The Skylark's Secret(7)

‘Dat,’ said Daisy, with emphasis.

‘I know, it’s beautiful, isn’t it?’ I replied. ‘A boat.’

‘Bat,’ said Daisy, and I laughed.

‘That’s right, clever girl.’

We watched until the lights in the water stopped their dance and all became still once more. ‘Come on, sweetheart,’ I said. ‘It’s bedtime now.’

But Daisy had other ideas.

By two in the morning both of us were reduced to exhausted tears. It was only after she’d sobbed herself to sleep that I dried my own eyes on the hem of the sheet, curled myself around her, pulling the shawl over us both, and sank, at last, into oblivion . . .



The knocking at the door that awakens me is muffled by my dreams at first, and I surface slowly from the depths of sleep, floating towards the surface and the daylight as the noise persists, drawing me upwards.

Carefully, so as not to disturb Daisy, I untangle myself from the blankets and pull on the dressing gown that hangs on the back of the bedroom door. I fling open the front door, ready to confront the inconsiderate person who’s making such a din at this unholy hour of the morning.

The words die on my lips, though, at the sight of the man who stands there, outlined against the steel-grey waters of the loch, the wind ruffling his hair.

Taken aback, I run a hand over my own dishevelled curls and pull the dressing gown cord a little tighter about my waist.

‘Can I help you?’ My voice is icy, despite the warmth of his smile.

‘Hello, Lexie. I’m Davy Laverock.’ He pauses for a moment, as if the name should mean something to me. There’s an awkward silence while I rack my brains. Nope. Nothing. Other than ‘laverock’ being the Scots word that Mum used to use for the skylarks nesting in the hills above the loch. I stare at him blankly.

He looks away, his smile faltering slightly, then holds out a carrier bag. ‘Bridie said to bring you these.’

I take the bag from him and glance inside. It’s heavy with a haul of squatties, the langoustine-like squat lobsters that fishermen often catch in their creels. My mouth waters at the sight of the tangle of coral carapaces: there’s no commercial demand for them but they are absolutely delicious boiled in a pan of water drawn from the loch and served with a dish of mayonnaise or garlic butter. The hard work involved in extracting the meat from their armoured tails is well worth a broken fingernail or two.

‘Thank you,’ I say. ‘And thanks to Bridie, too.’

‘She said you’d just arrived back. Thought you could use them.’

The gossip-wires are already humming, then.

We stand there awkwardly, and I scan his face again, looking for any clues that will help me place him. He has the open, buoyant expression of a man completely at ease with himself, slate-blue eyes set in a weather-beaten complexion. He clearly belongs to the area and thinks that I will know who he is, in the taken-for-granted way that everyone here knows where they – and everybody else – fit in.

‘Sorry about your mum,’ he says at last. ‘Is everything okay in the house? I know Bridie’s been in to check a couple of times. But if you need a hand with anything, just let me know.’ He glances past me as he says this. His expression flickers and I sense that his attention has been caught by something behind me. Looking round, I realise it’s the sight of the gin bottle standing next to a half-empty glass. I know what he must be thinking. And at this time in the morning, too. Then I catch sight of the kitchen clock and see it’s later than I thought – nearly ten. But even so . . .

I look back at him defiantly. ‘Yeah, that’s not what it looks like. It’s about as far as I got with supper last night.’

He shrugs. ‘I’m not judging.’

Aye, right. I give it half an hour, tops, before that titbit is fed back to Bridie.

‘Anyway, enjoy the squatties. If you’d like more ever, I’m out most days with the creels. Leave me a message on the jetty.’

I relent a little, realising how ungracious I’ve been. ‘Thanks, really. I’ll enjoy these.’

‘No bother. Well then, be seeing you around.’

I watch as he strides back to a Land Rover parked at the side of the road, whistling a snatch of a tune as he goes. He has the broad shoulders and loping gait that are typical of a fisherman. I recognise the song as it’s the one Mum used to sing so often. He gets in and starts the engine, glancing briefly back towards the cottage and raising a hand in salute as he pulls away.

I tip the flat remnants of last night’s drink into the sink and stow the gin bottle away in a cupboard. Then I stash the bag of squat lobsters into the fridge, and find that I’m humming a verse of the song he was whistling, which is now running on a loop in my head. I even try a few words of the chorus: ‘Will ye gang love . . .’ But I stop when my voice cracks with emotion.

Something stirs in the depths of my memory. Maybe there was something familiar about those slate-blue eyes of his, but I can’t quite place him. I reach to grasp at dim thoughts, but they dart away, just beyond my reach, slippery as fish.

I fill the kettle from the tap and set it on the stove to boil. As I take the old brown teapot down from its place on the shelf, a breaker of grief crashes over me, knocking the breath from my chest. Mum’s voice seems to fill the kitchen around me, singing that same song, and I hug the pot to my heart.