The Skylark's Secret(56)
Roy and Hal’s ship remained at anchor in the loch alongside the other merchantmen just long enough for them to have a couple of days off. They spent every moment they could ashore with Mairi and Bridie. The noise levels in the Jellyjar Tavern reached new heights as the safe return of the convoy was celebrated on the first night, and the brothers spent the next day with the girls, walking on the shore and visiting Bridie and Mairi’s homes. Their families were impressed at the good manners and easy humour displayed by the Americans, although Flora overheard Mrs Macdonald telling Bridie that she oughtn’t to set her heart on a Yank who most likely would disappear one way or another before the war came to an end.
Two days later, the merchant ships were refuelled and made ready for the Atlantic crossing once again, ordered to return to the States to pick up another cargo.
Bridie wept uncontrollably as they waved them off. Flora handed her a hankie and put an arm around her shoulders, while Mairi stood shielding her eyes as she tried to keep sight of Roy. He’d disappeared round to the starboard side as he helped his shipmates weigh anchor, but he emerged again to salute her and to blow her a kiss, his blond hair glinting in the silver light that bounced from the surface of the water as the ship’s propellers began to turn, churning the loch into turmoil.
‘They’ll be back,’ Flora said. ‘You know they promised they’d try and get another Arctic run so they can see you again. That shows how much they must like you both – most men probably wouldn’t be too keen to do both the Atlantic and the Arctic runs again so soon . . . if ever.’
‘Oh, oh,’ sobbed Bridie, ‘it’s so dangerous out there. It feels so wrong to wish them to come back when it’s putting their lives in danger. But I can’t help it . . .’ The rest of her sentence was lost as the ship’s whistle blew, its call answered by the other ships in the convoy so that for a minute the hills echoed with the sound.
The three girls watched as the convoy sailed, this time turning westwards from the mouth of the loch. Once the last ship had departed, the tug pulled the boom net closed behind it and the waters of Loch Ewe slowly settled, becoming calm again.
The girls trudged back towards Aultbea, each of them lost in her own thoughts, but then the clouds parted just a little and a ray of spring sunlight shone through.
‘Look,’ Flora nudged Bridie. She pointed to where the sun had coaxed the first primroses of spring to push their heads out from under their mossy coverlets in the sheltered spots alongside the burn and begin tentatively to unfurl their petals. The sight lifted their hearts, just a little, and Bridie began to talk again, more hopefully now, about the picnics they’d be able to go on when the Gustavsen brothers returned.
Lexie, 1978
It’s another diamond day, the loch sparkling after a long spell of rain that has cleared at last. A few fluffy white clouds scud across the blue of the sky, looking as freshly washed as the sheep in the fields below. I’m walking home with Daisy, the pushchair laden with shopping and playgroup paraphernalia, as we’ve spent another morning making music in the hall. It’s lunchtime, so the road is empty, and she and I are both singing one of her favourite songs as we go:
‘You’ll take the high road
And I’ll take the low road . . .’
As we approach the pier, a third voice joins in, adding a tenor harmony to Daisy’s piping soprano and my slightly rough-around-the-edges alto.
Davy hails us. ‘Ahoy there!’ Only his head and shoulders are visible where he stands on the deck of the Bonnie Stuart, hoisting creels up on to the rough boards of the jetty.
When we reach him, Daisy strains to be released from the straps confining her and I let her out so she can toddle over to inspect the morning’s catch. Davy holds up a huge brown crab, its powerful-looking claws safely bound, and lets her touch the carapace, glossy as varnish. The boat bobs restlessly in the breeze, tugging at the mooring lines tethering it to the cleats on the jetty’s edge, bouncing gently against its fenders. With a satisfied nod, Daisy allows him to replace the crab in its bucket of seawater and potters over to pick up an oyster shell dropped on to the boards by some passing bird.
‘Everyone enjoyed hearing you sing the other night,’ he tells me. ‘You should make it a regular thing. We’d be pleased to have you do a set with the band if you wanted.’
His eyes meet mine, his gaze as clear as the waters surrounding us. I find it unsettling, as if he can see right into my soul, to the places I try to keep hidden from the world, those dark neglected corners where grief and guilt and pain lurk. I look away, pretending to be fascinated by a clump of seaweed that trails its knotted fingers in the ebbing tide.
‘Really,’ he insists. ‘Do you not miss it, Lexie – the singing? When it’s in your blood, surely you’re denying a big part of yourself if you’re not making music.’
‘I am making music,’ I say, gesticulating towards the bag of instruments hanging from the handles of the pushchair. It comes out a little sharper than I’d intended.
‘Yes, for others,’ he replies. ‘But what about the music you make for yourself? I know I couldn’t live without it. It’d be like cutting off a limb if I ever stopped playing and singing.’
A surge of annoyance rises in me, rearing its head like a wave nearing the shore. I’m fed up with everyone judging. I know he’s only trying to be encouraging, but it feels like criticism to me – of my choices and decisions, of how I’m trying to live my life.