The Skylark's Secret(77)
In her quiet way, seeing that help was needed, Lady Helen had stepped in to assist Mrs Carmichael, gently insisting that the status quo should be maintained with Moira as chairwoman, but that she was happy to lend a hand behind the scenes to keep the SWRI’s work going. With the multitude of servicemen coming and going and rations stretched more tightly than ever, their contribution to running the canteen and to the organisation of social events had become even more essential.
At the top of the steepest part of the climb, they stopped to catch their breath and turned to look back out over the loch. Alec breathed deep and, to Flora’s relief, when he smiled at her his dark eyes seemed to have regained some of their old warmth. Being out on the hill was doing him good.
Most of the merchant ships had gathered now and lay at anchor beyond the island, American Liberty ships tied up alongside British vessels. Fuel ships ran back and forth between the depot and the fleet, filling their tanks in preparation for the off and servicing a Norwegian oiler, which would accompany the convoy to refuel vessels en route. On the near side of the bay, the Kite rode at anchor alongside the rest of the naval escort.
‘They look awfully wee from up here,’ Flora commented. ‘I hate to think of you so vulnerable out there, on the longer route. And it’s still daylight until almost midnight up there.’
Alec put an arm around her shoulders, giving her a reassuring squeeze. ‘Don’t worry, there’s a pair of aircraft carriers going to be joining us once we get to Scapa Flow, so we’ll have Stringbag support from the Fleet Air Arm too. Those pilots are aces.’
She’d seen one of the carriers once, its immense bulk dwarfing the other naval vessels in the harbour. Ruaridh had explained to her that the Swordfish biplanes – affectionately nicknamed Stringbags – lashed to its deck might look old-fashioned, with their open cockpits and fabric-covered fuselages, but they were efficient hunters of U-boats, dropping depth charges and torpedo bombs from a height on any attackers. He’d described the skill needed by the pilots to launch themselves at full throttle from the pitching deck out over the waves to hunt down enemy submarines, then to return to the carrier and land on that same moving target, with just one chance to catch the arrester wire that would slow the plane in time and prevent it from plunging off the deck into the seething sea. Flora couldn’t imagine what it must be like for those pilots, often flying blind and only emerging from the blanket of Arctic fog just a couple of hundred feet above the deck.
Even with the support of two aircraft carriers, though, she knew how vulnerable that summer convoy would be. ‘Just one more push,’ everyone was saying. ‘It’ll be over by Christmas.’ Again. She hoped that perhaps this convoy would be the last one . . . but then how many times had she sent that particular prayer up already?
They picked up their gear and continued on towards the lochan, turning their backs on the grey flotilla in the loch below.
The weather was fine, so there was no need for cover as they tied flies to their lines and began to fish for their supper. The lochan’s coverlet of green lily pads offered shelter to the brown trout whose burnished scales were the same colour as the peat-infused waters of the lochan, so they cast close to the edge of the lilies, hoping to tempt the fish to the surface. Soon they had a good-sized one, and Alec cleaned it while Flora got the fire going in the hearth of the ruin. She put a dab of butter into a blackened frying pan that they’d brought with them, and set the trout fillets to fry. Before long, the skin was crisped and golden at the edges, and the flesh of the fish, basted with brown butter, turned to succulent flakes. They ate it with a few potatoes, fried in the same pan, and a handful of sweet green peas.
Alec lay with his head cushioned on Flora’s lap while she leaned against the fallen stones of the bothy wall, and they talked long into the evening, about how well Roy was doing in his recovery – which had a great deal to do with the care he was receiving from Mairi and her family on the farm – and how Bridie seemed to be starting to regain her spirits just a little.
‘How are Stuart and Davy getting on?’ Alec asked.
The Carmichaels were still struggling with their grief and Flora had been worried that the two wee boys weren’t getting much attention. So she’d suggested to Mrs Carmichael that they come and help her in the garden and give her father a hand with some of the chores on the estate. Three days a week all through the summer holidays they’d turned up at Keeper’s Cottage and thrown themselves into the jobs that Iain had found for them, helping him with the pony and the dogs, digging up tatties and pulling weeds from the kitchen garden. Stuart was growing as fast as a thistle, skinny wrists and ankles protruding from the cuffs of his trousers and jacket, but the extra fish and meat the boys ate at the Gordons’ table were helping him fill out a little. Braan was the boys’ constant companion and Davy, especially, loved the garron, too, and would happily spend hours combing the tangles and burrs out of her long blonde mane.
‘They’re looking well. They’re off back to school again this week, but they’re going to keep coming over in the evenings to help Dad and have their tea with us. They’re old enough to help with the shoots now, too. Dad says they’ll make good beaters.’
‘Has their mum been able to get up to see them over the summer?’
Flora shook her head. ‘I know the Carmichaels invited her to come and stay, but she’s not managed to get here. She said she was coming for Davy’s birthday, but never turned up in the end. It was awful, seeing him try not to show his disappointment. He was so brave – told me she’s too busy helping make bombs to stop the Germans to come just now, but that she’ll come and bring him and his brother home just as soon as the war is over. For the time being, they’re better off here, I reckon.’