The Skylark's Secret(80)

‘Take his Land Rover,’ is all she says. ‘You’ll be able to get along the track. Be careful, Lexie.’

I nod, tucking my pyjama trousers into my wellies and grabbing Mum’s coat from the hook. As I fasten it, my fingers brush against the sweetheart brooch which I’ve pinned to it, and the feel of the silver beneath my fingertips gives me a little jolt of courage, reminding me that Mum made this same journey on a storm-lashed night all those years ago.

I pull up next to Davy’s Land Rover, which is parked in front of his house, the keys left in the ignition as usual. The engine splutters once, twice, then turns over and I shove the car into gear. The clutch takes a bit of getting used to and I jolt on to the road, the driving rain hammering on the metal of the roof. I wrench on the steering wheel as the wind buffets the vehicle, trying to blow it into the ditch. Thankfully there’s no one else out on the road tonight. I glance up to the heavens, wishing there was at least a glimmer of starlight to keep me company, but the storm clouds have blotted out the constellations that Davy pointed out to me the other night. Without them, how can he find true north? I just pray that the compass on the Bonnie Stuart will be pointing out a steady course against the wildness of the sea.

At last I reach the croft houses at Cove and the end of the road. I crawl a little more cautiously along the track, unable to see anything beyond the beam of the headlights. I’m horribly aware that the ground starts to fall away steeply to my right here, as the full force of the storm howls around me. At last I’ve gone as far as I dare, and I jerk to a stop, yanking on the handbrake. I dip the headlights for a moment, hunching forward over the steering wheel to wipe the condensation from the windscreen with my coat sleeve, scanning the darkness for any faint glimmer of light. And then I see it. A tiny pinprick, as faint as starlight, that appears momentarily and then disappears again as the waves overwhelm it. I wait, holding my breath, straining my eyes. And it appears again. Definitely a boat! But it’s on the wrong side of Furadh Mor and it’s close to the coast, turning in too soon, unable to see the vicious teeth of the headland in the darkness.

Frantically, I switch the headlights back to full beam, conscious that the light seems to peter out all too close to the car, swallowed by the darkness. But if the boatman – whether or not it’s the Bonnie Stuart out there – glances up, he’ll see the faint beam of the light and realise that there’s land between him and the mouth of the loch.

I jump out of the Land Rover and the storm grabs me, almost blowing me off my feet, knocking the breath out of me. I stumble towards the cliff edge, grabbing on to handfuls of heather to anchor myself to the solid ground. And there it is again, the tiny light struggling against the waves. But it’s still heading towards the rocks, and I scream and wave my arms, even though I know that I can neither be seen nor heard above the roaring of the sea.

‘Turn away!’ I scream. ‘Turn away!’

I jump back into the car and frantically dip and raise the headlights, flashing out a warning.

The pinprick of light appears, then is swallowed once again by the waves.

And then I give a sob of relief. Because the next time it appears it’s changed course, heading away from the treacherous rocks of Furadh Mor. Its progress is painfully slow as it struggles against the force of the storm. Then it disappears completely for a few interminable minutes, battling the oncoming waves and hidden from view on the far side of the island. When it reappears to the right of the headland, safely past the rocks, I gasp in air, only then discovering that I’ve been holding my breath as I’ve waited to catch a glimpse of the dot of light again, that tiny glimmer as fragile as starlight in the black expanse of the ocean.

I wait until the boat is well clear of the point and can turn to starboard, running into the mouth of Loch Ewe with the waves. And then I reverse carefully back along the track until I reach a place where I can turn. As I drive back around the shore of the loch, I crane my head at every turn in the road where it’s possible to see out across the water. I’m rewarded here and there by glimpses of the light, ploughing steadily onwards now towards Aultbea. The darkness seems a little less dense, at last, and the faint gleam of dawn creeps beneath the blanket of thick storm clouds above the turbulent, pewter-dark waters of the loch.

I drive the Land Rover on to the jetty. Word has got out and there are men gathered there, waiting to catch the ropes Davy throws and help him bring the Bonnie Stuart into the shelter of the harbour. Hands reach to pull him ashore and he shouts his thanks above the raging of the wind. They clap him on the back, each thankful that one of their own is safe home once more, snatched back from the grasp of the storm kelpies. And then he sees me, waiting beside the stack of creels, and he strides towards me. I step forward, meeting him halfway, and hold him more tightly than I’ve ever held anything before.

‘So,’ he says, when at last he’s got his breath back enough to speak, ‘who’s the rescuer now, might I ask, Lexie Gordon?’





Flora, 1944




As the day of Alec’s departure approached, she sensed the darkness growing in him once more. The precious couple of days they’d spent camping in the old bothy had brought them closer than ever before, and for a little while she’d been able to convince herself that her love really could be enough to heal him, keeping the shadows at bay. But as the coming weeks of separation loomed, she could feel him pulling away from her again, distant and distracted. Her doubts came rushing back in to fill the gap.