The Skylark's Secret(23)

‘And you, Flora? Do you trust me, too?’

She looked into the ink-black depths of his eyes and replied, ‘Always, Alec. I have always trusted you.’





Lexie, 1978




On my next walk to the shop, I make a point of stopping in at Bridie’s. She looks a bit startled to see me standing at her door. I’d been hoping she might ask us in, fussing over Daisy as usual, and sit me down so that she could tell me her recollections of the war years – and my mum and dad’s story in particular – over a cup of tea. But my suspicion that she’s avoiding that particular cosy chat crystallises a little bit more when she doesn’t do so. Instead, she reaches her coat down from the hook beside her front door, saying, ‘What good timing! I’m just away to the jetty to see if I can catch Davy before he takes the boat out. He’ll put out a line for some mackerel if I ask him. We can get some for you, too, if you’d like? And wee Daisy, would you like a nice fresh fishy for your tea? You’re growing so fast, so you are, so you are!’

I get the sense again that this is not just her usual chattering. It’s not at all like Bridie Macdonald to pass up the chance to find out more about the sorry set of circumstances that have washed me back to the shores of Loch Ewe. So my interest is piqued even more keenly as to what it is she’s hiding from me.

Up until now, I’ve felt a bit like a limpet when in her company, clamping down hard on my own sense of shame as she’s tried to prise more snippets out of me. But she is, apparently, equally adept at clamming up. It’s going to take a little more patience to coax information out of her, I can see. I am shamelessly prepared to use my daughter as bait, if need be. So, as we walk along to the jetty, I make my move.

‘Bridie, I’d love to bring Daisy to yours one afternoon. She gets a bit bored stuck in the cottage when it’s an indoor day.’

‘Well, we’ve certainly had a few of those this past week,’ she replies. ‘What a gale it was blowing at the weekend! I didn’t set foot out of my front door.’

Refusing to be deflected so easily with talk of the weather, I plough on determinedly. ‘Yes, so could we come over sometime? Just say whatever day suits you – I have nothing going on. You were so kind as to offer. And it would do me good to have some grown-up conversation for a change.’

Pinned down now, and unable to resist the thought of time with Daisy, she bites. ‘Och well, I’d love to see the pair of you, of course. What about Thursday? You could come over about three, once this wee one has had her after-lunch nap?’

‘Thursday at three would be perfect. Thanks, Bridie.’

‘Good, that’s settled then. And here’s Davy, look. We’re just in time.’ She waves energetically to catch his attention as he prepares to cast off from the quayside. He stands on the deck of his boat, whose name I now see is the Bonnie Stuart, dressed from head to toe in a serious-looking set of oilskins topped off with an orange life jacket.

‘Good morning, ladies,’ he greets us, with a shy smile.

The boat tugs at the rope, which he holds taut around the mooring bollard, as if the vessel is impatient to get going out into the waves tossing their white heads beyond the lee of the island.

The brisk breeze smells of seaweed and the recently passed rain; it blows Daisy’s curls every which way where they escape from beneath the woollen tammy that I’ve pulled down firmly to keep her ears warm. She chuckles and reaches her hands towards the boat, enthusiastically repeating her favourite word: ‘Bat.’

‘There’s the clever girl,’ Bridie coos. ‘D’you hear that, Davy? She’s starting to talk now.’

He reaches to shake her hand, her fingers looking like a tiny starfish as they clutch his broad, weather-worn thumb. ‘Well, one of these days when the weather’s a bit gentler I’ll take you out for a turn on the water, maybe. If you’d like to?’ He glances at me, uncertain.

‘We’d love that.’

‘Lexie was just telling me she’s longing to get out a bit more now that she and Daisy are settled,’ Bridie chimes in enthusiastically.

I try to refrain from shooting her an irritated glance at this rephrasing of my recent admission to her that cabin fever has been setting in up at Keeper’s Cottage.

‘Aye well, there’s surely nothing like an hour or two out on the loch to blow away the cobwebs,’ Davy says. ‘I’ll let you know when there’s to be a calm window in the weather.’

Bridie issues her order for a couple of nice fresh mackerel for each of us and Davy nods and waves as he casts off.

‘There now,’ Bridie says, evidently pleased with her morning’s work. ‘Well, I’ll be letting you get on to the shop. And I’ll see the two of you on Thursday, like we said.’

‘Thanks, Bridie, I’m looking forward to it.’

As I turn to open the door of the shop, I glance back along the road, and can’t help noticing that instead of continuing towards her house, Bridie Macdonald has turned in at a neighbour’s gate and is hurrying with purposeful steps up the path to knock at the yellow-painted front door.



I arrive promptly at three o’clock on the Thursday, as arranged, with Daisy in her pushchair. But as I turn in at Bridie’s gate, I realise that I’ve been outmanoeuvred. Sitting at the front door is another pushchair. I should have known: we limpets don’t give up our secrets easily. I knock, and Bridie flings the door open.