The Skylark's Secret(9)
‘Might Ruaridh be on one of them, do you think?’ Flora’s heart leapt at the thought. Her brother had joined the Royal Navy two years before, and she sorely missed him. Like so many lads who’d grown up on that coast, he was as at home on the water as he was on the hills.
‘I doubt it. His last letter said he was in Portsmouth, assigned to destroyers. They’re smaller than those battleships out there. He could be deployed anywhere by now.’
As they watched, the leading ship manoeuvred slowly to a halt and dropped anchor with a rattle of chains audible even at this distance. Flora handed the binoculars back to her father. ‘What do you think they’re doing here in Loch Ewe?’
He shrugged. ‘Your guess is as good as mine. I’m sure we’ll find out soon enough.’
He turned away from the window, but not before she’d glimpsed the look in his eyes. Although his bearing was as upright as ever and his manner as calm as usual, she could tell the war filled him with dread. He was fearful for what it meant for his son, far away in England, and now the arrival of these warships in the peaceful waters of the loch below Keeper’s Cottage had brought that sense of dread right up to their front door. The presence of her tall, capable father who was so at ease in these hills – a man trusted by the laird to oversee the Ardtuath Estate and a figure so respected in the lochside community – had always made her feel safe. But that glimpse of fear in his eyes made her feel that a fault line had cracked open in the ground beneath her feet, disturbing the equilibrium of their lives.
As if sensing her uneasiness, Braan pushed his nose into the palm of her hand, reassuring her. And then she turned away from the window and dished the porridge into the waiting bowls.
The post office was so busy that the queue doubled back on itself in the crowded space of the little shop. It seemed that half of the village either had a letter to post that morning or a sudden need to buy an envelope and a stamp or two. Flora joined the line, but no one was in any great hurry to reach the counter to be served by Miss Cameron, the postmistress. Instead, there was a hum of conversation that revolved entirely around the arrival of the Home Fleet on their doorsteps.
‘That big ship in the middle is HMS Nelson and they have Mr Churchill on board.’ Mrs Carmichael was a fount of knowledge on most matters, not only restricted to those directly relating to her pivotal role as chairwoman of the local branch of the Scottish Women’s Rural Institute. With all three of her sons off to the war with the Argyll and Sutherland Highlanders, it was generally acknowledged that she was entitled to hold forth on military matters, too. And now that her husband, Archibald Carmichael, had assumed the role of air-raid warden, her source of local information was second to none.
‘What is it they’re doing here in Loch Ewe?’ asked Bridie Macdonald, who had reached the front of the queue and was busy licking stamps. She handed her letters back to Miss Cameron for the postbag. ‘A quarter of pan drops, too, please.’
The postmistress reached the tall jar of sweets down from the shelves behind her and weighed them out, tipping the mints from the scales into a white paper bag and twisting the corners to seal it. ‘There you go.’ She sorted the coins Bridie handed over into the till.
‘It’s top secret, Archie says,’ Mrs Carmichael replied.
‘They’re probably scouting out places to base the Fleet, ready to defend us if there’s an invasion of U-boats from the north.’
‘Wheesht, Bridie, you know what they say . . . careless talk costs lives.’
Bridie was about to point out indignantly that Mrs Carmichael had just announced to any German agents who happened to be waiting in the queue for stamps and sweets that the First Lord of the Admiralty himself was on one of the ships out there on the loch, but she thought better of it and popped a mint into her mouth instead. Mrs Carmichael was, in build and in temperament, not unlike one of those battleships and Bridie was neither brave enough nor foolish enough to give her any cheek.
‘Instead of standing about gossiping, you can come along to the hall this afternoon and lend a hand. The Rural is knitting scarves for our boys at the front and we need all the help we can get. Can I count you in? You too, Flora?’
It was impossible to say no to Moira Carmichael. Both girls nodded obediently. ‘Very good. Three o’clock sharp. Bring your own needles. Wool will be provided.’ She picked up her basket as the door pinged. ‘Ah, Mairi, I hope we can count you in as well?’
Flora turned to greet her best friend with a smile.
Mairi Macleod shrugged cheerfully. ‘Count me in for what?’
‘We’re knitting scarves for soldiers,’ Bridie chipped in, the pan drop in her mouth clicking against her teeth. ‘Three o’clock sharp, in the hall.’
‘I’ll expect all three of you girls to be there then,’ said Mrs Carmichael, sweeping regally out of the door.
The queue shuffled forward, filling the not inconsiderable gap.
‘Any word from Ruaridh?’ Mairi asked.
Flora shook her head. ‘Not since last week.’ She held up the envelope she was carrying. ‘I’m just sending him a letter now.’
Glancing out of the window toward the hulks moored in the bay, Mairi said, ‘I wonder how long they’re going to stay?’
One of them had a plume of dark smoke rising from its funnel and from another, small launches were being lowered into the leaden water. There were signs of activity on the decks of the others as well, figures hurrying purposefully to and fro.