I sat with my arms wrapped around myself, trying not to fall apart, as I waited and waited and then waited some more.
And then, at last, the moment when the doctor came through and she had a smile on her face as she held my hand in hers and told me that they were cautiously optimistic. Davy’s quick actions had undoubtedly saved Daisy’s life. ‘She has no broken bones and there doesn’t seem to be any damage to her spine. But she has a severe concussion and hasn’t regained consciousness yet. We’ll just have to wait and see how she is when she comes around . . . If need be, we can arrange for her to be taken from Yorkhill to one of the other Glasgow hospitals where there’s a scanner that can look into her brain. But it’s too early to tell if there’s any lasting brain damage yet.’
I struggled to swallow the panic that choked me when I heard those last words. ‘Can I see her?’ I managed to croak.
‘Of course. We’re just getting her settled into a side room where we can keep a close eye on her. You can come through now.’
In the twilight of watching and waiting, sitting in a plastic-covered armchair beside Daisy’s cot, I’ve lost track of time, of whether it’s day or night. Kindly nurses come and go, bringing me occasional cups of tea and plates of food. Sleep creeps up on me now and then, but mostly I just sit watching over her beneath the glare of the fluorescent lights, holding her hand, careful not to touch the tubes and drips keeping her alive while she is lost to me, drifting in the darkness beyond my reach. And through it all, to keep her there with me and to keep myself from losing it, I hum and sing every song I can think of to her, calling her back from wherever it is she’s gone.
A nurse pops her head round the door. ‘That’s me off now. The night shift’s just finishing. Just thought I’d check up on wee Daisy one more time before I go.’
I force a smile, my lips cracked and dry. ‘No change. But I think she may have moved her fingers a bit more a while ago.’
The nurse nods. ‘I’ll get them to bring you some tea. A bowl of porridge, maybe? You need to keep up your strength.’
My voice is hoarse, despite the sip of tea, as I sing the words of the ‘Eriskay Love Lilt’ one more time:
‘In the morning when I go
To the white and shining sea,
In the calling of the seals
Thy soft calling to me . . .’
And then her eyelashes flutter and her beautiful eyes open and smile at me and she says, as clear as anything, ‘Seals? Go bat?’
And I’m laughing through my tears as I hug her and hug her, feeling as if my heart will burst with the joy and the relief.
Flora, 1942
As she waved Alec off on the next convoy to take on the Murmansk run, Flora tried hard to ignore the sense of foreboding that had settled itself in the base of her stomach. It felt like a lead weight that had dragged at her spirits even while she and Alec had spent his last evening ashore together. He’d made an effort to seem cheerful, but she could sense that he was distracted as they’d sat in the crowded hall watching an Abbot and Costello film. In fact, the audience’s laughter had sounded a little forced to Flora’s ears, as if many of those sitting around them also had half their thoughts elsewhere. This convoy had the number thirteen and it was hard to set superstition to one side.
It was March, and the first lambs were wobbling about the fields on unsteady legs as they ran bleating to huddle close to their mothers, seeking shelter from the cruel-edged, unpredictable wind. That same wind would be redoubled beyond the mouth of the loch as the convoy emerged the next day, sailing once more into the dark waters. Flora knew that the crews would keep themselves busy, fending off the boredom and the constant anxiety with the strict routine that Alec had described. He’d told her how the days on board passed in a continuous cycle of eating, sleeping, maintenance and cleaning. The men had coined the phrase ‘the three Ts’ to describe the mood that dominated the Arctic run: tedium, tiredness and terror. Every so often there would