As she approached, the white pony had hung its broad muzzle over the half-door, as if trying to comfort the sobbing boy. Wordlessly, she had sat down beside Alec and put a hand on his shoulder. He’d raised his head then, dragging the back of his hand across his eyes to dash away the tears that stained his face, angry and embarrassed at having been seen.
‘It’s never going to be the same again, is it?’ he’d asked her, his anguish fraying the edges of his voice. ‘Everything’s going to change.’
‘Maybe some things will change. But this will always be here,’ she’d said, pointing to the view beyond the stable door. ‘The loch and the hills. And we will always be here, Ruaridh and the garron and me.’
He’d nodded slowly, then swallowed hard and squared his shoulders. ‘Please could you not say you saw me here?’
She didn’t speak, just reached for his hand and squeezed it by way of a reply.
He’d stood up then, brushing the straw from his jacket, and summoned a watery smile. ‘See you at Christmas?’ he said.
She’d nodded. ‘It’ll fly by, you’ll see.’
When he’d returned for the holidays, he had indeed changed. He seemed more assured, chatting happily about his new friends at school, the trials and tribulations involved in having to learn Latin and French and his hope that he’d be selected for the Second XV rugby team. Neither of them had ever mentioned the encounter in the stable again. But on that Christmas morning when Flora went to bring in a handful of sticks for the fire, she’d found a small pile of clumsily wrapped gifts on the doorstep. There was a wooden bootjack for Iain that Alec had sweated over in his woodwork classes at school and a neat horn-handled penknife for Ruaridh. And for Flora, there was the little white china horse with a blonde mane that she’d treasured ever since.
Now, he brought her hand to his lips, kissing it gently before drawing her to him and kissing her more deeply. Then, with a sigh that was a strange, shuddering mixture of joy and regret, he restarted the car. ‘Better get you home, or Iain will be out looking for you with his shotgun. I wouldn’t want to be the man in his sights!’
She laughed softly. ‘I think you’re probably the only man he wouldn’t shoot at. He trusts you.’
‘And you, Flora? Do you trust me, too?’
She looked into the ink-black depths of his eyes and replied, ‘Always, Alec. I have always trusted you.’
Lexie, 1978
On my next walk to the shop, I make a point of stopping in at Bridie’s. She looks a bit startled to see me standing at her door. I’d been hoping she might ask us in, fussing over Daisy as usual, and sit me down so that she could tell me her recollections of the war years – and my mum and dad’s story in particular – over a cup of tea. But my suspicion that she’s avoiding that particular cosy chat crystallises a little bit more when she doesn’t do so. Instead, she reaches her coat down from the hook beside her front door, saying, ‘What good timing! I’m just away to the jetty to see if I can catch Davy before he takes the boat out. He’ll put out a line for some mackerel if I ask him. We can get some for you, too, if you’d like? And wee Daisy, would you like a nice fresh fishy for your tea? You’re growing so fast, so you are, so you are!’
I get the sense again that this is not just her usual chattering. It’s not at all like Bridie Macdonald to pass up the chance to find out more about the sorry set of circumstances that have washed me back to the shores of Loch Ewe. So my interest is piqued even more keenly as to what it is she’s hiding from me.
Up until now, I’ve felt a bit like a limpet when in her company, clamping down hard on my own sense of shame as she’s tried to prise more snippets out of me. But she is, apparently, equally adept at clamming up. It’s going to take a little more patience to coax information out of her, I can see. I am shamelessly prepared to use my daughter as bait, if need be. So, as we walk along to the jetty, I make my move.
‘Bridie, I’d love to bring Daisy to yours one afternoon.