The Skylark's Secret(44)
‘I’m sure she will be. Does she write you letters?’ Flora asked.
Davy looked doubtful. ‘Sometimes. But Stuart says she’s busy at work, making bombs to kill the Germans with, so she can’t always be writing to us.’
‘Here,’ said Flora, taking a piece of apple from her pocket. ‘Do you want to feed the pony? Hold your hand flat, that’s it, like that. There you go, well done, see – there’s nothing to be scared of really, is there?’
Davy beamed at her, shaking his head vigorously, and then, hearing his brother shouting his name from the shore, he turned and ran back to join his friends.
Back at Keeper’s Cottage, Flora left her father, Ruaridh and Alec to deal with the carcass and unsaddle the garron while she hurried inside to stoke the range and get supper on the go. Out on the water, another silver balloon bobbed into the air, joining the others that swam in their strange shining shoal above the anchorage against the backdrop of the purple hills.
Lexie, 1978
I’ve managed to coax a bit of information out of Bridie at last, getting her to talk about what it was like when the war arrived in Aultbea. I resorted to stealth tactics, in the end, inviting her to Keeper’s Cottage for a regular tea date on Wednesday afternoons, shamelessly using Daisy as an enticement. She’s very good company, in fact, and I find myself looking forward to her visits. Offering her tea and a bit of a chat seems the very least I can do when she’s been so kind to me. She’s rapidly taken on the role of a surrogate mother and granny, something I know my mum would have loved.
Her face lights up when she talks about being a Wren, and she brings an album of photos to show me of her and Mum and Mairi in their uniforms. The three of them laugh out from the pictures, looking neat as pins in their tailored skirts and ties. Their double-breasted jackets have shiny brass buttons down the front and the Women’s Royal Naval Service badge stitched to the sleeve, proudly displaying the embroidered emblem of crossed anchors beneath a crown.
‘It must have been extraordinary,’ I muse, offering her a plate of chocolate biscuits. ‘Loch Ewe going from a community of just a few hundred folk to a military base of over three thousand personnel almost overnight.’
She nods, chewing thoughtfully. ‘They certainly were extraordinary times. Exciting, too. All those people suddenly arriving from all over the world. We had Poles and Indians, Americans and Russians around the place. And there was great camaraderie in the WRNS. We had lots of girls posted up from England and Wales, so we made loads of new friends.’
Daisy has crawled over to Bridie and pulled herself up to stand, attempting to climb up beside her on the sofa.
‘Here you go, darlin’, upsy Daisy!’ Bridie scoops her on to her lap and Daisy nestles happily in the crook of her arm. ‘Of course, there were downsides to having the military here as well. We were issued with security passes that we’d to carry with us at all times. The roads beyond the loch were sealed off at Laide, Gairloch and Achnasheen with checkpoints, and no one was allowed in without showing their papers. I kept forgetting mine, but luckily most of the guards knew me from the NAAFI and let me through. And there were the sad times, too. A lot of our local boys were away fighting the war, and every now and then a telegram would arrive with news that someone had been killed. It hit the community hard, every time we lost one of our own.’
Her eyes mist over as she remembers those losses. But when I try to ask for specifics – especially about my mum and dad – she veers away again like a startled deer, sticking to more general stories.
As I watch her playing with Daisy, I think what a wonderful mother and grandmother she’d have been if she’d ever had children of her own. Her life would have been very different.
‘What about you, Bridie?’ I ask. ‘With all those soldiers and sailors about the place, did you not have any romances?’
Her face becomes radiant for a moment and I catch a glimpse of how pretty and vivacious she must have been back then. But, like a cloud covering the sun, her expression changes again. ‘Oh yes,’ she says, ‘the war brought opportunity for some. But, you know, for every story of new love there are ten more of loss and heartbreak.’ She fishes a hankie from the sleeve of her cardigan and blows her nose. Then she turns her attention back to the photo album beside her. ‘Now then, did I tell you about how the Arctic convoys started? I’d been transferred to the NAAFI canteen when we heard the news . . .’
Flora, 1941
The wind was bitter that afternoon, sending the reflections of the clouds scudding across the waters of the loch, and the light was already dimming as the short winter’s day gave way to another long night. Flora sat opposite Mairi at one of the long tables in the NAAFI, her hands clasped around her teacup, absorbing the last of the warmth from the thick white china.
The canteen was unusually quiet and Bridie had time to come over and join them, refilling their cups from the large metal teapot that she wielded with gusto, and setting down a plate laden with three slices of the dry cake that was staple NAAFI fare. The men referred to it as the ‘Yellow Peril’, as it was made with dried custard powder and crumbled into sawdust in the mouth, necessitating more gulps of the watery tea to wash it down.
As usual, she was eager to share the latest gossip with her friends. ‘All the men have been called to a briefing,’ Bridie said. ‘It must be something important.’