Davy nods his approval. ‘There you go. What did I tell you? Music in your soul.’
The other band members are picking up their instruments again and he gets to his feet. ‘Looks like we’re on again.’
I watch him play. Despite my teasing, he’s really good. Various members of the audience step up at different points in the evening to play, backed by the band. There’s a guy with a penny whistle and a woman with a Celtic flute, a harmonica player and a second fiddler, and the girl who’s been serving drinks behind the bar steps up to sing a set, too. Davy alternates between his guitar and the mandolin and I’m impressed at how effortless his playing is, the notes flowing from beneath his fingers. The evening passes quickly and all too soon the bell rings for last orders. We sing ourselves hoarse with a last rendition of ‘The Bonny Lass o’ Fyvie-O’ and then it’s time to head home, with calls of ‘See you next time . . .’
‘I’ll chum you along the road,’ offers Davy.
‘It’s okay, I’ll be fine,’ I say.
‘I know you’ll be fine, but I could do with a walk to blow the cobwebs away. I’ll catch a lift back with Bridie, see her safely home too.’
‘There you go again, always looking after people,’ I say, teasing him again.
‘Ach well, you know me.’ He shrugs.
We walk the shore road in silence for a stretch, then I say, ‘That was a great evening. Thanks for inviting me along. Your band’s really good, you know.’
‘I’m glad you enjoyed yourself. And now you won’t be needing an invitation the next time, knowing you’re among friends.’
At Keeper’s Cottage the lights are burning in the windows of the kitchen and the sitting room, but when I peep in I see Bridie fast asleep in an armchair, snoring gently. Tactfully, I make a bit of a noise coming in so she has time to wake up and straighten her cardigan.
‘How was your evening?’ I ask.
‘Och, just grand,’ she says. ‘We had a few games and stories and then she went down without a murmur. How was the music?’
‘It was great! But don’t tell him.’ I nod towards Davy. ‘He’ll only get too big for his boots.’
Davy grins. ‘No risk of that around here with the two of you to keep me in my place. Thought I’d see Lexie back and then chum you home to yours, too, Bridie. You know what they say about two birds . . .’
She giggles, pleased to be referred to as a ‘bird’。 ‘Always a gentleman, Davy Laverock. Night, Lexie, glad you had a good time. Call me whenever you need a babysitter again.’
When they’ve gone, I creep upstairs and peep into the cot where Daisy lies tucked up in the shell-pattern shawl, her arms above her head in a gesture of utter relaxation. I put a finger into one soft palm and she smiles faintly, her own fingers curling around it for a moment. Then I place a feather-light kiss on her forehead and tiptoe to my own room, the swirl of the music still playing in my head as I drift off to sleep.
Flora, 1941
The rumblings of war continued but they remained beyond the horizon, a far-off storm out across the ocean. Flora gave thanks daily for the hills cradling the loch that gave shelter to those she loved. In the east, Norway fell to German occupation and Hitler was said to be gathering troops along Russia’s borders; to the south, beyond the towering walls of the Scottish mountains, English and Scottish cities were being shaken by the Luftwaffe’s bombs as the Blitz rained terror from the skies, while their inhabitants remained defiant in the face of the onslaught.
The secluded waters of Loch Ewe still provided a safe haven for the ships of the British fleet, kept secret from the enemy, as well as for merchant ships that gathered there before they made the hazardous journey across the Atlantic to fetch supplies back to Britain from America. But then, one short night in June, that sense of security was shattered.
It was the urgent sound of a whistle from the anti-aircraft battery below the Ardtuath Estate that wrenched Flora from her sleep. As she surfaced from the depths of her dreams, she became aware of the insistent thrum of an aircraft engine drawing ever closer. She hurried to the window and drew back a corner of the blackout. A waning crescent moon cast its light across the water, adding its dim glow to the beam of a searchlight that swept the blackness of the sky. Suddenly, curtains of tracer fire flooded the darkness. Against their glare, she could see the vast barrel of the ack-ack gun turning skywards as its crew set their bearings. With a flash and a boom that shook the floorboards beneath her bare feet, anti-aircraft rounds illuminated the scene. Four planes swooped and then banked sharply, evading the shells that exploded around them. The gunners reset their bearings, following the course of the Junkers as they flew above the ships that lay at anchor in the bay below. They fired again, and the air reverberated with the thud and boom of more shells as the guns at Tournaig sprang into action too.