is awake when it happens, lying in bed, a pale light pencilled around the window frames, a chill breeze blowing through the open window, while she is as warm as one of the eggs beneath Mac’s chickens. A boom, and she is out of bed and pedalling to Aultbea, where worried locals try to send her home again, but not until she has seen the divers go down in their suits to inspect the damage. She wants to write to Charlie about it, because it is frightening to think that the Germans must know there are ships here now. But of course she can’t.
Nor can she write about the special pass she has been given to show she is allowed to be here, for Loch Ewe is now Port A, a secret base, the perfect place for the Admiralty to hide their ships. Or the plane that passes low over her one afternoon when she is out checking fences for Mac. Or the black puffs of flak in the air beneath it, and how – a second later – the thud of the anti-aircraft guns that are now positioned at the mouth of the loch reaches her ears. It is an eerie, ominous blast that echoes in the gullies behind her, sending a shower of snow from the branches of small trees nearby, and on up the glen. The plane growls on, and she is frozen to the spot until it is over her, quite low – low enough to see the pilot seated inside – low enough to see the black cross painted beneath its wings. She is sure she sees the pilot raise his hand in greeting, and then the plane passes over the peak and dips out of sight.
After that, she makes an effort to traipse up to the big house every day to listen to the news on the tortoiseshell wireless, and to talk to Aunt Nancy, who seems to know more than the authoritative voice of the BBC broadcaster. She hears how Norway is lost, and she wonders if that was where Charlie was, and where he will be sent next. Chamberlain resigns, and Churchill takes over. With Norway secured, the Germans turn their attention to a massive assault along the Western Front. They push the Allies back and back until they are trapped along the north coast of France, on the beaches and in the town of Dunkirk. Olivia hears about the miracle of Dunkirk, how so many men are delivered safely home across the Channel. She picks up whispers that Charlie might have been involved. She wonders whether the Macs’ boys, Callum and Angus, are among those that were saved. She lies awake at night, staring into the dark, knowing that Britain is all alone.
Olivia is in the echoing hall at Taigh Mor, talking to Mother about how Stoke Hall is now being used as a barracks for hundreds of soldiers. It is early summer and, with the Nazis occupying the Channel Isles, the threat of invasion is once again a reality. Hard to believe on such a beautiful summer’s day. As usual the large door is wide open, the sunlight from outside banishing some of the gloom from the vast room. The silhouette of a man throws a shadow across the door. For a moment Olivia doesn’t recognise him, but when she replaces the receiver and sees the features fall into place, there is Charlie, tall and tanned, in his uniform, and looking every part the war hero. It is strange – like meeting an old friend who she somehow doesn’t know at all. She isn’t sure whether to embrace or shake hands, but he takes charge, bending down to kiss her cheek, and she feels his uniform prickly against her skin.
She hides her hands behind her back, suddenly conscious that her fingernails are ingrained with dirt. But Charlie is looking at her feet in amusement. These days she doesn’t bother with shoes when it’s warm – she grew out of her old ones ages ago, and there is nowhere to buy more. She borrows whatever she can find from Aunt Nancy’s boot room when she needs to. Her feet are thick-soled, and she thinks nothing now of running over rocks and gravel.
She blushes and looks up at him. ‘I’m afraid I’ve grown rather wild,’ she says.
‘I think it’s rather charming,’ he says. There is something different about him that she can’t put her finger on: a sadness or an emptiness behind his smile.
‘Aunt Nancy will be thrilled that you’re here.’
‘I certainly am,’ says her aunt, appearing behind her.
Charlie grins. ‘Lady M.’ He stoops to kiss her and she holds his face in both her hands as though admiring a child.
‘It’s so good to have you home,’ she says, ushering him and Olivia into the drawing room.
Charlie strides to the French windows and looks out at the ships on the loch. ‘How many are coming in now?’ he asks, his voice suddenly sharper, more officious.
‘A lot more. It could become a useful place for convoys to congregate.’
‘Any permanent site?’
‘On its way. Should be up and running by this time next year. For now, officers are messed at the hotel or here. Others are billeted with various people – wherever there’s room.’
‘What about the mines?’
‘We’ve had no more problems …’
‘I heard there’d been a U-boat?’
‘Dealt with immediately.’
‘We’ve also had the Luftwaffe over,’ says Olivia.
Charlie looks anxiously at Aunt Nancy. ‘I hadn’t heard about that.’
‘It’s nothing to worry about,’ says Aunt Nancy. ‘Just reconnaissance. There are far more dangerous things going on elsewhere. Please don’t look so worried, my dear. Scapa was a terrible, terrible tragedy. But it won’t happen here. Now how about going for a swim? It’s lovely out there.’
Charlie looks as though he’s going to say something else, but then turns to the windows again. Beyond the warships, the water is sparkling seductively. ‘We can still swim?’ he asks.
‘Of course!’
He takes a deep breath and exhales, as if banishing bad thoughts. Then he turns back to face them, the frown gone from his face. ‘Good idea,’ he says. ‘I’m boiling and filthy from the train. It took an age.’
‘I’ll take you across to Firemore,’ says Olivia. ‘I’d like to put out some lines anyway.’
Charlie grins. ‘Who is this?’ he asks Aunt Nancy. ‘Certainly not the prim girl I met on the train last year.’
‘I’m not prim!’
‘I’m only teasing. But you are quite different.’
‘So are you.’
Charlie glances at her and then down at his feet. ‘Yes. I suppose I am,’ he says. He is not smiling any more.
Firemore beach is on the south side of the loch, a long horseshoe of reddish golden sand. Charlie insists on taking both oars, while Olivia throws the creels and lines over the side, the muscles in her brown arms tensing with effort. When she has finished, she hangs over the edge, enjoying being rowed by someone else for once. She sees silver slivers of sand eels dart beneath the boat, and dangles her hands in the water, leaving glittery trails. The loch is calm and the air is warm; the heat makes her light-headed. Two oystercatchers flit past, black and white against the pale water, their distinctive peeping whistles ringing out across the loch, their orange beaks and pink legs vivid against the blue sky. They flash their white underbellies before turning and sweeping back around, the white V on their backs and the white stripes down their wings in perfect symmetry. She wants to ask Charlie whether he flew at Dunkirk, but the words won’t come. The familiarity of their letters doesn’t seem to translate when he is actually here, in front of her. She closes her eyes, the world a haze of unanswered questions behind her eyelids.
Charlie suddenly stands, setting the boat rocking. Before she can tell him to sit down, he has unbuttoned his shirt, taken off his trousers, and leapt overboard, his pale body distorted beneath the water. He breaks the surface, his hair flashing in the sunlight, sleek against his head. ‘Are you coming in?’ he asks.
‘What about the boat?’
He laughs. ‘She’ll be fine. There’s not a breath of wind, and the tide is on the turn,’ he says. ‘Chuck the painter over the side and let her go. I’ll grab her in a minute.’
Olivia needs no further encouragement. She slips off her shorts and pulls her top over her head, already dressed in her bathing costume. She throws the end