The Skylark's Secret(71)
As she pushed the roasting tin containing the brace of pheasants into the oven, she wondered how many more Christmases this war could last. Each member of the community of Aultbea was exhorted by the posters pinned to the noticeboard outside the post office to help with the war effort: Make Do and Mend, A Clear Plate Means a Clear Conscience (Don’t Take More Than You Can Eat)), and Doctor Carrot – The Children’s Best Friend. Flora was thankful that the hills and the sea provided them with much-needed additions to the monotonous rations that were available in the shop: she’d made a dish of skirlie to help eke out the meat on the gamebirds, the bed of coarse-grained oatmeal soaking up the savoury juices from the pan; and while there was no dried fruit to be had to make the traditional clootie dumpling, she’d improvised an apple and honey pudding that was steaming away on the stove top. The fruit had been soaked with a tot of whisky from the precious bottle given to Iain by Lady Helen which, she hoped, would infuse it with a little festive cheer. A jug of cream sat in the larder, a gift from Mairi’s family, and her mouth watered as she pictured how it would trickle over the slices of hot pudding. But even as she prepared the meal, she couldn’t help wondering what Alec’s Christmas fare would be. She’d given him a tin of shortbread, made with most of the month’s sugar ration and tied with a tartan ribbon, to help make his ship-board diet of corned-beef sandwiches and the mugs of kye, as the sailors called their watery cocoa, a little more festive.
They were all putting a brave face on things and making the most of what they had. But everyone was exhausted by this endless war. Five Christmases. And still no end in sight.
With Alec on escort duty in the Arctic and Hal and Roy on another Atlantic run, none of the girls felt like attending the ceilidh in the hall on Boxing Day that year. All three had volunteered to be on duty that day and they were on a tea break in the canteen when Ruaridh walked in. He’d just finished his watch at the signalling station and had come in search of a cup of tea and to thaw out after hours spent in the crude concrete signal post, which offered little shelter from the biting wind that had blown away yesterday’s fog.
His forehead was creased in a frown as he pulled off his cap and raked a hand through his close-cropped sandy curls.
Flora glanced up, tensing immediately at his expression. ‘What is it?’
He pressed his lips together, as if loath to tell her the news he’d heard from the signalman who’d replaced him at his post. Bridie set a cup of tea down on the table before him.
‘Thanks,’ he said. Then he met Flora’s anxious eyes. ‘They’ve been engaged,’ he said, tersely. ‘By a German battleship.’
Flora froze, waiting for him to say more. There was no need to ask which ships he meant.
‘But I thought the Tirpitz was still out of commission,’ Mairi broke in, instinctively reaching over to put a hand on Flora’s arm.
‘It’s another German battleship, the Scharnhorst. It was anchored in one of the fjords on the North Cape. It began heading for the convoy in the early hours, so the escort cut in.’
‘Isla?’ Flora asked, already certain of the answer.
Ruaridh nodded. ‘All three destroyers. But that’s all I know at the moment. The communiqué has only just come in.’
Automatically, Flora’s hand went to the pocket of her coat and her fingers closed around the brooch as if, by holding it tight, she could protect Alec. It was unbearable to imagine what he might be facing at that very minute, but all they could do was wait for more news to trickle through. She felt completely helpless.
Bridie had other ideas, though. They watched as she picked up a plate of the bright yellow sponge cake and marched across to where two officers sat, hunched over their teacups, deep in conversation. They couldn’t hear what was said, as the exchange was muffled by the hiss of the tea urn and the hum of noise in the canteen, which reverberated from the hut’s tin roof. But a few minutes later she returned – minus the plate of cake – with a triumphant grin, and seized Flora’s free hand.
‘It’s all right! The Isla is safe. They think the battle’s over now and the German battleship’s been sunk. The convoy is back on course for Murmansk.’
Ruaridh gazed at her in admiration. ‘Bridie Macdonald, your skills are wasted in the NAAFI. They should be deploying you as a secret agent. If they turned you loose with a few slices of the Yellow Peril, who knows what intelligence you might be able to unearth?’
The four of them were able to breathe again. But their thanksgiving was muted, overshadowed by the image of more lives lost with the sinking of the enemy battleship. For they knew that the graveyard of the ocean deeps was a lonely one, with ice floes in the place of headstones and only blank-eyed sea creatures to watch over the bones of lost sailors from both sides of the divide as they were stirred by restless currents.
Alec reached for Flora’s hand and pulled her the last few yards up the steep path to the old bothy beside the lochan. He’d had a few precious days ashore and this time they’d spent every minute that she had free together. On his return a storm had lashed the loch, obscuring the hills, the squalls sending sheets of rain sweeping in from the sea and keeping them indoors. He’d come down to the cottage each evening to see her, leaving his dripping jacket and boots at the door and stretching his legs towards the warmth of the stove as he asked her father about the day’s stalking, or chatted with Ruaridh about the latest ships to arrive in the harbour. He opened up a little, confirming what Flora had long suspected as he confided to her that he much preferred the welcoming warmth of the Gordons’ home to the chilly formality of Ardtuath House. To her relief, he seemed more like the old Alec again, calmer and more relaxed, in the homely atmosphere of Keeper’s Cottage. He’d also confided that his relations with his father were even more strained. They’d fallen out again over Alec’s refusal to apply for a transfer to a land-based job in the south. His mother had taken his side, and the resulting atmosphere was the worse for both of them. It went without saying that Flora’s presence would be an additional thorn in Sir Charles’s flesh, so she was thankful that Alec never asked her up to the house any more.