The Restless Sea
The letters she receives back from Charlie are her only friends in those long hours of loneliness. And they make Olivia appreciate her own situation all the more when she reads about conditions on his ship, and how he keeps a sense of humour about the horrible cockroaches that invade, capturing and racing them against each other. Of course she has no idea where he is, but she shuffles closer to the fire when he writes of the snow and ice, and how he has to be winched out his pilot’s seat after a flight, his hands stuck like claws until someone brings him a steaming cup of cocoa.
As the days pass, Olivia’s truculence begins to ebb. The world slows to the lazy chewing of one of the cows that watch her with liquid eyes from beneath their thick, curly brown hair. Munro has indeed taught her to fish, and how to catch shiny green prawns in the rock pools. She is captivated by things she never knew about: baby starfish no bigger than a fingernail, seals lumbering across the rocks, the sudden flash of a pine marten’s creamy chest.
She speaks to her mother on the telephone once a week, but she does not miss home as much as she thought she would; somehow the pull of the breeze sweeping in off the loch and down from the hills is hard to resist. Take today, for example. It is one of those blustery autumn days, the weather as changeable as her moods can be. This morning she was eating corned beef from the tin while the rain lashed against the window as she tried to play patience in the yellow glow of an oil lamp. Now she is following the tumbling, churning burn that careers down the hill behind the farm between the thick, sodden bent heads of bracken. She sticks to the rocky bits, using the boulders as steps. When she looks up, she has to narrow her eyes as the rain drives into them. When she looks back to the loch, far below, only the pale foam of whipped-up water delineates dark grey water from dark grey sky. She is drenched to the bone.
She is looking for Mac, who farms behind Taigh Mor. One of his sheep has got stuck, and she has been sent to help. She finally spots him, a small green figure in a flat cap crouched on the rocks like moss. The sheep is still stuck. The farmer isn’t surprised to see her there. He doesn’t even glance up. But Olivia is growing used to the quiet, calm manner of the locals – and in a situation like this, there’s no time for pleasantries. The banks down to the burn are steep here, carved into the hillside over thousands of years. The sheep has slipped and got wedged between some rocks. It is in an awkward position, about level with Mac’s head. It bleats in their faces, a loud, raspy, aggressive mixture of fear and confusion. Its musky fleece is heavy with the rain.
Mac shouts above the crash of the water, his voice thick and lilting like the burn in calmer times. She is quicker to tune in to the inflections now. ‘I cannae get behind, lassie,’ he says. ‘We need to tie a rope.’
Olivia looks up at the steep rock. The rain streams down her face and drips off her nose. Mac points further up, jabbing with his finger. The sheep gets noisier, the sound a hoarse bark. ‘You want me to climb up there and throw the rope down?’ she says.
Mac nods and gives her the rope. He looks so small and wrinkled, like a walnut. She heads away further up the hill, past a craggy rowan tree that marks a deep pool, and to the boulders above. Her feet slip with every step, and she has to be careful not to catch her ankle in one of the uneven, bottomless holes. It is steep, and for a moment her head spins. She is in the right place: from here she can see the top of the sodden sheep and Mac’s flat cap. She crawls out on to the rocks. They scrape into her knees, cutting through her flannel trousers. She lies down and inches forward to look over the edge. Mac and the sheep are directly below her. There is nothing to grab on to, just the weight of her body holding her to the ground. Her heart thumps against solid rock. She dangles the rope down. It takes a few goes, but she manages to feed it in behind the sheep, and Mac disappears to scrabble for the end underneath the creature. He reappears, gives her the thumbs-up, and then she throws the other end of the rope down to him and scrambles away from the edge, her hip bones grazed against the rock.
By the time she gets back, Mac has tied the rope around the sheep. They each take the rope in their hands and begin to pull. The rope burns, but, with a struggle and a grunt, the sheep is freed. It rolls on to the ground for a moment, a bundle of legs and wool. Then it stands up and trots away with a dismissive bark.
‘Ungrateful creature,’ says Mac, and they both burst out laughing, wiping the water from their faces, unsticking their feet from the squelching mud.
‘Will it be all right?’ Olivia asks.
‘Thanks to you, lassie.’ Mac smiles, and she can see his eyes are brilliant blue in the leathery face.
In the farmhouse, Mrs Mac says, ‘Stay for something to eat, won’t you?’ She offers Olivia a slice of cake and a cup of tea. She drapes a towel around Olivia’s back and rubs at her scraggy hair to soak up some of the rain. The simple movement touches something deep in Olivia. It is nice to be mothered.
‘Hard work out there without our boys,’ says Mac.
‘I think the girl will do just as well for now,’ says his wife.
Olivia smiles, pleased. ‘Where are your sons?’ she asks, her mouth full of fluffy sponge.
‘Moved away. Got wee ones of their own now,’ says Mrs Mac.
Mac lifts a picture down from the mantelpiece. ‘There we go,’ he says. ‘Callum and Angus and their wives and our three grandchildren, Mary, Hamish, and wee Gus. Taken in the spring.’
It is a fine picture. Callum and Angus are in their uniforms, their wives looking at them proudly, the children at their feet. ‘When will they next come to visit?’ asks Olivia.
‘Och. We won’t be seeing them for a while,’ says Mrs Mac. Her lips are set in a thin line. ‘Silly boys. They’re back with their regiments. They’ll be off to France any day soon.’
‘Now, now,’ says Mac. ‘We don’t know that for sure.’ Olivia is surprised to see that his hands are trembling as his cup rattles on its saucer.
Olivia drops in to Taigh Mor on her way back to the bothy. The rain has cleared, and now the bracken is shining yellow and orange beneath trembling aspen leaves that flash and flutter gold in the breeze. There are four shiny black cars parked on the drive in front of the house, all polished to perfection, the rain pooling in small puddles like ink on their bonnets. Leaning against one corner of the large house are four men, chatting and smoking cigarettes. The smoke curls white into the air. They stop to look at Olivia without interest as she crunches across the gravel, before turning back to their conversation. In the distance, the pale sea reflects the pale sky.
As usual, the heavy front door is open. Olivia walks slowly in. Like her own home down south, it is cool inside, but the wooden floors are bare of rugs, and the furniture is dark and dusty. There are antlers all over the walls, spiky and forbidding, and she suddenly longs for the light and airy bothy. Uncle Howard’s eyes follow her along the hall, still unused to seeing a youngster in the house. Olivia’s skin tingles; she is suddenly aware of her damp clothes, her tangled hair, her muddy boots.
There are nine men with Aunt Nancy in the drawing room, all with their backs to her. One of them seems familiar, with a jocular round face and a cigar, but he is probably simply a returning visitor, of which there seems to be a steady stream. Olivia would dearly like to know what goes on at these meetings, but has to be satisfied with evasive explanations about her aunt doing her bit for the war effort and reminding Olivia proudly of her role in France in the last war – which inevitably leads to memories of Uncle Howard and the end of the conversation.
‘Come in, darling. Come in,’ says Aunt Nancy, motioning at Olivia. Olivia points at her filthy feet, but Aunt Nancy shakes her head. ‘Don’t worry about those. These floors have seen far worse.’ She introduces Olivia as her niece, and Olivia is sure she glimpses a flash of disapproval as the men take in her mud-stained trousers and unkempt hair, but they are too polite to say anything before turning back to help themselves to one of Clarkson’s home-made biscuits.
‘Dreadful news,’ says Aunt Nancy. ‘It was the bloody Nazis that got into Scapa Flow. Can you believe it?’
‘You mean …’
‘Yes exactly. Those poor boys … Torpedoed! Charlie was up there too.’
‘How awful!’ Olivia’s hand goes up to her mouth.
‘No, no. Don’t worry. He wasn’t on board. But he was in the harbour. All those poor souls. You must write to him.’
‘I have.’
‘I mean carry on. It’s our duty to bolster the morale of men who are away fighting. Letters mean more than you can ever realise. Your Uncle Howard lived for them …’ She peters out. The men stir their tea awkwardly.
The round-faced man clears his throat and takes a puff on his cigar. It is clear that he wants to get back to business.
‘Well, you’d best be off then, darling,’ says Aunt Nancy. ‘I’m sure you have plenty to do.’ Olivia turns to leave, knowing when she is dismissed. ‘Oh’ – Olivia stops, her hand resting on the doorframe – ‘and don’t be alarmed if you see more ships in the loch. Scapa Flow is obviously compromised, and these chaps need somewhere else to hide their ships.’ The men stare at her. ‘Hush, hush, of course,’ says Aunt Nancy, putting her finger to her lips.
On the track back to the bothy, Olivia breathes in the autumn air. Out here, no one cares what she looks like. She makes the most of it, splashing through puddles that are orangey-brown, the colour of peat. On her right she is dwarfed by vast umbrellas of gunnera, still holding water from this morning’s storm. On her left, ancient rhododendrons line the steep bank, their twisted branches and trunks an impenetrable tangle. A myriad of birdsong echoes through the plants. At the end of the track, the view opens out again into the vista she has come to love. There is the bothy on the edge of the wood, its knobbly stone facade bright white against the autumn fire of yellow and orange and red. The bright flowers that surrounded the cottage in the summer are no longer colourful but drooping with seed heads of all shapes and sizes. The lawn that runs down to the beach is still lush and green. The loch is calm, just the dark breath of a sudden breeze rippling across it. As she reaches the steps of the bothy, some seagulls fly up from the water with worried cries, the droplets from their legs fracturing their clear reflections. Startled, Olivia turns to see what has frightened them, and, as she does, she catches sight of something that – even with her aunt’s warning – makes her breath snag in her chest. On the other side of the island, where the fishing fleet shelters by the village of Aultbea, a vast grey mass of metal rises out of the water. It is a British destroyer. Next to it, the fishing trawlers are mere specks. Olivia takes in the heavily armoured bridge, the fat funnel, the mast like a crucifix reaching up to heaven, the spiky gun turrets, the guns that seem to be pointing in every direction and from every part of her. This is what war looks like: cold and grey and forbidding. She shudders and goes into the bothy, closing the door firmly behind her for the first time in weeks.
CHAPTER 6
At first the ships come and go without incident. Olivia gets used to them gliding silently into the loch, tries not to let their presence disturb her. But then, in early December, German mines punch a hole in a battleship at the mouth of the loch. Olivia is awake when it happens, lying in bed, a pale light pencilled around the window frames, a chill breeze blowing through the open window, while she is as warm as one of the eggs beneath Mac’s chickens. A boom, and she is out of bed and pedalling to Aultbea, where worried locals try to send her home again, but not until she has seen the divers go down in their suits to inspect the damage. She wants to write to Charlie about it, because it is frightening to think that the Germans must know there are ships here now. But of course she can’t.
Nor can she write about the special pass she has been given to show she is allowed to be here, for Loch Ewe is now Port A, a secret base, the perfect place for the Admiralty to hide their ships. Or the plane that passes low over her one afternoon when she is out checking fences for Mac. Or the black puffs of flak in the air beneath it, and how – a second later – the thud of the anti-aircraft guns that are now positioned at the mouth of the loch reaches her ears. It is an eerie, ominous blast that echoes in the gullies behind her, sending a shower of snow from the branches of small trees nearby, and on up the glen. The plane growls on, and she is frozen to the spot until it is over her, quite low – low enough to see the pilot seated inside – low enough to see the black cross painted beneath its wings. She is sure she sees the pilot raise his hand in greeting, and then the plane passes over the peak and dips out of sight.
After that, she makes an effort to traipse up to the big house every day to listen to the news on the tortoiseshell wireless, and to talk to Aunt Nancy, who seems to know more than the authoritative voice of the BBC broadcaster. She hears how Norway is lost, and she wonders if that was where Charlie was, and where he will be sent next. Chamberlain resigns, and Churchill takes over. With Norway secured, the Germans turn their attention to a massive assault along the Western Front. They push the Allies back and back until they are trapped along the north coast of France, on the beaches and in the town of Dunkirk. Olivia hears about the miracle of Dunkirk, how so many men are delivered safely home across the Channel. She picks up whispers that Charlie might have been involved. She wonders whether the Macs’ boys, Callum and Angus, are among those that were saved. She lies awake at night, staring into the dark, knowing that Britain is all alone.
Olivia is in the echoing hall at Taigh Mor, talking to Mother about how Stoke Hall is now being used as a barracks for hundreds of soldiers. It is early summer and, with the Nazis occupying the Channel Isles, the threat of invasion is once again a reality. Hard to believe on such a beautiful summer’s day. As usual the large door is wide open, the sunlight from outside banishing some of the gloom from the vast room. The silhouette of a man throws a shadow across the door. For a moment Olivia doesn’t recognise him, but when she replaces the receiver and sees the features fall into place, there is Charlie, tall and tanned, in his uniform, and looking every part the war hero. It is strange – like meeting an old friend who she somehow doesn’t know at all. She isn’t sure whether to embrace or shake hands, but he takes charge, bending down to kiss her cheek, and she feels his uniform prickly against her skin.
She hides her hands behind her back, suddenly conscious that her fingernails are ingrained with dirt. But Charlie is looking at her feet in amusement. These days she doesn’t bother with shoes when it’s warm – she grew out of her old ones ages ago, and there is nowhere to buy more. She borrows whatever she can find from Aunt Nancy’s boot room when she needs to. Her feet are thick-soled, and she thinks nothing now of running over rocks and gravel.
She blushes and looks up at him. ‘I’m afraid I’ve grown rather wild,’ she says.
‘I think it’s rather charming,’ he says. There is something different about him that she can’t put her finger on: a sadness or an emptiness behind his smile.
‘Aunt Nancy will be thrilled that you’re here.’
‘I certainly am,’ says her aunt, appearing behind her.
Charlie grins. ‘Lady M.’ He stoops to kiss her and she holds his face in both her hands as though admiring a child.
‘It’s so good to have you home,’ she says, ushering him and Olivia into the drawing room.
Charlie strides to the French windows and looks out at the ships on the loch. ‘How many are coming in now?’ he asks, his voice suddenly sharper, more officious.
‘A lot more. It could become a useful place for convoys to congregate.’
‘Any permanent site?’
‘On its way. Should be up and running by this time next year. For now, officers are messed at the hotel or here. Others are billeted with various people – wherever there’s room.’
‘What about the mines?’
‘We’ve had no more problems …’
‘I heard there’d been a U-boat?’
‘Dealt with immediately.’
‘We’ve also had the Luftwaffe over,’ says Olivia.
Charlie looks anxiously at Aunt Nancy. ‘I hadn’t heard about that.’
‘It’s nothing to worry about,’ says Aunt Nancy. ‘Just reconnaissance. There are far more dangerous things going on elsewhere. Please don’t look so worried, my dear. Scapa was a terrible, terrible tragedy. But it won’t happen here. Now how about going for a swim? It’s lovely out there.’
Charlie looks as though he’s going to say something else, but then turns to the windows again. Beyond the warships, the water is sparkling seductively. ‘We can still swim?’ he asks.
‘Of course!’
He takes a deep breath and exhales, as if banishing bad thoughts. Then he turns back to face them, the frown gone from his face. ‘Good idea,’ he says. ‘I’m boiling and filthy from the train. It took an age.’
‘I’ll take you across to Firemore,’ says Olivia. ‘I’d like to put out some lines anyway.’
Charlie grins. ‘Who is this?’ he asks Aunt Nancy. ‘Certainly not the prim girl I met on the train last year.’
‘I’m not prim!’
‘I’m only teasing. But you are quite different.’
‘So are you.’
Charlie glances at her and then down at his feet. ‘Yes. I suppose I am,’ he says. He is not smiling any more.
Firemore beach is on the south side of the loch, a long horseshoe of reddish golden sand. Charlie insists on taking both oars, while Olivia throws the creels and lines over the side, the muscles in her brown arms tensing with effort. When she has finished, she hangs over the edge, enjoying being rowed by someone else for once. She sees silver slivers of sand eels dart beneath the boat, and dangles her hands in the water, leaving glittery trails. The loch is calm and the air is warm; the heat makes her light-headed. Two oystercatchers flit past, black and white against the pale water, their distinctive peeping whistles ringing out across the loch, their orange beaks and pink legs vivid against the blue sky. They flash their white underbellies before turning and sweeping back around, the white V on their backs and the white stripes down their wings in perfect symmetry. She wants to ask Charlie whether he flew at Dunkirk, but the words won’t come. The familiarity of their letters doesn’t seem to translate when he is actually here, in front of her. She closes her eyes, the world a haze of unanswered questions behind her eyelids.
Charlie suddenly stands, setting the boat rocking. Before she can tell him to sit down, he has unbuttoned his shirt, taken off his trousers, and leapt overboard, his pale body distorted beneath the water. He breaks the surface, his hair flashing in the sunlight, sleek against his head. ‘Are you coming in?’ he asks.
‘What about the boat?’
He laughs. ‘She’ll be fine. There’s not a breath of wind, and the tide is on the turn,’ he says. ‘Chuck the painter over the side and let her go. I’ll grab her in a minute.’
Olivia needs no further encouragement. She slips off her shorts and pulls her top over her head, already dressed in her bathing costume. She throws the end of the rope into the water and leaps over the side with a whoop, scattering the fish and sending glittering droplets into the air.
The change in temperature makes her draw her breath in sharply when she emerges. She slips under the water again. Relishes the coolness, the translucent green, the muffled sound of Charlie’s voice above. Then she breaks the surface again, and everything is bright and clear. She can just touch the bottom. Her toes scuffle along the cold sand, trying to get a purchase. She joins Charlie and grabs hold of the side of the boat, helping to tug it in to shore, their legs kicking out beneath the hull. His arms are strong and thick next to hers; the water glistens like dew drops on the blond hairs.
They drag the boat up on to the beach. It shooshes along the sand, leaving a groove. The tide is out and the beach is vast. They are the only creatures on it, apart from some sandpipers that fly up and settle further away, whistling to each other as they go. Charlie’s skin is pale where it has been covered by his uniform. His chest is smooth and hairless.
They soon dry in the heat of the sun. They eat sandwiches while sitting on the sand, digging their toes through the warm, dry top layer into the cool damp below. Afterwards, they explore the beach, turning over heavy stones to look for crabs that burrow secretively away from them. Olivia climbs a mound of rocks and surveys the loch. The water is cobalt blue further out, turning to emerald green as it grows shallower. To the left she can clearly see the open sea, the hills at the mouth of the loch gradually sloping into it until there is nothing, just endless ocean. It is easy to pretend the smattering of ships and the pillboxes aren’t there.
Charlie calls out and points at a round shape like a brown balloon bobbing on the surface of the water. Olivia spots it just as the seal disappears from sight. ‘Oh!’ she says, disappointed.
‘It’ll come up again,’ says Charlie. ‘There!’ It is much closer this time. Close enough to make out the mournful black eyes and mottled head.
‘Sing to it,’ says Charlie. ‘That’s what they say. If you sing to them, they come closer.’
‘I’m not going to sing to it,’ says Olivia self-consciously, then laughing as Charlie starts to sing, ‘God Save Our Gracious King’, and the seal watches them both, bemused, before disappearing again.
‘You’ve scared it away,’ says Olivia.
But Charlie is undaunted and carries on, tunelessly. The next time the creature comes up, it is a bit closer. So Olivia joins in, and they stand there singing as the sun beats down and the sandpipers feel braver and rush closer on their tiny legs, and the minutes stretch and mould into hours, and war and the cold ships that lie on the other side of the island are far from their minds.
Charlie is insistent that he teach Olivia how to shoot. He borrows an old air rifle from the gunroom at the back of Aunt Nancy’s house. Uncle Howard’s shotguns and rifles line the walls neatly, like sentries on duty. The room smells of gun oil and leather.
He hands her the gun. ‘Practise first,’ he says. ‘The principle is the same.’
Olivia holds it awkwardly while Charlie rigs up paper targets outside. The targets seem tiny, but Olivia is beginning to learn that she likes a challenge. Her first few shots are way off the paper, but she quickly gets her eye in and it turns out she’s pretty good. Soon she is just a hair’s breadth off the centre. Charlie nods as he watches her break the rifle and feed another silver pellet into it. She snaps it shut, aims and fires. There is a tiny hole in the bull’s-eye. And again. She hits it four times in a row.
‘I guess you’ve either got it or you haven’t,’ she says, smiling.
‘All right, all right,’ says Charlie, laughing. ‘Let’s try with the proper rifle.’
The sporting rifle is much heavier. Olivia lies next to Charlie on the ground. First he demonstrates how to put the safety catch on. Then how to lock and unlock the bolt, and where to lay the smooth, pointed bullets. She takes one and slides it into its chamber.
Charlie shows her how to steady the gun. ‘Use my arm, if you need to,’ he says. He pulls the rifle up and into her shoulder. The cold stock touches her warm cheek.
‘Feel there?’ he says. ‘Where the stock sits comfortably?’ She nods.
‘Now, when you fire, you squeeze the trigger. Don’t pull it. Just squeeze.’ He holds his hand over hers to demonstrate. ‘This rifle will have more of a kick than the air rifle. So make sure you hold it in.’ She can feel his breath on the tip of her ear.