‘Hush ye, my bairnie . . .’
While the notes may be cracked and broken in places, it still feels good to use my voice again, watching her rose-gold lashes flutter on her cheeks as I sing my baby daughter to sleep.
Flora, 1940
It was March before there was a day when they were both free that was calm enough for Flora and Alec to pack a picnic and explore some of their childhood haunts. She was just wrapping some corned beef sandwiches in newspaper when his car pulled up at the cottage gate. She watched him cover the path in three loping strides before he caught sight of her through the kitchen window. His face lit up and he gave a jaunty salute as she flung open the front door. She stood on tiptoes, her lips meeting his halfway as he stooped to kiss her.
‘I just need to put my boots on. I’ve got sandwiches and a bottle of water there on the table.’
‘We’ll add them to the hamper. I’ve managed to wangle the use of a tender for a few hours, so we can get out on to the loch. I thought we might take a turn across to Firemore Bay, if you like. The road round is closed off with a checkpoint but we can get to the beach by the water, so long as they don’t take us for invading enemy agents and shoot us!’ Catching sight of her anxious expression he gave her a hug. ‘I’m joking. Don’t worry, I’ve squared it with the officer in charge and got permission to take the boat over.’
As they took the supplies from the car to carry them to the jetty, Moira Carmichael came out of her house. ‘Good morning, Alec, Flora. Isn’t it a lovely day? And where are you two off to?’
‘We’re just going out for a turn about the island. And yourself, Mrs Carmichael?’
She raised her bag – from which a pair of knitting needles protruded – with a flourish. ‘I’ve some new recruits to the Rural over at Poolewe who need to be shown what to do.’ She fluttered her eyelashes at Alec, surprisingly flirtatious. ‘No rest for the wicked, as they say!’ Craning her neck to look down towards the jetty wall she then shouted, with more of her usual force, ‘Stuart! David! I’m away now. There’s some bread and dripping for your lunch. I’ll be back by three. Mind you get the vegetable bed dug over like I asked you to by the time I get back.’
Two small figures, sitting side by side at the top of the slipway where they dangled handlines into the water, turned and gave her a thumbs-up.
‘Honestly, those boys will be the death of me,’ she grumbled. ‘Archie and I have our work cut out teaching them even the most basic of manners, I can tell you.’
‘What word is there of Johnny, Matthew and Jamie?’ Alec asked.
She beamed. ‘I’ve had letters from Johnny and Jamie just this past week. Nothing from Matthew but then he’s off who-knows-where on some training exercise with the second battalion, his brothers say. They’re all fit and well though, thank you, Alec. Give my best to your mother, won’t you, dear? And please thank her for her very generous donation to the canteen fund. It makes such a difference, being able to provide a bit of home cooking to those who are so far from their homes.’
‘I know how much the lads appreciate it,’ Alec agreed. ‘Ma was only too pleased to be able to offer a little support.’
‘Well, mustn’t dilly-dally. There are socks to knit.’ Moira stowed the bag of knitting in the basket of a bicycle that leaned against the fence and then, settling her hat firmly on to her grey curls, she mounted it somewhat unsteadily and wobbled off along the road.
Alec carried a wicker hamper to the jetty and set it down next to Stuart and Davy while he went to bring the boat round.
‘Hello, boys,’ Flora greeted them. ‘Have you caught anything?’
Stuart shook his head. ‘Not a nibble.’
Davy chipped in, ‘We’re trying to catch a fish for Mrs C so she’ll not be so cross. It’s not easy having two extra mouths to feed.’
‘Wheesht, Davy,’ his brother admonished him. ‘She’ll be even crosser if she catches you saying that.’
‘But it’s what she says all the time,’ protested Davy, squirming out of reach as his brother tried to give him a cuff around the ear.
‘She’s not really cross with you, you know. She’s just anxious about having her own boys away at war.’ Flora smiled at them reassuringly. ‘She’s taking good care of you, isn’t she?’
‘Yeah, she is, I s’pose,’ said Stuart, pulling in his line to untangle a skein of weed from his hook. ‘She makes really good mince and tatties. And when she has the time, sometimes she bakes us scones.’