The Skylark's Secret

by Valpy, Fiona

  ‘Ruaridh!’ she cried. ‘Oh, we hoped you’d be on one of those ships. Dad will be so pleased.’

  Her brother grinned, picking her up and swinging her around until she couldn’t tell whether she was giddy with the whirling or with the joy of seeing him. Setting her back on her feet, he reached to give Mairi a hug, too. ‘Glad to see you’re keeping yourselves busy. Any chance of a cup of tea?’ he said matter-of-factly, as if he’d just popped out that very morning instead of it being nearly three months since his last leave.

  ‘How long are you here for?’ asked Mairi.

  ‘Not long at all. I’ve managed to wangle an hour ashore, that’s all. We’ve come to accompany the Nelson north. We’ll be leaving tonight.’ He settled himself at the table, stretching out his long legs.

  ‘Which is your ship?’ Flora asked, passing him a cup.

  ‘The Ordie. She’s over there towards the island. See those three destroyers? She’s the one on the right.’

  ‘Will you be coming back?’

  ‘Hard to say.’ He blew on his tea and then took a sip. ‘It all depends on where the action is. But for now it’s just great to be sitting here at home with my two favourite lassies.’

  ‘Didn’t you meet anyone in Portsmouth then? A girl in every port, as they say,’ teased Mairi. Although Flora had used to secretly hope that one day her best friend and her brother might become a couple, she knew that Mairi was more like a second little sister to Ruaridh.

  ‘Och, they kept us far too busy with our training for boring things like war, so I’m afraid I have nothing to report on that front.’

  Just then the door was pushed open and Braan burst into the kitchen, giving a yelp of joy at the sight of Ruaridh who leaned forward in his chair to fondle the Labrador’s ears. ‘Good dog, Braan. Where’s your master then?’

  ‘Here,’ said Iain Gordon, pulling the tweed deerstalker from his head and stuffing it into the pocket of his jacket as he stepped across the threshold. ‘I knew there was something up when Braan turned and raced down the hill. Thought it might be you, son.’

  Ruaridh stood and embraced his father and Mairi began to roll up her knitting, stowing it in her basket.

  ‘I’ll be off now,’ she said. ‘Best be getting back to help Mum with the supper and the weans.’ Mairi was the oldest of six, her siblings ranging in age from fourteen years down to five, which possibly accounted for her reserves of patient good humour. Her parents were hard-working farmers, with sheep and a herd of milking cows that kept the Macleods busy from dawn until dusk every day. Flora envied her and her sprawling family, but Mairi always joked that she’d happily swap them for a big brother like Ruaridh who could introduce her to his friends. ‘Take care of yourself, Ruaridh Gordon. And I hope we see you back here before long.’

  ‘Bye, Mairi. It’s been good seeing you.’ He glanced at his own watch. ‘I’ll not be able to stay long, Dad, just a few minutes more. I’ve to report back on board by five. But I couldn’t pass up the chance to come home, even just for half an hour.’

  Once he’d downed the dregs of his tea, Ruaridh got to his feet, setting his cap firmly back on his head and bending to give Braan’s silken ears one last stroke. ‘Be seeing you then, Dad.’

  ‘Aye. Soon enough.’

  Flora sensed the ocean of words, unspoken since they had no need of saying, that surged and tugged beneath the surface of their matter-of-fact parting. She fetched her thick gansey down from the hook by the door. ‘I’ll chum you back to the jetty,’ she said, wanting to spin out the precious time they had together for as long as possible.

  And then the brother and sister set off down the track, turning on to the road that skirted the water’s edge. There was more traffic than usual – a purposeful to-ing and fro-ing of jeeps and trucks filled with soldiers and sailors – and they constantly had to step aside on to the grassy verge to make way for the speeding vehicles. Ruaridh was telling her about life on board the ship and his job as a signalman as they passed the main gates of the estate, when the hoot of a horn made them turn and look up the drive. A sleek burgundy-coloured saloon car was bouncing over the potholes towards them.

  ‘It’s Alec!’ Ruaridh sprang forward as the car pulled up alongside them, reaching to shake the hand of the young man, also in naval uniform, who had hailed them.

  ‘Ruaridh. You’re here too! And Flora.’ He shook each of their hands in turn. ‘It’s been years. But it’s so good to see you both again. Allow me to introduce my fiancée, Diana Kingsley-Scott.’ The elegant young woman sitting in the passenger seat looked a little bored, but waved a languid hand bedecked with a large sapphire engagement ring in their direction.

  ‘Congratulations! We hadn’t heard the news.’ Ruaridh clapped Alec on the shoulder.

  ‘I only popped the question last week. We thought we should come and tell my parents before the official announcement appears in The Times tomorrow.’

  Alec Mackenzie-Grant’s smile hadn’t changed a bit since the days when the three of them had spent hours together as children, making pirate dens in the copse above Ardtuath House and sailing paper boats down the burn. He hadn’t been like the other boys in the playground at the tiny primary school they’d all attended, who’d ignored Flora, deeming her beneath acknowledgement on the twin counts of being a year younger and a girl. She remembered how he’d included her in the boys’ games, how he’d run over to back her up when she’d confronted Willie McTaggart over his bullying of Bridie, and how he’d picked her to be on his team for sports day. He and Ruaridh had been best friends during those carefree years, before Alec was sent away to prep school when he turned ten. And although their educational circumstances had separated them during term-time from that point on, the laird’s son and the keeper’s son had remained firm friends in the school holidays until the time came when Alec went off to university and spent his time at the family home in London or visiting friends in England in the breaks. Even though they’d drifted apart, the years seemed to fall away now that he was back.

  ‘Where are you headed?’ Alec asked.

  ‘Back to the jetty at Aultbea,’ replied Ruaridh. ‘I just managed to grab an hour ashore to come and see Dad and Flora. We sail tonight as escort to the Nelson.’

  ‘Well, that’s reassuring to know.’ Alec grinned. ‘I’ll be on board. You’re on one of the destroyers, are you? Fantastic. Hop in, we’ll give you a lift. Unless you’d rather walk, of course.’ He shot a look at Flora. ‘And you’re welcome to come, too, if you want. I know how precious time with family is.’

  ‘All right, and then I’ll stretch my legs on the walk back,’ she answered.

  The Gordons climbed into the back of the car, which smelled of new leather.

  ‘I’m just running Diana back to Achnasheen to catch the train,’ Alec said.

  ‘Where is home for you, Miss Kingsley-Scott?’ Ruaridh asked politely.

  ‘Kensington,’ she replied. The flatness of her tone didn’t invite further questions.

  There was a moment’s awkward silence and then Alec said, ‘Diana’s thinking of getting a job in the diplomatic service. Doing her bit for the war effort.’

  ‘Flora’s been knitting all afternoon, doing her bit, too,’ Ruaridh said.

  Flora blushed with shame. It sounded very tame in comparison with ‘getting a job in the diplomatic service’.

  As Alec drove she sat in silence, listening as the two men compared their experiences in the navy so far. They’d missed each other in Dartmouth, where Ruaridh had recently completed his signalman’s training soon after Alec had passed out from the Naval College as a sub-lieutenant assigned to the Home Fleet; and they must have overlapped at Portsmouth just last month, although their paths hadn’t crossed there among the melee of gathering ships.

  On the headland before Aultbea, Alec pulled off the road and cut the engine, rolling down the window to let the sea air fill the car. In the sudden stillness, the four of them sat in silence, listening to the sound of the water’s qui
et surge and the cries of the seabirds. For a few moments no one spoke. Diana tapped a manicured fingernail impatiently against the crocodile-skin handbag cradled on her lap.

  Flora glanced across at her brother’s profile. The breadth of his shoulders was emphasised by the wide collar of his naval tunic and beneath his cap his sandy hair was cut short, making a stranger of him as he sat watching the distant bustle of activity in the loch.

  She switched her gaze to Alec’s back. His shoulders were equally broad, but his cap lay on the back seat beside her and his straight black hair was ruffled by the breeze. The thought of them boarding their ships and facing the dangers out there on the cruel, unforgiving sea filled her with fear. She swallowed to try to relieve the tightness of her throat as she pictured them leaving the safe embrace of the hills surrounding Loch Ewe and heading northwards into the swell of the open sea. Blinking to clear the tears, she caught sight of the reflection of Alec’s smile in the car’s rear-view mirror. He was watching her watching them, his eyes still those of the childhood friend who had always been her champion and protector.

  He turned to face her, resting his arm along the back of the driving seat. ‘How’s your father?’ he asked.

  In the early years of his youth, Alec had spent more time with the keeper of the estate than he had with his own father. Sir Charles was only ever interested in shooting and fishing with the friends he invited up from London when he came north, and was very often absent from Ardtuath on business in England, leaving Lady Helen and his son to their own devices.

  ‘He’s well.’ Flora smiled back at him, suddenly conscious of the bagginess of the woollen gansey and the unruly, wind-blown strands of hair that had escaped from her braid. She tucked a wayward lock behind her ear. ‘Busy, now he’s doing the factor’s work, too, but he enjoys having charge of the estate, I think.’

  When Sir Charles’s manager had left to join up a few weeks ago, Ruaridh and Flora’s father had quietly stepped in to keep everything running smoothly for Lady Helen in her husband’s absence.

  Alec nodded. ‘Ma said he’s doing a great job. My father will be up again soon. Ma’s trying to persuade him to spend more time at Ardtuath. She worries for his safety down in London.’

  A blast from a ship’s horn across the water made him turn to face straight ahead again.

  ‘Time we got going, I think,’ Diana said, pointing at the slim gold watch encircling her wrist.

  With a nod, Alec turned the key in the ignition and reversed the car. They drove the final stretch to the jetty in silence and then Alec drew up alongside a pile of creels to let the Gordons out. He shook hands again with Ruaridh. ‘Be seeing you at the other end, then. It’ll be good knowing you’re not far off.’ At the same time, he turned and reached his left hand back towards Flora, mooring the three of them together for a moment. He gave her fingers a reassuring squeeze. ‘Keep safe. And knit me one of those scarves, if you have the time. It’ll certainly be welcome up there on the northern seas.’ With a salute, he turned the car and drove away, leaving Flora and Ruaridh to say their own goodbyes.

  After she’d waved her brother off, Flora watched from the jetty until the launch had heaved-to alongside the Ordie, and then she turned away. The breeze had stiffened with the chill of evening and she hugged the folds of her jumper around her as she walked back in the direction of Keeper’s Cottage. At the little cemetery, she pushed open the wishing gate and went in, past the wind-sculpted yew tree, picking her way through the clusters of granite gravestones to one that stood a short way up the hill.

  She knelt among the tufts of cotton grass that bowed their soft white heads over the mossy blanket covering the grave.

  ‘Hello, Mum,’ she said. ‘Ruaridh came home today. He’s looking well. He’s off tonight on one of those ships out there, headed north.’ She cleared a wisp of moss away from the headstone, tracing with the tips of her fingers the incised letters spelling out her mother’s name and the name of the baby sister she’d never known, who had died together when Flora was two years old.

  ‘Alec came back, too.’ She paused, adrift in her thoughts.

  Then, just before she turned to go, she whispered, ‘Keep them safe.’ And the wind snatched up her words, casting them out on to the darkening waters of the sea.

  Lexie, 1978

  Daisy loves the graveyard. The moss is soft beneath her hands and knees as she crawls through the grass, chuckling at the tufts of bog cotton that tickle her nose and make her sneeze. I’m trying to have a serious conversation with the stonemason about what to put on Mum’s headstone. ‘Just Flora Gordon and the dates, I think.’

  ‘Ach, d’you no want some sort of a message? In loving memory of a beloved mother and grandmother, maybe? Gone but never forgotten, that sort of thing?’

  I can scarcely afford the bare minimum and he charges by the letter, so I politely decline. The undertakers have already arranged for the urn containing the ashes to be buried alongside the grave where Mum’s parents lie. Her stone will be set next to the one with the three names – Seonaig and Isla and Iain – commemorating my grandparents and an aunt who died before she was as old as Daisy is now, a thought that unsettles me to the very core of my being.

  He shows me some samples of lettering and I choose the one that’s closest to that on my grandparents’ stone. Then he gets me to write down Mum’s name and the dates in a notebook before he leaves, with a cheery wave to Daisy who ignores him as she tries to pull herself up to standing using the granite headstone for leverage. Her legs wobble and she collapses with a bump, her nappy cushioning her fall, then mutters softly to herself as she crawls off to explore further afield.

  I walk across to scoop her up from the damp ground. She’s sitting gazing up at an elaborately carved stone angel that stands guard over the family memorial of the Mackenzie-Grants.

  ‘That’s your grandpa’s name there, see?’ I tell her.

  I trace the lettering of my dad’s name – his and mine so alike – with my fingertips. And I remember how, on summer Sundays when I was little, Mum and I used to come to lay posies of wildflowers by our own family stone and how she would always take one flower – a harebell or a tuft of sea pink or a white ox-eye daisy – and lay it at the feet of the angel.

  It’s a bright, breezy day at last, and a relief to be outdoors again. Daisy and I are both suffering from a severe dose of cabin fever after almost a solid week of rain, which has assailed the windows of Keeper’s Cottage from every angle. I’ve used the days to get things sorted in the house. I’ve brought the cot down from the loft and set it up so that we can both get a little more sleep, and I’ve wrapped most of Mum’s ornaments in newspaper and packed them away in boxes, safely out of the way of inquisitive little fingers. I’ve also managed to sort and stash away many of my own belongings so that the cottage doesn’t feel so cluttered. The attic is crammed full, but at least the boxes are out of sight. The sorting, unpacking and repacking and wrestling of boxes into the loft has made me feel as stale and dusty as the boards of the attic floor. I’m still stiff, the aftermath of the long drive as well as from ferrying everything in from the car and climbing up and down the ladder. But my physical aches and pains are nothing compared with the ache of the emptiness I feel, which seems to have embedded itself in my very bones.

  Thankful to be out here on the hillside, I take a deep breath of the seaweed- and peat-scented air and then tilt my head back to follow the flight of an eagle whose feather-fringed wings are spread wide, catching the wind as it describes sweeping circles above us. It swoops low enough for me to be able make out the hook of its beak and the markings in its undercarriage. Instinctively, I scoop Daisy into my arms, hugging her tight. I point out the bird to her and we watch as it soars off, far out over the loch.

  Then she points a chubby finger towards the water. ‘Bat,’ she says.

  ‘Yes, clever girl. It is indeed a boat.’ I wonder whether it’s Davy’s. Those squatties he gave us were absolutely delicious. Perhaps w
e should walk down to the jetty and leave him a message, asking for some more. I still can’t quite place him, although I definitely feel like I know him from somewhere. Maybe the next time I see him I’ll just ask him outright.

  Flora, 1939

  ‘Fill that urn with water would you, girls, and get it on the stove.’ Mrs Carmichael was in her element, bustling about the village hall and marshalling her troops. The Rural were out in full force, getting ready to welcome the busload of evacuees who were on their way from Clydeside. Some of the children had relations on Loch Ewe and would naturally be staying with them, but others were arriving as part of the government’s scheme to evacuate children to rural areas, away from the cities. Glasgow’s shipyards would be an inevitable target for German bombing raids and families had been urged to act now, before any attacks.

  Moira Carmichael’s heels tapped officiously across the floorboards as she hurried about, consulting the clipboard she carried and making sure everything was in order, issuing instructions to her deputy, Marjorie Greig, the wife of the local doctor, who – in Mrs Carmichael’s opinion – was one of the few women who could be relied upon in a crisis.

  The door opened, letting in a gust of sea air. ‘Ah, there you are, Mairi. And is that the churn of milk from your father? Thank you, dear. Put it through in the kitchen, please.’ She ticked an item off on her list and then hastened back to where Flora and Bridie were wrestling with a long trestle table. ‘Set those tables up over here! No, not like that, put them end to end. And then put out those chairs, please.’ She strode off to check on the supplies of extra rations being unloaded from a van at the door.

  ‘She sounds like a garron in those shoes,’ whispered Bridie with a giggle as she and Flora rearranged the furniture.

  ‘Wheesht, Bridie, you know she has the hearing of a wildcat.’ Flora couldn’t help laughing too, though. Mrs Carmichael’s progress around the room did sound a little like the clopping hooves of the sturdy Highland pony that her father used to bring the deer carcasses down from the hill.