The Skylark's Secret(59)
Stuart and Davy Laverock appeared, scrambling over the rocks, their catapults in hand.
‘Whit’re you doing?’ Stuart asked.
Flora straightened up and held out the handful of seaweed she’d picked for them to inspect. ‘Collecting this. It’s good to eat, especially if you put a dab of butter on it after you’ve cooked it.’
‘C’n we help?’ asked Davy.
‘Of course. Pick the nice fresh bits like this, see?’
After a few minutes, the boys grew bored of seaweed-hunting and began firing pebbles at a piece of wood floating in a rock pool, pretending it was a German U-boat.
‘Good shot, you got him! Now he’s a goner,’ Stuart shouted, before launching another stick into the pool.
At the sight of Hamish McTaggart passing along the road on his bike, they all paused, watching where he was heading. Since he’d been demobbed, after losing an eye to a piece of shrapnel while fighting the Italians in North Africa, he’d been employed by Miss Cameron to deliver the telegrams that had started arriving more frequently now. Very few of them ever contained any good news. He raised a hand in greeting, but cycled on past the end of the village until the bend in the road hid him from view.
Mairi sighed, shaking her head. ‘It’ll be someone from over at Poolewe then. Another poor soul injured or worse.’
‘Our mammy was in the air raids in Glasgow, Mrs C says,’ Davy announced. ‘But she was fine ’cause they built a massive shelter in Port Glasgow and she slept in there when the bombers came over.’
‘Wheesht, Davy, that was ages ago, there’s no more air raids there now. The Jerries’re too busy fighting everyone else these days,’ Stuart said, picking up a stone and chucking it out into the water with the nonchalance of youth.
‘How’s Mrs Carmichael doing?’ Flora asked the boys.
Stuart shrugged. ‘She’s okay. She always keeps Matthew’s bedroom door shut. We’re not allowed in there now. We used to go and look at his stamps – he’s got this massive collection, from all over the world – but his things are too precious to touch now he’s dead. Sometimes she goes in there and doesn’t come out for ages.’
‘That’s ’cause she’s greetin’,’ chipped in Davy. ‘I’ve heard her. Sometimes she doesn’t come out even when it’s time to cook the tea. Mr C tried to make mince once, but it was all burned and he had to chuck out the pan in the end. So on those days now we just have some more bread and dripping.’
‘The poor thing,’ said Flora, shaking her head.
The boys ran off, having spotted some of their friends heading for the post office, hopeful that someone might have a sweet coupon that could be exchanged for a stick of liquorice to be shared around.
‘It’s amazing how she keeps up appearances in public,’ Bridie said. ‘She still has all the ladies in the Rural shaking in their shoes.’
‘It probably does her good to have that distraction,’ said Mairi. ‘I feel sorry for them all – those wee boys too.’ She shook the colander gently, settling the heap of dulse, which now reached the rim. ‘That’s enough, I should think. C’mon, let’s take this home and get it cooked. Dad’ll be in from the milking soon enough.’
Flora said goodbye to Bridie at her gate. ‘Any word from Hal?’ she asked.
Bridie beamed and pulled a dog-eared postcard from her pocket. ‘From New York. He says they’ll be back just as soon as there’s another cargo of gifts for Uncle Joe Stalin. And he says he’ll bring me a bottle of perfume from Macy’s, which is a huge great shop they have over there.’
‘That’s good news.’ Flora smiled.
Bridie shoved the card back into her pocket. ‘And Alec will be back, too, before you know it. I know the weeks must drag while he’s out there, but surely there’ll soon be news that they’ve made it to Murmansk at least.’
Flora nodded. ‘I hope so. Any day now.’ But this time her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes as she turned and headed for home.
Easter arrived, but the advent of spring failed to lift Flora’s spirits. The news of the unlucky thirteenth convoy had reached the crofting community and spread quickly through the fields and cottages, where the words were muttered in low voices, with downcast eyes and a shaking of heads. Flora had heard the communiqués at the base: five merchant ships lost with all hands, sunk by torpedoes from below and bombs from above. Just south of Bear Island, heavy weather had scattered the fleet over a wide area, and the naval escorts had been unable to defend the whole convoy. Separated from the pack, the stragglers became easy prey for the German U-boats and aircraft.
The remaining vessels had limped into Murmansk after three fraught weeks at sea. One of the escorts, which had been hit by one of its own torpedoes when its gyroscope froze in the icy conditions, would be laid up for repairs in the Russian port for a while, along with several more of the merchant ships that had sustained damage in the attacks.
As Flora’s voice joined the others in the kirk to sing the Easter Sunday hymns, she knew that the convoy’s cargo must have been offloaded by now and so Alec’s ship would be heading back into those treacherous waters for the return run. She bowed her head over her clasped hands as the community prayed for the safe return of ships and men, her lashes darkened by tears when she opened her eyes again at last.