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 we 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.
At last everything was ready and a big pan of potatoes was simmering on the stove. Mrs Carmichael summoned the women of the Rural for a final briefing.