Her words were more assured than she felt. Lashing out like that, in his helpless rage, was so unlike him and it had sown a seed of doubt in her.
She could sense the distance opening up between them again as he became more unreachable, drawing away from her. The physical distance that would come between them as he went off to do his duty for his country yet again was something she knew she could endure, but he was pulling away from her emotionally, too. And that was a distance that frightened her far more. It was a distance she wasn’t sure could be bridged.
She felt a twinge of guilt. Was it right to be encouraging him to go, to face again the terror and the tedium of the convoys? As a boy, his going away to school had undoubtedly had an emotional cost. Leaving to face the death and desolation of the Arctic Sea would take even more of a toll. But what was to be gained from begging him not to go? It would simply make things harder for him. She knew he couldn’t, and wouldn’t, desert his duties.
Once again, though, as they had done all those years ago, her words seemed to soothe and calm him. Slowly he raised his eyes to hers, the pain in them dissolving as she steadily held his gaze.
He took a deep breath and the shaking of his body slowly quietened as he regained control. She nodded, wordlessly reassuring him.
‘Sorry,’ he whispered. ‘It’s just unbearable sometimes.’
She raised his bloodied knuckles to her lips and kissed them gently.
From the loch, the sound of a ship’s whistle sounded, borne to them on the wind.
He squared his shoulders, pulling himself up to his full height, and she could see him steeling himself to go.
‘Come and say goodbye to Ruaridh and Dad first? We can clean up your poor hand as well.’
He nodded, shouldering his duffel bag, and she took his hand in hers, walking with him through the pines to Keeper’s Cottage, hoping that he’d gain strength from a few last moments with them all.
After he’d taken his leave of Iain and Ruaridh, he held Flora in his arms at the door and they stayed like that, in silence because there were no words to be said, as the final moments ticked away with the beating of their hearts. She wore the brooch he’d given her, pinned to her gansey. And she thought it might just be the only thing that was holding her heart together, stopping it from splintering into a thousand pieces as she watched him walk away.
Lexie, 1978
I hesitate before pushing open the door of the hall. It’s the first time Daisy and I have come back to the playgroup since her accident and I wonder how she’ll cope with the noise and the excitement. We’ve been home for about ten days now, but everyone’s been giving us time and space to recover. I’ve not seen anyone, apart from Bridie and Mairi who’ve been to deliver bread and milk and a large pot of home-made stew.
If I’m honest, I’m also feeling a twinge of defensiveness, wondering how the other mums will judge me. I can just picture them tutting, saying they’d never have let their own children run loose on the jetty like that.
But I needn’t have worried on either count. Daisy wriggles in my arms, keen to be let down to join the other kids, and wee Jack immediately comes over to give her a shy hug and a tambourine, both of which she accepts with a grin.
Elspeth hurries across to envelop me in a hug of her own before the other mothers surround us, saying how much they’ve missed us and how glad they are to have us back. If anything, they seem more supportive than ever. Perhaps I only imagined that they’d be judging me; perhaps it was only ever my judgement of myself that I feared. Maybe Davy was right and I do need to cut myself a little slack, not be so hard on myself.
‘It wasn’t the same without you, Lexie,’ says Elspeth. ‘I did my best to fill in, but I don’t remember the songs the way you do.’
‘What are we going to be singing today?’ asks someone else. I reach into my bag and pull out Mum’s old songbook.
‘I thought perhaps “The Bonnie Lass o’ Fyvie-O” would be a good one.’ I leaf through to find the page I’ve marked and then settle the music on to the piano. The children gather round expectantly and their mothers hand out the instruments we’ve cobbled together between us, which range from the makeshift （plastic jars filled with macaroni that can be shaken to make a satisfying rattle, and saucepans that can be bashed with wooden spoons）， to the more conventional （several xylophones and a triangle）。 Elspeth settles Daisy on her lap and I smile my gratitude as I begin to pick out the notes. It feels good to be back with the group, after all, and there’s not a hint of condemnation from the others. Instead, I feel their support surrounding me, welcoming us. Our voices meld together, mingling to fill the room with the music handed down to us by our parents and their parents before them, as we begin to sing the songs that bind us to our shared past and to our children’s future.