and smiled broadly into the microphone. “Fin puddy nae goon a weenie.”
My head fell to my chest in despair. Oh, God. Not again.
“What’d he say?” Bill Gordon yelled.
Wally paused. “Uhh—More years than he can remember. Okay, shall we buckle up and get this show on the road?”
I attended to my raincoat as we motored out of the harbor and onto a road so painfully narrow, there was no center line down the middle. Lush meadowland stretched across the flat terrain, providing a backdrop for a profusion of dazzling wildflowers. Hand-hewn posts with chicken-wire fencing marked property boundaries. Telephone poles marched in drunken formation across the perimeter of fields, delivering needed services to the occasional farmhouse. We passed a church, a herd of grazing sheep, and a red phone booth marooned near the intersection of two crossroads, smack dab in the middle of nowhere. To call the Orkney Islands “a little remote” was a bit like calling the Antarctic plateau “a little chilly.”
“Fer nook a gootie nae brae ma doon hookie,” John mumbled over the microphone.
“Tell him to speak up,” yelled Bernice. “I can’t hear him.”
“I still can’t understand what he’s saying,” shouted Bill.
“Neither can I!” griped Stella.
“Nuff nae bawdy?” asked John.
“He says that Orkney is made up of seventy islands,” Dad spoke up, “even though there’s controversy about the final number, because some of the islands are nothin’ more than a single rock poking out of the water. Only sixteen of the islands are inhabited by people. The largest one in the chain is called the Mainland, and it measures thirty miles at its widest point. The entire chain measures fifty-three miles north to south. The island we’re driving across now looks like a galloping horse on the map; the other sixty-nine look like a school of deformed fish.” Dad forced a chuckle. “I guess that’s a little Orkney humor.”
Awed silence.
Bill Gordon burst out in laughter. “Good one, Bob! You got all that out of six words?”
Dad shrugged. “He threw in a few more statistics, but I didn’t wanna bore you.”
“I motion that we hand the microphone over to Bob Andrew,” shouted Dick Teig. “He can tell us what we’re supposed to be hearing. All those in favor say, ‘Aye.’”
“AYE!” came the thunderous response.
“Opposed?”
“Wait a second,” Osmond bristled. “You can’t put a motion up for vote. That’s my job.”
“The ayes have it,” said Dick. “Let’s hear it for Bob.”
Applause. Whistles. Hoots.
Wally leaned over to speak to our driver, then motioned Dad to the front and handed him the mike. “John is okay with the new arrangement … I think.”
More applause.
I settled back in my seat, my gaze shifting between Erik’s and Alex’s heads.
Who were these guys? Who did they work for? The Mafia? The mob? Could you work for both without getting whacked for double-dipping? And if they were professional hitmen, how could they accidentally kill two unintended victims? Could pros afford to make mistakes like that? Or were they actually amateurs trying to work their way up to the big leagues? Had they goofed up on their own, or had someone given them the wrong information?
“Orkney’s been inhabited for five thousand years,” Dad told us as he interpreted John’s spiel, displaying the unexpected skill and aplomb of a UN translator. “And for five thousand years, the only way to get from one island to the next was by boat. But at the start of World War II, a German U-boat changed all that.”
Dad’s voice grew more dramatic, with a hint of breathless anticipation. “The sub sneaked past the channel defenses between the Mainland and Lambholm Island and entered the inner harbor, the Scapa Flow, where the British Royal Fleet was at anchorage. It sent three torpedoes into the HMS Royal Oak, killing eight hundred thirty-three men. So to prevent future attacks, Winston Churchill ordered the eastern approaches from the sea to be sealed off, and he did that by building a series of causeways connecting three of the smaller islands in the chain.”
Dad let out a relieved breath. “Churchill’s decision is credited with saving the Scapa Flow and the rest of the British Fleet from future attack, and in later years, with chopping several hours off a Sunday drive from Burwick to Kirkwall. We’ll be hitting the first one just over the next rise.”
Erik had mentioned someone named Stu. Was it Stu who’d given him the wrong information? Who was this Stu? Stu, as in Stuart? Stuart, as in Bonnie Prince Charles Edward Stuart, the wannabe king who’d deserted