The Skylark's Secret, стр. 66

She looks so pretty, Flora thought, because she’s so happy. We all are, today. But then she glanced down at Alec’s face. He lay sprawled beside her on the tartan rug, resting on his elbows as he watched the sunlight play on the water of the bay. Even at rest, there was a darkness in him, running like a deep current beneath the surface of his smile as he caught her watching him.

The destroyer he’d been on had just returned from patrolling the northern passage between the Orkneys and Shetland.

‘What was it like up there?’ Roy asked him.

Alec was silent for a few moments, reluctant to allow the reality of war to cast a shadow across their day. But then he described the otherworldly landscapes he’d seen: the scattered, low-lying Orkney Islands with their pale beaches and green fields; the rugged cliffs of the Shetlands that rose from the waves like a fortress, stark and forbidding; and of Iceland with its strange black sand beaches and ice-capped volcanoes. He spoke quietly of the last Arctic convoy that had sailed from Reykjavik in early summer. ‘It was huge, nearly forty ships, and the run was longer, too – all the way round to Archangel this time. We knew it was a risk, but we hoped the more northerly passage would make a difference.’ He fell silent for a moment, looking unseeingly at the waves washing gently on to the sand. ‘It was a disaster. The convoy was spotted and the Germans came at us in force. We were up for the fight, but then the command came through from the Admiralty in London, telling the naval escort to turn back. I still can’t fathom their reasoning. Every man out there was convinced it was the wrong decision. Abandoning those merchantmen was one of the worst moments of my life. We knew once we’d gone the U-Boats and the Luftwaffe would close in for the kill.’

His turned his head away from the others, but not before Flora noticed how his face contorted in pain, the memories too hard to bear. She reached for his hand and interwove her fingers with his, drawing him away from the darkness of his thoughts and back into the mellow autumn sunlight that bathed him with its healing glow.

With an effort, he pulled himself together, giving her hand a grateful squeeze. He shook his head, as though trying to rid it of images that had imprinted themselves in his mind’s eye. ‘We lost twenty-seven ships and hundreds of men to German planes and U-boats. In the end, only eleven made it to Archangel. That was when they decided to suspend the runs for the rest of the summer. So, instead, we’ve spent the last few months patrolling the westerly reaches of the Arctic Sea, trying to stop German vessels slipping through from the east to attack the Atlantic convoys. We know they have the Tirpitz hidden in one of the Norwegian fjords – she’s one of their biggest battleships – and we didn’t want to risk her getting through.’

‘Appreciate that, buddy,’ said Hal. ‘When we were out there on the crossing it was good to know you navy guys had got our backs.’

The others tactfully changed the subject, sensing Alec’s distress. But it seemed to Flora that the shadows around them had deepened and that if you listened carefully, the hush of the waves on the sand held mournful echoes of the cries of lost souls. She drew a little closer to Alec, trying to close the gulf that seemed to threaten to take him away from her again, and they sat in silence, letting the conversation ebb and flow around them.

That evening, at the dance, Flora held Alec tight as the accordion played the last waltz. He’d applauded as enthusiastically as the rest of the audience when she’d sung ‘The Eriskay Love Lilt’. But still she could sense the toll that the losses were taking on him. She could only imagine the sights he’d witnessed during the time he’d spent with the convoys – ships set ablaze, the burned and drowned bodies they’d managed to pull from the water, the burials at sea as yet more young men were consigned to the cold, deep grave that would remain unmarked and unvisited. Even worse would have been those they’d had to leave behind in the water, sailing past the outstretched arms and the desperate, pleading cries, unable to help. And she pictured the latest wave of telegrams that would arrive at homes across Britain and America, the unwelcome knock at the door heralding the delivery of a slip of paper that was all those families had left of their fathers and their sons.

She wished with all her heart that the music would never end, that they could dance there, holding each other close, forever. Because then there would be no doubts and fears, no need for goodbyes. And she wouldn’t have to watch as his ship sailed away on the morning tide, tearing them apart once again as he faced the brutal cold and the relentless dread of the next Arctic run.

The rain was falling steadily and the larches wept golden tears on the day that Hamish McTaggart slowly cycled the short distance from the post office to the house at the end of the jetty once again. And this time the telegram he carried, addressed to Mr and Mrs Archibald Carmichael, weighed down his leather satchel more heavily than any other he’d had to deliver in the last year. He’d been there when Miss Cameron had carefully transcribed the words and handed it to him with a shake of her head.

DEEPLY REGRET TO INFORM YOU OF THE DEATHS OF YOUR SONS

JOHN ARCHIBALD CARMICHAEL AND JAMES ROSS CARMICHAEL

WHILE ON WAR SERVICE AT EL ALAMEIN. LETTER FOLLOWS.