скачать книгу бесплатно
And conversations with her father were rare events. He would knock twice on her bedroom door in the morning to make sure she woke up, but was gone before Lorna got downstairs. In the evenings, he came into the house in time to eat his meal in silence as he read that morning’s Scotsman. Then, with a cup of tea or sometimes a small glass of whisky, he sat in his chair by the fire and listened to the evening news bulletin on the BBC.
However, after almost a week of not talking about the German, Lorna realized that she did want to talk about him after all. She wanted to find out why her dad didn’t seem in the slightest bit worried that he was there, and to ask if her dad knew how he had got the scars across his face. But how could she bring up the subject?
One evening after she’d cleared away the dishes, Lorna sat down with her dad to listen to the wireless. She tried to look casual by counting the rows in the woolen scarf she was knitting for the Red Cross collection as she waited for the news bulletin to be over.
For weeks now, the radio news had been full of the Allies’ progress through Europe, chasing back the Germans from France, Belgium, and Holland. That evening’s bulletin reported on more successful bombing raids by the British and American air forces on German cities like Chemnitz, Dresden, and Magdeburg, as well as the destruction of a major bridge over the River Rhine at a town that sounded to Lorna like it was called Weasel.
As the news announcer moved on to more political news from London, Lorna decided she could ask her father now. But, as he so often did, her father had already dozed off in his chair and she didn’t have the heart to wake him. Lorna wrapped the wool around her needles and tucked them away in her knitting bag. Quietly she took the glass from her father’s hand and put it on the table beside him before she tiptoed upstairs.
As she brushed her hair in her bedroom, Lorna tried to put the German out of her mind, but the trouble was, he wouldn’t go.
He’d even appeared in her dreams. The first time, his damaged face had reared up at her and she had run from it, screaming, waking herself as she did. Another night, she hadn’t seen his face at all, but she still knew he was there, watching her. In one dream, she’d clearly seen his face as it would have been, or as it might have been, pale-skinned and clean—and handsome—and then he had been wearing a British sergeant’s uniform like John Jo’s.
And last night, he hadn’t been wearing anything …
Lorna shook her head, pretending to herself that she wanted to rid her mind of that image, and settled her head onto the pillow. Sleep took a while to come.
And it wasn’t as if she were the only person obsessing about the German. Iris seemed even more fascinated by him than Lorna.
Lately, if they walked down to the shops or to the beach after school, Lorna knew it would only be a minute or two before Iris brought him up.
The next day was no exception.
“So what’s your German been doing?” Iris asked, as Lorna knew she would.
Lorna pulled her coat more tightly round her and tucked her chin into the loops of her scarf. They were walking along the edge of the beach, shadowing the winding Peffer Burn, which snaked its way through the mudflats and sandbanks near the village.
“I haven’t seen him,” she said, “and he’s not my German.”
This sent Iris into a lecture about why Lorna should be interested, and what if the prisoner sabotaged the farm, which was what William said was bound to happen. And William also said that …
Lorna wasn’t really listening. Mrs. Mack had often said that Iris could talk the paint off a gatepost, so Lorna knew that as long as she nodded every so often, soon enough the “Threat from the German” lecture would wind down and the “Wonder of William Urquhart” lecture would begin.
Iris suddenly crouched down to retie her shoelace, without once pausing her flow of chatter. Lorna stopped too, and gazed out over Aberlady Bay.
It was a relatively calm day for February, but still freezing cold. The low sun was reflecting off the receding tide, making Lorna shield her eyes with her hand. The dunes of Gullane Point were bathed with golden light, and the exposed sands of Aberlady Bay were striped with ripples and dotted with wading birds, oystercatchers, and curlew, which darted around the huge concrete antitank blocks lining the shore. As an extra barrier to an invasion, an array of tree trunks had been sunk upright into the sand like the rib cage of some rotting dinosaur, but beyond them, Lorna could see fat-bellied seals lounging in what little sunshine was left, oblivious to the chill wind blowing across the water and the looming threat of the war.
“Come on, slow coach,” Lorna moaned, “it’s too bloody cold to hang around.”
“Just give me a minute!”
While she waited, Lorna tugged off her gloves and picked up a pebble from the path, tossing it into the shallow burn with a satisfying splash and a light plink.
“Come on, Iris,” she said, “Dad’ll be wanting his tea.”
Iris stood up, stamped her feet, and stuffed her hands deep in her pockets.
“Well?” she asked Lorna.
“Well, what?” Lorna replied.
“Oh, Lorna, sometimes I think you just never listen!” Iris scolded. “Which dress are you going to wear for the tea dance in Tranent on Saturday afternoon?”
“Tea dance?” Lorna was puzzled. “Saturday?”
“Yes!” Iris sounded like she was addressing a small child. “Dancing, on Saturday, with William and Craig?”
“William and Craig?”
“You must remember! When William asked me out that first time, he said we should all go to the next tea dance in Tranent, as a foursome. Me and William, you and Craig. Remember?”
Lorna realized she did remember, though clearly not in quite the same way as Iris did. When William had cornered Lorna after church that particular Sunday, he had indeed talked about going to the tea dance in Tranent. Lorna had been horrified by the invitation, but William had not appeared to notice. He just waited for her response. Then Iris had bounced up to them—Iris only ever bounced or flounced—demanding to know what they were talking about so secretly. Only at that point did William mention the idea of the two girls making up a foursome with him and his friend Craig.
At the time, Lorna had been under the unspeakable impression that William was asking her out, but Iris had grabbed his arm and excitedly assumed the invitation was for her. And maybe it had been. Either way, Lorna was so relieved, she had put the whole idea from her mind. But now … Craig Buchanan? Not a chance! Craig was so much worse than William. He was very good-looking, sure, but oh God, did he know it. And the way he treated girls was despicable. Lorna was sure that he and William had a bet that Craig could charm, kiss, and dump every girl in their class before graduation, and she’d long ago decided he damn well wasn’t going to do it to her. Uggghh! Craig! So perhaps William might not have been such a bad option after all.
“Well?” Iris repeated.
“I’m not sure I can go, actually.” Lorna scrambled for an excuse. “It’s getting close to the start of lambing, you know, so I doubt Dad would let me go.”
“Well, don’t tell him then,” said Iris. “Just tell him you’re going to be doing homework with me. He can’t say no to that.”
“I thought you were suddenly all moral these days, the influence of the church’s favorite son on your soul, and all that,” Lorna replied. “And now you are telling me to lie to my father?”
“Not lie exactly. Just not tell him the whole truth,” said Iris. “That’s not the same thing at all.”
“Yes, it is, and you know it!” Lorna tried to sound lighthearted, but panic was setting in. “Honestly, Dad can’t spare me.”
“But you said yesterday that lambing won’t start for another week or so. And anyway, he’s got Nellie to help him, and the German.”
“No, Iris, I really can’t.”
“It’s Craig, isn’t it?” Iris said. “You don’t want to go out with Craig. But why? He’s gorgeous.”
Lorna pulled a face. “If you like that kind of thing, I suppose.”
“Don’t be like that, Lorna. Craig is actually very nice. And you’re lucky he’ll even bother, because I know he’s been flirting with Esther Bell for ages.”
“Craig and Esther? That’s not an image I’ll get out of my head anytime soon.”
“But Craig is such a good friend to William that he says he will go with you even so,” Iris pressed on, ignoring Lorna’s snide comments.
“Well, that’s flattering!”
“But you have to, Lorna!”
“Why do I have to, Iris?” snapped Lorna.
Iris suddenly smiled her most angelic smile and pulled Lorna into a tight hug.
“Because if you don’t go too, I can’t go,” she said. “Mum wants you to act as chaperone to me and William.”
“Iris!” Lorna was trapped, but only for a second. “Why don’t you ask Esther Bell to go with you then, if she fancies Craig so much?”
“I don’t want to go to the dance with Esther Bell!”
“You won’t be going with Esther Bell.” Lorna imitated Iris’s dramatic tone. “You’ll be going with William Urquhart. And Craig Buchanan will be going with Esther Bell. And everyone will be happy—especially Esther. When was the last time anyone asked her out?”
“That might work, I suppose,” conceded Iris, “but I still wish you’d come with us.”
“I told you. Lambing. My dad. And also the fact that I wouldn’t touch the Adonis that is Craig Buchanan with a fifty-foot barge pole, even if I was paid to stab him to death with it!”
Lorna laughed, and soon Iris joined in, albeit sulkily.
Even though it wasn’t yet five o’clock, the sun was already low and the temperature was dropping fast.
“We’d better get back while there’s still some light,” Lorna said, pulling her gloves from her pocket. “But let me skim one more stone first.”
Lorna scanned the path around her feet, though it was getting harder to see now the sun had all but disappeared. There was a perfectly flat oval pebble a few inches from her shoe, and she picked it up with chilled fingertips, turning it to catch what light was left. It was the most beautiful blue-gray granite, with dark flecks that sparked even in the low light. It seemed a familiar color somehow. It reminded her of something, but of what, she wasn’t sure.
Instead of tossing it into the burn, Lorna left the pebble in her palm as she wiggled her hands into her gloves.
“Never mind, I’m done,” she said to Iris. “We need to get a move on anyway.”
“You’re not throwing that one?” Iris asked.
Already walking away, Lorna could feel the granite grow warmer against her palm, as it nestled between wool and skin.
“No, I think I’ll keep this one.”
Five (#ulink_613b30d6-be78-5f99-a16a-8d4e5720c47f)
Craigielaw Farm, Aberlady
Wednesday, 28 February
Dear John Jo,
Sorry it’s taken me a few days to write to you again, but I hope you are doing well and that it’s not as cold wherever you are as it is here.
Everything is fine. Mrs. Mack told me to send you her love and said that as soon as she’s finished knitting this last sock, she’ll get all of them wrapped up and sent to you in the hope that the parcel will reach you sometime before summer comes! If you are very lucky, you might get one of the fruitcakes she made the other day (not that there’s much actual fruit in it, or sugar, but she still gets it to taste good all the same!).
Iris and I are knitting scarves for Red Cross—shall I send you one of our marvelous creations? I’m not as good a knitter as Iris, you won’t be surprised to hear, but you’ll have to put up with one of mine since Iris has another neck to wrap hers around now. Yes, your greatest admirer is now madly in love with William Urquhart, of all people. (I know, disgusting!) She might have adored you her whole life, but now you’re out and William is in. Bad luck!
Are there any pretty girls where you are? (Where is that? I wish you could tell me!) If anyone can find one, I’m sure you can!
Dad is fine, but it’s almost lambing and there’s always too much to do. The Ministry of Agriculture sent us a new farmhand to take over from Old Lachie. Dad says the new man isn’t afraid of hard work and seems to know what he is doing, but the only thing is
I know you won’t like this, but
I can’t tell you how angry I was when
Lorna put her pen down on the blotting paper. How could she tell her brother that a German was working at Craigielaw?
But did she have to? Surely Dad would have already told both John Jo and Sandy the news in one of the letters he wrote to each of them every Sunday. They were never long letters, and Lorna doubted that he ever told them how much he missed them and wished he had them home again like she did, but two letters were sitting on the table every Monday morning without fail, ready for Derek Milne, the mailman, to pick up.
She lifted her pen, but put it down again immediately. She really wanted to be the one to tell her brothers about the prisoner, so they would know how angry she had been—how angry she still was—at the idea, so that they knew she was standing up for them, and so they would write back to her that they were angry about it as well. Then perhaps they would write to Dad and tell him he had to get rid of the German immediately.
But then again, perhaps they would feel reassured to know that their dad had a replacement for Lachie on the farm. And perhaps that also felt reassuring to Lorna. Perhaps the extra help would be … well, helpful.
So maybe she should say nothing. Yes, that was probably the best idea.
And anyway, how could she find the words to describe the way the burn had tightened the skin on that side of the prisoner’s face, the way that she’d noticed that no beard grew through the scar tissue, but that the blond stubble that grew on the undamaged cheek was so fine as to be almost invisible. Or about the way his smile tugged at the pink scar and how it made his gray eyes sparkle …
Lorna jumped as Nellie banged open the door from the yard, shattering the evening’s peace. She grabbed the unfinished letter and stuffed it into her pocket, as if she’d been caught writing something naughty.
But Nellie didn’t even come in. She just called through the open door.
“Can’t come in, love, muddy shoes, but is there any chance of another cup of tea? Your dad says the first ewe’s about to drop, and it looks like she’s going to need a bit of help. He says a cuppa would be spot on for us lot who could be up the rest of the night.”
“Of course, I’ll bring it over in a minute.”
“Cheers, m’dears!” Nellie called back as she pulled the door closed.
Once the tea was made, Lorna placed the steaming mugs onto a tray and put on her coat and rubber boots. Outside, she balanced the tray on her hip, as she pulled the door closed carefully behind her to make sure no light escaped. The blackout restrictions they had lived with since the beginning of the war had been lifted across the country a few months earlier, except for those who lived in towns and villages on the coast like Aberlady, in case of an attack from air or sea.
Caddy and Canny were slumped outside the door. They both sat up as she made her way across the moonlit yard, tails wagging, but they made none of the fuss they had made over the German.
They were both traitors.
Inside the lambing shed, Lorna found her father kneeling by a ewe lying on the straw, rubbing her belly. This wasn’t good. Sheep usually gave birth standing up, so this ewe must be exhausted by a difficult labor. Sure enough, every so often the animal would bleat pathetically.
Nellie was also kneeling, but at the tail end of the ewe. She looked disheveled but excited.
“Everything all right?” Lorna asked quietly as she laid the tea tray on the top of a wooden barrel just inside the door and rested a hand on Nellie’s shoulder.
“Aye, it’s her first time, but she’s doing fine,” Lorna’s dad said, without looking up.
“Yes, I’m all right, really,” said Nellie with a nervous smile.
“I was talking about the ewe,” said Lorna’s father with a sigh.
“Oh, right,” said Nellie. “Sorry.”
Her father palpated the ewe’s distended belly again with gentle hands.
“Almost there,” he said to Nellie. “Are you ready?”
At that moment, the ewe gave one agonizing bleat and a huge purple bag of semitransparent slop burst from her rear end. With a sickening squelch, the membrane burst. As the waters gushed out, Lorna could see the nose and front feet of the lamb for the first time. She waited for movement, but the lamb lay still on the damp straw.
