to the boulders above. Her feet slip with every step, and she has to be careful not to catch her ankle in one of the uneven, bottomless holes. It is steep, and for a moment her head spins. She is in the right place: from here she can see the top of the sodden sheep and Mac’s flat cap. She crawls out on to the rocks. They scrape into her knees, cutting through her flannel trousers. She lies down and inches forward to look over the edge. Mac and the sheep are directly below her. There is nothing to grab on to, just the weight of her body holding her to the ground. Her heart thumps against solid rock. She dangles the rope down. It takes a few goes, but she manages to feed it in behind the sheep, and Mac disappears to scrabble for the end underneath the creature. He reappears, gives her the thumbs-up, and then she throws the other end of the rope down to him and scrambles away from the edge, her hip bones grazed against the rock.
By the time she gets back, Mac has tied the rope around the sheep. They each take the rope in their hands and begin to pull. The rope burns, but, with a struggle and a grunt, the sheep is freed. It rolls on to the ground for a moment, a bundle of legs and wool. Then it stands up and trots away with a dismissive bark.
‘Ungrateful creature,’ says Mac, and they both burst out laughing, wiping the water from their faces, unsticking their feet from the squelching mud.
‘Will it be all right?’ Olivia asks.
‘Thanks to you, lassie.’ Mac smiles, and she can see his eyes are brilliant blue in the leathery face.
In the farmhouse, Mrs Mac says, ‘Stay for something to eat, won’t you?’ She offers Olivia a slice of cake and a cup of tea. She drapes a towel around Olivia’s back and rubs at her scraggy hair to soak up some of the rain. The simple movement touches something deep in Olivia. It is nice to be mothered.
‘Hard work out there without our boys,’ says Mac.
‘I think the girl will do just as well for now,’ says his wife.
Olivia smiles, pleased. ‘Where are your sons?’ she asks, her mouth full of fluffy sponge.
‘Moved away. Got wee ones of their own now,’ says Mrs Mac.
Mac lifts a picture down from the mantelpiece. ‘There we go,’ he says. ‘Callum and Angus and their wives and our three grandchildren, Mary, Hamish, and wee Gus. Taken in the spring.’
It is a fine picture. Callum and Angus are in their uniforms, their wives looking at them proudly, the children at their feet. ‘When will they next come to visit?’ asks Olivia.
‘Och. We won’t be seeing them for a while,’ says Mrs Mac. Her lips are set in a thin line. ‘Silly boys. They’re back with their regiments. They’ll be off to France any day soon.’
‘Now, now,’ says Mac. ‘We don’t know that for sure.’ Olivia is surprised to see that his hands are trembling as his cup rattles on its saucer.
Olivia drops in to Taigh Mor on her way back to the bothy. The rain has cleared, and now the bracken is shining yellow and orange beneath trembling aspen leaves that flash and flutter gold in the breeze. There are four shiny black cars parked on the drive in front of the house, all polished to perfection, the rain pooling in small puddles like ink on their bonnets. Leaning against one corner of the large house are four men, chatting and smoking cigarettes. The smoke curls white into the air. They stop to look at Olivia without interest as she crunches across the gravel, before turning back to their conversation. In the distance, the pale sea reflects the pale sky.
As usual, the heavy front door is open. Olivia walks slowly in. Like her own home down south, it is cool inside, but the wooden floors are bare of rugs, and the furniture is dark and dusty. There are antlers all over the walls, spiky and forbidding, and she suddenly longs for the light and airy bothy. Uncle Howard’s eyes follow her along the hall, still unused to seeing a youngster in the house. Olivia’s skin tingles; she is suddenly aware of her damp clothes, her tangled hair, her muddy boots.
There are nine men with Aunt Nancy in the drawing room, all with their backs to her. One of them seems familiar, with a jocular round face and a cigar, but he is probably simply a returning visitor, of which there seems to be a steady stream. Olivia would dearly like to know what goes on at these meetings, but has to be satisfied with evasive explanations about her aunt doing her bit for the war effort and reminding Olivia proudly of her role in France in the last war – which inevitably leads to memories of Uncle Howard and the end of the conversation.
‘Come in, darling. Come in,’ says Aunt Nancy, motioning at Olivia. Olivia points at her filthy feet, but Aunt Nancy shakes her head. ‘Don’t worry about those. These floors have seen far worse.’ She introduces Olivia as her niece, and Olivia is sure she glimpses a flash of disapproval as the men take in her mud-stained trousers and unkempt hair, but they are too polite to say anything before turning back to help themselves to one of Clarkson’s home-made biscuits.
‘Dreadful news,’ says Aunt Nancy. ‘It was the bloody Nazis that got into Scapa Flow. Can you believe it?’
‘You mean …’
‘Yes exactly. Those poor boys … Torpedoed! Charlie was up there too.’
‘How awful!’ Olivia’s hand goes up to her mouth.
‘No, no. Don’t worry. He wasn’t on board. But he was in the harbour. All those poor souls. You must write to him.’
‘I have.’
‘I mean carry on. It’s our duty to bolster the morale of men who are away fighting. Letters mean more than you can ever realise. Your Uncle Howard lived for them …’ She peters out. The men stir their tea awkwardly.
The round-faced man clears his throat and takes a puff on his cigar. It is clear that he wants to get back to business.
‘Well, you’d best be off then, darling,’ says Aunt Nancy. ‘I’m sure you have plenty to do.’ Olivia turns to leave, knowing when she is dismissed. ‘Oh’ – Olivia stops, her hand resting on the doorframe – ‘and don’t be alarmed if you see more ships in the loch. Scapa Flow is obviously compromised, and these chaps need somewhere else to hide their ships.’ The men stare at her. ‘Hush, hush, of course,’ says Aunt Nancy, putting her finger to her lips.
On the track back to the bothy, Olivia breathes in the autumn air. Out here, no one cares what she looks like. She makes the most of it, splashing through puddles that are orangey-brown, the colour of peat. On her right she is dwarfed by vast umbrellas of gunnera, still holding water from this morning’s storm. On her left, ancient rhododendrons line the steep bank, their twisted branches and trunks an impenetrable tangle. A myriad of birdsong echoes through the plants. At the end of the track, the view opens out again into the vista she has come to love. There is the bothy on the edge of the wood, its knobbly stone facade bright white against the autumn fire of yellow and orange and red. The bright flowers that surrounded the cottage in the summer are no longer colourful but drooping with seed heads of all shapes and sizes. The lawn that runs down to the beach is still lush and green. The loch is calm, just the dark breath of a sudden breeze rippling across it. As she reaches the steps of the bothy, some seagulls fly up from the water with worried cries, the droplets from their legs fracturing their clear reflections. Startled, Olivia turns to see what has frightened them, and, as she does, she catches sight of something that – even with her aunt’s warning – makes her breath snag in her chest. On the other side of the island, where the fishing fleet shelters by the village of Aultbea, a vast grey mass of metal rises out of the water. It is a British destroyer. Next to it, the fishing trawlers are mere specks. Olivia takes in the heavily armoured bridge, the fat funnel, the mast like a crucifix reaching up to heaven, the spiky gun turrets, the guns that seem to be pointing in every direction and from every part of her. This is what war looks like: cold and grey and forbidding. She shudders and goes into the bothy, closing the door firmly behind her for the first time in weeks.
At first the ships come