Vanessa de Haan - The Restless Sea

‘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 and go without incident. Olivia gets used to them gliding silently into the loch, tries not to let their presence disturb her. But then, in early December, German mines punch a hole in a battleship at the mouth of the loch. Olivia 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.