come to visit and I always enjoyed showing her London, sharing my new life with her, which was hundreds of miles – both literal and metaphorical ones – from Keeper’s Cottage on the shores of Loch Ewe. But most of all, I remember, I was overflowing with joy because I’d so recently met Piers.
Looking at my face in the photo, I feel sorry for that girl now, the girl I once was. She felt invincible, golden, chosen from among so many other singers and actors. She was oblivious to the fall that was to come.
The show was a hit. With my first pay packet, I went shopping and bought the beautiful suede jacket that I’d coveted in the window of the boutique I passed each day on my way to the theatre. The minute I slipped it on I felt like a star. Like someone who’d made it, a girl who had successfully shrugged off her previous persona and become somebody else altogether. And now it hangs in the back of the wardrobe, a useless piece of clothing that’s entirely unsuited to the place I’ve washed up in, creased and stained, as forlorn as its owner. I should really take it to be dry-cleaned, but that would involve a day’s trip to Inverness and another day to go and pick it up: the thought of the petrol and the cost of the cleaning and the effort it would take to bundle Daisy into the car defeat me.
I sigh and settle the photo frame back in its place on the sideboard.
Daisy begins to fuss, as if she can sense the slide in my mood. I pick up another photo. This one is of Mum and she’s wearing the dark uniform of the WRNS. The severity of the tailored uniform contrasts with the informality of her pose, leaning against the bonnet of a military jeep, her hair blowing in the wind. She’d have been about twenty then, I suppose. The most striking thing about the picture, though, is the expression in her eyes. Just like my own in the previous photo, they are shining, radiating the purest joy as she gazes at whoever is taking the picture. I swallow hard as tears threaten to spill on to Daisy’s rose-gold curls. Mum looks so carefree, even though they must have been hard times, those war years. I feel almost certain that the person taking the photo was my father, even though I know so little about him. I remember my conversation with Bridie Macdonald on the road the other day and wonder again what it might be that she is so loath to reveal. Next time I’m passing her house, I’ll invite myself in and get her to tell me what she knows, I resolve. It’s my history, after all, my parents’ story.
I run the tip of my finger over the outline of my mother’s face, gently tracing the contours of her smile.
Yes, I think, my dad must have been the one behind the camera. Because I know how much she loved him. There was no one else who could have made her look that way.
Flora, 1939
‘Gently lift your foot off the clutch and press the other one down on the accelerator at the same time.’
The truck lurched forward, taking out a couple of the oil drums that had been set out to mark a course for steering practice.
‘Oops, sorry,’ Bridie said cheerfully.
The lieutenant in the passenger seat sighed deeply, grabbing the handbrake to bring the vehicle to a standstill before its fledgling driver could wreak any more havoc. ‘I should be paid danger money for this job,’ he grumbled. ‘Teaching you Wrens to drive is far more dangerous than being out on the deck of a pitching ship in a Force 8 gale, if you ask me.’
In the back, Flora and Mairi clung to the edge of the bench seats that ran along the sides of the truck and tried not to shriek with a mixture of laughter and nerves.
‘Right, let’s try that again. Think about how your friends did it. Slowly and gently. I said SLOWLY!’
This time, with a loud crunch of the gears, the truck jolted towards the group of Nissen huts at the edge of the parade ground, swerving just in time to miss the camp’s commander, who had stepped out to watch the proceedings.
‘Och, I think I’m getting the hang of this double-declutching thing now,’ Bridie called out over the roar of the motor as she stamped both