The Skylark's Secret(82)

A movement in the shadows among the pines made her glance up, and she set down the bowl of berries and wiped her hands on her apron as Lady Helen approached, hurrying down the path.

‘Good morning, your ladyship.’

Lady Helen brushed aside the greeting. Her ordinarily pale cheeks were flushed and she seemed a little out of breath. ‘Flora! I’m so glad I’ve found you.’ She seized Flora’s arm. ‘Please, you have to believe me when I tell you Alec loves you and only you.’ Her words tumbled out with none of her usual reserve.

Flora looked at her in speechless astonishment.

‘My husband is guilty of the most terrible interference. He considers it his right to control the lives of everyone around him. For too long I’ve allowed him to do so, but I cannot stand by and watch him destroy my son. Alec loves you. He told me about your letter. Yes, Diana has been staying for a few days, but at my husband’s invitation once again. Alec was furious and he didn’t want to tell you, knowing it would only upset you. Yesterday he had an almighty row with his father and he told Miss Kingsley-Scott in no uncertain terms that he wasn’t the slightest bit interested in her. He got back late, after driving her to the train. It was then that he found your letter. He’s devastated, Flora. You’re the girl he loves. And now he’s had to go and get on that bloody ship and sail away again, thinking you don’t love him any more, and it’s breaking my heart . . .’

She’d never heard Lady Helen utter so many words and in such a forceful tone. And one of them a swear word, too! As she got over her initial shock and the words sank in, Flora pressed her hand to her mouth. She spun around wildly towards the loch where the merchant ships were lined up in their positions now, waiting for the off.

‘No!’ she cried. ‘Alec! I have to go to him! I have to tell him I got it all wrong.’

She tried to turn, to run towards the pier, but Lady Helen hadn’t yet relinquished her grip. ‘Here,’ her ladyship said. ‘Take this with you.’ She pressed something into Flora’s hand. ‘Now go!’

Flora’s feet flew down the path, across the road, along the shore. But she was too late. As she watched, gasping for breath, the Kite slipped into its position at the head of the convoy and began to lead the line of ships towards the mouth of the loch. She waved both arms above her head, hoping that he might glimpse her there, but knowing he was already too far away. She dashed the tears from her eyes and then opened her hand to look at the sweetheart brooch that Lady Helen had given back to her. She took it and carefully pinned it on to her shawl as she stood watching the convoy leave.

‘Come back to me,’ she whispered. And the breeze took her words and scattered them out across the silver waters.



It was late August, a week after Alec had left. Honeysuckle spilled from the hedgerows and the song of the skylarks drifted on the summer breeze. Flora was walking home from the base when she saw the Laverock boys jogging towards her along the road. It was one of their evenings to help Iain at Ardtuath and they’d come straight from school, their socks bunched around their ankles above scuffed shoes, knees as knobbly as pine knots. She smiled and waved, but then stopped in her tracks as she saw the look on their faces.

‘What is it?’ she asked, automatically reaching to smooth Stuart’s fringe out of his eyes.

‘We seen that postie. On his bike. He turned in at the gates to the big house.’ Stuart gasped for breath, panting out the words.

‘Who was it? Mr McTaggart?’

The boys nodded their heads in unison.

Flora blanched. A telegram then. Alec.

She hesitated, wanting to know but not able to march up the drive to Ardtuath House and face the Mackenzie-Grants. Sir Charles’s anger would be bad enough; Lady Helen’s grief might be even worse.

But the not knowing was unbearable. So she was about to steel herself to do it when she caught sight of another figure in a Wrens uniform hurrying along the road towards them from the base, arms outstretched, capless brown curls askew. And as Flora’s legs gave way beneath her, Bridie reached her and grabbed her just before she fell.





Lexie, 1978




Mairi’s voice is gentle as she recalls the facts of my father’s death. I’d heard them before, from Mum, of course. The Kite was accompanying that summer convoy through the Barents Sea when she was hit by a torpedo. She went down fast, taking with her the crew of 239 men. Only nine were saved, pulled from the waves by a rescue vessel, as the rest of the ships continued on their way to Archangel.

So my father lies, like so many other sailors, in a grave that I can never visit. His name on the family memorial of the Mackenzie-Grants in the graveyard doesn’t seem nearly enough, but I suppose it was all Mum had. Those wildflowers that we laid there every Sunday were all she could offer him. He left not knowing that she loved him still. She had to live with that for the rest of her life. And he never knew that she was carrying his child.

And then Bridie tells me how, after the memorial service in the kirk, Sir Charles accosted Ruaridh in front of everyone, his rage and grief spilling over, and told him he should be ashamed of himself, sitting safe in a shelter on the hill in a job that Alec had made sure of for him, while his son’s bones were lying under a hundred fathoms of icy sea. Ruaridh stood there and took it, saying nothing, but his jaw was clenched, his face as pale as a ghost with his own grief at the loss of his childhood friend.