Rob raised his hand until he knew she could no longer see it.
The small boat plowed through the waves until it was only a small speck far out on the Minch.
This must be how the crofter felt when his Selkie waded into the water—heartbroken, afraid he was seeing her for the last time. He continued to stand on the dock, Shep whining and circling his feet.
Rob Savage, who thought he had known the true depths of loneliness growing up, had never felt so bereft in his life.
CHAPTER 42
Three days after Maggie’s departure, a young constable and two older members of the Home Guard from the Isle of Skye, arrived on Innisbraw. “Most of our lads have been seconded to the War Department, so we’ve resorted to using members of the Home Guard,” the constable explained. He voiced his regret at missing Maggie, but questioned Rob and John, making copious notes, before interviewing Hugh, the MacDonalds, Elspeth, and the MacPhees. He also placed the napkin and remains of the scone into a secure container.
“Miss Hunter will definitely be charged with attempted murder, but because she’s deteriorated both mentally and physically while in jail, there’s every possibility she’ll be found insane and confined to a secure mental institution, most likely Stoneyetts in Lanarkshire.”
Neither Rob nor John felt like talking after the trio left the island. Una Hunter had been an evil influence on Innisbraw, but no one suspected she was insane.
“I pray she receives help,” John said. “It must be terrible to be consumed with such evil thoughts.” Shoulders slumped, he walked to the patient room he had slept in since Maggie’s departure.
Rob prayed a long time, asking the Lord to help him forgive Una. Already saddened by Maggie’s departure, his heart felt even heavier and he spent the night sitting on the couch in the foyer, stroking Shep’s soft fur, staring into the glowing peat fire.
***
By the end of the first week of September, clear, windy days gave way to louring skies and frequent gusty rain showers—what the men on the island called “pishing-doons.” Clouds often obscured the top of Ben Innis. Even on the days when the sun shone, it cast a weak, tenuous light upon Innisbraw, its rays carrying little of the remembered warmth of summer. The crofters took shelter in folds and byres, praying for enough dry weather in October to harvest their oats and barley when the grains would be plump and ripe.
The dreich weather matched Rob’s spirits. He felt hollow, drained of all joy. On the mornings he didn’t meet with Elspeth for his Gaelic lessons, he spent hours on the entry, looking southeast toward London. If he did have a Gaelic lesson, he went out to the entry after dinner.
Even rain didn’t stop his daily vigil. He huddled on the bench in his leather A-2 jacket, hands in pockets, shoulders hunched as he gazed off at the horizon, Shep at his side. The pup pressed his body against Rob’s legs, shivering occasionally as he looked up at his master’s face.
***
Elspeth climbed from Angus’s cart on a morning not scheduled for a lesson. “Rob, ’tis time to take advantage of our first clear day for that trip to Maggie’s garden you promised me the summer.”
A trip to the garden might divert his thoughts. If nothing else, it would spend some of the minutes that stood between him and Maggie. By the time he closed the cottage gate behind them, the cannie old woman’s questions had him pouring out his grief at Maggie’s absence.
“Then you must keep yourself busy during the day so you can get a guid night’s sleep.”
“I can’t sleep, so I work most nights on the design for the boat.” He rested his weight on his right leg.
“Then when do you sleep? And when do you eat? You’re already losing weight and our Maggie isn’t long gone. If you keep this up, you’ll no’ be fit to return to duty.”
“You sound like John. I take a nap in the afternoon and I’m eating as much as I can. About all Flora cooks is mutton, which I detest.”
“Mutton is it? That will never do. Our next lesson, I’ll bring you some of those scones you like so much.”
“As long as you don’t sneak any mutton in. Or hensbane.”
They spent a long time in the garden, Shep cavorting about chasing dragonflies while Elspeth told Rob the names of the flowers and bushes. She knew when they’d been planted, many with Maggie’s help when she was only a wee lass.
What a phenomenal memory for someone her age.
She suddenly looked up and pointed with her walking stick
“Here comes Angus, and right on time.”
Rob and the crofter exchanged greetings while Angus helped Elspeth onto the cart bench. “Thank ye.” Rob squeezed her hand. “You’ve shared a part of Maggie’s past I knew nothing about.”
***
The high point of Rob’s life occurred every other evening when John fetched the post from Alice Ross. He read Maggie’s letters until he could quote each word from memory. He wrote every day, sometimes only a note, and other times a one- or two-page letter. He shared each physical milestone with her, like his graduation from crutches to two walking sticks, and gave accounts of his numerous ventures into her garden, including the one with Elspeth. He also wrote about Shep’s progress.
You wouldn’t know the pup. He’s doubled in size and his herding instinct grows keener each day.
I watched an Oyster Catcher drop a shellfish onto one of those large rocks below the fell to break it open. That cannie bird devoured it in several bites and flew off, making a pik-pik-pik cry of victory. Angus tells me the marram grasses on the western strand bend and ripple in the winds and the girse is growing greener each day with the freshening rains.
How I long to inhale your sweet, warm-honey heather scent. Please take care, my precious Maggie. There are no words to describe how much I love and miss you.
***
My Dearest Rob,
Thank ye for your latest letter. It sounds like Shep is keeping you company, which is what I wanted so badly. I’m happy you and Elspeth took time in my garden, though it must look dismal with the weather so dreich. From your description, I could see the marram grasses, their yellow needles bending in the wind. I’d forgotten how delightful the Oyster Catchers sound.
I’m so kittled up to read you’re using walking sticks. Please keep writing me about your progress. The air raids over London of late summer have no’ slackened though the cloud cover is verra dense. I would love to tell you more but the censors would just blacken it out. I can tell you that my work helps keep me too busy to dwell on how much I love and miss you, but the nights I’m no’ on duty are so dreary. Remember, my luve, “We’ll Meet Again.”
Rob put Vera Lynn’s record on, but stopped it in the middle of the first song. It hurt too much without Maggie nestled in his arms.
***
“John, I feel guilty keeping you away from your work just to monitor my recovery.”
The doctor chuckled. “Och, lad, I always try to spend three months here, from the middle of August to the middle of November. I travel so much and am so busy at the university and infirmary, I need time to do research and writing away from all of the duties I’m expected to perform.”
“You’re sure you’re no’ making excuses to be here because of me?”
“Ask Elspeth. I didn’t make it at all last year because we were short-handed with all of the war-wounded, but this year they’ve added several locums—physicians who fill in for others—so I’m back to my usual routine.”
***
Flora cooked and cleaned every day. Rob ate as much as he could, but he didn’t relish her food the way he had Maggie’s. It was all he could do to choke down a mouthful or two of the rank-tasting mutton. She was also reluctant to use the tightly rationed sugar and flour John provided, so she never made sweet scones or shortbread. There were times when the three scones Elspeth brought him every other day made up the bulk of his diet. As the days passed, his appetite dwindled until food became only a necessity.
His lessons with Elspeth continued. For
a brief time every other day he became the old Rob, eagerly memorizing verb forms, language patterns, and vocabulary in the Gaelic. She always made a point to touch his hands or arms, and never left without hugging him tightly. The warmth of Maggie’s hands pulled suddenly from his had left a frozen block of ice in his belly. He looked forward to Elspeth’s warm touch even more than he did the lessons.
He devoured the books on boat-building John had brought, writing copious notes and drawing diagrams, often spending the entire night reading and thinking through problems. For the first time since arriving on Innisbraw, he drew the blackout curtains every night to block out the light from the lamp he kept burning in his room.
Bill Pointer, the son of the orphanage director in Newton, New Hampshire, sent an outdated copy of the boats used by the U.S. Coast Guard, exactly what Rob needed. His notebooks filled with ideas quickly piled up on the table he used as a desk.
The Royal National Lifeboat Institution’s books disappointed him. The R.N.L.I. boats were too small and underpowered for the type of rescues he envisioned.
He incorporated everything he could remember about the British Navy’s rescue boat, which had plucked him and his crew out from the English Channel the time they’d bailed out, with his notes on the United States Coast Guard. A clearer picture of the boat he wanted to design took shape.
***
After scanning every book, Rob realized he faced a serious problem. None of the books addressed how to build a modern, engine-propelled boat that would resist capsizing in high seas without using an inflatable bladder, which took up most of the aft deck. He mulled the problem over for days, praying for Divine help.
One night, he dreamed he was making a crash landing of his damaged B-17 into the English Channel. As the bomber neared the water, he braced for impact. None came. Instead, the B-17 slid through the water smoothly before coming to a gradual stop. He looked out the side windscreen at the left wing. Though submerged up to the engine cowlings, the plane didn’t sink. Somehow, the air trapped in the lower half of the fuselage kept the B-17 afloat.
He woke with a start. Air pockets. Empty chambers, filled with nothing but air, built into the hull could stabilize a boat and keep it from capsizing, or even right it once it had.
He had fallen asleep at his table. He ground his fists against his stinging eyes and grabbed a drawing pad and pencil. The engine room he planned would take up some below-deck space, but putting the stretchers and medical equipment in a large cabin on deck left a lot of space inside a boat’s hull. There had to be a way to balance and maximize the space. He sketched a possible design.
***
Darling Maggie, I think I’m getting closer to a design for an almost unsinkable rescue boat which should right herself even if she capsizes. I’ve been meeting with some of the fishermen, including Malcolm, Tormad, and Mark, getting all the information I can about their trawlers and the kinds of problems they encounter at sea.
’Tis the first week of October, and I reached another milestone. Today, I walked with just one stick. You should see Shep when I move too fast. He races around and stands in front of me, barking, and acting like he’s taking silent commands from you. Pray God this war ends soon so you and I can be here to see the first sprigs of green in your garden. You can never know how much I long to hold you close and look into your violet-blue eyes.
***
Dearest Rob,
I’m so proud of you. One walking stick! How far you’ve come and in so little time. Please don’t work too hard and remember to eat a lot of meat, for it builds muscle.
I finally found you a pair of sturdy walking shoes to take the place of your dress boots. They are military issue, but leather is so hard to come by and no one else had a size sixteen—American—in stock. I am sending them by post the day. I miss you so terribly. Only your being on Innisbraw brings me any peace of mind.
P.S. Of course, I’m communicating with Shep. How else can I make sure you don’t over-do? Remember, I live for the time we can be together again.
***
My Dearest Maggie, I went to my first ceilidh last een at Alan and Ishbel MacRae’s cottage. They had music—a young crofter who played a button box and sometimes a penny whistle and twa other crofters, one with a guitar and the other a piper.
The left leg is coming along much better. Next week, I may discard the stick and start walking on my own. I’ll be wearing the shoes you sent. They’re a perfect fit. I miss you more than I can ever convey with words. Take care, my luve.
P.S. Everyone sends their luve and prayers.
P.P.S. Please tell Shep I can go a little faster. He’s driving me daft.
CHAPTER 43
RAF airfield hospital, outskirts of London
Maggie hurried down the ancient manor staircase to the converted operating theatres and recovery rooms on the first floor. No time for a bath in the huge, ornate bathing room, just a splash of water to her face and a change into a fresh hospital dress. She signed in at the desk and rushed to a recovery room just in time to hold the door for orderlies pushing a patient on a trolley. She stood in the doorway while they transferred the patient to a bed.
“Last one of the day, Leftenant—a real Spitfire ace.” One of the orderlies gave a tired grin, handing her a vitals chart. “Looks like they’re working you to the bone.”
“You too, Will. Staying over, are you?”
His grin widened, revealing a missing incisor. “Not me. This lad’s on his way to the nearest pub for a pint of bitters. Ta-ra.”
“Guid-bye to you.” Maggie gazed down at the unconscious pilot. So young, but weren’t they all? She stretched her aching back and rubbed her eyes. Six doubles in as many days was too much. If only they had more nurses. She checked his IV and blood catheters, making sure there was no swelling or seeping blood at the needle sites, then took his pulse, counted his respirations, and recorded the information on his vitals chart.
For his blood pressure, she palpated his inner arm to find the brachial artery and strapped the cuff around his upper arm. As she reached for her stethoscope, the strident wail of the air-raid siren warped into the night.
She gasped, hand flying to her throat. She couldn’t leave her patient now. And his condition was too critical to wheel him down the ramp leading to the basement beneath the manor.
An orderly threw open the door—one of the Cockney lads. “Come on, Leftenant, you need to get out of ’ere!”
“I’ll no’ leave my patient! He just came from surgery.”
“Cor blimey, I’ll ’elp you push the bed, but we ’ave to move now!”
Maggie shook her head. “It won’t fit through the doorway, and he’s too critical. Just go!”
He shook his head and disappeared. Why did Will have to be off-duty when she needed him? He would never have left her alone.
The loud drone of a low-flying airplane filled the air and voices shouted when the siren dropped in pitch. She unlocked the bed’s wheels and moved it into a corner, then raced to the linen shelf, gathered an armload of pillows, and piled them over her patient’s body.
A violent explosion shook the building. Blood and saline bottles crashed to the floor.
Surely they were bombing the nearby airfield, no’ the hospital! The ancient slate roof would melt like soft butter under a direct hit. She leaned across her patient, shielding his face with her body.
The light flickered and died.
The building shook as another blast followed, then another and another. Old emulsified plaster drifted from the ceiling like giant flakes of dirty snow.
The room filled with such a cacophony she put her hands over her ears.
“Help us, Faither!” she cried. “Please, please help us!”
CHAPTER 44
Two days. No letters from Maggie.
Rob tried to ignore his anxiety.
Four days without a letter.
He sat on the entry bench, shivering in the stiff, bone-chilling wind. Why didn’t she write? Wa
s she sick? Had she been injured—or?
He groaned and rested his head in his hands. “Please, Heavenly Faither, please take care of my Maggie. I can’t bear this waiting, not knowing how she is. Be with her, protect her, and ...” Sobs tore from his throat.
Shep’s nails dug into his knee.
“You’re a guid lad.” Rob picked up the shivering pup and cradled him in his arms, burying his face in soft fur. “I’m sorry you’re cold. I should have put you in my room last een.”
A warm tongue slavered his chin.
He raised his face, staring into the cloud-shrouded night sky. “Lord, I’m begging You, be with my Maggie.”
***
Angry black clouds wrestled the frigid morning wind as John hurried across the infirmary entry. Rob huddled on the bench, Shep in his arms. Surely, the lad had not spent the night outside? He clasped Rob’s shoulder. “I know you’re verra worried about Maggie. I’m certain ’tis just a mix-up at the military postal service.”
Shep whined.
Rob, clad in his leather bomber jacket over a thin cotton Jacobite shirt, did not acknowledge John’s presence.
“You didn’t eat a bite of supper. You can’t go on like this.”
“Something’s happened,” Rob mumbled, “but I don’t know what. I’ve prayed all night.” He raised his head, eyes bloodshot, face haggard. “She’s never missed a post.” He rubbed the stubble on his chin. “Twa letters every-other-day since she left—and nowt for four days.”
“I’ll meet the Sea Rouk myself this een. I already have my staff looking into it, but they’ve found nowt so far. If a letter doesn’t arrive the night, I’ll radio my contact in the RAF for information about her hospital.”
“They could have been bombed.”
“Och, stop torturing yourself. There could be countless reasons for a delayed post.”
John lowered Shep to the stone flags.
The pup shook himself vigorously before bounding off to the path.
“We have to trust our Lord in this. Go bathe yourself and shave while I make some tea and coffee. Flora’s due any minute.”
***
Three more days of agonizing waiting. Rob sat on his bed, forehead pressed into his palms. Was Maggie injured? Was she . . .no, he couldn’t even think the word. Without his Maggie, there’d be no more dreams of the future, no laughter, no hope. A sudden mind picture halted the breath in his throat. Maggie in her uniform, her hand clasped in his, a shy smile on her lips. The nearness of you. He closed his eyes and allowed the music to sweep over him, to blot out his fear, to bring her so close his mouth filled with her taste. Warm-honey fragrance, tiny, trembling body, violet-blue eyes offering a glimpse of tomorrow. The nearness of you.