be a training exercise to keep them alert and battle-ready, during which they’d scramble to action stations and rattle off rounds of ack-ack at passing ice floes. Those surges of adrenalin kept the men’s wits sharp, when otherwise they felt they might drown in the grey monotony that stretched from horizon to horizon as the ships ploughed their pitching, rolling way through the relentless waves.
Perhaps this time it was purely the knowledge of what took place that put her on edge. But just as the whispering of the wind foretells rain on the way, long before the first drops begin to fall, she knew that Alec could sense the gathering resolve of the Nazi forces now that they’d become aware of the convoys stealing past their Norwegian bases to keep the Russian war machine fed and fuelled. She imagined the wolf packs of U-boats must be hungry for the hunt.
She turned away, unable to bear watching the long tail of ships leaving the safety of the harbour, telling herself that he would come back to her. That she simply needed to keep herself busy for the next month or so. That with a fair wind and a bit of luck, he’d be home in time for Easter.
But the lead weight tugged at her guts again, insistent as the brisk breeze that pulled at her hair, teasing strands loose from beneath her cap and whipping them against her tear-damp cheeks.
Flora and Bridie were helping Mairi and two of her little sisters gather dulse from the rocks at low tide, carefully picking the translucent, dark red fronds and placing them in a colander whose enamel was chipped from years of use. Rationing had limited many of the usual staples, but the crofters living around the loch were long used to supplementing their diet with ingredients from the woods and the shore, which were still plentiful. With so many mouths to feed, the Macleods knew better than anyone the best spots to gather wild pickings.
Stuart and Davy Laverock appeared, scrambling over the rocks, their catapults in hand.
‘Whit’re you doing?’ Stuart asked.
Flora straightened up and held out the handful of seaweed she’d picked for them to inspect. ‘Collecting this. It’s good to eat, especially if you put a dab of butter on it after you’ve cooked it.’
‘C’n we help?’ asked Davy.
‘Of course. Pick the nice fresh bits like this, see?’
After a few minutes, the boys grew bored of seaweed-hunting and began firing pebbles at a piece of wood floating in a rock pool, pretending it was a German U-boat.
‘Good shot, you got him! Now he’s a goner,’ Stuart shouted, before launching another stick into the pool.
At the sight of Hamish McTaggart passing along the road on his bike, they all paused, watching where he was heading. Since he’d been demobbed, after losing an eye to a piece of shrapnel while fighting the Italians in North Africa, he’d been employed by Miss Cameron to deliver the telegrams that had started arriving more frequently now. Very few of them ever contained any good news. He raised a hand in greeting, but cycled on past the end of the village until the bend in the road hid him from view.
Mairi sighed, shaking her head. ‘It’ll be someone from over at Poolewe then. Another poor soul injured or worse.’
‘Our mammy was in the air raids in Glasgow, Mrs C says,’ Davy announced. ‘But she was fine ’cause they built a massive shelter in Port Glasgow and she slept in there when the bombers came over.’
‘Wheesht, Davy, that was ages ago, there’s no more air raids there now. The Jerries’re too busy fighting everyone else these days,’ Stuart said, picking up a stone and chucking it out into the water with the nonchalance of youth.
‘How’s Mrs Carmichael doing?’ Flora asked the boys.
Stuart shrugged. ‘She’s okay. She always keeps Matthew’s bedroom door shut. We’re not allowed in there now. We used to go and look at his stamps – he’s got this massive collection, from all over the world – but his things are too precious to touch now he’s dead. Sometimes she goes in there and doesn’t come out for ages.’
‘That’s ’cause she’s greetin’,’ chipped in Davy. ‘I’ve heard her. Sometimes she doesn’t come out even when it’s time to cook the tea. Mr C tried to make mince once, but it was all burned and he had to chuck out the pan in the end. So on those days now we just have some more bread and dripping.’