The Skylark's Secret(74)

At the near end of the beach a long row of bodies had been laid on the damp sand, their limbs gently straightened as they were set down carefully one alongside the other. Some were heart-achingly young, boys who’d joined the Merchant Marine as they were not yet old enough for military service. In that row, Hal Gustavsen lay beside his fellow crew members, and Flora had wept hot salt tears over him, her heart leaden at the thought of having to break the news to Bridie, and of Mairi having to tell Roy. And as the feeble winter daylight won the struggle to push the night westwards, it revealed the broken carcass of the William H. Welch, impaled on the rocks where the hungry, scavenging waves continued to pick clean its bones.



The entire community gathered in the kirk that Sunday to say prayers and sing hymns for the souls lost in the wreck the previous day. They mourned those sons of other mothers and fathers as though they were their own, as they would wish their men to be mourned should they fall in far-off lands: because humanity has no borders.

Moira Carmichael held her head high, although strands of grey hair escaped from under her Sunday hat. Her deep contralto underpinned Lady Helen’s more fragile, wavering soprano and Flora’s voice that soared like the lark’s, rising to the rafters above the crammed pews. And as the congregation joined in the final chorus, a shaft of February sunlight slanted in through the window, blinding her eyes with tears of molten gold as she glanced over at Bridie who sat with her head bowed by the weight of her grief, unable to stand, unable to sing, unable to speak.





Lexie, 1978




So many of the old songs from these parts tell stories of the sea taking loved ones. I suppose that’s inevitable in a community of fishermen, whose womenfolk watch and wait for those who might never return. As Mairi and I park the car and walk along the track to the headland, the words of one such song play in a loop in my head.

‘Hushed be thy moaning, lone bird of the sea

Thy home on the rocks is a shelter to thee

Thy home is the angry wave,

Mine but the lonely grave

Horo, Mhairi dhu, turn ye to me.’

We’ve come for a walk to Black Bay, where a few pitiful remnants from the wreck of the William H. Welch still lie scattered and rusting. The carcass of the ship itself has gone, lying submerged beneath the waters surrounding the rocks of Furadh Mor. But when we pick our way down the cliffs to the beach, I spot the twisted and broken remains of a lifeboat among the rocks. As we start to walk across the stones, I hum the plaintive tune under my breath and the wind catches the notes and flings them across the stretch of water to the treacherous, craggy island that marks the ship’s grave. Here and there, scraps of rusted metal torn from the ship by the fury of the storm that night in 1944 are still visible where they have washed up among the stones. I stoop to pick one up – a bolt of some kind – and it is heavy in the palm of my hand. I rub my thumb over its salt-roughened surface and it leaves a stain of blood-brown rust on my skin. Carefully, I replace the bolt in its bed of stones. This whole beach feels like a grave, and I have the sense that nothing should be disturbed.

I dropped Daisy off at Bridie’s this morning when I picked Mairi up for our drive out to the point. As we were leaving, Bridie thrust a bunch of sky-blue forget-me-nots into Mairi’s hands, tied with a length of ivory ribbon. She said nothing, just turned back, holding Daisy’s hand in hers, and walked slowly up the path to her door.

I glance across at Mairi. She’s walked down to the water’s edge and she stands with the posy in her hands, watching the waves. I stay back, letting her have her space as she remembers the night that Hal was lost and Roy was saved. At last she fumbles in a pocket for a hankie and raises it to wipe the tears from her eyes, and I walk across the shingle to stand at her side.

‘Thank you for coming here with me,’ she says, turning towards me with a smile. ‘I’ve never been able to face coming back before now. But it’s good to be standing here with you, remembering the ones we’ve lost. Your mum was amazing that night. She worked tirelessly, doing what could be done for the survivors. She took care of me, too. After we found Roy and took him to the hospital, she was the one who insisted on coming back twice more so we could keep helping with the rescue. I was shattered – seeing Hal’s body and thinking we’d lost Roy as well was one of the worst moments of my life. But Flora made me keep going that night, and I knew it was the right thing. Even though we couldn’t save Hal, there were others who needed our help. Some of them were boys like him, as young as eighteen. In places we had to feel our way with our hands, because in the storm and the darkness it was impossible to distinguish the oil-covered bodies from the rocks.’

It’s hard to imagine that night on a summer’s day like this one, with the pink heads of the sea thrift nodding in the breeze and the sun warming the stones. But if I close my eyes, I can see the rescuers stumbling blindly through the storm: crofters, soldiers and sailors alike joining in the desperate search, the scene lit from the point above us by the headlights of the vehicles parked there.

We make our way to the far end of the cove and Mairi carefully places Bridie’s posy on the rocks at the water’s edge. Then, with a nod, she takes my arm and we turn away. As we go, I glance back to where the waves are already reaching for the brave little bunch of flowers whose pale ribbon flutters in the wind.

We walk back in silence from the headland where Mum parked the ambulance that night, along the rough track to where I’ve left the car at the end of the road. Mairi gazes out one last time towards the rocks of Furadh Mor and then opens the car door.