Chapter 6
Late summer had exploded over the Scottish west coast, its beauty making the war feel unreal.
Heather purpled the hills behind the croft, and the sea sparkled turquoise under a brilliant azure sky.
Silver veils of midges shimmered at dusk, the air warm, smelling of sea salt.
And in the little croft cottage at the edge of the sea, Rachel waited.
After Oskar had left in those first urgent days of August, her eyes would gaze up the track, her heart panging, visualising him come striding down towards her as he had when he lived in Glasgow and arrived every second Sunday, his case in his huge hand, his long strides easily covering the rough ground.
As she had guessed, Mrs. Bain had passed on the lie she had told her – that Oskar had gone to report himself, and that she had not heard since.
The villagers seemed to have bought the story, and still remained frosty towards her, which Rachel interpreted as wary tolerance.
She sensed that most believed her – and that some did not.
Conversation ebbed when she entered a shop, and she caught whispers of ‘that German’s fancy woman.
’ She was careful not to express pro-enemy sentiment, she supported the village war efforts, and showed loyalty to Britain.
Life continued in the village – fishing boats went out at dawn and returned at dusk, fishermen mended their nets on the little quay, and women gathered at the well or outside the shops.
By October, the air had cooled. Fishermen were grumbling, saying the catches had become poorer for some reason.
Then the rumours started - that German ships lurked around the Inner Hebrides, laying mines in strange places, guided by lights shown from lonely houses, and scaring the fish away.
No thanks to yet another recently published spy novel, tales of traitorous signal lamps from windows travelled far and wide across Scotland, even reaching tiny Invermory, and Rachel felt them settle on her like chimney ash.
Her croft cottage stood alone, miles from anywhere, and her little front windows faced the sea.
She began to draw the curtains early, and did not light her lamp after dusk, taking to knitting by the hearth’s low glow instead.
Throughout the autumn she kept to the ordinary labour of the croft, hewing driftwood, tending to the hens and lifting potatoes before the frost took them.
At night she lay awake, her shoulders aching, listening to the waves rush forward then suck back from the beach, and prayed that Oskar had reached Germany safely.
She told herself that if he had been arrested for not registering, someone official would have knocked, that if he had been imprisoned, word would have come, but she did not always believe her own self assurances.
One evening in November she heard boots outside the cottage long after dark. She froze, listening, and after some time, the steps retreated. The next morning, the door of the peat shed hung open. No turves had been taken, but someone had been there.
Every Sunday, the minister spoke of sacrifice and endurance, and, when he invited the congregation to pray, Rachel silently did so for Oskar, the enemy. By December, two local lads had joined up, and were sent to the trenches. One was killed in France, and the village grieved.
Every day, for the seventeen years since she had given him away, Rachel had thought of her son – their son, who would now be a young man.
Now, she wondered if he, too, had joined up and gone to war.
She penned in her diary that December, the month of his birth, wiping tears from her eyes before they splashed onto the page and blurred the ink.
Was he wounded, or even dead? The death of the Invermory lad had brought the reality of war home to every villager, and thoughts that her son might no longer be made her heart literally ache.
More local men joined up, and the women waited, gathering in small knots in the village to share their worry and angst.
“Ma man’s at sea. I’ve had no word.”
“Aye, mine too.”
“Mine went away tae Belgium.”
“Ma lad’s in they trenches.”
They kept hope that the British war machine would release their sons and husbands back to them for Christmas, but as December dragged on, their hope flickered and died, as a candle flame, eventually, snuffs itself out.