The remaining vessels had limped into Murmansk after three fraught weeks at sea. One of the escorts, which had been hit by one of its own torpedoes when its gyroscope froze in the icy conditions, would be laid up for repairs in the Russian port for a while, along with several more of the merchant ships that had sustained damage in the attacks.
As Flora’s voice joined the others in the kirk to sing the Easter Sunday hymns, she knew that the convoy’s cargo must have been offloaded by now and so Alec’s ship would be heading back into those treacherous waters for the return run. She bowed her head over her clasped hands as the community prayed for the safe return of ships and men, her lashes darkened by tears when she opened her eyes again at last.
At the kirk gate, the congregation split into smaller groups and stood in the sunshine discussing the news with grave expressions, shaking their heads as they looked out across the impossibly blue waters of the loch to the darker horizon beyond. The Macleods and the Macdonalds joined the Gordons. Mairi and Bridie hugged Flora, sharing in her anguish. She imagined they were quietly relieved that the Gustavsen brothers had been too late to volunteer for this latest convoy, but at the same time they knew that Roy and Hal were still trying to gain passage on the next one to cross the Atlantic. The loss of any sailor’s life affected them all, and they felt for the families and sweethearts on both sides of the ocean who would, by now, have received one of those dreaded, heartbreaking telegrams.
Flora glimpsed the Mackenzie-Grants among the throng and automatically her fingers went to the brooch that she wore pinned to her Sunday best coat, tracing the outline of the anchor and crown. Sir Charles, who was engaged in conversation with the minister, appeared not to notice them, but when Lady Helen caught sight of the Gordons she made her way over to shake hands with Iain and Ruaridh and to give Flora a quick hug.
‘I’m very glad to see you wearing that,’ she murmured, as she clasped Flora close for the briefest moment before hurrying back to her husband’s side.
At the roadside, they caught up with the Carmichaels. This was their first Easter Day since losing Matthew, and both Johnny and Jamie were fighting in North Africa, so Flora knew it must be taking a considerable toll on them. Outwardly, though, they were maintaining a stiff upper lip and both remained as committed as ever to the community’s war efforts.
‘What news of Alec, dear?’ Moira Carmichael was wearing her usual Sunday best, although Flora noticed that the coat, whose buttons once strained across her ample bosom, now hung a good deal looser from her determinedly squared shoulders.
Flora shook her head. ‘Nothing yet. They’ll be on their way back now, I suppose, so it’ll be radio silence for a while longer.’
‘Don’t you worry, he’ll come back safe and sound.’ The words were supposed to reassure, but Flora heard the tremor of fear and sadness that lay beneath them as Mrs Carmichael thought of her own sons. ‘Now then, where have those boys got to?’ She cast around for the pair of brothers who had slipped away from her side to join some of their school friends.
‘I think that’s them down there on the shore, isn’t it?’ Flora pointed to where a gaggle of youngsters were scrambling over the rocks.
‘Stuart and David Laverock, come back here this instant!’ Mrs Carmichael’s voice boomed across the road, stopping the boys in their tracks. ‘Honestly, they really are the limit. The seawater will ruin their good shoes.’ As they watched, Stuart slid down a boulder on his behind as he hurried to usher Davy back. She tutted. ‘And that’ll be another perfectly good pair of breeks with the seat torn out of it, I shouldn’t wonder.’
With that parting lament, she strode off to shepherd her charges home for their Sunday dinner and Flora, Iain and Ruaridh walked back to Keeper’s Cottage, where a shepherd’s pie was keeping warm in the oven ready for their return.
Alec seemed changed when the Isla finally returned to port. He was distant, his thoughts elsewhere even on the evenings that Flora and he spent together, safe in the warmth of the kitchen at Keeper’s Cottage. There was no repeat of their evening at Ardtuath House. Although Alec never spoke about it, Flora sensed that Sir Charles must have refused point-blank to countenance her presence there unless it was behind the green baize door, that stark reminder of a divide that – to his lordship’s mind at least – could never be crossed.
At first Alec was reluctant, too, to speak of what had happened on the convoy, but eventually Flora coaxed some of the facts from him, thinking it might make his pain a little more bearable if it were shared. He told her of the ships they’d lost sight of and never seen again, and of the men horribly burned when explosions ignited the cargo of gasoline in the hold on board the Induna. Those who weren’t killed outright faced an impossible choice, trapped between fire and ice: stay and be burned, or jump into the icy waters where death was assured, as they’d be pulled down by the weight of their heavy woollen duffel coats and their boots, which would instantly fill with water. A lucky few managed to survive in a lifeboat, which Russian spotter planes found days later. The survivors were brought to Murmansk and treated in the military hospital there, but many were too far gone and didn’t make it. Others had terrible frostbite from the days and nights spent exposed to the elements in the flimsy life craft, and several had lost hands and feet.