Lexie, 1979
Davy’s come for his supper. He has Daisy in fits of giggles, chasing her round the sitting room on all fours, pretending to be a bear. She allows herself to be caught and then wraps her arms around the bear’s neck before kissing him firmly on the nose.
‘Weed a storwy,’ she demands, and the bear obliges, settling her on his knee in the big armchair beside the fire.
Her eyelids begin to droop after just a few pages of Where the Wild Things Are and she snuggles into the crook of his arm, resting her hand on the sleeve of his jumper. I lean against the door jamb and watch the pair of them, my heart suddenly so full of love that I think it just might burst.
It’s another new sensation for me, all this love. Something I’ve not allowed myself to feel before. It’s as if I’ve been sleepwalking through life and, now that the story that Bridie and Mairi have told me has fully sunk in, I have suddenly woken up to what has been right there, all around me, all along.
This community – the village it takes to raise a child – took me into its heart long before I was born, and helped protect me by allowing my grandfather to remain so that he could support my mother and me. My grandmother decreed it, stepping up to protect her unborn grandchild, and the others readily agreed. And they have kept the secret, all these years, weaving around me their web of love.
I’m so ashamed to admit that I was foolish enough to misread it. I interpreted the strands of that web as unwanted ties, pinning me down, binding me to a place that I left as soon as I could, cutting the lines and running as far and as fast as I could go with scarcely a backward glance. But now I see it in a new light. Of course everyone in the community felt they had an interest in me. I owe each and every one of them a debt of gratitude. After all, every day that they kept my grandfather’s secret they were protecting Flora as she faced the challenges of raising a baby alone. And perhaps that baby represented far more to them. Perhaps she represented hope and life to those like Moira Carmichael who had lost so much. Flora Gordon’s baby would have been a flicker of light in the dark months following the loss of Alec and of Ruaridh, and of so many other young men from the small crofting community.
Everything has changed. And nothing has changed. The truth is a powerful force.
As Davy turns the final page of the book, Daisy’s eyelids close, her rose-gold lashes fluttering against her cheeks. I set down my glass and step forward to lift her off his lap, the slack warmth of her heavy in my arms. I carry her through and settle her gently in her cot, drawing up the blanket her granny knitted for her and tucking it in, wrapping her in love. She stirs a little, starfish hands spreading as her fingers relax against the strands of soft wool, the drift of finely stitched seashells that will keep her safe until morning comes.
When I return, Davy is still sitting in the armchair, gazing into the orange glow of the fire. He’s deep in thought.
I settle myself across from him on the sofa, lost in thoughts of my own.
He gets up and crosses to sit next to me, and I rest my head against his shoulder. But then he draws back a little and I turn so that I can see his eyes. There is something there, a look of uncertainty mixed with something else that I can’t quite read.
‘What is it?’ I ask.
He hesitates, giving a little shake of his head, and his eyes crinkle at the corners in their usual way as he gives me a reassuring smile. But that something is still there, lurking beneath the surface, and I need to know what it is.
‘Tell me,’ I press him.
He sighs. And then he combs his fingers through his hair, as if trying to put his thoughts in order, and says, ‘Okay.’
He shifts so that he’s facing me, and I can tell from his expression that this is important.
‘I know what Bridie and Mairi have told you of your mother’s story. But there’s one last bit that they don’t know. Nobody knows. I’ve kept it safe for so long, and I’ve been battling to decide whether or not to tell you. But it is your story, Lexie Gordon, so who am I to keep it from you? Besides,’ he adds, ‘I don’t want there to be any secrets between us, ever.’
I nod, impatient for him to get on with it. ‘I’d know, in any case. I can read you like a book. Tell me.’
He takes a breath. ‘Okay. Well, on the evening after Sir Charles was shot, Stuart and I heard the Carmichaels talking. They were in the sitting room beneath us, and because it was just the floorboards between us and them, we could hear everything they said. Mr C said the doctor would need to issue a death certificate and that he might have to call the local police as it had been so sudden, whether or not it was an accident. Mrs C was upset at that. “What will happen to that poor lass if she loses her father as well as her brother and her sweetheart? And what about the bairn?” she said. “It doesn’t bear thinking about. Do you suppose Lady Helen will be able to persuade Dr Greig to let it go?” And then Mr C said, “It’ll likely be the death penalty for Iain if she can’t.”