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 more 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.