by Valpy, Fiona
A silence fills my head, the noises of the wind and the waves and the cries of the seagulls blanked out by sheer blind terror as I wait . . . and pray . . . and wait, not breathing . . . and it feels as if the bones in my arms will snap as I fight against the bulk of the boat and the force of the wind.
And then the world around me erupts in a flurry of movement. Davy bursts from the water on the far side of the boat, holding a lifeless bundle in his arms, shouting words I can’t seem to register. There’s the sound of running feet, pounding on the boards of the jetty, of voices calling, of someone issuing instructions . . . Get the doctor! . . . Call the coastguard! Hands reach for Davy, taking the bundle from him, lifting it carefully on to the boards, helping to haul him up.
I try to move forward to where Daisy lies, water pooling around her. But she is still, still, too still and more pairs of hands hold me back as Davy sinks to his knees beside her and begins – oh so gently – to try to breathe life back into her, to persuade her heart to beat again.
The small crowd that has gathered – out of nowhere, hurrying from their homes – parts slightly and I see Bridie and Mairi running towards me, their faces shocked, as white as shells. And then I hear the wild, rasping screams, over and over, like the cry of a wounded animal, on and on as if they will never stop. I look around frantically, wide-eyed, terrified, wondering where they’re coming from.
It’s only as Bridie reaches me and wraps her arms around me that I realise the screams are mine.
I fight to get through to where Daisy lies, needing above all to hold her. As I reach her, there’s a gurgling choking sound and Davy turns her head to one side as a gush of seawater flows from her mouth. He presses a finger against her neck and looks up at me, relief flooding his face. ‘There’s a pulse.’
But her eyes are still shut, her damp lashes stark against the translucent, too-pale skin of her face. Tentatively, gently, I brush a strand of hair away from her forehead, where the shadow of a bruise is beginning to form. She looks so tiny, so fragile, lying there motionless, and I gasp as a sob judders through my whole being, unleashing a shaking so violent that it takes both Bridie and Mairi to hold me upright.
The crowd parts as the doctor strides to Daisy’s side, crouching, setting down his bag and opening her coat to press a stethoscope to her chest.
‘She fell between the boat and the jetty,’ Davy tells him. ‘I think she may have hit her head on the way down. She was only in the water for a minute or two, but she looked to be unconscious when I reached her. She wasn’t breathing and there was no pulse. I did CPR, she’s vomited up some water and there’s a breath and a pulse now.’ He sounds businesslike, clinical, telling the doctor the things he needs to know, but it panics me even more that they’re talking over my daughter like this, like it’s just an empty body, a shell, not my living, laughing Daisy any more.
The doctor nods. ‘We’ll not move her. There may be injuries to her head or her neck. The helicopter’s on its way.’
He swivels on his heels, turning to look at me. ‘Don’t worry, Lexie, we’ll get her to the hospital just as quick as we can. You can go with her. Davy here’s done all the right things.’ He notices the trembling that wracks my body, making my teeth chatter. ‘She’s in shock,’ he tells Bridie. ‘Can someone lend her a coat?’ he calls.
A jacket is draped over my shoulders and Mairi pulls me close, letting the warm solidity of her body support mine. Someone else has brought blankets and they are wrapped around Davy’s shoulders because he is shivering, too. One is laid gently, softly, over Daisy as I kneel at her side, clutching one of her tiny hands, willing the fingers to curl around mine. But they don’t respond. And in my head all I can hear is please . . . please . . . please. Until, after an age, the noise of the helicopter’s blades chops the air above us into a million pieces and they seem to flutter down around us like dying leaves.
Our arrival at the hospital is a blur of half-remembered impressions: the kindness of the medic in the helicopter who held my hand on the surprisingly short journey as we flew over the hills and sea lochs; Daisy looking so tiny and fragile, her unmoving body strapped into a cradle that they lifted out and placed on a trolley as if it were as weightless as a feather; the team of doctors and nurses who surrounded her as we hurried through the warren of brightly lit corridors; watching, helpless, as they took her away for X-rays; the waiting; the not-daring-to-breathe minutes – which felt like hours – as I sat with my arms wrapped around myself, trying not to fall apart, as I waited and waited and then waited some more.
And then, at last, the moment when the doctor came through and she had a smile on her face as she held my hand in hers and told me that they were cautiously optimistic. Davy’s quick actions had undoubtedly saved Daisy’s life. ‘She has no broken bones and there doesn’t seem to be any damage to her spine. But she has a severe concussion and hasn’t regained consciousness yet. We’ll just have to wait and see how she is when she comes around . . . If need be, we can arrange for her to be taken from Yorkhill to one of the other Glasgow hospitals where there’s a scanner that can look into her brain. But it’s too early to tell if there’s any lasting brain damage yet.’
I struggled to swallow the panic that choked me when I heard those last words. ‘Can I see her?’ I managed to croak.
‘Of course. We’re just getting her settled into a side room where we can keep a close eye on her. You can come through now.’
In the twilight of watching and waiting, sitting in a plastic-covered armchair beside Daisy’s cot, I’ve lost track of time, of whether it’s day or night. Kindly nurses come and go, bringing me occasional cups of tea and plates of food. Sleep creeps up on me now and then, but mostly I just sit watching over her beneath the glare of the fluorescent lights, holding her hand, careful not to touch the tubes and drips keeping her alive while she is lost to me, drifting in the darkness beyond my reach. And through it all, to keep her there with me and to keep myself from losing it, I hum and sing every song I can think of to her, calling her back from wherever it is she’s gone.
A nurse pops her head round the door. ‘That’s me off now. The night shift’s just finishing. Just thought I’d check up on wee Daisy one more time before I go.’
I force a smile, my lips cracked and dry. ‘No change. But I think she may have moved her fingers a bit more a while ago.’
The nurse nods. ‘I’ll get them to bring you some tea. A bowl of porridge, maybe? You need to keep up your strength.’
My voice is hoarse, despite the sip of tea, as I sing the words of the ‘Eriskay Love Lilt’ one more time:
‘In the morning when I go
To the white and shining sea,
In the calling of the seals
Thy soft calling to me . . .’
And then her eyelashes flutter and her beautiful eyes open and smile at me and she says, as clear as anything, ‘Seals? Go bat?’
And I’m laughing through my tears as I hug her and hug her, feeling as if my heart will burst with the joy and the relief.
Flora, 1942
As she waved Alec off on the next convoy to take on the Murmansk run, Flora tried hard to ignore the sense of foreboding that had settled itself in the base of her stomach. It felt like a lead weight that had dragged at her spirits even while she and Alec had spent his last evening ashore together. He’d made an effort to seem cheerful, but she could sense that he was distracted as they’d sat in the crowded hall watching an Abbot and Costello film. In fact, the audience’s laughter had sounded a little forced to Flora’s ears, as if many of those sitting around them also had half their thoughts elsewhere. This convoy had the number thirteen and it was hard to set superstition to one side.
It was March, and the first lambs were wobbling about the fields on unsteady legs as they ran bleating to huddle close to their mothers, seeking shelter from the cruel-edged, unpredictable wind. That same wind would be redoubled beyond the mouth of the loch as the convoy emerged the next day, sailing once m
ore into the dark waters. Flora knew that the crews would keep themselves busy, fending off the boredom and the constant anxiety with the strict routine that Alec had described. He’d told her how the days on board passed in a continuous cycle of eating, sleeping, maintenance and cleaning. The men had coined the phrase ‘the three Ts’ to describe the mood that dominated the Arctic run: tedium, tiredness and terror. Every so often there would be a training exercise to keep them alert and battle-ready, during which they’d scramble to action stations and rattle off rounds of ack-ack at passing ice floes. Those surges of adrenalin kept the men’s wits sharp, when otherwise they felt they might drown in the grey monotony that stretched from horizon to horizon as the ships ploughed their pitching, rolling way through the relentless waves.
Perhaps this time it was purely the knowledge of what took place that put her on edge. But just as the whispering of the wind foretells rain on the way, long before the first drops begin to fall, she knew that Alec could sense the gathering resolve of the Nazi forces now that they’d become aware of the convoys stealing past their Norwegian bases to keep the Russian war machine fed and fuelled. She imagined the wolf packs of U-boats must be hungry for the hunt.
She turned away, unable to bear watching the long tail of ships leaving the safety of the harbour, telling herself that he would come back to her. That she simply needed to keep herself busy for the next month or so. That with a fair wind and a bit of luck, he’d be home in time for Easter.
But the lead weight tugged at her guts again, insistent as the brisk breeze that pulled at her hair, teasing strands loose from beneath her cap and whipping them against her tear-damp cheeks.
Flora and Bridie were helping Mairi and two of her little sisters gather dulse from the rocks at low tide, carefully picking the translucent, dark red fronds and placing them in a colander whose enamel was chipped from years of use. Rationing had limited many of the usual staples, but the crofters living around the loch were long used to supplementing their diet with ingredients from the woods and the shore, which were still plentiful. With so many mouths to feed, the Macleods knew better than anyone the best spots to gather wild pickings.
Stuart and Davy Laverock appeared, scrambling over the rocks, their catapults in hand.
‘Whit’re you doing?’ Stuart asked.
Flora straightened up and held out the handful of seaweed she’d picked for them to inspect. ‘Collecting this. It’s good to eat, especially if you put a dab of butter on it after you’ve cooked it.’
‘C’n we help?’ asked Davy.
‘Of course. Pick the nice fresh bits like this, see?’
After a few minutes, the boys grew bored of seaweed-hunting and began firing pebbles at a piece of wood floating in a rock pool, pretending it was a German U-boat.
‘Good shot, you got him! Now he’s a goner,’ Stuart shouted, before launching another stick into the pool.
At the sight of Hamish McTaggart passing along the road on his bike, they all paused, watching where he was heading. Since he’d been demobbed, after losing an eye to a piece of shrapnel while fighting the Italians in North Africa, he’d been employed by Miss Cameron to deliver the telegrams that had started arriving more frequently now. Very few of them ever contained any good news. He raised a hand in greeting, but cycled on past the end of the village until the bend in the road hid him from view.
Mairi sighed, shaking her head. ‘It’ll be someone from over at Poolewe then. Another poor soul injured or worse.’
‘Our mammy was in the air raids in Glasgow, Mrs C says,’ Davy announced. ‘But she was fine ’cause they built a massive shelter in Port Glasgow and she slept in there when the bombers came over.’
‘Wheesht, Davy, that was ages ago, there’s no more air raids there now. The Jerries’re too busy fighting everyone else these days,’ Stuart said, picking up a stone and chucking it out into the water with the nonchalance of youth.
‘How’s Mrs Carmichael doing?’ Flora asked the boys.
Stuart shrugged. ‘She’s okay. She always keeps Matthew’s bedroom door shut. We’re not allowed in there now. We used to go and look at his stamps – he’s got this massive collection, from all over the world – but his things are too precious to touch now he’s dead. Sometimes she goes in there and doesn’t come out for ages.’
‘That’s ’cause she’s greetin’,’ chipped in Davy. ‘I’ve heard her. Sometimes she doesn’t come out even when it’s time to cook the tea. Mr C tried to make mince once, but it was all burned and he had to chuck out the pan in the end. So on those days now we just have some more bread and dripping.’
‘The poor thing,’ said Flora, shaking her head.
The boys ran off, having spotted some of their friends heading for the post office, hopeful that someone might have a sweet coupon that could be exchanged for a stick of liquorice to be shared around.
‘It’s amazing how she keeps up appearances in public,’ Bridie said. ‘She still has all the ladies in the Rural shaking in their shoes.’
‘It probably does her good to have that distraction,’ said Mairi. ‘I feel sorry for them all – those wee boys too.’ She shook the colander gently, settling the heap of dulse, which now reached the rim. ‘That’s enough, I should think. C’mon, let’s take this home and get it cooked. Dad’ll be in from the milking soon enough.’
Flora said goodbye to Bridie at her gate. ‘Any word from Hal?’ she asked.
Bridie beamed and pulled a dog-eared postcard from her pocket. ‘From New York. He says they’ll be back just as soon as there’s another cargo of gifts for Uncle Joe Stalin. And he says he’ll bring me a bottle of perfume from Macy’s, which is a huge great shop they have over there.’
‘That’s good news.’ Flora smiled.
Bridie shoved the card back into her pocket. ‘And Alec will be back, too, before you know it. I know the weeks must drag while he’s out there, but surely there’ll soon be news that they’ve made it to Murmansk at least.’
Flora nodded. ‘I hope so. Any day now.’ But this time her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes as she turned and headed for home.
Easter arrived, but the advent of spring failed to lift Flora’s spirits. The news of the unlucky thirteenth convoy had reached the crofting community and spread quickly through the fields and cottages, where the words were muttered in low voices, with downcast eyes and a shaking of heads. Flora had heard the communiqués at the base: five merchant ships lost with all hands, sunk by torpedoes from below and bombs from above. Just south of Bear Island, heavy weather had scattered the fleet over a wide area, and the naval escorts had been unable to defend the whole convoy. Separated from the pack, the stragglers became easy prey for the German U-boats and aircraft.
The remaining vessels had limped into Murmansk after three fraught weeks at sea. One of the escorts, which had been hit by one of its own torpedoes when its gyroscope froze in the icy conditions, would be laid up for repairs in the Russian port for a while, along with several more of the merchant ships that had sustained damage in the attacks.
As Flora’s voice joined the others in the kirk to sing the Easter Sunday hymns, she knew that the convoy’s cargo must have been offloaded by now and so Alec’s ship would be heading back into those treacherous waters for the return run. She bowed her head over her clasped hands as the community prayed for the safe return of ships and men, her lashes darkened by tears when she opened her eyes again at last.
At the kirk gate, the congregation split into smaller groups and stood in the sunshine discussing the news with grave expressions, shaking their heads as they looked out across the impossibly blue waters of the loch to the darker horizon beyond. The Macleods and the Macdonalds joined the Gordons. Mairi and Bridie hugged Flora, sharing in her anguish. She imagined they were quietly relieved that the Gustavsen brothers had been too late to volunteer for this latest convoy, but at the same time they knew that Roy and Hal were still trying to gain passage on the next one to cross the Atlantic. The loss of any sa
ilor’s life affected them all, and they felt for the families and sweethearts on both sides of the ocean who would, by now, have received one of those dreaded, heartbreaking telegrams.
Flora glimpsed the Mackenzie-Grants among the throng and automatically her fingers went to the brooch that she wore pinned to her Sunday best coat, tracing the outline of the anchor and crown. Sir Charles, who was engaged in conversation with the minister, appeared not to notice them, but when Lady Helen caught sight of the Gordons she made her way over to shake hands with Iain and Ruaridh and to give Flora a quick hug.
‘I’m very glad to see you wearing that,’ she murmured, as she clasped Flora close for the briefest moment before hurrying back to her husband’s side.
At the roadside, they caught up with the Carmichaels. This was their first Easter Day since losing Matthew, and both Johnny and Jamie were fighting in North Africa, so Flora knew it must be taking a considerable toll on them. Outwardly, though, they were maintaining a stiff upper lip and both remained as committed as ever to the community’s war efforts.
‘What news of Alec, dear?’ Moira Carmichael was wearing her usual Sunday best, although Flora noticed that the coat, whose buttons once strained across her ample bosom, now hung a good deal looser from her determinedly squared shoulders.
Flora shook her head. ‘Nothing yet. They’ll be on their way back now, I suppose, so it’ll be radio silence for a while longer.’
‘Don’t you worry, he’ll come back safe and sound.’ The words were supposed to reassure, but Flora heard the tremor of fear and sadness that lay beneath them as Mrs Carmichael thought of her own sons. ‘Now then, where have those boys got to?’ She cast around for the pair of brothers who had slipped away from her side to join some of their school friends.
‘I think that’s them down there on the shore, isn’t it?’ Flora pointed to where a gaggle of youngsters were scrambling over the rocks.
