The Skylark's Secret(69)
At the end of the winter, the convoys had been suspended again through the summer months and Alec had been sent back out on patrol on the stretch of sea between the Northern Isles. Time and time again, Flora waited and watched as she drove her ambulance along the loch, scanning the horizon for new arrivals and searching among the flotilla of vessels at anchor in the bay for his ship.
And then, at last, her patience was rewarded. He’d been given a few days of leave, days she hoped they’d spend beachcombing along the shore and fishing in the lily-covered lochan. But his father found jobs for him to do on the estate, and she suspected Sir Charles was deliberately keeping Alec away from Keeper’s Cottage.
On a warm summer’s evening Flora wandered up to the stable block, having volunteered to see to the garron. As she approached, she heard the rhythmic thud of an axe on wood. Behind the stables, she found Alec. She smiled at first, watching the muscles of his back move beneath his shirt with each swing of the axe and each blow. He must have been at work for hours, she realised, noticing the split logs strewn chaotically around him, left unstacked. Then she saw how his shirt clung to his back, soaked by sweat.
‘Alec,’ she said softly. But he was lost in the motion of the axe, swinging it high and pounding it down on another log. The force of the movement sliced through the chunk of wood, rending it in two. She said his name again, more loudly this time. He spun around, the axe held high, and for one terrible second she thought he was about to bring it down on her head, splitting her skull as easily as he’d split the logs around his feet.
That second seemed to draw itself out as the pair of them stood, frozen, in a grotesque tableau of fury and fear. And then she saw his face. It was darkened with the same rage she’d witnessed in him before, his features contorting into those of his father. With a gasp, she caught sight of the axe handle. It was red with his blood. Consumed by his fury, he’d flayed the skin from his hands until they’d become contorted, scarlet claws.
In that moment, she hardly recognised him. He seemed completely lost in the darkness of his anger. Instinctively, Flora shrank back against the stable wall and held her breath until he slowly lowered the axe and relinquished his grip, letting it fall to the ground beside him. She swallowed her fear and went to him as his body was wracked by sobs and he gasped over and over again, ‘I’m sorry! I’m so sorry!’
She held him until he was a little calmer, then led him to the cottage in silence, where she washed and bandaged his hands. ‘You need to rest,’ she told him. ‘You’re supposed to be on leave.’
He shook his head. ‘I can’t rest. I can’t sleep,’ he said. ‘Every time I close my eyes, I see the waves rolling towards me, coming for me. I feel as if I’m drowning, Flora. It’s better to keep busy, so that I don’t have to think. So that I don’t have time to remember the faces of the men we’ve lost.’
She held his hands wrapped in their padding of white bandages between her own, as if trying to physically prevent him from sinking into the desperation and anger that reminded her so much of Sir Charles. But she was frightened. Every time Alec sailed, she feared she might lose him. And sometimes she had the sense that he was lost to her already.
On the day of his leaving they sat together on the shore, and Flora held Alec close and spoke to him of the time when there would be no more need for goodbyes: they would take their children to fish in the peat-dark waters of the lochan and to collect shells from the rock pools beside the loch. She didn’t mention the issue of Sir Charles’s opposition to this rosy vision of their future: she supposed that time would resolve the impediment, one way or another. And she didn’t voice the doubts she felt in her own heart about the distance between them and the dark currents of anger and pain that still flowed in Alec, just beneath the surface. Instead, she traced with her fingertips the lines of the anchor and crown on the brooch pinned to her jacket and painted her picture of the years ahead, giving them both something to hold on to.
The seasons wheeled through their ever-changing cycle and the heather-covered hills changed from green to purple to brown. Then, one morning, Flora woke to find them dusted with a capping of white. And her heart lifted as the first rays of the sun made the peaks dazzle against the blue of the winter sky, because she knew it was a sign that Alec should be returning any day now.
A week later, Flora was making the tea, humming to herself while Ruaridh sat by the kitchen window with his bowl of porridge, watching the next convoy of merchantmen begin to converge on Loch Ewe. They both wore their naval uniforms, ready for the day’s duties.
Ruaridh reached for the pair of field glasses that sat on the windowsill and scanned the harbour, watching the activity. Then he turned to Flora with a smile. ‘Come and have a look,’ he said, holding out the binoculars for her to take.
She focused the sights and then gave a little gasp of joy as the familiar lines of the Isla came into view, making for the pier. And standing on the foredeck she could just make out an officer standing to attention alongside the jackstaff, who raised a hand to salute Keeper’s Cottage, as a squall of wind made the surface of the loch dance.
Grabbing her overcoat and cap, Flora hurried down to the base. But to her dismay, she found she wasn’t the only one who’d come to welcome Alec home. Sir Charles stood at the end of the pier with his spaniel at his feet. On seeing Flora, the dog bounded over, tail wagging, and pushed its damp nose into her hand until she caressed its soft ears and broad bony forehead.