The Skylark's Secret Page 8

Bridie issues her order for a couple of nice fresh mackerel for each of us and Davy nods and waves as he casts off.

  ‘There now,’ Bridie says, evidently pleased with her morning’s work. ‘Well, I’ll be letting you get on to the shop. And I’ll see the two of you on Thursday, like we said.’

  ‘Thanks, Bridie, I’m looking forward to it.’

  As I turn to open the door of the shop, I glance back along the road, and can’t help noticing that instead of continuing towards her house, Bridie Macdonald has turned in at a neighbour’s gate and is hurrying with purposeful steps up the path to knock at the yellow-painted front door.

  I arrive promptly at three o’clock on the Thursday, as arranged, with Daisy in her pushchair. But as I turn in at Bridie’s gate, I realise that I’ve been outmanoeuvred. Sitting at the front door is another pushchair. I should have known: we limpets don’t give up our secrets easily. I knock, and Bridie flings the door open.

  ‘Come in, come in! And look, Elspeth and wee Jack are here too. I thought it would be nice for Daisy to have a pal of her own age to play with. And, of course, you and Elspeth go way back. I remember seeing the two of you getting off the school bus and standing chatting for ages at the stop, rain or shine, before you went your separate ways home to your mammies. Such great friends, you always were.’

  Looking at the politely bland expression on Elspeth’s face, I wonder whether she’s been press-ganged into this jolly afternoon play date or whether she came willingly. Because we were good friends, once. We sat next to each other in the little primary school in the village, the only two girls in our year group. We held our own against the bigger kids when the going got boisterous and we moved on to the big school together, sharing the morning and evening bus journeys as well as our packed lunches and the answers to our homework. In the school show, she was always there in the chorus behind me when I sang my solos and it was her encouragement, in the form of a dare, that had made me try out for one of the main parts in the first place.

  At seventeen, our lives took us on to separate paths, though. Mine was the road to London and a scholarship place at a performing arts school; hers was the lochside road that was already so familiar to us both. She got a job behind the bar at the hotel and did a correspondence course in bookkeeping in her spare time, working her way up to a better-paid administrative position behind the reception desk. We lost touch soon after that, although I’d heard from Mum about her engagement and marriage a few years ago to Andy McKinnes, who’d been in the year above us at school, and the subsequent arrival of little Jack.

  Seeing Elspeth now, kneeling on the yellow-and-brown swirls of Bridie’s sitting room carpet as she shows her son the pictures in a book of nursery rhymes, I feel guilty in all sorts of ways. I feel guilty that I left and she stayed. I feel guilty that I haven’t been a better friend – I never once invited her down to stay with me in London. I feel guilty that I was the one who stopped writing, responding to her lengthy letters with briefer and briefer notes, and then just occasional postcards depicting Big Ben and Carnaby Street, before our correspondence dwindled and died altogether in the absence of any common ground. Remembering our encounter in the shop a few weeks ago, I feel guilty, too, that her calm, competent mothering skills put mine to shame. And, as the tiny solitaire diamond in her engagement ring catches the light when she turns a page of the picture book, I feel guilty that she’s done the whole engagement–marriage–baby thing in the socially accepted manner, whereas I’ve succeeded in making a complete mess of it.

  She smiles up at me, tucking her hair behind her ear in a mannerism that I remember vividly from our teenage years, her coolness thawing just a tad at the sight of Daisy balanced on my hip.

  ‘Hello, Lexie. And hello, Daisy sweetheart – would you like to come and look at this book with Jack?’

  Daisy surveys the pair of them, round-eyed and serious, before arriving at the decision that this looks like the opportunity for some fun and reaching her arms towards the floor. I kneel on the carpet, too, and Elspeth turns the book so that Daisy can see the pictures.

  ‘Isn’t that grand! I knew they’d get on like a house on fire,’ Bridie clucks from the doorway. ‘Now then, the two of them can get acquainted while I make the tea.’ She bustles off into the kitchen, satisfied that her social get-together has begun so well.

  Naturally, with Elspeth here I won’t be able to quiz Bridie about my parents’ history as I’d hoped to do. In fact, she’s cleverly managed to turn the tables on me. With the help of an ally who knows me so well from years before, this is the perfect opportunity for her to question me about my recent past.

  Grudgingly, I have to hand it to her. Bridie Macdonald is no fool. But the way to prise a limpet off a rock is to catch it unawares, so perhaps one of these days I’ll get the truth out of her, when her guard is down. I just need to be patient and wait for the right moment.

  Forcing myself to smile, I gather Daisy on to my lap and softly join in a round of ‘Pop Goes the Weasel’, conscious of the roughness of my singing. If Elspeth is surprised that this is all that’s left of the voice that once filled West End theatres, she is polite enough not to show it. Bridie, as she comes back with a tray of teacups and a jug of orange squash, is less tactful.

  ‘It’s lovely to hear the room filled with the weans’ giggles,’ she says, pouring juice into the baby beakers that we’ve brought with us. ‘And your singing again, too, Lexie. I remember when you sang the solo at the Christmas carol concert when you were just seven. Your mammy was so nervous for you that first time, I thought she’d burst. And by the time you’d finished there wisnae a dry eye in the hall. You were note perfect!’

  I help Daisy lift the cup and drink, careful not to spill orange squash on the swirly carpet. ‘I’m afraid nowadays my singing brings tears to people’s eyes for the opposite reason,’ I say, trying to deflect the anguish I feel with humour.

  ‘What happened?’ asks Elspeth, matter-of-fact.

  ‘I overstrained my voice. Developed lesions on my vocal cords. I had an operation, but it didn’t work, left too much scar tissue. So that’s it, my singing career over.’

  ‘Will they recover in time?’

  I shake my head silently, not trusting words.

  ‘That’s a shame,’ Elspeth says, the tone of her words softening a little. ‘A tough break.’

  I turn towards Bridie, who’s fussing with the teapot, grateful for the distraction, which gives me a moment to blink the tears from my eyes. ‘Just milk, thanks, Bridie.’ Turning back to mop Daisy’s chin with a tissue, I say, ‘It’d all have changed in any case with this one on the way. There are plenty of singers queuing up to step on to the West End stage who aren’t either pregnant or tied down with a baby.’

  Bridie settles herself on the sofa, and I get the impression that she’s preparing to launch into a series of questions that would make the Spanish Inquisition look like a cosy fireside chat.

  Unexpectedly, though, Elspeth comes to the rescue, tactfully changing the subject and getting me off the hook. ‘You know, there’s a playgroup you could bring Daisy to if you’d like, just me and a couple of other young mums who get together at one another’s houses on a Friday morning. Tomorrow’s my turn to host, so you’d be welcome to come along.’

  I shoot her a grateful glance. ‘I’d love that. And I know Daisy would too.’

  Jack is busily posting puzzle pieces into the right-shaped holes in a plastic ball with the confidence of familiarity, while Daisy helpfully offers him pieces of Lego by way of her own contribution. He ignores her at first, intent on his work, but eventually gives her a shy smile and takes the proffered block, popping it through one of the holes. Daisy immediately offers him another one and he chuckles, realising that here is a good new game.

  ‘They’re getting on well, right enough,’ says Elspeth with a smile, and I feel the ice thawing between us a little more. Life may have taken us in different directions for a while, but perhaps those years apart can slide a
way and our babies bring us back together, rekindling the easy warmth of our own shared childhood.

  Later, once the orange squash has been finished and both children have happily slobbered sugar-iced Playbox biscuits down their fronts, we gather up toys, cups and books and prepare to head homewards.

  ‘Thanks for the lovely tea, Bridie,’ I say, hugging her and meaning it. It’s been a surprisingly enjoyable afternoon after all, in spite of the fact that I’m no further forward in learning anything more of my own family history.

  Elspeth and I strap our babies into their pushchairs and stroll a little way along the road together before we take our leave. The children are quiet, worn out with all that socialising, and we walk in silence for a few moments, each lost in our own thoughts. When we reach her gate, stopping to watch the sky as the setting sun begins to edge the clouds with red and gold, I turn to face her and say, ‘I’m sorry about the way we lost touch. When I bumped into you in the shop I wondered if you were angry with me because I left?’

  She gazes out across the darkening waters of the loch for a moment, considering. Then she says, ‘No, Lexie, I wasn’t angry that you left. I was angry because you came back.’ She looks me squarely in the eye. ‘You were my hope, you see. The proof that there was a world out there, and it might not have been one I could ever have been part of, but you still linked me to it, even after we lost touch. I kept all your letters and cards. I’ve still got some of the programmes from your shows and that signed ticket stub you sent me after you went up on stage during Godspell and met David Essex.’ She smiles a little sadly. ‘When I saw you in the shop that day, it was like I’d finally lost the link to that other world. Like a door had slammed shut once and for all. Sorry I wasn’t exactly welcoming. I know it must have been hard for you, coming back.’ She reaches across and gives me a brief hug, then she turns Jack’s pushchair and begins to wheel him up the path to the yellow front door.

  ‘Elspeth?’

  She glances back over her shoulder.

  ‘Thanks.’

  She nods, rummaging in her pocket for her key. ‘See you tomorrow.’

  As I walk back along the road to Keeper’s Cottage, I find I’m humming softly, almost under my breath. And once Daisy is fed and bathed, I hold her in my arms and sing her a lullaby, to the accompaniment of the shushing of the waves.

  ‘Hush ye, my bairnie . . .’

  While the notes may be cracked and broken in places, it still feels good to use my voice again, watching her rose-gold lashes flutter on her cheeks as I sing my baby daughter to sleep.

  Flora, 1940

  It was March before there was a day when they were both free that was calm enough for Flora and Alec to pack a picnic and explore some of their childhood haunts. She was just wrapping some corned beef sandwiches in newspaper when his car pulled up at the cottage gate. She watched him cover the path in three loping strides before he caught sight of her through the kitchen window. His face lit up and he gave a jaunty salute as she flung open the front door. She stood on tiptoes, her lips meeting his halfway as he stooped to kiss her.

  ‘I just need to put my boots on. I’ve got sandwiches and a bottle of water there on the table.’

  ‘We’ll add them to the hamper. I’ve managed to wangle the use of a tender for a few hours, so we can get out on to the loch. I thought we might take a turn across to Firemore Bay, if you like. The road round is closed off with a checkpoint but we can get to the beach by the water, so long as they don’t take us for invading enemy agents and shoot us!’ Catching sight of her anxious expression he gave her a hug. ‘I’m joking. Don’t worry, I’ve squared it with the officer in charge and got permission to take the boat over.’

  As they took the supplies from the car to carry them to the jetty, Moira Carmichael came out of her house. ‘Good morning, Alec, Flora. Isn’t it a lovely day? And where are you two off to?’

  ‘We’re just going out for a turn about the island. And yourself, Mrs Carmichael?’

  She raised her bag – from which a pair of knitting needles protruded – with a flourish. ‘I’ve some new recruits to the Rural over at Poolewe who need to be shown what to do.’ She fluttered her eyelashes at Alec, surprisingly flirtatious. ‘No rest for the wicked, as they say!’ Craning her neck to look down towards the jetty wall she then shouted, with more of her usual force, ‘Stuart! David! I’m away now. There’s some bread and dripping for your lunch. I’ll be back by three. Mind you get the vegetable bed dug over like I asked you to by the time I get back.’

  Two small figures, sitting side by side at the top of the slipway where they dangled handlines into the water, turned and gave her a thumbs-up.

  ‘Honestly, those boys will be the death of me,’ she grumbled. ‘Archie and I have our work cut out teaching them even the most basic of manners, I can tell you.’

  ‘What word is there of Johnny, Matthew and Jamie?’ Alec asked.

  She beamed. ‘I’ve had letters from Johnny and Jamie just this past week. Nothing from Matthew but then he’s off who-knows-where on some training exercise with the second battalion, his brothers say. They’re all fit and well though, thank you, Alec. Give my best to your mother, won’t you, dear? And please thank her for her very generous donation to the canteen fund. It makes such a difference, being able to provide a bit of home cooking to those who are so far from their homes.’

  ‘I know how much the lads appreciate it,’ Alec agreed. ‘Ma was only too pleased to be able to offer a little support.’

  ‘Well, mustn’t dilly-dally. There are socks to knit.’ Moira stowed the bag of knitting in the basket of a bicycle that leaned against the fence and then, settling her hat firmly on to her grey curls, she mounted it somewhat unsteadily and wobbled off along the road.

  Alec carried a wicker hamper to the jetty and set it down next to Stuart and Davy while he went to bring the boat round.

  ‘Hello, boys,’ Flora greeted them. ‘Have you caught anything?’

  Stuart shook his head. ‘Not a nibble.’

  Davy chipped in, ‘We’re trying to catch a fish for Mrs C so she’ll not be so cross. It’s not easy having two extra mouths to feed.’

  ‘Wheesht, Davy,’ his brother admonished him. ‘She’ll be even crosser if she catches you saying that.’

  ‘But it’s what she says all the time,’ protested Davy, squirming out of reach as his brother tried to give him a cuff around the ear.

  ‘She’s not really cross with you, you know. She’s just anxious about having her own boys away at war.’ Flora smiled at them reassuringly. ‘She’s taking good care of you, isn’t she?’

  ‘Yeah, she is, I s’pose,’ said Stuart, pulling in his line to untangle a skein of weed from his hook. ‘She makes really good mince and tatties. And when she has the time, sometimes she bakes us scones.’

  Flora unbuckled the hamper and brought out a bottle of ginger beer. ‘Here you go, why don’t you two share this while you’re fishing? Or you can save it to have with your bread and dripping if you like.’

  ‘Are you off out for a picnic?’ Davy asked. ‘Can we come too?’

  Drawing the boat alongside them, Alec laughed. ‘Sorry, lads, I could do without the extra competition. This outing is just for me and Miss Gordon.’

  ‘Is he your sweetheart then?’ Davy asked Flora, looking just a little bit crestfallen.

  ‘He’s a very old friend of mine,’ she replied with a smile.

  ‘And yes, I hope I am her sweetheart as well, because she’s certainly mine.’ Alec grinned. ‘In any case, I wouldn’t like to have to answer to Mrs Carmichael if that vegetable patch isn’t dug over by the time she gets back.’

  Flora passed him the hamper, which he stowed against the transom before handing her into the boat. Pushing off from the jetty, they waved to the boys and then Alec steered out on to the loch, heading for the northern end of the island. They picked their way past the battleships at anchor in the bay. A refuelling tanker churned the oil-slicked surface of the water and
the fumes rasped at the back of Flora’s throat, but once they reached the point of the island, the wind picked up a little and the air was fresh again with the smell of salt and seaweed. Flora pulled off her woollen tammy and let the breeze wash over her bare head, teasing tendrils free from her braid.

  ‘Oh, it feels so good to be back out here. If you don’t look back towards Aultbea, you can almost imagine there’s no war on at all, with the loch and the hills as wild and empty as they ever were.’

  Silently, Alec pointed to the sky above, as an eagle launched itself from a small stand of trees on the island and soared away across the dancing waves, heading west. They watched it until it was swallowed by the hills towards Melvaig. ‘At least some things remain unchanged. But the war is coming closer now. Did you hear about the air raid on Scapa Flow two days ago? The Luftwaffe managed to sink the Norfolk. The Home Fleet is dispersing from there now – so Loch Ewe’s about to become even more crowded, I reckon.’

  Flora nodded, then took his hand in hers. ‘Let’s not talk about the war today, please, Alec? Just for an hour or two, let’s pretend we’re as free as the wind and the sea.’

  He smiled, entwining her fingers in his before raising them to his lips and kissing them. ‘Agreed. Today is a carefree day. And spring is on the way. Look there, the spruces are getting their new needles. I love how bright they are among the darkness of the pines.’

  As the shoulder of the island hid the ships in the harbour at Aultbea from view, it really was possible to imagine that they were the only boat on the water that day and to forget, for a little while at least, the transformation that had been wrought upon the tiny lochside community. Each time the bows of the boat met a wave, wings of fine sea spray flew along the gunwales, making Flora feel she was soaring, joining the birds overhead in their flight.

  Alec steered the boat towards the white sands of the beach at Firemore and pulled in alongside the rocks. In the shelter afforded by the headland, the water here was as calm as a hillside lochan, making it easy for Flora to scramble ashore. She balanced at the top of the boulders, reaching back so that Alec could hand her the hamper and, while he made the boat fast, she spread a plaid rug on the dry sand a little higher up the beach. Raising a hand to shield her eyes against the dazzle of the spring sunlight on the water, she smiled as Alec approached, his boots crunching on the black tangles of bladderwrack that festooned the bay. He threw himself down on the rug beside her and lay looking straight up into the sky above, which was the same colour as the delicate harebells that grew here and there along the roadside in summer.