Daisy has crawled over to Bridie and pulled herself up to stand, attempting to climb up beside her on the sofa.
‘Here you go, darlin’, upsy Daisy!’ Bridie scoops her on to her lap and Daisy nestles happily in the crook of her arm. ‘Of course, there were downsides to having the military here as well. We were issued with security passes that we’d to carry with us at all times. The roads beyond the loch were sealed off at Laide, Gairloch and Achnasheen with checkpoints, and no one was allowed in without showing their papers. I kept forgetting mine, but luckily most of the guards knew me from the NAAFI and let me through. And there were the sad times, too. A lot of our local boys were away fighting the war, and every now and then a telegram would arrive with news that someone had been killed. It hit the community hard, every time we lost one of our own.’
Her eyes mist over as she remembers those losses. But when I try to ask for specifics – especially about my mum and dad – she veers away again like a startled deer, sticking to more general stories.
As I watch her playing with Daisy, I think what a wonderful mother and grandmother she’d have been if she’d ever had children of her own. Her life would have been very different.
‘What about you, Bridie?’ I ask. ‘With all those soldiers and sailors about the place, did you not have any romances?’
Her face becomes radiant for a moment and I catch a glimpse of how pretty and vivacious she must have been back then. But, like a cloud covering the sun, her expression changes again. ‘Oh yes,’ she says, ‘the war brought opportunity for some. But, you know, for every story of new love there are ten more of loss and heartbreak.’ She fishes a hankie from the sleeve of her cardigan and blows her nose. Then she turns her attention back to the photo album beside her. ‘Now then, did I tell you about how the Arctic convoys started? I’d been transferred to the NAAFI canteen when we heard the news . . .’
Flora, 1941
The wind was bitter that afternoon, sending the reflections of the clouds scudding across the waters of the loch, and the light was already dimming as the short winter’s day gave way to another long night. Flora sat opposite Mairi at one of the long tables in the NAAFI, her hands clasped around her teacup, absorbing the last of the warmth from the thick white china.
The canteen was unusually quiet and Bridie had time to come over and join them, refilling their cups from the large metal teapot that she wielded with gusto, and setting down a plate laden with three slices of the dry cake that was staple NAAFI fare. The men referred to it as the ‘Yellow Peril’, as it was made with dried custard powder and crumbled into sawdust in the mouth, necessitating more gulps of the watery tea to wash it down.
As usual, she was eager to share the latest gossip with her friends. ‘All the men have been called to a briefing,’ Bridie said. ‘It must be something important.’
It came as no surprise that the role of the base might be changing. The war seemed to be spreading like wildfire, and it felt as if the map of the world was changing colour in front of their eyes as more and more countries were consumed by the flames. Only the other evening they’d seen newsreel footage of the aftermath of an attack by Japanese bombers on a place far away on the other side of the world called Pearl Harbor. The images of broken ships, half-sunk in the oil-slicked water, and of stretchers bearing burned bodies had silenced the usually talkative audience in the hall. Although the devastation was thousands of miles away, to those watching beside the anchorage in Loch Ewe it seemed all too close to home. Those ships could have been their own. Those broken and bloodied bodies could have been their friends and shipmates.
‘Now that the Yanks are in, maybe we’ll be getting some American visitors,’ speculated Bridie hopefully. To date all her romantic liaisons had fizzled out, usually ending in tears due to deployment elsewhere or, in one case, the discovery of a fiancée back at home.
Mairi laughed. ‘D’you think they’ll be a better bet than our British boys then?