The Skylark's Secret(66)
With an effort, he pulled himself together, giving her hand a grateful squeeze. He shook his head, as though trying to rid it of images that had imprinted themselves in his mind’s eye. ‘We lost twenty-seven ships and hundreds of men to German planes and U-boats. In the end, only eleven made it to Archangel. That was when they decided to suspend the runs for the rest of the summer. So, instead, we’ve spent the last few months patrolling the westerly reaches of the Arctic Sea, trying to stop German vessels slipping through from the east to attack the Atlantic convoys. We know they have the Tirpitz hidden in one of the Norwegian fjords – she’s one of their biggest battleships – and we didn’t want to risk her getting through.’
‘Appreciate that, buddy,’ said Hal. ‘When we were out there on the crossing it was good to know you navy guys had got our backs.’
The others tactfully changed the subject, sensing Alec’s distress. But it seemed to Flora that the shadows around them had deepened and that if you listened carefully, the hush of the waves on the sand held mournful echoes of the cries of lost souls. She drew a little closer to Alec, trying to close the gulf that seemed to threaten to take him away from her again, and they sat in silence, letting the conversation ebb and flow around them.
That evening, at the dance, Flora held Alec tight as the accordion played the last waltz. He’d applauded as enthusiastically as the rest of the audience when she’d sung ‘The Eriskay Love Lilt’. But still she could sense the toll that the losses were taking on him. She could only imagine the sights he’d witnessed during the time he’d spent with the convoys – ships set ablaze, the burned and drowned bodies they’d managed to pull from the water, the burials at sea as yet more young men were consigned to the cold, deep grave that would remain unmarked and unvisited. Even worse would have been those they’d had to leave behind in the water, sailing past the outstretched arms and the desperate, pleading cries, unable to help. And she pictured the latest wave of telegrams that would arrive at homes across Britain and America, the unwelcome knock at the door heralding the delivery of a slip of paper that was all those families had left of their fathers and their sons.
She wished with all her heart that the music would never end, that they could dance there, holding each other close, forever. Because then there would be no doubts and fears, no need for goodbyes. And she wouldn’t have to watch as his ship sailed away on the morning tide, tearing them apart once again as he faced the brutal cold and the relentless dread of the next Arctic run.
The rain was falling steadily and the larches wept golden tears on the day that Hamish McTaggart slowly cycled the short distance from the post office to the house at the end of the jetty once again. And this time the telegram he carried, addressed to Mr and Mrs Archibald Carmichael, weighed down his leather satchel more heavily than any other he’d had to deliver in the last year. He’d been there when Miss Cameron had carefully transcribed the words and handed it to him with a shake of her head.
DEEPLY REGRET TO INFORM YOU OF THE DEATHS OF YOUR SONS
JOHN ARCHIBALD CARMICHAEL AND JAMES ROSS CARMICHAEL
WHILE ON WAR SERVICE AT EL ALAMEIN. LETTER FOLLOWS.
Lexie, 1978
‘What was it like, being sent to Aultbea as an evacuee?’ I ask Davy.
He’s sitting in the kitchen, having accepted my offer of a cup of tea when he dropped by to see whether Daisy and I would like some of his day’s catch for our supper.
He spoons sugar into his mug and stirs, considering my question. ‘I was so wee, I don’t really have any clear memories of the day we arrived. I think I remember the bus journey a bit – the feeling of nerves at being sent away from our home, mixed with excitement at seeing the seaside. That’s where our mammy told us we were going, Stuart said. To live at the seaside. I remember my coat smelling of sick because I’d boaked and there was nothing on the bus to clean it up with. And I think I remember sitting at a trestle table with the other kids and being given a dish of mince and tatties, but that might just be something Stuart told me about later on. The first things I definitely do remember are a starfish I found in a rock pool one day and the way the teacher’s chalk used to screech against the blackboard in the schoolroom. I must have been about six by then, I guess. And I remember the days the telegrams came for the Carmichaels. First the one saying Matthew was missing believed dead in the Far East, and then the one about Johnny and Jamie at El Alamein.’
He falls silent and turns his face towards the window, looking out at the loch. But I get the impression he doesn’t see the way the water gleams like molten silver in the sunshine against the backdrop of purple hills beyond, nor does he hear the calling of the gulls overhead. Instead, he’s seeing the pain contorting the face of Archie Carmichael and hearing Moira’s anguished, high-pitched scream of a single word, wrenched from the very core of her being: ‘No! ’
At last he looks down at the mug of tea clasped in his leathery, work-tanned fingers as if surprised to see it there. He takes a sip.
‘It must have been terrible for you and Stuart, witnessing that,’ I say gently.
‘It was awful being in the house, hearing the knock at the door, peering out of our bedroom window and seeing Mr McTaggart there. Knowing what he’d brought them.’ He nods. ‘But it was even worse afterwards. The Carmichaels were kind, but we always had the feeling that we shouldn’t have been there. That we were taking up the space where their own sons should have been. We hated being the reminders of what they’d lost, the wrong boys living beneath their roof, sleeping in the beds of their dead sons. Their boys’ things were everywhere: the shelves were full of their books about World War One flying aces and Boy’s Own annuals; their shinty sticks were in the porch at the front door; Matthew’s stamp collection . . . Jamie’s collection of sea glass . . . Johnny’s sketches of shore birds. Their photos were in frames on the mantelpiece, the Carmichaels’ pride and joy, and I could hardly bear to look at them. They seemed so full of vitality in those pictures – I couldn’t believe they had died.’