At last he looks down at the mug of tea clasped in his leathery, work-tanned fingers as if surprised to see it there. He takes a sip.
‘It must have been terrible for you and Stuart, witnessing that,’ I say gently.
‘It was awful being in the house, hearing the knock at the door, peering out of our bedroom window and seeing Mr McTaggart there. Knowing what he’d brought them.’ He nods. ‘But it was even worse afterwards. The Carmichaels were kind, but we always had the feeling that we shouldn’t have been there. That we were taking up the space where their own sons should have been. We hated being the reminders of what they’d lost, the wrong boys living beneath their roof, sleeping in the beds of their dead sons. Their boys’ things were everywhere: the shelves were full of their books about World War One flying aces and Boy’s Own annuals; their shinty sticks were in the porch at the front door; Matthew’s stamp collection . . . Jamie’s collection of sea glass . . . Johnny’s sketches of shore birds. Their photos were in frames on the mantelpiece, the Carmichaels’ pride and joy, and I could hardly bear to look at them. They seemed so full of vitality in those pictures – I couldn’t believe they had died.’
As if sensing his sadness, Daisy toddles across to him, grabbing his knee to steady herself, and hands him Blue Bunny. He smiles at her then lifts her on to his lap, carefully pushing the mug of hot tea out of her reach. But I can see he’s distracted, that he’s still back in that too-empty house of his own childhood.
‘We’d creep about, trying not to disturb Mrs C on her bad days. There were lots of them, days when she couldn’t get herself out of her bed. And who could blame her? All three of her boys gone like that. It was the same for so many other families across the Highlands. And in these small crofting communities, the loss of their young men was a devastating blow.’
I think of my mum and the Carmichaels and all those other people who lost so much in the war. They were a generation who had to get used to goodbyes. I realise how fortunate I was to be born just as the war ended, into a generation that knew only the optimism of a peace-filled future.
I watch Davy as he smiles at Daisy, taking her tiny paw in his much larger one to play ‘round and round the garden’。 His eyes are as dark as a storm-blown sea, but as warm as the sun-warmed stones on a summer’s evening, too. His face is etched with the lines of his life’s story, weathered by the wind and the losses he’s had to bear. Yet at the same time, he seems at peace with himself and with the world that has taken so much from him. I think of him playing with the band in the bar, how the music seems to flow from within him until it’s hard to say where his arms end and the guitar begins because they are all part of the same song. Maybe his music has played a part in healing those old wounds. They’ve left their scars, that’s for sure. But maybe playing the songs and singing the words that so many have sung before him have helped to lead him to a place where he’s been able to find a way to live with the loss. Perhaps that’s the only way to deal with grief. It’s such a heavy load to bear alone – but knowing that there are always others to share it is a help.
My own grief has been a heavy load to bear. So heavy that I’ve done my very best to push it aside and ignore it, I realise.
Daisy chuckles and reaches a hand up to stroke Davy’s face, urging him to play the game. ‘’Gain!’
And as he obliges, something seems to shift inside me, slightly thawing the cold lump of grief that’s sat there for so long.
He glances up at me and catches sight of something in my expression – the broadness of my smile, perhaps, or the look of tenderness in my eyes – that makes him raise his eyes to mine, questioning. I hold his gaze, giving my answer.
He swallows, as if picking up the courage to say something, and I wait, allowing him time.
‘D’you think Bridie and Mairi might be persuaded to babysit and we could go out for a meal one evening?’ he asks. ‘Just the two of us, maybe?’
I nod. ‘I’d like that. Very much.’
‘It’s a date, then.’ Davy smiles at me. ‘Not a date-date, of course,’ he adds.
I can’t help but blush.
‘Although,’ he says, his eyes not leaving my face, ‘I wonder if a date-date might in fact be a possibility at some point? What do you reckon, Lexie?’
‘What?’ I say, in mock astonishment. ‘Are you actually asking me on a real date-date, Davy Laverock?’