The Skylark's Secret, стр. 88
Flora and Iain looked at one another in amazement. ‘But what about you, Lady Helen? Where will you go?’ asked Iain.
‘I’ve decided to move back to London. There are too many memories here – good ones of Alec, of course, but they make me sad, those reminders that he’s no longer here. And I have some memories that are not so good, too.’ She dropped her eyes to her lap for a moment but not before Flora had glimpsed the look of pain in them. Then she lifted her head again, arranging her features in a determined smile. ‘So it will be for the best if I go back to London. Thankfully the house there escaped the Blitz undamaged, and I shall enjoy being nearer to my friends and family in the south, too. It’s a lot safer now that the Allies have taken back control of so much of Europe. There’s work to be done there that I can get involved with, helping with the war effort. Don’t worry, though, we will stay in touch. I’ll pop back to visit every now and then. I can even stay in Ardtuath House if I can persuade the Urquharts that I’ll be perfectly all right on my own. And you will come and see me in London sometimes, Flora, won’t you? I want to get to know my grandchild.’
She stood, pulling on her coat and picking up her headscarf. At the door she took her leave, hugging Flora tight.
‘It means so much to me to know that Alec lives on through his child,’ she whispered.
Then she started to tie the scarf over her head but changed her mind and stuffed it into the pocket of her coat instead.
And Flora watched her walk away up the path through the pines, the wind from the loch blowing free the silvered strands of her hair.
Lexie, 1979
Davy’s come for his supper. He has Daisy in fits of giggles, chasing her round the sitting room on all fours, pretending to be a bear. She allows herself to be caught and then wraps her arms around the bear’s neck before kissing him firmly on the nose.
‘Weed a storwy,’ she demands, and the bear obliges, settling her on his knee in the big armchair beside the fire.
Her eyelids begin to droop after just a few pages of Where the Wild Things Are and she snuggles into the crook of his arm, resting her hand on the sleeve of his jumper. I lean against the door jamb and watch the pair of them, my heart suddenly so full of love that I think it just might burst.
It’s another new sensation for me, all this love. Something I’ve not allowed myself to feel before. It’s as if I’ve been sleepwalking through life and, now that the story that Bridie and Mairi have told me has fully sunk in, I have suddenly woken up to what has been right there, all around me, all along.
This community – the village it takes to raise a child – took me into its heart long before I was born, and helped protect me by allowing my grandfather to remain so that he could support my mother and me. My grandmother decreed it, stepping up to protect her unborn grandchild, and the others readily agreed. And they have kept the secret, all these years, weaving around me their web of love.
I’m so ashamed to admit that I was foolish enough to misread it. I interpreted the strands of that web as unwanted ties, pinning me down, binding me to a place that I left as soon as I could, cutting the lines and running as far and as fast as I could go with scarcely a backward glance. But now I see it in a new light. Of course everyone in the community felt they had an interest in me. I owe each and every one of them a debt of gratitude. After all, every day that they kept my grandfather’s secret they were protecting Flora as she faced the challenges of raising a baby alone. And perhaps that baby represented far more to them. Perhaps she represented hope and life to those like Moira Carmichael who had lost so much. Flora Gordon’s baby would have been a flicker of light in the dark months following the loss of Alec and of Ruaridh, and of so many other young men from the small crofting community.
Everything has changed. And nothing has changed. The truth is a powerful force.
As Davy turns the final page of the book, Daisy’s eyelids close, her rose-gold lashes fluttering against her cheeks. I set down my glass and step forward to lift her off his lap, the slack warmth of her heavy in my arms. I carry her through and settle her gently in her cot, drawing up the blanket her granny knitted for her and tucking it in, wrapping her in love. She stirs a little, starfish hands spreading as her fingers relax against the strands of soft wool, the drift of finely stitched seashells that will keep her safe until morning comes.
When I return, Davy is still sitting in the armchair, gazing into the orange glow of the fire. He’s deep in thought.
I settle myself across from him on the sofa, lost in thoughts of my own.
He gets up and crosses to sit next to me, and I rest my head against his shoulder. But then he draws back a little and I turn so that I can see his eyes.