Vanessa de Haan - The Restless Sea

‘I’m not going to sing to it,’ says Olivia self-consciously, then laughing as Charlie starts to sing, ‘God Save Our Gracious King’, and the seal watches them both, bemused, before disappearing again.

‘You’ve scared it away,’ says Olivia.

But Charlie is undaunted and carries on, tunelessly. The next time the creature comes up, it is a bit closer. So Olivia joins in, and they stand there singing as the sun beats down and the sandpipers feel braver and rush closer on their tiny legs, and the minutes stretch and mould into hours, and war and the cold ships that lie on the other side of the island are far from their minds.

Charlie is insistent that he teach Olivia how to shoot. He borrows an old air rifle from the gunroom at the back of Aunt Nancy’s house. Uncle Howard’s shotguns and rifles line the walls neatly, like sentries on duty. The room smells of gun oil and leather.

He hands her the gun. ‘Practise first,’ he says. ‘The principle is the same.’

Olivia holds it awkwardly while Charlie rigs up paper targets outside. The targets seem tiny, but Olivia is beginning to learn that she likes a challenge. Her first few shots are way off the paper, but she quickly gets her eye in and it turns out she’s pretty good. Soon she is just a hair’s breadth off the centre. Charlie nods as he watches her break the rifle and feed another silver pellet into it. She snaps it shut, aims and fires. There is a tiny hole in the bull’s-eye. And again. She hits it four times in a row.

‘I guess you’ve either got it or you haven’t,’ she says, smiling.

‘All right, all right,’ says Charlie, laughing. ‘Let’s try with the proper rifle.’

The sporting rifle is much heavier. Olivia lies next to Charlie on the ground. First he demonstrates how to put the safety catch on. Then how to lock and unlock the bolt, and where to lay the smooth, pointed bullets. She takes one and slides it into its chamber.

Charlie shows her how to steady the gun. ‘Use my arm, if you need to,’ he says. He pulls the rifle up and into her shoulder. The cold stock touches her warm cheek.

‘Feel there?’ he says. ‘Where the stock sits comfortably?’ She nods.

‘Now, when you fire, you squeeze the trigger. Don’t pull it. Just squeeze.’ He holds his hand over hers to demonstrate. ‘This rifle will have more of a kick than the air rifle. So make sure you hold it in.’ She can feel his breath on the tip of her ear.

‘Line up the sight like you usually do,’ he says. She drops her head. Looks along the top of the barrel. Adjusts the position until the marker sits between its dip.

‘Fire when you’re ready. But only if and when you’re a hundred per cent ready, with a clear, true shot.’

She pulls the trigger and there’s a zipping noise and the rifle kicks back against her shoulder. Charlie gets to his knees, squinting at the target: there is a neat hole ripped just on the edge of the bull’s-eye.

‘Looks like you’d give my gunner a run for his money,’ says Charlie. Olivia grins. ‘Seriously, though.’ Charlie’s brow furrows, and he sits back on his heels so he can look at her properly. ‘This could be useful if things get sticky.’

‘I don’t think I could shoot someone, if that’s what you mean,’ she says. ‘Not even a Nazi.’

‘I hope it won’t come to that, but you might get short of food. It sounds ridiculous now it’s summer, but once winter comes again I think rationing will really bite …’

‘We’re stocking up. We’ve been pickling and bottling like mad.’

‘But there are many more people living here at the moment – and you’ll need fresh meat once it’s too cold to fish. Get Mac to show you which deer need taking, and you’ll have fresh venison.’

‘Mac’s given all that up.’

‘He may have to change his mind.’

She sits up too, dusting the soil from her elbows. ‘Do you really think things are going to get that bad?’ she asks.

‘I’m sure they will. The Germans are in the north of France. They’re in the Channel Islands, for God’s sake. It’s only a matter of time before they strike.’

‘Sometimes it’s hard to believe that anything will happen. All we’ve had here are a couple of ineffective mines and some fly-pasts. You know, Mother said she’d heard it called the “phoney war” in London.’

The colour drains from Charlie’s face. ‘Is that what you think?’ he asks.

‘No,’ she says. ‘I suppose I’ve been lucky, that’s all …’ Olivia is startled by the sudden change. His eyes have clouded to a turbulent green. His whole body is tense. He starts to walk away.

‘Charlie …’ she calls out after him. He doesn’t turn to look at her, just carries on walking, his back straight, his hands gripping the rifle, knuckles white. She has to jog to catch up. ‘I’m really sorry,’ she says. ‘I know you’ve had a terrible time …’

‘You don’t know anything,’ he says. ‘You’re just a child.’

‘Then tell me?’ she says. She rests her hand gently in the crook of his elbow. He slows a little, and then sits on a fallen tree. Olivia sits next to him. The bark is old and spongy, crumbling a little beneath their weight.

‘I couldn’t,’ he says. ‘It’s not the kind of thing a girl like you should hear.’

Olivia leans against him, and he puts out his hand and she holds it in hers. ‘I’m here if you want to,’ she says quietly. They sit in silence for a long time, while the branches of the trees creak and rub above them.

A week’s leave is over quickly. Charlie has shown her his favourite spots. He has taught her how to build a small fire on the beach to cook her catch on, finding the driest leaves and hearing them crackle as they catch and burn. He has taken her up to the string of freshwater lochs, and to the places where the golden eagles glide on thermals high above the hills. The osprey nest was not used this year – possibly because of all the commotion around the loch, but it meant they could get a bit closer to examine the great heap of twigs and branches. Sometimes, in the evenings up at Taigh Mor, she catches him staring at nothing and glimpses that darkness or hardness again in his eyes. But she doesn’t pry.

She tries to be cheerful on his last day, but she knows she will miss having him around. His case is packed and he is getting a lift to Inverness with some of the other returning sailors. ‘Thank you,’ he says, taking her hands in his.

‘For what?’

‘I’ve had the best leave ever. Like one of the summers of my childhood. Swimming. Shooting. Fishing. Heaven.’

‘Do you know where you’re going next?’

He shakes his head. ‘But I do know I’ll be back as soon as I can next get leave.’

She kisses him on the cheek. ‘Be careful, won’t you?’ she says.

‘You’ll write?’

She nods. ‘Of course,’ she says.

‘In that case, I can do anything.’ He stands up straight, smoothing his sleeves down, every part the young officer. The light bounces off the stripes on his sleeves, but the cap throws his face into darkness.

With autumn comes terrible news from down south as the Luftwaffe begin to attack London and beyond, night after night. The RAF struggles to keep them at bay. Returning home is out of the question. Mother tries to keep her tone light on the telephone, but Olivia can hear the buzz of exhaustion beneath. Stoke Hall is so close to the coast, there could easily be a stray bomb – or even an intentional one. There was a furore recently when two parachutists were seen landing in the Fir Wood, but the soldiers who are now camped out in the gardens went to investigate and found the two German airmen dead. The thought of those two dead men – German or not – dangling among the dark and spiky conifers, puts her own inconveniences to shame. She stops moaning about the security checkpoints that have sprung up at all the roads coming into or leaving the area – Gairloch, Achnasheen, Inverness. There is even one at Laide, near Mrs Campbell’s shop, where Olivia is sent to stock up on tea for Aunt Nancy, which the shopkeeper marks neatly in their ration books. And now more ships begin to arrive at the loch – this time a hotchpotch of merchant ships, refuelling before setting off on their long and treacherous journeys across the ocean. Sailors and soldiers begin to outnumber locals significantly.