‘She’s right. After all, we can’t just sit by and watch while ships are being blown up right on our doorstep.’
Flora thought of the ambulances speeding towards the jetty. If either Ruaridh or Alec needed help, she’d be one of the first to respond. Her heart lurched again as she sent up a silent prayer that Alec wasn’t among the casualties on the wounded vessel as it crept towards the shore.
The thought of the injured men decided it. ‘All right. We’ll go this afternoon then. Come and call for me after lunch and we can walk over to the camp and ask.’
Lexie, 1978
Every surface of Mum’s sitting room is filled with photos in frames. Before the arrival of Hurricane Daisy, they were interspersed with herds of china animals and hordes of glass knick-knacks, but those have now been packed away for safekeeping. Daisy has mastered the art of a surprisingly fast commando crawl and the ability to lever herself on to her feet if there’s anything to hang on to, so everything precious and breakable on the lower shelves and the coffee table has been moved to higher ground out of the way of her exploring fingers.
I’ve just left one of the little china ornaments out, a tiny white horse that was always Mum’s favourite. I pick it up and stroke the lines of its long mane with my forefinger before carefully replacing it between two of the picture frames.
Many of the photos are of me, at every stage of my childhood and then on into my stage career: I talk Daisy through them and she looks politely at each one as I hold it up for her to see.
‘There’s me with my bucket and spade on the beach at Slaggan Bay. We’ll walk there one day in the summer and take a picnic, shall we? And this is your mummy in the school show, singing a solo. One of my earlier stage appearances. This one looks like Carousel – a publicity photo of me as Louise Bigelow. And here’s a nice one of your mummy and your granny in London, see?’
‘Mmm?’ Daisy asks, pointing at the picture.
‘Yes, that’s right. That’s Mummy. And your granny, Flora.’ It strikes me that we could almost pass as sisters, Mum looks so young in the photo. We shared the same russet-gold curls, in her case faded a little and drawn into a neat sandy braid, whereas mine tumbled over my shoulders. We were outside the Theatre Royal in Drury Lane, standing in front of the poster for Piers’s production of A Chorus Line in which I’d just landed my role. If you look closely you can just about make out my name, which Mum is pointing at. My London name, that is. Those dance classes were killers, I remember; my legs were sore for months. But it was worth the pain. My career was on an upward trajectory then. I was being given bigger roles, expanding my repertoire.
In this photograph I can see that I look radiant. My happiness had something to do with the new production. It had a lot to do with the fact that my mum had come to visit and I always enjoyed showing her London, sharing my new life with her, which was hundreds of miles – both literal and metaphorical ones – from Keeper’s Cottage on the shores of Loch Ewe. But most of all, I remember, I was overflowing with joy because I’d so recently met Piers.
Looking at my face in the photo, I feel sorry for that girl now, the girl I once was. She felt invincible, golden, chosen from among so many other singers and actors. She was oblivious to the fall that was to come.
The show was a hit. With my first pay packet, I went shopping and bought the beautiful suede jacket that I’d coveted in the window of the boutique I passed each day on my way to the theatre. The minute I slipped it on I felt like a star. Like someone who’d made it, a girl who had successfully shrugged off her previous persona and become somebody else altogether. And now it hangs in the back of the wardrobe, a useless piece of clothing that’s entirely unsuited to the place I’ve washed up in, creased and stained, as forlorn as its owner. I should really take it to be dry-cleaned, but that would involve a day’s trip to Inverness and another day to go and pick it up: the thought of the petrol and the cost of the cleaning and the effort it would take to bundle Daisy into the car defeat me.