The Skylark's Secret(91)

Below us, in the little graveyard, a new bench has been placed alongside the memorial to the Mackenzie-Grant family. On it is carved a dedication to Lady Helen and the words I chose from my favourite Gaelic blessing: Deep peace of the shining stars to you. At last her name is remembered there, beside her beloved son’s, even if neither of them lie beneath the nodding heads of the cotton grass.

Out on the water, Davy will be setting off in the Bonnie Stuart to check his creels. If we’re lucky there’ll be squatties for our supper tonight.

We reach the old bothy and I set Daisy down thankfully, out of breath with the effort of the climb. As I release her from the carrier I say, ‘Soon you’ll be too big for this. You’ll have to walk on your own two feet because your baby will be in the carrier.’

‘My baby,’ she says, pointing a stubby finger at my stomach. Then she potters off to pick some wildflowers from among the stones of the fallen walls.

I lift my face to the sunshine and watch as a skylark rises from the gorse above us, soaring into the blue. Its song makes me think of Davy Laverock, who kept his secret for all those years. A secret within a secret, protecting my mum. It was his way of repaying her kindness to him and Stuart, part of the natural cycle of give and take that makes up life within a tight-knit community.

A wind-scudded cloud crosses the face of the sun, obscuring it for a few seconds. And there it is again, that trick of the light that brings the ghost ships out on the loch. I picture Alec Mackenzie-Grant, and Ruaridh Gordon, and Hal Gustavsen, and Johnny, Matthew and Jamie Carmichael, and the many other young men who gave their lives to the war. I’m glad that they all knew this place, the hidden lochan covered in white lilies in the hills above Loch Ewe. I’m glad that they heard the song of the skylark and knew how good freedom can be. So good that it’s worth fighting for.

I gather Daisy to me and hug her tight, burying my face in her rose-gold curls. She’s the spitting image of her granny; everyone says so.

Then I settle her back in the carrier and hoist it on to my shoulders for the walk home.





AUTHOR’S NOTE



‘This is a God-fearing community and the local people are to be treated with respect.’



Winston Churchill, in an address to naval personnel on the arrival of the Home Fleet in Loch Ewe. 13th September, 1939





In writing this book, I have tried at all times to keep to Winston Churchill’s directive, treating the memories of the local inhabitants and their history with the utmost respect. For the purposes of the story, all the characters are fictitious. Any similarities to particular individuals are both coincidental and unintentional.

There is no Ardtuath Estate, nor was there an Ardtuath House that could be transformed from a shooting lodge into a music school. However, I am pleased to say that a thriving traditional music scene and a resurgence in the teaching of Gaelic ensure that the old songs live on in the Highlands. The idea of a school to help promote traditional Scottish music was inspired, in part, by the National Centre of Excellence in Traditional Music at Plockton, which offers residential places for students from all across Scotland. The Traditional Music and Song Association is a good starting point for finding out more about the songs included in this book:

www.tmsa.scot

As far as possible, I have tried to stick to the historical timeline of events during World War II. I have made up or altered the names of some of the ships that Alec serves upon for the purposes of the story but again, wherever I could, I have reflected the historical facts as accurately as possible.

Three thousand men lost their lives on the Arctic convoys. Those who served, undertaking what Winston Churchill described as ‘the worst journey in the world’, were finally awarded a special medal – the Arctic Star – in 2012. The medal was awarded to both military personnel and merchant seamen. Arctic convoy personnel are entitled to wear a white beret, earning them the nickname ‘Snowdrops’. In the garden of the Russian Arctic Convoys Museum in Aultbea, 3,000 snowdrops have been planted to commemorate those who lost their lives, re-emerging as a sea of white blooms each spring.

The vestiges of Loch Ewe’s pivotal role as the muster point for the convoys can still be seen today. In 1999 a memorial was unveiled at Rubha Nan Sasan, the point overlooking the entrance to the loch, to commemorate the courage of all who took part in the convoys, which played such a vital role in the Allied victory.

When I visited the memorial, among the poppies that had been left there in memory of those who never returned to the safe harbour of Loch Ewe, a stone had been placed, painted with a single word: Спасибо.

It is the Russian word for ‘thanks’.





ACKNOWLEDGMENTS



Thanks to the Russian Arctic Convoys Museum, Aultbea, a wealth of material has been preserved to keep alive the memories of those extraordinary years during World War II when that remote crofting community was suddenly transformed into a busy naval base and became home for over three thousand military personnel. The museum, staffed by welcoming and knowledgeable volunteers, is a treasure trove of information and well worth a visit. Its exhibits help to bring home just how terrible conditions were on the journeys to Murmansk and Archangel. Details of the convoys and the men who served on them are available via their website at www.racmp.co.uk.

Similarly, Steve Chadwick’s book Loch Ewe During World War II is a wonderful reference work, recording local people’s reminiscences as well as the historical facts.