The Restless Sea, page 41
The women share the seats in the front of the truck with the driver. The Highlands start to rise around them. Burns cascade down craggy hills into deep crevices; wet rock glimmers in green glens. The land is sparse one moment and covered in dark impenetrable woodland the next. A river appears and disappears on their left as the road twists and curls. Stunted trees teeter on huge boulders. The truck slows to let a ragged sheep cross. It trots nonchalantly in front of them, its wool hanging off in clumps, bracken dangling from its curly horns. Olivia takes in the lonely crofts tucked away in the folds of a hill here and there, feels the peace and space fill her body. Betsy remains unmoved, frowning as they pass the cosy harbour at Gairloch, where small boats bob like seabirds on the rippling water. A cluster of white houses with black roofs lies sprinkled along the shore. They climb a hilly pass, and then suddenly there is the loch opening out before them: the sight still makes Olivia catch her breath. ‘Isn’t it beautiful?’ she says. Betsy shrugs and rests her head against the window.
The truck drops them at the wrought-iron gates to Taigh Mor, and Olivia breathes the familiar tang of peat and salt deep into her lungs. It conjures up a host of memories, not least of the first time she arrived here. She glimpses the stunted rump of a wren as it darts away into the tangled foliage. She hears the blackbirds calling to each other, and, away in the direction of the loch, the seagulls crying. Amid the great swathes of flowers tumbling over each other, Betsy appears thinner, her complexion more grey, her expression more sullen. Olivia reminds herself that the girl won’t ever have seen the world in such technicolour – the bold purples and reds of rhododendrons, the creamy pink of magnolia.
They reach the end of the potholed drive, where the house looms above them. The door is, as always, standing open. ‘We just walk in?’ says Betsy. Olivia nods and encourages her to step inside. But Betsy won’t come further than the cavernous hall. ‘This place gives me the creeps,’ she says.
Olivia goes alone to find her aunt, leaving Betsy to stare at the family portraits through the gloom. For once the grand drawing room is empty of people, and Aunt Nancy is alone. She seems smaller, older. The second lengthy war of her lifetime is taking its toll. She greets Olivia enthusiastically, bustling around her, kissing her cheek and then standing back to admire her niece. ‘Where is she, then?’ she asks. Olivia tips her head towards the hall. She has had no choice but to confide in Aunt Nancy. Her aunt sighs. ‘I knew it would end in tears,’ she says in her matter-of-fact way.
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘Would I be wrong in saying you drove him to it?’
‘Yes, you would,’ says Olivia. But inside she wonders whether her aunt is right. Well, she can make amends now, by looking after Betsy, and the child, keeping them safe.
‘I’m sorry. That’s unfair. It’s just …’ The pain is evident in her aunt’s face.
‘I know,’ says Olivia, and she reaches out to her aunt, and the two women hug for a moment, each hoping the touch of another human being might fill the desolate space within.
Aunt Nancy releases Olivia. ‘I’ve got to ask,’ she says, ‘how can we be sure it’s his?’
‘I’ve asked myself the same question. But she’s Jack’s sister. We have to believe her.’
Her aunt paces behind a sofa, leaning her hands on the back of it and looking at Olivia. ‘I heard about your engagement,’ she says.
Olivia tries to smile, but her family’s refusal to accept Jack has hurt her more than she expected.
‘You really love him, don’t you?’
Olivia nods.
‘Give them time,’ says her aunt.
‘They’ll never accept him.’
‘They might. The world is changing. Even I can see that now.’
‘Tell me why it’s so different for Charlie? Why is it all right to do what he’s done? Yet I can’t love the man I want to?’
Aunt Nancy sighs, shaking her head. She does not have the answers. ‘You’re too thin,’ she says. ‘Have you been looking after yourself?’
Olivia cannot hold her aunt’s penetrating gaze. ‘I’ll be fine,’ she says.
Aunt Nancy links her arm through Olivia’s, steering her back into the hall. ‘And what if Charlie doesn’t return?’ she asks.
‘I’ll look after them.’ Even as the words leave her mouth, she knows that is what she wants to do.
Her aunt nods. If she is surprised, she doesn’t show it.
Aunt Nancy introduces herself to Betsy, tries to set the girl at ease, but Betsy is wary. She shuffles from foot to foot, looking as if she might turn and flee at any moment.
Back out on the drive, she says, ‘I didn’t know whether to curtsey or not.’
Olivia laughs. ‘Definitely not,’ she says.
‘But you said she’s a lady.’
‘She is, but not the sort you curtsey to.’
‘Did Jack come here?’
‘Yes. We met up here.’
Betsy scuffs her threadbare shoes into the ground, kicking marks into the peaty soil. ‘It don’t seem right …’
‘Why not?’
‘You’re so … different.’
‘It doesn’t seem to matter.’
‘And him meeting the likes of her.’
‘I suppose he didn’t really. He was here for such a short time …’
‘Time was, he wouldn’t have been able to leave a place like this without his pockets full.’
‘We all change,’ says Olivia.
‘Don’t I know it,’ says Betsy. There is an edge to her voice.
Olivia leads the way along the track. The sun is beginning to burn the morning’s dew off the leaves, turning it to vapour that thickens the air. A cacophony of birdsong echoes through the plants. Tall umbrellas of gunnera tower above them. On their left, the twisted trunks of the ancient rhododendrons line the steep banks, gnarled and impenetrable.
They break out into the sunshine. The bothy remains unchanged on the outside, its knobbly stone facade bright in the sunlight. The lawn that runs down to the beach is still neat and mossy, but the plants in the borders are overgrown, and the campanula has crept up the steps, threatening to break in to the front door.
Inside, Olivia blows the dust from the treasures on the windowsill, replacing them carefully. ‘You’re in there,’ says Olivia, pointing to her old bedroom. ‘I’m in here.’ She will have to sleep in the sitting room.
She goes to light the stove in the kitchen and returns to find Betsy staring out of the sitting-room window, past the rock pools flashing and blinking in the sun, beyond the orange seaweed that pulses with the lazy rhythm of the water, to the firm lines of the ships that still criss-cross the loch. ‘It’s even more spectacular when they’re not here,’ says Olivia.
But Betsy is not looking at the ships. ‘It’s so … bare,’ she says. ‘Where’s the houses? The people? The traffic?’ She shudders, then turns to take her bag into the bedroom. As she creaks the door open, there is a horrible screeching noise, and she screams and staggers back into the hall as something swoops at her, a flash of black and white.
Olivia runs to help. Betsy is shaking, her eyes wide with fear. ‘Don’t worry,’ says Olivia briskly. ‘It’s just a magpie. Must have come down the chimney. I’ll open the window.’
‘I’m not going back in there,’ says Betsy. ‘That’s bad luck, for sure.’
They can see the magpie now. It is sitting on top of the mirror on the dressing table, its claws clicking against the wood, its eye a polished black marble reflecting the room back at them.
Olivia pushes past Betsy. ‘It’s fine,’ she says, swallowing her own fear. ‘Watch.’ She opens the catch and waves her hand at the bird. One for sorrow, she is thinking. But whose sorrow? Hers or Betsy’s? Charlie’s or Jack’s? The creature croaks, a raspy, throaty sound, as it spreads its wings and glides away into the fresh air, the light catching the blue sheen on its black wings.
Betsy is still reluctant to enter the room. ‘I don’t like it here,’ she says. ‘I want to go back.’
‘Well you can’t,’ says Olivia. ‘You’ve nowhere else to go.’
‘It’s all wrong. I need to get rid of it.’ She is rubbing her hands over her stomach, as if she can erase its contents.
‘You know that’s impossible.’
‘I could throw myself down the stairs.’
‘There are no stairs here.’
‘I could drink myself stupid.’
Rattled by the bird, and tired from the journey, Olivia finally snaps. ‘Just stop it!’ she says. ‘I don’t want to hear any more. Think about someone else for a change. We’re only trying to help you. Think of all the people who never have children who have always wanted them. Think about the ones who lose children … Think about Charlie …’
‘It’s him that got me into this mess in the first place. If he hadn’t gone away, I could have got it sorted earlier. I could have got money …’
‘That’s all it is to you, isn’t it?’ Olivia lets the rage overwhelm her for a moment. ‘You don’t care about Charlie. You don’t care about the baby …’
‘You don’t know what it’s like …’
‘And you don’t know anything about me.’
‘I know it always turns out all right for the likes of you. I know that’s what money gives you. A happy ending.’
‘Even if you had all the money in the world, there would be no happy ending to this …’
‘But it would never have had a beginning. If I’d come from a family like yours, I’d never have had to work for the likes of Stoog. I wish I never had. I wish it would all go away. I want a happy ending …’ Betsy is almost hysterical. It is the first time she has let her guard down. Free of make-up and surrounded by unfamiliar things, she is a child again. Olivia sighs. Perhaps it is true, and she will always have the safety blanket of her family, even if she disagrees with them.
She takes a deep breath, gathering her thoughts, the anger and the disappointment and the sadness, pushing them all back into the void. ‘Look,’ she says. ‘If you’re worried about support, please don’t be. You’ve got me and Jack. Carl …’
But Betsy’s defences are already back in place too. ‘Me and Jack?’ She is mimicking Olivia’s voice, and her mouth has twisted into a snarl. ‘Don’t kid yourself. It’ll never work.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘You’re not one of us.’
The last ounce of energy drains from Olivia’s body. ‘Just go and rest,’ she says. ‘I’ll make us something to eat.’
Once again, Olivia sets about creating a home, sweeping away the dark, and welcoming in the light. Betsy continues to complain: her bed is uncomfortable, she is bored, there is nothing to do. It is too quiet, too cold. Olivia tries to take courage from the new growth in the world outside – the bulbs that have pushed their way up through the soil and are now in full flower, the birds carrying food for their young, the pale sunlight dappled through new leaves. She smiles as she remembers how much she once hated it here too. She looks at Betsy, this small and vulnerable creature with Jack’s eyes, trapped like the magpie on their first night. Olivia resolves to have patience with her, for Jack, for Charlie.
Betsy is fiddling with a loose strand of cotton on the sofa, picking and pulling at it, rolling it between her fingers. There is a call from the front door, and Olivia recognises Ben Munro’s voice. He greets her warmly, clasping her small hands in his strong gnarled ones. Olivia introduces Betsy, but the girl shrinks into the background. ‘No matter,’ says Ben. ‘She’ll come when she’s ready.’ He holds out a letter. ‘This came for you. Mrs Mather thought you’d want it straight away.’
Olivia looks at the officious rectangle, with its typed address and red stamps. Her hands tremble as she tears it open. She senses Betsy coming closer, her breath warm on Olivia’s shoulder. Ben reaches out a comforting hand.
Olivia reads aloud: ‘“The International Red Cross Committee can confirm that Lieutenant FitzHerbert is a prisoner-of-war. We do not know the address of the camp at which Lieutenant FitzHerbert is located, but he should be able to communicate this direct to you.”’
There is a collective sigh, and Ben grins. ‘That’s good news, isn’t it, lassie?’
‘Thank God,’ says Olivia, suddenly feeling less alone in the world.
‘What does it mean?’ says Betsy.
‘He’s alive. A prisoner-of-war, but they don’t know in which camp yet. Hopefully we’ll get a letter from him soon. Then we can write to him.’
‘And tell him about the baby …’
‘Exactly.’ Olivia cannot help wondering whether the relief on Betsy’s face is for Charlie or for herself.
Olivia leaves Betsy at the cottage and cycles to the naval base every day. She settles quickly back into her boarding officer duties, inspecting the merchant ships that come into the loch, delivering sailing orders, explaining route alterations, collecting confidential books, as well as checking guns, ammunition and armaments stores. She hears stories of the crossings thick with ice, of more ships disappearing, of U-boats and planes on the attack. Her torch picks out new lines etched by fear and exhaustion across once youthful faces. She clambers back down the swaying rope ladder, dwarfed by the great peeling hulls, pulling her duffle coat tighter and sinking into her white scarf. As she motors out with the mail officer and the ships chuck their fat sacks of mail down into their boat, she hopes one might contain a letter from Jack. But it doesn’t, and to her shame, Olivia finds she is relieved, because it is as if her baby and Betsy’s baby have become mixed up, and she does not know how to tell him about either now. She convinces herself that she will do it as soon as she has told Charlie. After all, it is his secret, and he should be given the chance to defend himself before the truth is out. Then she is flooded with guilt as she remembers that Charlie knows about her own baby, while Jack does not. The harder she tries to swim, the more she drowns.
There is no time to make new friends. When Olivia is not working, she is at the bothy with Betsy. No one asks about the girl: anyone who sees her – which is not often as she barely leaves the cottage – assumes she is one of Olivia’s younger relations. But she could not be more different to them; she is a child, but one who whimpers in her sleep and hoards food under her bed. She can never stick at anything. Her mind leaps from one thing to the next. She paces around the small cottage, moving things, picking at things, balancing a teaspoon on a cup, cracking her knuckles, or she lies despondently on the sofa, staring out across the loch.
‘When will we know where he is?’ says Betsy, rearranging the cushions, stretching herself out flat, her hands resting on her growing belly.
‘Soon, I hope.’
‘And you’ll tell him to do the right thing?’
‘Charlie always does the right thing.’
‘You haven’t told Jack yet, have you?’
Olivia shakes her head, feels the guilt needle at her again.
‘Good,’ says Betsy. ‘He’ll probably kill Charlie. Or me. Definitely Stoog.’
‘I’m sure he’ll understand.’
‘Are you really sure, though?’
And Betsy looks at her with eyes hard as flint, and of course, Olivia isn’t sure; she has no idea how Jack will react. All she can do is pray that Charlie writes soon, and that he will have some idea how to sort the whole mess out.
Betsy sighs dramatically and wriggles into another position. ‘I can’t see what it is you like about this place.’
‘If you’d only go out and explore, then you’d discover for yourself.’
Betsy points at her stomach. ‘I don’t think so.’
Olivia sighs. ‘You’re having a baby; you’re not an invalid.’
‘You try lumping this about. Anyway, I don’t want people seeing me. I’m ugly and fat.’
‘It’ll get worse if you don’t move around.’
But there is nothing that Olivia can say to persuade Betsy to go out of sight of the bothy, not even a promise of cake with Mrs Mac. In fact, Betsy still regards the locals with suspicion, complaining that she can’t understand what they’re saying. Olivia wonders if it reminds her of being evacuated – of the Roses, who poked and prodded and checked her for lice. Even when Olivia tries to get her to help on the steps of the bothy, the girl refuses. She wrinkles her nose at the rotting mackerel heads Olivia uses as bait in the creel, and she won’t go near a catch – scared of the claws of a large orange crab pinching at thin air, or the small, pink, squat lobsters, fat pincers flailing.
But even though she won’t wander, the hours spent lounging on the overgrown lawn in the early summer sunshine set a healthy hue to Betsy’s complexion, and her face begins to lose some of its hardness.
At last a letter arrives from Charlie with details of the camp he’s in. Olivia is so relieved that she wastes no time in finding a pen and paper. ‘Come on,’ she says, patting the table. ‘A letter will be such a boost for him.’
‘I can’t,’ says Betsy.
‘Of course you can.’
‘I mean, I can’t.’ Betsy looks at her hands.
‘Oh. I see. How about you tell me what to write, then?’
‘Won’t you just do it for me?’
‘Just try. Once you start …’
But Betsy is frustrated, storming from the room. ‘Stop telling me what to do,’ she says. ‘I’m not a kid.’ Then she slams the door to her bedroom as though she is.
So Olivia writes to Charlie, once a week, in the correct manner, clearly written on no more than two sides of normal writing paper, as stated by the regulations for letters to prisoners-of-war. She tells him about Betsy and the baby. She tells him that whatever happens, she will make sure the baby is all right. And then she writes about Scotland, because she doesn’t know what else to say, and it’s almost as if she can make it better – as if she can turn back the clock – by telling him about the arctic terns returning to breed, their rich black caps and blood-red beaks in stark contrast to their elegant streamlined tails, like pale swallows of the sea. She tells him about the dolphin that managed to get into the loch, despite the defences, bursting out of the sea in a shower of glistening water to the delight of the weary sailors. She tells him about the sleek black-and-white razorbills diving for sprats and herring to feed their chicks, so hard to tell apart from the guillemots if it weren’t for their stumpy beaks with the white line like trickled paint. And each time she writes, she thinks now is the time to write to Jack too, and tell him. But however hard she tries, she simply cannot: the words will not flow from her mind or her hand as they do to Charlie. And so she does not, and every day her heart grows a little heavier.
