and Doctor Carrot – The Children’s Best Friend. Flora was thankful that the hills and the sea provided them with much-needed additions to the monotonous rations that were available in the shop: she’d made a dish of skirlie to help eke out the meat on the gamebirds, the bed of coarse-grained oatmeal soaking up the savoury juices from the pan; and while there was no dried fruit to be had to make the traditional clootie dumpling, she’d improvised an apple and honey pudding that was steaming away on the stove top. The fruit had been soaked with a tot of whisky from the precious bottle given to Iain by Lady Helen which, she hoped, would infuse it with a little festive cheer. A jug of cream sat in the larder, a gift from Mairi’s family, and her mouth watered as she pictured how it would trickle over the slices of hot pudding. But even as she prepared the meal, she couldn’t help wondering what Alec’s Christmas fare would be. She’d given him a tin of shortbread, made with most of the month’s sugar ration and tied with a tartan ribbon, to help make his ship-board diet of corned-beef sandwiches and the mugs of kye, as the sailors called their watery cocoa, a little more festive.
They were all putting a brave face on things and making the most of what they had. But everyone was exhausted by this endless war. Five Christmases. And still no end in sight.
With Alec on escort duty in the Arctic and Hal and Roy on another Atlantic run, none of the girls felt like attending the ceilidh in the hall on Boxing Day that year. All three had volunteered to be on duty that day and they were on a tea break in the canteen when Ruaridh walked in. He’d just finished his watch at the signalling station and had come in search of a cup of tea and to thaw out after hours spent in the crude concrete signal post, which offered little shelter from the biting wind that had blown away yesterday’s fog.
His forehead was creased in a frown as he pulled off his cap and raked a hand through his close-cropped sandy curls.
Flora glanced up, tensing immediately at his expression. ‘What is it?’
He pressed his lips together, as if loath to tell her the news he’d heard from the signalman who’d replaced him at his post. Bridie set a cup of tea down on the table before him.
‘Thanks,’ he said. Then he met Flora’s anxious eyes. ‘They’ve been engaged,’ he said, tersely. ‘By a German battleship.’
Flora froze, waiting for him to say more. There was no need to ask which ships he meant.
‘But I thought the Tirpitz was still out of commission,’ Mairi broke in, instinctively reaching over to put a hand on Flora’s arm.
‘It’s another German battleship, the Scharnhorst. It was anchored in one of the fjords on the North Cape. It began heading for the convoy in the early hours, so the escort cut in.’
‘Isla?’ Flora asked, already certain of the answer.
Ruaridh nodded. ‘All three destroyers. But that’s all I know at the moment. The communiqué has only just come in.’
Automatically, Flora’s hand went to the pocket of her coat and her fingers closed around the brooch as if, by holding it tight, she could protect Alec. It was unbearable to imagine what he might be facing at that very minute, but all they could do was wait for more news to trickle through. She felt completely helpless.
Bridie had other ideas, though. They watched as she picked up a plate of the bright yellow sponge cake and marched across to where two officers sat, hunched over their teacups, deep in conversation. They couldn’t hear what was said, as the exchange was muffled by the hiss of the tea urn and the hum of noise in the canteen, which reverberated from the hut’s tin roof. But a few minutes later she returned – minus the plate of cake – with a triumphant grin, and seized Flora’s free hand.
‘It’s all right! The Isla is safe. They think the battle’s over now and the German battleship’s been sunk. The convoy is back on course for Murmansk.’
Ruaridh gazed at her in admiration. ‘Bridie Macdonald, your skills are wasted in the NAAFI. They should be deploying you as a secret agent. If they turned you loose with a few slices of the Yellow Peril, who knows what intelligence you might be able to unearth?’