a message, asking for some more. I still can’t quite place him, although I definitely feel like I know him from somewhere. Maybe the next time I see him I’ll just ask him outright.
Flora, 1939
‘Fill that urn with water would you, girls, and get it on the stove.’ Mrs Carmichael was in her element, bustling about the village hall and marshalling her troops. The Rural were out in full force, getting ready to welcome the busload of evacuees who were on their way from Clydeside. Some of the children had relations on Loch Ewe and would naturally be staying with them, but others were arriving as part of the government’s scheme to evacuate children to rural areas, away from the cities. Glasgow’s shipyards would be an inevitable target for German bombing raids and families had been urged to act now, before any attacks.
Moira Carmichael’s heels tapped officiously across the floorboards as she hurried about, consulting the clipboard she carried and making sure everything was in order, issuing instructions to her deputy, Marjorie Greig, the wife of the local doctor, who – in Mrs Carmichael’s opinion – was one of the few women who could be relied upon in a crisis.
The door opened, letting in a gust of sea air. ‘Ah, there you are, Mairi. And is that the churn of milk from your father? Thank you, dear. Put it through in the kitchen, please.’ She ticked an item off on her list and then hastened back to where Flora and Bridie were wrestling with a long trestle table. ‘Set those tables up over here! No, not like that, put them end to end. And then put out those chairs, please.’ She strode off to check on the supplies of extra rations being unloaded from a van at the door.
‘She sounds like a garron in those shoes,’ whispered Bridie with a giggle as she and Flora rearranged the furniture.
‘Wheesht, Bridie, you know she has the hearing of a wildcat.’ Flora couldn’t help laughing too, though. Mrs Carmichael’s progress around the room did sound a little like the clopping hooves of the sturdy Highland pony that her father used to bring the deer carcasses down from the hill.
At last everything was ready and a big pan of potatoes was simmering on the stove. Mrs Carmichael summoned the women of the Rural for a final briefing.
‘Right, ladies, are we clear? Each child is to be given a bowl of soup, and then once they’ve finished that you two will be serving the mince and tatties. One large spoonful of each, in the bowls they’ve used for their soup. Margaret, you can bring round the cups of milk and the bread and butter. Only one slice each, remember, or we’ll run out. Marjorie and Jean, you’ll be handing out the Red Cross parcels to the host parents. Here’s the list: two tins of milk, one of those tins of corned beef, one bar of chocolate and two packets of biscuits per child. That should help see them through until we can sort out their ration books. I’ll be at the table by the door, directing operations and making sure the right families end up with the right children. Girls’ – she beckoned to Flora, Mairi and Bridie – ‘you come and stand beside me. No doubt it will be chaos when they arrive and I’ll need you as my runners. You can help wash their hands and faces, too. Heaven only knows what sort of a state they’ll have been sent to us in.’
The flow of commands was interrupted suddenly by a loud crash from outside the hall.
‘What on earth . . . ?’ Mrs Carmichael bustled out of the door, followed by the rest of the Rural ladies.
At the back of the hall, a troop of soldiers were unloading sheets of corrugated iron from the back of a lorry.
‘Sergeant, what do you think you’re doing? Don’t you know we’re expecting a busload of children to arrive any minute?’
‘Sorry, ma’am, just following orders.’ The sergeant grinned cheerily at Mrs Carmichael, not the slightest bit cowed.
‘Well, why are you dumping all this metal here? You have a whole camp along at Mellon Charles. Don’t you have better places to store it there?’
‘It’s not being stored, ma’am. It’s for the new extension. To the hall.’
‘Extension? I haven’t been told anything about an extension! Who gave you these orders?’
‘The camp commander, ma’am. Her Majesty’s navy has designated this ’ere ’arbour Port A. For the Fleet. Assembly point