The Skylark's Secret, стр. 30

We both laugh.

‘I’ll take that as a yes, then.’ Davy grins.

‘Okay,’ I say. ‘What should I bring?’

‘Just make sure you’re both warmly dressed. It’s always a wee bit chillier once we get out on the water. Pack some extra layers too. Some juice for Daisy, maybe? I’ve got life jackets and everything else we’ll be needing. We can leave mid-morning and have a bit of lunch on the boat if you’re happy to stay out a wee bit longer. But we can play it by ear, let you get your sea legs and see how the two of you like it.’

‘Thanks, Davy, that sounds great. It’s a date.’ I say the words without thinking, then catch myself and blush furiously. ‘I mean, it’s not a date-date, obviously. I just mean we’d love to . . . we’d really enjoy . . .’ I tail off in confusion.

His grey-blue eyes crinkle in amusement, but he keeps a straight face, kindly pretending not to notice the fool I’m making of myself. ‘I’ll come and pick you up at the cottage, then, shall I? About ten-thirty?’

And I smile and nod again, thankful for the breeze from the loch that cools my blazing cheeks. As I push Daisy homewards, I find that the balloon-on-the-end-of-a-string feeling is still with me and realise that under my breath, I’m humming to myself again.

True to his word, Davy pulls up in front of Keeper’s Cottage at ten-thirty sharp. He strides up the path, whistling, and I hurry to open the door. I pull on my wellies and jacket, scooping up Daisy who is already bundled into so many warm layers that she resembles an overstuffed teddy bear, her arms sticking out almost at right angles from the sides of her well-padded body. Davy stows the bags containing extra clothes, hats and gloves, nappies, a changing mat, a double-handled cup with a spout, two bottles of milk, a carton of apple juice, a bunch of bananas and a packet of custard creams into the back of the Land Rover.

‘I was only planning on going as far as Firemore Bay,’ he says cheerfully. ‘Looks like you’re ready for an Atlantic crossing!’

The loch is calm beneath a wide blue sky, its shallows and depths casting shot-silk stripes of light and shade across its surface. Along the shore, oystercatchers step purposefully across the sand, intent on picking out cockles or searching for mussels among the rocks to feed their young. Davy points out a pair of red-throated divers, who lift their long beaks skywards as we pass, showing off the silvered patches on their snakelike necks that will turn to blazes of scarlet in the summer.

The Bonnie Stuart is already tied up alongside the jetty and Davy jumps on board first, reaching back to take Daisy from me and then offering me a steadying hand as I step on to the deck. ‘Here you go,’ he says, handing me a pair of life jackets, one small, one large. ‘You can sit over there, if you like, and I’ll get us underway.’

I perch on the wooden bench that runs along one side of the boat and fasten the clips on Daisy’s life jacket. She waves her starfish hands happily at the gulls that swoop and circle in the blue above us in anticipation of a feeding opportunity as Davy starts the engine.

‘I’ve a few lines of creels to check and then we’ll head for the western shore,’ Davy calls over his shoulder from the wheelhouse. I nod and give him the thumbs-up, settling Daisy in my lap and holding her safe in the circle of my arms as we pull away from the jetty. Her eyes grow big and round as she watches a broad stretch of water begin to unfurl between us and the land. I plant a reassuring kiss on her forehead and she turns to give me her biggest smile, happy to be exploring this new element. The Bonnie Stuart cuts an easy path through the water, leaving a ribbon of lace foaming in our wake.

First we head towards the southern end of the loch, where a high pier juts from the shore beneath the pine-clad hills. It’s one of the few wartime installations that’s still in use, Davy explains, as a refuelling point for naval vessels. He points out some of the other remnants of the war – the grey stumps of concrete lookout posts, a signalling station and the anti-aircraft positions that once ringed Loch Ewe, protecting the ships that gathered here as the convoys mustered. And he shows me the black tideline that rings the rocks of the loch shore, where a slick of oil that floated on the water’s surface from all those ships once painted an indelible Plimsoll line, separating the tufts of heather and lichen above from the bare grey rocks below. It’s hard to picture how it must have looked when the loch was jam-packed with ships. Nowadays the water is crystal clear again, and its mirror-like surface reflects the hills around us.

‘It’s fine and calm today,’ he remarks. ‘But we’ll still stick to the shelter of the loch. Even on a day like this, there’ll be more of a swell out there on the open water. The Blue Men of the Minch never rest for long.’

He notices my quizzical look. ‘Och, and you call yourself a local? Have you never heard that particular piece of folklore, Lexie Gordon? The Blue Men are storm kelpies, sea spirits who inhabit the stretch of water out there that separates us from the outer isles. They’re always up to no good, looking out for sailors to drown and ships to sink. They’re said to have the power to summon up storms. The waters of the Minch are some of the most treacherous in the world: I’ve seen currents in the sea out by the Shiant Isles that flow like raging rivers when the tide is running. The Blue Men are supposed