Chapter Seven

 

 

January 1940

Andrew's oil-soaked boiler suit made him clumsy as he heaved himself up the steel ladder to the washroom area beside the stokers' mess deck at the end of his watch. The Rutland was ploughing through atrocious Atlantic seas late on a wild January afternoon. The strain of the last four hours had been felt by everyone from the chief engineer down. They had been detached from station in the North Sea to see off the V-boat attacks on the Atlantic convoys. The convoys, endlessly zigzagging to confuse the enemy, but always at the speed of the slowest, a sluggardly six and a half knots, were a slow-moving target. All the convoys were having a desperate time of it, but this one had at its centre one of the Empress Line ships which had carried evacuees to Canada. Now it was returning with Canadian troops to Liverpool and Greenock. A corvette and two merchant ships had been sunk in the last attack.

Though Andrew's action station was the engine room, he'd been on deck after the action and seen ships blazing furiously; seen men by the dozens covered in burning oil, some dead, some soon to die, all half drowned, being pulled from the sea into the corvettes that were the outriders of a convoy so mauled it felt as if they were bleeding to death.

The Rutland was built for speed, and the slowness of her progress as she searched for V-boats on the outer edge of the convoy was taking its toll. On Andrew's watch a pipe had ruptured. Steam under pressure had scalded his hands even through the heavy gloves he'd worn to turn off the valve, replace the pipe and see the engine getting back up to pressure. Now the fear was that strain on the bearings could affect the propeller. The Rutland would be an easy target if she had to stop.

It would be simpler to wash all this grease off himself in the tub, he thought, and it was there in the hot water that tiredness set in. His hands were raw and painful while he cleaned himself. Here, in the midship bowels, the decks rose and sank, the water slopped from side to side of the tub that was barely larger than a dustbin. He had never suffered from sea-sickness, so that could not be the reason for the weariness that assailed him as, done with washing himself, he stood, took his bar of hard soap and pasted it all over the boiler suit, stamping on the hard cloth to wash and rinse it. He could be put on a charge for washing his boiler suit here but he was too tired to care.

Then, wearing only a towel, and with the blisters on his hands broken, he twisted and wrung his boiler suit then hung it over the pipes and made his way to the mess where Greg and five ratings waited for the blower to call them to night defence stations.

The mess, as always, was crowded and smelled of the unwashed bodies of thirty stokers - a smell that had become familiar to him; familiar and strangely comforting. Off duty men slept, their hammocks slung so close together that he had to bend his head to reach his own, which, since he was a leading stoker, he had chosen at the end of the line, nearest the door. One of the stokers said, 'Anyone know where we're going next?'

'Christ! They never tell you where we're going. All it takes is one drunken sailor in a bar and we're up Shit Creek,' Greg said.

'I'll make a guess that we're heading up the Clyde.'

Andrew put on clean underclothes then ate his meal from the hot plate where it lay, saved for him from midday. They saw how his hands were, and one of the stokers helped him treat and bandage them then made him a cup of cocoa, breaking off chunks from the block of raw chocolate, pouring on boiling water, stirring and adding dollops of thick, sweet condensed milk. He ate and drank quickly, then went to his locker and took out his letters, three of them Flora's and one from Ma. He'd read them all, over and over, the letters being all he had to remind him.

He slung his hammock, unfolded his blanket and, with his boots and tunic made into a pillow and the snoring man next to him quiet for once, took out Flora's letters. The throb of the engines, and the ever-present hum of motors fanning hot stale air from one compartment to another, was familiar and steady.

30 October Dear Andrew, It doesn't matter that you can't change your allowance. Your Ma needs it and I never thought the navy would treat us as married. It's not the same as having wedding lines that are official no matter what Jessie says so I wear my wedding ring round my neck on a chain I bought from Woolworth's. I found part-time work in a munitions factory. The pay's quite good 25/-week and I can look after Mr Davidson and save for our house as well. There's been a lot of air attacks on the Forth. Four German bombers were shot down, one at Port Seton, and they even had two dead German airmen lying in St Philip's church. They had policemen standing watch over the coffins draped with German flags which upset a lot of people, me too, seeing those swastikas. On the coffins, not the police. We are getting identity cards. I'm worried (because of Guthrie's as you know why) but it's no use worrying and too late to send me back. Love, Flora

She used to put SWALK, for 'Sealed with a Loving Kiss', over the sealed flap of the envelope. Since September she'd drawn a picture of a weeping tree in the corner. He hadn't told her how much this secret sign meant to him, nor had he told anybody about their private wedding under the weeping tree. He took out the letter dated 30 December and read, Dearest Andrew, I have only had two letters from you the last one in November. I hope you are getting mine ...

Andrew smiled yet again reading this. She perhaps didn't know why they were delayed - that all their letters were read and censored before they could be sent. Even then delays were inevitable, for the ships had to be in a home port for the mail to be posted. The last letter he'd writen to her might get back before he did if their mail had been put on to one of the Liverpool-bound ships.

I got my identity card in the name of Flora Macdonald. I didn't want them to ask too many questions. And they just gave it to me. Good job Mr Davidson can't look at it. Every day we hear of ships being sunk. Even neutral ships with women and children on board. I'm glad you get good food and plenty of it. Better than us surely. I am not feeling too good but I expect it's because of rationing. Butter 4 oz a week each. Sugar 12 oz a week each. Bacon or ham 4 oz. It's not much but I can make do for me and Mr Davidson. Potatoes, bread and vegetables are not rationed. We have a chicken for Hogmanay. I don't think the widow woman next door will first-foot us. She really hates me. I love you so much. I can't wait to see you again. Love from Flora.

PS I still sing at church and Mr Davidson plays the organ. The church is filled every Sunday now there are Canadian troops billeted all over the place.

That letter had worried Andrew. The Canadians would be looking for girls, and with their men away, women would fall for their flattery. In her last letter Flora did not mention Canadians but sounded less cheerful than before.

Dearest Andrew, I still have not been to see your Ma. The trams and buses are all to pot and the trains don't always run. It's called an exclusion zone round Ingersley so they stop you and ask where you are going and why and look at your papers so it takes hours to get anywhere. I don't like being out in the dark when there are no lights and air-raid wardens shout, 'Put that light out!' if you show even a chink. You can be fined £100. These winter days are too short. It is very cold here. It said on the wireless that the Thames is freezing over. You know how Mr Davidson likes his wireless. I'm working longer hours, 8 till 5, but it means more money and I like that. I am tired because I have to do the housework as well. It's not like me to be tired but there is a flu epidemic and I think I'm sickening. I'm off my food. I'm sure you are writing to me but maybe the letters have been washed overboard. I have only had that one from you where you said it was best if we didn't tell anyone about our secret but to wait till your next leave and have a proper wedding. I love you so much. Love from Flora.

At the bottom of the page she had drawn the weeping tree again. There was a letter from Ma too, painstakingly written. He knew it would have taken her hours.

Dear son, I pray for you. The Royal Oak was sunk in Scapa Flo. 100s drownd. I ken you'r alrite. Lady Campbell would say if enything hapened to the Cmandar. Ingersley is turning in to a Hostpital. III do even more if they ast me. I dident see Flora not getting time of nor will she but on your next leeve. Love from Mother.

Andrew read the letters through twice though his eyes were closing. He was drifting into sleep when the klaxon went. 'Action stations! Action stations!' he heard someone yell - as if it were necessary. He fell out of his hammock and in thirty seconds was piling down the steel ladder to his No.2 engine room action station. It was like the tropics. Even the steel walkways above the pipes were hot, the handrails too. He squeezed past the stokers on the top level, and descended two more ladders at speed until he was right down on the floor, the iron plates hot and greasy underfoot. He looked up and saw men above him attending, adjusting the valves, concentrating on the orders of the stoker petty officers.

The chief engineer could be seen through the treads of the ladder, and no sooner had Andrew reached the bottom than Chiefie beckoned to him while he spoke to the bridge on the voice tube. Andrew ran up to stand beside him and heard him saying, 'Sir! One of the prop shafts has seized. She'll handle badly. I'll go in myself.' He put back the speaker and turned to address the boiler room. 'We are going after a surfaced Vboat. Its wireless message back to base was intercepted. We're on its tail and it hasn't seen us yet.' He gave a wry smile. 'Let's hope he's spent all his ammo.'

V-boats carried fourteen torpedoes and a deck gun. Its deck gun could do little damage to the Rutland - it would scarcely scratch the paint on the armour-plating but torpedoes could, and V-boats made night surface attacks as a matter of tactics, coming up when the big ships were silhouetted against the sky. Tonight it was a wild, black night out there and the Rutland was charging straight ahead - no zigzagging. If she came to a stop she would be a sitting target, and if the V-boat spotted them and submerged they would be in grave danger. It was the chief engineer's absolute responsibility to keep the ship running at the fastest speed during battle conditions, so things must be serious for him to have to give the order he now did: 'Close down engine four.' He turned to Andrew and said, 'Come with me.'

Chiefie went down the ladder slowly and confidently, as if there was nothing to worry about -and a smile flashed around the crew, one after the other. He was the best chief engineer in the Royal Navy, they all believed.

Down at the bottom he said to Andrew, 'Lift the grating.' When Andrew had lifted the heavy iron cover to the propeller shaft that layover the bilges, Chiefie dropped into the square tunnel and said, 'Stand by the manhole. Hand me my tools. Torch, ring spanner and hammer!

It was pitch black down there. Andrew shone his own torch on to Chiefie's hand as he reached for the tools that should enable him to tighten the joint where the bearings had loosened. Andrew crouched and watched him crawling, inching his way along in the blackness, the flashing torchlight ahead of him all that gave away his movements as he swept every inch of the prop shaft with the beam. The second engineer and the third, along with four petty officers, would be working flat out to keep up the pressure on the remaining boilers. And over the noise of the engines, the throbbing of the three remaining prop shafts and the roaring of the burners, they could now hear the ship's guns firing and feel her shuddering right down through to the bilges. Her medium and light guns from all along the ship were being brought to bear on the lone V-boat raider whose captain would not risk submerging. He could do seventeen and a half knots on the surface against only eight submerged, running on batteries.

The chief was hammering. Andrew could hear his confident striking of metal upon metal. Then, and it happened without warning of any kind, the Rutland was struck, right in the centre of the engine room area. It was not a torpedo - a torpedo hitting them there would have wiped them out. hey had been rammed - probably by a badly handled merchant ship that was in the way. The Rutland lurched violently. Men were thrown against the engines or over the steel scaffolding walkways. The mid-ships was pitched into blackness. The sound of bodies hitting valves, pipes rupturing, escaping steam was terrifying.

Andrew had automatically obeyed the Commander's instructions from their sailing trips when the yacht was being hurled around in a storm: 'Take no chances. You don't want to be hurt. Hang on to something even if you are only taking a couple of steps.'

Men were shouting; someone screeched, 'Emergency lights!' and the huge glass face of the lights came on as the ship steadied again. Andrew was still holding on to the deck grating.

He could hear the other engines working. Two petty officers were lying, twisted, on the deck behind him - fallen to their deaths from above. Half a dozen men only were left standing; the others lay sprawled along and over the steel separating partitions, bleeding, dazed and groaning.

Andrew was the most senior man left. He must act quickly. He yelled out his orders to the six able-bodied men. The fourth engine was still out of action but the pressure must be restored and quickly.

The damage-control lieutenant dived into the compartment, shouting, 'What's the situation on number four? Chief still down there?'

'I'm going into the shaft, sir,' Andrew shouted back. He turned back to the shaft and with a quick appreciation of the new danger saw water…water where no water should be rising in the prop shaft.

The lieutenant came flying down the ladders, crossed the walkways and down to where Andrew stood. He looked into the tunnel where water was seeping in, saw the water level and said, 'Five minutes. Then the watertight doors to the engine area will close automatically.'

Andrew knew this. His hands were sweating and his heart was pumping like the devil. He must move as fast as possible. While the lieutenant held back the grating, Andrew lowered himself into the cold water of the tunnel and crawled along, knee deep in a filthy mix of freezing water and fuel oil, calling, 'Are you all right, sir?'

There was no reply, but he saw Chiefie's flashlight bobbing ahead. Andrew flashed his own torch and saw at once what the trouble was. The impact had sprung one of the plates. The framework was collapsed under the sheared joint of the prop shaft. Painfully, and aware all the time of the rising water level, Andrew forced his way forward, bent double, dreading to find the chief sliced in half. He discovered him lying awkwardly but alive, half under the prop shaft, gritting his teeth, trying not to moan in pain.

Relief and fear flooded through Andrew, who dared not show either. 'You'll be OK, sir. I'll get you out.'

'Get out yourself. The water's rising,' the chief groaned.

Andrew shone his light and saw that Chiefie's arm, high up at the shoulder

was trapped between the protruding handle of the spanner and the buckled frame. He said, 'Hang on! Keep your head up!' for the water was already up to the chief's shoulder. Another couple of inches and it would cover his face.

Andrew had to keep calm for Chiefie's sake while he scrabbled for the hammer in the black water. It was not there. It must be under his body. He reached over and lifted the chief's head. 'Don't close your eyes! I'll free you.' Then, knowing how little time he had, he backed down the tunnel, through the foul stinking water, to the grating, where he yelled, 'Wrench, crowbar, hammer!'

The guns were still firing. Colossal vibrations racked the boiler room as the tools were handed down by the second lieutenant, who said 'Is Chiefie alive?

'Aye,' Andrew called back without wasting breath on formalities of rank. He inched forward again while the waters rose inexorably. Three minutes was all they had before the watertight doors would seal them both alive in this dark, stinking tomb.

Overhead the guns blasted; the icy water was up to the chief's chin and slithering like an oily, stinking stream over his trapped shoulder and the handles of the spanner. Andrew's progress was slow but steady. He could only move with knees bent and his back doubled. He was there. He had to get it right. There would be no second chance if he muffed this.

He felt for the handles of the ring spanner, dragged the wrench into place, fixed it over one handle, levered it against the second handle and tightened it. Then, with his face only inches from the water, he put both hands over the wrench's shaft and turned it fast until it locked. He braced his body. His back was hard up against the metal plate. In that tiny space and working underwater, he pushed the crowbar between the wrench and the buckled frame and tried to lever all his weight against it. The water was touching the tip of his chin. Sweat broke out on his face. His hands were icy cold and going numb but he held his breath and put every last ounce of strength into the effort. There was no movement for a few seconds, then, with painful slowness, he felt it shift. He eased off for a second and, putting his head back, took in as much of the foul air as he could, then, with a strength that could only have come from God, he would later believe, he found some extra power and the damned handle moved. It moved. It was over.

The chief's body slumped lower as the ship juddered again under the barrage of its firing guns. His face was under the water. Andrew pulled off the wrench, eased the chief's shoulder free and pulled on the arm that had dropped. The foul air was choking him but the body was sliding towards him. He lifted Chiefie's head clear of the oily water, gave it a hard shake, heard him cough and splutter - and then at speed dragged him the last few yards to the iron grating and the hands that were reaching down for them, pulling them to safety barely five seconds before the heavy steel door with its rubber and canvas flanges slid into place, sealing the shaft.

He lay gasping as the chief was carried to the lieutenant surgeon. And it was then that they heard it - the guns roaring overhead, followed by a shout that went round the ship's company like greased lightning: 'We got it! We sank the bastard! Bloody marvellous!'

An hour later, after the urgent cases had been attended to, Andrew was seen by the lieutenant surgeon, who gave him a dose of a powerful expectorant that he said would bring up anything on his lungs. They stripped him and washed him clean of the oil and bandaged his hands. Then he was dismissed and sent back to his mess without a sight of the chief.

Though it was probably a couple of hours, it seemed that no sooner had he climbed into his hammock than one of the petty officers came into the mess to order him to go at once to the master-at-arms, who would take him to the captain.

'Aye aye, sir!' Andrew almost fell out of his hammock. His mind raced back over events. He ran to the heads and splashed cold water on his face with reddened fingertips that protruded from the bandages. Had anything gone wrong? The chief was going to recover, wasn't he?

He dressed as fast as he could, put on oilskins and fought his way back up to the bridge, clinging to the ropes of the storm rigging under a screaming wind with needles of ice stabbing into his face. It was pitch black. Giant seas were curling and breaking over the armour-plated decks that heaved under his boots.

The master-at-arms shouted above the storm, 'On the wardroom flat, Leading Stoker.' This was aft of the ship, below the quarter-deck. Andrew went back down the ladder.He discarded his oilskins and waited in line until his name was called. Flanked by the master-at-arms, he marched smartly ten paces forward, placed his cap under his arm and snapped to attention in front of the captain, his bandaged hands held rigidly down, heedless of the pain as the master-at-arms ordered, 'Stand at ease!'

'Stand easy.' Captain Sir Gordon Campbell said when the master-at-arms stepped back. 'You acted with courage and initiative in the boiler room, Leading Stoker. Your divisional officer has recommended your accelerated advance. You are being advanced immediately to acting petty officer.'

Andrew could not hold back the smile that came to his cold, cracked lips. As soon as confirmation came through he'd put aside the square rig - the bell-bottoms and round cap - to wear the fore and aft peaked cap. He'd be moved up to the petty officers' mess at once and his midday tot of rum would be neat, not two to one with water. Relief and pride brought a flush to his face. 'Thank you, sir,' he said.

The captain, who would have been briefed on wounds, looked at Andrew's bandaged hands and said, 'I'll be proud to shake your hand when the bandages are off. For the moment I salute you as a brave man.' Andrew did not even feel the pain in his hands. He could not stop the smile that came spreading across his face as the captain smiled back and said, 'The Royal Navy is looking for men who can make decisions. As soon as your promotion is approved you will be given the rank of upper yardman.'

Andrew smiled broadly now. He was on his way up. He was not stopping at petty officer level then. Upper yardman was the route to becoming a fully commissioned officer, moving from there to acting sub-lieutenant through sub-lieutenant to lieutenant and lieutenant-commander. Ma and Flora would be proud of him.

Sir Gordon Campbell said, 'The officer training course in peacetime lasts six months. I believe it is uch shorter now. You could be sent to Portsmouth. I'm not certain what the arrangements will be.'

'Thank you, sir,' Andrew repeated, still unable to erase the grin. 'I take it we are heading for port somewhere?'

Sir Gordon clasped his left hand on Andrew's shoulder. 'Well done, Andrew,' he said. 'We’ll reach Invergordon in about ten days' time, barring trouble. Your orders will come through as soon as I hear from the Admiralty. Don't bank on having more than twenty-four hours' leave before you are sent on the course.'

 

Flora, wearing navy-blue overalls and with her shoulder-length red hair tied up under a turban, stood at the bench where she worked a lathe, cutting a groove in brass shell cases. It was Monday afternoon. The girls' faces were beaded with sweat and the noise was so bad that Flora had stuffed her ears with cotton wool. She was overwhelmed with tiredness. The pain in her back got worse every day. She had made an appointment with the medical people at the end of her shift. Her stomach churned as the smell of hot metal assailed her. She looked at the clock. Four o'clock. Only another half-hour.

Over the noise of the lathes, Betty, the girl opposite, caught her attention. 'Come on, Flora! Sing!' she yelled, for the wireless was turned up full blast. It was said to improve production.

Despite the ear plugs Flora could hear it all, even the bad language of the men who called out 'How about a kiss, darling?' and worse. Some of the women, bold as brass, would make replies that could make the men blush. Still only sixteen, she had got the job by declaring herself to be eighteen, and to make herself look older wore a theatrical shade of Tangee lipstick that tasted of marigolds and made her white face even paler than normal. However, Mr Davidson couldn't see it and the only person it offended was the widow woman next door, whose eyebrows lifted to heaven at the sight of Mr Davidson taking Flora's arm to church or choir practice.

Betty yelled again, 'Flora! You've got a good voice. Sing!' They were all singing now to Music While You Work, and Flora smiled, pulled the cotton plug from her right ear and joined in: 'We're going to hang out the washing on the Siegfried Line ., Have you any dirty washing, Mother dear ... ?' Last night in church she had sung 'I know that My Redeemer Liveth'. It struck her as incongruous, and now she laughed with the others when next they broke into 'Run rabbit, run rabbit, run, run, run ...' It was true that music made you work faster. Four songs later, the rafters nearly lifting in the roar of voices, it was time to down tools.

Slowly she edged her way between the crowded, noisy benches to the cloakroom where, night and morning for the last few weeks, she had been sick, bringing up a gush of the brown, acid contents of her stomach. She went slowly, for if she walked too fast a hot streak of pain shot down her left leg. She scrubbed her hands and nails until every black speck was gone, but the inevitable could not be postponed, and she took a few deep breaths before awkwardly climbing the stairs to the room they called the clinic. She was the only worker there and, relieved, waited to be called; leaning against the wall of the dusty room, looking at the posters that urged her to Buy War Bonds and Dig for Victory. She was waiting to be told. But she already knew. She had missed four periods.

They called her into a little room which smelled of carbolic, where a stout, severe nurse told her to go behind the screen, take off her clothes and lie on the thin white sheet that covered the black rubber examination couch. Shivering with nerves, she did so.

The doctor was a white-whiskered old man brought out of retirement since the young doctors were in the forces. He pulled back the curtain and came to stand over her. He looked from her medical examination request slip to her ringless finger, and said, with distaste, 'You have missed four periods?' His breath was foul. He handed the cards to the nurse.

'Yes.' Flora flinched when he put his bony, ice-cold hands on her stomach, then ran them down lower and began to press painfully above her pubic bone. She cried out and drew up her knees as pain radiated from her spine.

He took his hands away, but slowly. 'Only four months? Are you certain?'

Another blast of his cheesy breath made her stomach turn in protest as she replied, 'Yes.' What sort of girl did he think she was that she might not know when it had happened?

'Lie on your side. Pull your knees up as far as you can,' he ordered.

She shivered, then slowly brought her knees up, closed her eyes tight and gritted her teeth while he put a rubber-gloved finger inside her and pushed hard, making her cry out. 'You are hurting me. My back ... !'

He took off the glove, dropped it into an enamel dish and said, 'All right. Get dressed,' and left the cubicle.

It took her some minutes to dress. She could not bend easily to reach her chilblained feet, nor could she disguise the worry lines that were etched into her white face when at last she sat opposite him.

'Four months.' He cast a cold eye over her. 'There is pressure on your sciatic nerve. This will get worse until the baby is born -and I can give you nothing for it.' He picked up her works record, then said, 'Identity card, please!' She put it on the desk. He peered at it closely. 'You are only sixteen? And unmarried?' Sticky white stuff had gathererd at the tight corners of his mouth.

Her voice trembled. 'Not officially. We are promised.'

'You are not married.' He was contemptuous. 'You expect him to marry you?'

'Yes. But he's at sea.' She could feel tears welling and a hard, painful lump in her throat.

'Get your father to contact his senior officer. Demand that he's given compassionate leave.'

She was cold. And she was hungry. 'I can't. He's on active service.' Surely they wouldn't call Andrew up in front of the Commander. His chances of promotion would be ruined. She began to cry. 'He wouldn't want his captain to know. I'll wait till he's home.'

'Will your parents allow you to stay at home to bring shame and disgrace on the family?'

'I'm an orphan ...' Flora took out her handkerchief and blew her nose hard.

Exasperated, he looked at the stony-faced nurse. 'I've heard this story so often,' he said. 'This week I have seen four women who have got themselves into the same mess. Two of them with Canadian troopers - and one of them married to one of our own serving men. Why do women and silly girls behave like this?' He turned back to Flora. 'You'll never see the boy again, you realise? You must give up work immediately. This is no place for a pregnant woman. Go to your doctor. See what arrangements he can make for you.'

She did not have a doctor. She couldn't afford to pay three and six for a visit. In fact she had only been seen by a doctor twice in her life. She'd had a routine medical examination at Guthrie's, and now this one. 'Wh..what arrangements?' she managed to ask, between sobs.

'Tell her, Nurse.' He walked out of the room.

The nurse said, slow and disapproving, as if she were a naughty child, 'You will be sent away to a workhouse or a home for unmarried mothers, where the baby will be born. If you have any sense and any real love for your baby, you'll have it adopted at birth. They will find it a good home. If you don't give it up, it will go to a Dr Barnardo's or one of the Children's Society homes, where you will be allowed to visit by appointment. You will make a contribution to its keep. I take it you don't have money or a home?

She had nothing. A cold fear clutched at her heart. 'No. But when can I get my baby back?'

‘When you have a proper home to offer to a child.'

'Or I get married?' Andrew would be home. He'd marry her properly. They would find a house. Even a single-end or a but and ben -anything.

'If you get married.' She added, in a cynical voice, 'Girls in your position have them adopted and then they keep their mouths shut. Not many men will marry a girl who's had another man's child.'

Flora left the clinic and went downstairs out on to the dark January street, behind a string of people who were going home. It was like playing follow-my-leader in the pitch black. She prayed with every step, 'Please God, send Andrew home,' until they came to where the pale moonlight reflected on the choppy waters of the Forth and she could find her way to the house on the esplanade.

In the morning, shaking with cold and fright and with the fatigue of a sleepless night dragging her down, she dressed in her warmest things - a brown woolly dress and matching brown cardigan which she had knitted herself. Her bedroom was freezing cold. Ice had glazed and crazed the inside of her window. It did not thaw out from one day to the next. Carefully she rolled on her best lisle stockings over her numb feet, jumping at the sharp nip of the chilblains that had spread right along the side of her feet as well as to the knuckles of every toe. She fastened the tight suspender belt that cut red weals into her flesh, desperate to get downstairs where there was a small cloakroom with a lavatory and washbasin right beside the front door. Every morning for the last month she had been sick first thing, quietly because Mr Davidson had sharp ears.

She kept a torch at her bedside, for there was no light on the landing. Flashing the weak beam on to the steps, she made her way downstairs and looked for the post. There was nothing for her - no letter from Andrew. Where was he? There might be one in the midday delivery, but her heart sank as it had done every day for the last two months. She retched painfully, vomited, wiped her ashen face over with an ice-crackled face cloth and made her way down the cheerless hallway to the still dark kitchen, where she switched on the light.

The kitchen had a rank smell of damp and escaped gas that would not disappear until the room was warm and aired. Her insides were painful, caving in from need of food, but before she could eat the dry biscuit she took with hot water, she must first pull the blackout blind and open the window an inch or two. Outside, in the stone-walled yard, a freezing white mist hung over the icy black flagstones. No fresh air would breeze through the kitchen today. Putting a match to the fire in the range, she chafed her hands together as it blazed and caught while her mind jumped from one alarming thought to another. She must say nothing to Mr Davidson about leaving her job.

There was a pot of oatmeal soaking and now she struck another match and turned the gas ring on to bring the porridge to the boil, then left it to simmer while she sipped her hot water and bit into a biscuit. Shudders of fear came in waves down her back as she cut bread for toast and placed the margarine, marmalade and cups and saucers in exactly the right spots on the enamel-topped table. There was nothing for it but to see Andrew's Ma and tell her everything.

She cut more bread, opened a pot of fish paste and made sandwiches for Mr Davidson's lunch, then arranged them on a plate and covered them with an upturned pie dish to keep them fresh.The kitchen was warm and welcoming and smelled of hot toast by the time Mr Davidson came down and sat in his place. 'Good morning, Flora,' he said, 'I trust you slept well.' Only in the last few weeks had he stopped using the formal, 'Miss Stewart' and had begun to use her Christian name - and that only because the woman next door had told him that Flora was not, as he'd imagined, a grown woman but an attractive young girl whose presence under his roof was causing much gossip and speculation.

'Yes. Thank you,' she answered, surprised that her voice sounded normal while a hundred nervous butterflies twitched at her eyelids and pulled the corners of her mouth down. 'I'll leave your sandwiches and a glass of milk on the desk,' she said. 'Would you like haggis for supper tonight, Mr Davidson?' She would queue at the butcher's before she got the train to North Berwick and take the haggis with her to Ingersley in her shopping bag.

'That would suit me well,' he said. 'Do you know what I'm going to do today?'

'What?' Her lips were dry. She placed his porridge before him.

'I am going to take a dish of tea with the lady next door.' He chuckled as he sprinkled salt on it. 'She says that we are going to become good neighbours and get to know one another.' He stirred his porridge. 'I expect that when she has found out all she wants to know, she will invite the ladies of the Esplanade round and they can exchange stories.'

Mr Davidson evidently thought the neighbour was harmless. Flora licked her dry lips and shuddered. If they discovered that she was having a baby, Mr Davidson's good name would be ruined. They would naturally think…Oh God! What would they say? She sat down heavily, jolting her back and making Mr Davidson jump.

He said, 'Have you eaten already?'

'Yes .. .' she said. 'It's ten to eight. Will you leave everything until I get back? Don't wash the dishes or anything.' She struggled into her coat, pulled on her hat, wrapped a scarf around her neck and left the house.

At nine o'clock that same morning, at Ingersley House, Ruth was in bed, opening the letter which the housemaid had placed on her morning tea tray. She slit it open and withdrew the two pages written in Gordon's strong, sloping hand. The letter had been posted in Liverpool a week ago. Why had he not come home? Surely he would get a few days' leave? He used to ring Elizabeth as soon as he docked.

'Dear Ruth ...' He wrote as if she were nothing more than an employee on the estate. Not 'darling' or even 'wife'. He obviously didn't care any more. He probably regretted marrying her.

I have received two letters from you so the mail is getting through to the ship but I can't be sure that outgoing mail reaches its destination.

I am sorry that you are inconvenienced by the house being requisitioned for a convalescent hospital. However, they tell me that they have made a good job of moving the house furniture upstairs and that the top, nursery floor is put to good use as bedroom accommodation. You still have two upper floors and only yourself and Nanny in occupation. We must be thankful that our injured servicemen and women ...

As if she cared two hoots. Government measures for the requisitioning of properties were excessive. Beside, there were dozens of large houses in the area that could have been requisitioned before Ingersley. It was not as if she hadn't done her bit. She had filled all the cottages accessible to the road with evacuees - mothers and babies, expectant mothers with young children though at least she was compensated for that. A government grant per head of placement gave a much better return than the rents of tied cottages. There were no worries about repairing the properties or of tenants falling behind with the rent. The ministry gave the money directly to her for this stream of endlessly shifting people.

But Gordon ought to have demanded that Ingersley be excluded from requisitioning, or at least that she be consulted. She sipped her tea and snapped a biscuit in half. How dare those awful Ministry men walk in and decide how her house should be run?

She ate half a biscuit, flicked the crumbs off the sheet and refilled her tea cup. There had been one small victory. She had won a battle of wills with the dreadful Wilkins from the Ministry when she demanded that they convert the room above Gordon's study into a kitchenette preserved for her privacy and the workmen had made a speedy and good job of it.

Ruth got out of bed, slipped off her silk nightgown and quickly pulled on the fine wool vest and knickers which had been wrapped around a hot-water bottle. Then she took a bottle of Atkinson's lavender water from the dressing 'table, unscrewed the silver lid and splashed the cool, fresh scent over the insides of her wrists to calm herself and soothe her nerves before she could return to the bed and her tea. How dare Gordon say, I am sorry that you are inconvenienced? Inconvenience was a massive understatement. She was worn to a shadow with it all. If he were here, he'd see for himself.

Mrs Stewart was taking up one of the beds at the hospital at this moment, struck down with influenza a week ago. And with her out of action, Maud and Bessie, mother and daughter, the two remaining servants who lived rent-free in one of the cottages, were having to do the cooking as well as the cleaning. Bessie would be making breakfast in the kitchenette instead of getting on with cleaning the drawing room and lighting fires. It was too bad of Mrs Stewart. She could not expect to be off work for much longer. She was needed here.

“I am certain that you will be called upon to assist when the injured start to arrive. And then you will not feel so helpless, as you put it.”

She had meant, by saying that she felt helpless, that she was managing without help. Nanny was no use. In fact she was becoming very managerial since she had opened two bedrooms at Ivy Lodge for mothers who could not be delivered in their own homes. So far Ivy Lodge had not been needed as a maternity home and Nanny found it more convenient to remain at Ingersley, especially as Lucy Hamilton was pregnant and had asked Nanny to attend her and deliver the baby.

Not only that but Nanny, who had driven an ambulance in the Great War, had volunteered to help both with the hospital and the District Nursing Service. They had taken up her offer with alacrity. Today she was to have driving instruction at some Ministry department or other. Ruth had no doubt that they would use Nanny’s services at the most inconvenient times.

She finished the tea and left the second biscuit uneaten. Still, if Nanny learned to drive properly it could be an advantage. Ruth had purchased a licence long before mandatory driving tests were introduced, but she detested driving. Nothing but a dire emergency would induce her to get behind the wheel of a car. Nanny would be able to chauffeur her around in the Armstrong Siddeley, which had been spared the ignominy of being requisitioned for the police or fire brigade by Nanny's District Nursing work. Indefatigable,Nanny was sixty-one.

Gordon's letter went on, Yes, I do think about our future. As soon as I can, I will offer Ingersley either to the Ministry or to Hamilton. We will buy something more manageable. It would be different, I agree, if we had children. But we do not.

As curt as that. How did he know she was not already pregnant? The last time they had made love was four months ago, on Mike Hamilton's wedding day, before Gordon returned to the ship. If she had become pregnant after that encounter it could not have been confirmed before now. A lady simply did not speak of such things, even to her own doctor, until she was sure, around the fourth month. But Ruth was not pregnant, and had been distraught to find that she was not. The only way she'd keep Ingersley, and probably her marriage to Gordon, was by giving him children, preferably a son. It had come to that. It was now vital that she had a child. She read the line again: It would be different, I agree, if we had children. But we do not. There was no shadow of doubt. Unless she bore a child Gordon would sell the estate. She needed a baby. Now.

She crumpled the letter and pitched it into the waste basket, then retrieved it, flattened it out and read it again. Gordon must come home. She would telephone the base in Liverpool tonight and tell him he was wanted here.

She dressed quickly. She'd give Heather a good ride out on the beach this morning. Road riding on the lanes as she'd had to do for the last months was no good for either of them, and a good gallop on the freezing cold beach would cool her temper. She pulled on jodhpurs and a heavy jumper and went down to what had been their bedroom floor and was now the living area.

Standing in the doorway of the new kitchen, she gave instructions to Bessie who was preparing breakfast for herself and Nanny. 'I won't be taking breakfast this morning. There's only Nanny.'

The maid raised a hand in weary acknowledgement. Ruth went over to her. 'You all right?' she asked. Bessie's normally florid face this morning was pale.

'I don't feel too good, Lady Campbell. 1 think I'm getting the flu or a cold,' she answered. 'I'll have to go home.' This was the last straw. If the woman went down with influenza then Mrs Stewart must get out of bed and help run the household.

Ruth said, 'Oh dear. I hope it isn't infectious. Before you go, prepare a light lunch for me and Nanny. A sandwich and some soup.' She added, 'Your mother will be here to serve it and to make a simple meal this evening, won't she?’

Ruth left the kitchen, slung her hacking jacket across her shoulders and ran downstairs. The lift had been commandeered along with the house and she never used it, not wanting to have contact with those terribly common hospital people who talked incessantly in frightful voices. Nanny and she used the main stairs instead. Since Ruth had insisted that the front door entrance - their entrance - was not to be used by hospital visitors or employees, she could get by with a brief nod in the direction of the occasional over-familiar hospital staff she might have to pass on the stairs.

There were some advantageous spin-offs, though. The tradesman's entrance at the back of the house had been enlarged and fitted with smart double swing doors of bombproof reinforced glass, and the small patch of weedy gravel in front of the servants' door had been transformed into a wide area covered in concrete. It gave plenty of room for ambulances to turn in and would be useful when this damned war was over. The roof, too, had been repaired, and painted in camouflage colours which she would insist was returned to normal when the war was over.

Outside, the bitter cold nipped into her fingers and nose. She wrapped her scarf about her head and across her mouth and pulled on her lined-leather gloves. When the South Lodge's iron gates were requisitioned for scrap metal, Ruth had insisted on having solid wooden gates made to close the entrance. There was now no way in from the road, as the gates were bolted from the inside. The price of her privacy was thus a serious inconvenience to herself, for she now had to use the North Gate, the drive to which passed right in front of the Hamilton's farmhouse. But closing the entrance had prevented every Tom, Dick and Harry of the hospital staff from using the front drive, which remained blissfully her own.

On her way to the stables she passed Land Army girls cutting back the beech hedges and raking gravel. They had long ago learned to ignore her and did not acknowledge her presence. Ruth never wasted time gossiping. On reaching the yard she was greeted by Lucy Hamilton, who popped her cheery pink face out from behind the wash-house door, waved and called out, 'Morning, Lady Campbell.'

The sight of Lucy in the floral smock that advertised her otherwise unnoticeable condition brought a surge of sick, impotent jealousy to Ruth. Why should this enemy, this thorn in Ruth's flesh, this simpering woman have everything that Ruth herself wanted? Lucy was to bear a child and, like the lowest of working women, didn't try to hide the fact. It was disgusting.

If she continued as she was going, Lucy Hamilton could soon be the owner of Ingersley estate. If only Ruth had known that Gordon meant to sell the estate to him, she would have married Mike Hamilton herself. Lucy was rich in her own right. She did not need to go to such miserly lengths as to do her own washing. There was a good laundry service in the town and the farm had all these Land Army girls idling about. It was quite plain that she revelled in pregnancy and domesticity. There were chickens scratching about on the cobbles and in the straw of the unused loose boxes. In an hour's time the stable yard would be festooned with washing lines full of sheets and tablecloths and everything calculated to frighten the horses.

If Ruth were in charge she would forbid it, but now she fought down her rage and said politely, 'Lucy? Did you pass on my message? Is Heather ready?'

'No. Mike said you might like to .. .' Her voice trailed off.

Ruth attempted a little irony, though it would be wasted. 'He said I might enjoy grooming and saddling my own animal? Is that it?' Fuming, she collected the saddle, bit and bridle from the tack room, then let herself in to Heather's loose box. The mare snickered in anticipation as Ruth lit a cigarette, tacked up and talked to her. 'We'll have a good ride out today, Heather strengthen those hocks...' With the Gold Flake in her mouth and her eyes narrowed against the smoke, she lifted the horse's feet one by one. 'Perfect. You won't need shoeing for a while.'

A shadow fell across the sunlit straw and Mike Hamilton's voice boomed out: 'Don't smoke in here. Your mare will be taken to the smiddy next week and fitted with heavy shoes.' Ruth felt the old familiar thrill of being close to him, but she shot him a contemptuous look as she took the cigarette out of her mouth and said through clenched teeth, ‘So you think you are to tell me what I may do with my own horse?'

'Your horse is needed for farm work,' Mike said curtly before stepping aside to open the door for her to lead Heather out.

'I don't think so.' Ruth put her left foot in the stirrup and mounted, quick and lithe though Heather stamped impatiently. She looked down on him. 'My light hunter is quite useless for your purposes.' Mike was behaving as if he were already master of the estate instead of a simple tenant farmer. 'Take your hands off the bridle.'

The confidence of a man who knew he was within his rights was in his sly smile as he dropped his hands. 'Well, it's no' for ye to decide, woman. The ministry is putting tight restrictions and regulations on animals. We cannae afford to feed an animal that's nae use. Major's pulling a plough. Your mare will be hitched to the milk trap from next Saturday. Take it or leave it.'

She would not deign to reply. Mike Hamilton would lose control first. He would saddle up Major and follow her down to the sands and at last have the showdown she hoped would lead to a revival of their affair.

The frozen cobblestones rang under Heather's hooves as they left the yard. She glanced back as she turned on to the lane leading to the beach. Mike Hamilton, red-faced, was waving his arms madly, signalling her to stop. She laughed and urged Heather into a trot.

Ten minutes later, with the sea sparkling on her right and the frosty buckthorn bushes glittering in the sun, she was exhilarated. She let Heather have her head. A gentle, salt laden breeze blew into Ruth's open mouth as she put her weight in her heels, lifted her seat out of the saddle, leaned over Heather's silky mane and urged, 'Go on!' They pounded down the flat sand to the old slipway, where she turned the mare, eased her left leg out, brought her right in and pressed into Heather's quarters to make the horse loop into the turn to race along the white fringes of foam. Hooves pounded wet sand. Sea water splashed up between the horses legs, soaking Ruth's jodhpurs as they raced along the water's edge.

Then she saw him again, Mike Hamilton, waving his arms like a man demented. She pretended not to notice and, head down over the horse's neck, drove Heather on into the sparkling, curling foam for the quarter-mile return, but they had not ridden this way for months and Ruth knew enough not to strain the heart of an unfit horse. She sat back in the saddle and slowed Heather down to a trot before they reached the sheltered, secluded bay area with its backdrop of buckthorn and jagged rocks above the waterline, and table-top basalt rocks which the sea had made smooth below. She brought the horse's head round and slowed to a walk as Heather picked her way between the rocks to the path that wound through the buckthorn.

He was here again, dark and angry, blocking her path. She pulled Heather up. 'What is it?' she demanded, a smile of satisfaction spreading across her face.

'Get off that horse!' He grabbed the bridle with one hand and the back of her jacket with the other and dragged her out of the saddle to the ground. She lost her balance and fell at his feet, put her hand out to save herself and wrenched her wrist. 'This beach is mined!' he shrieked. 'Can't you read? Danger. Keep Out! Ye've ridden past at least four o' the bloody things. You could have been killed.'

He pulled her to her feet and held her arms and the harshness had gone from his voice. 'Ye could have been bloody well killed...'

'And is that not what you want?' She looked up at him in the old inviting way. 'You have avoided me. Been rude to me. And now you ... ' She moved so that she was hard up against him and his smell of horses and leather and sweating, angry maleness brought a sense of triumph she must not let him see. He was excited. She could feel the hardness of him through all these layers of clothes. He could never resist her. 'You want me ... don't you?'

'Aye. But I'm not going to take you because your man is fighting a war. And I have too much respect for him - and he for me.'

'Respect was always pretty low on your scale of feelings, Mike.'

'Aye.' His eyes narrowed. 'I've come a long way in the last four months. I've aye wanted a son. I have a mighty store of respect and love now for the woman who's carrying my child.' He released her abruptly. 'Ye'll have to find another if your man's nae use to you.' Then he turned and walked away.

She mounted the snorting Heather and swore under her breath at the pain that was shooting through her arm from wrist to shoulder. What a day this was proving to be. One damned thing after another. All her plans were crumbling. Her servants were dropping like flies. Gordon was going to sell Ingersley. And if he could not impregnate her when he came home, then her only hope of having a child - through Mike Hamilton's need of her had been dashed.

How fickle men were. Six months ago Mike had been disconsolate because she, Ruth, would not marry him. Now he was like a Solan goose, strutting and posturing, guarding his broody gander on the nest.

She reached the yard and heard Lucy singing and sloshing around, happy with her tubs of soapy water. She remained in the saddle and called out impatiently, 'Lucy! Come and help me down, will you?'

'You all right?' Lucy came out, a frown of worry on her face.

'I've had a fall. Help me down.' She leaned forward, kicked off the stirrups and swung her legs over so that she need not use her wrist. Lucy put a hand out to steady her at the elbow and she was down safely. 'You'll have to water, feed and unsaddle for me. I'm hurt.'

'Oh dear. Nanny need not come to me today. You need her.'

Ruth clenched her teeth to hold back from shouting in pain, but managed to say, 'Nanny is learning to drive an ambulance this morning.'

'That's nice for her.' Lucy took the reins and led the horse away then stopped and turned back. 'There's a girl wandering around the estate, looking for Mrs Stewart. She came to, the farmhouse. Lost her way, 1 expect, now the South Gate's closed.'

Ruth said, 'It'll be one of the workers or a patient's visitor.'

'Well, she said Mrs Stewart,' Lucy answered. 'I sent her up to the house not ten minutes ago.'

'Damn!' Ruth uttered under her breath. Every step she took down the frosty gravel drive jolted her wrist. She must telephone the doctor. She would not go down to the hospital to ask for help. 'Double damn!'

There was a girl limping towards her, a pretty girl, dressed sensibly in a brown tweed coat and pull-on hat that could not hide the flaming red hair cascading about her neck and shoulders. She could have no business on this side of the house. Ruth put her hand gently into her pocket to support it. The girl stopped at the comer of the house. In a piercing, imperious voice Ruth asked, 'What are you doing here?'

The girl was tall, very young, and a blush came poppy red into her pale cheeks as she said nervously, 'I'm looking for Mrs Stewart. The cook.'

Well, you won't find her. Not even if you go round to the tradesmen's entrance.' Ruth tried to indicate the way she should have taken but caught her breath with the pain in her hand. 'What do you want with her?' She looked harder at the girl. Though her clothes were not of the best quality, she was not a rough type. In her manner, dress and speech she gave the impression of being well brought up. But the blush had faded and left her white and drawn as if she too were in great pain. Ruth demanded, 'How far have you come? How did you get here?'

'I walked up from the station. I couldn't find the entrance. So I walked round the wall till I came to the gates.' The girl looked all in. She began to cry, soft tears rolling down her pinched cheeks. 'I have to see Mrs Stewart.'

Ruth's hand was swelling, her fingers were numb and for the first time in her life she did not know what to do. She couldn't leave this weeping girl, who was on the brink of collapse, to find her way out again and down to North Berwick station. 'I can't stand around in the cold waiting for you to explain,' she said. 'Stop snivelling. Come back to the house with me. Tell me what you want with Mrs Stewart.'

She brought her hand carefully from her pocket and showed the girl the swollen fingers and the bruising that was spreading up from the wrist. 'Can you bandage? Have you ever bound a sprained wrist?' She looked at her closely again. 'Have I seen you before? What's your name?'

'Flora Macdonald.' The girl was trying to wipe her tears away with the back of her gloved right hand. 'I can bandage.' Then, 'I know you are Lady Campbell. I saw you on the lawn at the wedding.'

'The Hamilton wedding? Were you a guest?'

'No. Andrew brought me here to meet his Ma. You see, we..’ she caught her breath and clapped a hand to her back as if in pain. She staggered back a few steps and leaned against the wall.

'All right,' Ruth said sharply. 'Follow me,' and went swiftly to the house, with the girl, like an injured puppy, dragging along behind. She ran up the stone steps and stood back, watching the girl climb painfully slowly. Ruth indicated that she should go ahead and open the great oak door, and when she had closed it behind them said, 'Upstairs. Follow me.'

The girl made a neat job of bandaging her wrist, then asked to use the bathroom. 'Yes. Then come to the dining room. Across the hall.' Ruth went to the new drawing room to telephone Dr Russell and ask him to call in an hour's time. The rooms on this, the old bedroom floor were almost identical in size to those on the floor below. The dining room and drawing room looked much as they had before, apart from the floral wallpaper, but it rankled with Ruth that her old drawing and dining rooms were filled with iron-framed beds and all the paraphernalia of a hospital.

The girl returned. Ruth's wrist was easier for the firm bandaging. She was grateful; she would listen to the girl's story. She said, 'There will be enough food for two. Tell me all about it over lunch,' before jangling the little hand bell to summon the maid.

Over lunch, which the girl hardly touched, Ruth began to question her, drawing out her story with a kind, concerned air whilst asking herself why she was allowing another aggravation into her day. All the same she prided herself on her sixth sense; the sense that became instantly alert at times of crisis.

She soothed the girl now. 'So Andrew helped you run away from Guthrie's, where the Commander - of all people - had put you and this when you were only fourteen?'

'Yes. I told him I was seventeen.'

'And he found you a job as housekeeper to the blind Mr Davidson who lives on the Esplanade?' Ruth said, her voice warm with sympathy and encouragement.

'Yes,' Flora whispered, eyes downcast as she struggled to spoon up the leek and potato soup that Ruth had placed before her.

Ruth wanted to shake her. But if she spoke severely she might frighten the child. 'Come on! Nobody's going to hurt you.'

The girl put her spoon down. Deep, gasping sobs were shaking her shoulders as tears splashed into her soup.

Ruth repeated, 'What has this to do with Mrs Stewart?'

'It's about Andrew and me.' She mopped her face with the table napkin. 'I'm sorry. We're married.'

‘How could they be? Ruth would have known. 'Married?'

'Yes. On the day of the wedding. By habit and repute. I was only fifteen. I couldn't marry and I couldn't tell Andrew why.' All this between great gulps of tears. 'So Andrew bought the rings..' here the girl pulled on a ribbon from under the neckline of her dress and brought out a cheap wedding ring. 'and now..' She was overcome with the dreadful snivelling again.

Ruth was temporarily shocked into silence. Then realisation dawned. Her mind started to focus sharply as it did when something momentous was afoot. It was uncanny the way so often she could spot an opportunity or rather, she thought, an opening, an answer to her own dilemma -in others' troubles. 'You are having a baby?' she said.

'Yes.'

‘And Andrew Stewart is the father?'

‘Yes.'

‘And he told you to get in touch with his mother if you had a problem?'

‘Yes.' The girl was breathing deeply into the napkin she was holding to her face.

Ruth needed a few moments to order the thoughts and possibilities that were crowding into her mind. So - it had happened on the very day that she herself had hoped to become pregnant. This girl had been sent to her. No girl wanted a child out of wedlock. Her mind raced down the bright, shining path of imagined possibilities. If you showed a troubled girl the way out she would often take the required action for herself. All one need do was to show the way, leave the gates open. How fortunate for herself that the girl had not found Mrs Stewart. A dependent mother and baby -the shame of knowing her son was responsible -was the last thing on earth the cook would want. 'You are sure of the date of conception?' she asked softly, gently. She was the girl's only hope.

'The second of September. The day of the wedding.' The girl twisted the napkin into a rope.

Ruth touched her arm. 'Take your time. Try to eat .’ There was a pot of coffee on the heated stand on the sideboard and Ruth went to pour for them. 'What did you say your name was, dear?'

'Flora Macdonald. Only I'm known to Mr Davidson as Flora Stewart -because...' and the girl went on to tell her, between snatches of tears and sips of coffee, about the search for work.

When she finished, Ruth said, quietly and deliberately, 'You deceived Andrew and your employer then?' The girl was sixteen now. It would make no legal difference though Flora obviously thought it would.

'I had to ... I was afraid to tell the truth after the first lie.'

A girl of sixteen was no match for Ruth. 'You realise that Andrew could have gone to jail?'

Flora unwound the napkin and blew her nose vigorously into it. Then she caught her breath and eased her back. Ruth took the napkin from her and handed her a handkerchief and her own, clean table napkin.

The girl looked up, whey-faced and terrified. 'Yes.'

'Quite. And now you tell me that this - this common-law marriage was consummated in St Cuthbert's churchyard on the second of September when you were only fifteen?' It ^.crossed Ruth's mind to wonder how many more babies were conceived on that night, but she fought back the urge to be cruel and said in a soft, sisterly way, 'That was very, very wrong of you, Flora. You have put Andrew into the position of committing two criminal acts. Once in helping you escape from Dr Guthrie's and secondly in marrying a minor.'

'I know. I just kept getting in deeper ...' Flora ignored the handkerchief but mopped her eyes with her table napkin. 'I had nobody.'

So nobody knew, except herself and Flora. Ruth asked, 'You are telling the truth? Andrew does not know about the baby?'

'I haven't told him.'

'And nobody knows you have come here?'

'Only some officials on North Berwick station. They wrote down the names of everyone who got off the train. They were all looking for billets and I didn't know what ...'

'Yes, yes. That's nothing. That's not what I meant,' Ruth said. 'You realise that any scandal would put an end to Andrew's chances of advancement - particularly with the Commander, who has helped him so much?’ She waited a moment, watching the girl’s terrified face. 'You know that the Royal Navy has prison cells on board ship? You know that these are very serious charges? If a sailor commits a civil criminal act it is far worse for him to be tried by court-martial.' Ruth knew very well that a civil case would never be heard in a military court - but Flora could not know it.

'I didn't know ... I didn't know ... I don't know any more.'

'You know what happens to girls who have babies out of wedlock?'

Flora buried her face in the napkin. 'They put you in the workhouse and take the baby away.’

Ruth reached across and patted her hand. 'I'm trying to help. Dry your eyes.'

After a few moments Flora lifted her face. She was as pale as death, flinching every now and again in pain. She choked on her words as she said, 'I have to tell Andrew's mother.'

'Mrs Stewart is very ill,' Ruth said. 'She can’t have visitors. She is being nursed in isolation. I'm afraid this news would be too much for her to bear.'

Flora repeated, 'Andrew said I was to see his Ma...'

Ruth said, 'I have to tell you, Flora, that Andrew Stewart has given no end of trouble to his mother, and to me and the Commander.' Flora's face was paler than ever. She put her hand into the small of her back, clearly in a lot of pain even as Ruth said, 'Andrew will have to be told but in view of the punishment and the loss of his promotion, don't be surprised if he denies everything.'

It was too much. Flora clutched the table's edge wildly with her free hand, gave a cry of pain and crashed to the floor.

 

She came to in a dimly lit bedroom where a fire burned brightly in an iron and tile fireplace on the far wall from the bed. Shadows flickered over the beamed ceiling above her. She tried to sit up, but the pain that earlier had shot through her with such heat and force was now a dull numbness that had spread to her muscles, and she could not raise herself. She fell back against the lacy white pillows on the big, deep bed. Her head was thick and fuzzy and very, very heavy. She called for help.

The door opened, a light was turned on and now she saw that it was a big room with a sloping ceiling, filled with old fashioned, ornate mahogany furniture. In the wardrobe mirror she saw Lady Campbell approach, pull up a chair and sit down. 'You have strained your back, Flora. My doctor has seen you. He says you are not to be moved.'

'I feel peculiar.'

'The doctor gave you an injection of morphine,' Lady Campbell said. 'I don't want you to worry about a thing.'

'But - the baby?'

Lady Campbell put her finger to her lips and looked towards the door. 'It is all right. Don't mention your condition to anyone. Not until I've had a chance to speak to Mrs Stewart. Understand?’

'Yes.' Flora struggled to rise but could not. She caught her breath and fell back once more. 'Mr Davidson ... I have to look after him.'

'It's done. Nanny Taylor has been to Portobello. I told her to tell Mr Davidson that you have fallen and injured your back. You have to rest.'

'I can't just leave.'

'There can be no going back. Mr Davidson needs reliable_. help. I rang the Institute for the Blind. They will send help to him tomorrow.'

'Mrs Stewart…?' Flora asked.

'I will see her this evening. If she's well enough I'll tell her. Tomorrow you will write to Andrew.'

'I don't want to get him into trouble.'

'You must tell him about the baby. Tell him you are with me here at Ingersley and he must come for you and marry you. Give the letter to me. I will post it,' Lady Campbell said. 'Can you lift your head just a little, so I can give you your medicine?'

She was holding a small glass of purple liquid. Flora hesitated, then, 'What is it?' she asked.

'A sedative plus tonic. Good for you. It doesn't taste nice, but will help you to rest.' Lady Campbell smiled. 'I have a boiled sweet for you to suck to take away the taste.'

Flora drank the dose and reached up for the sweet before the foul-tasting medicine could turn her stomach, make her sick. But such was her relief that she did not have to get out of bed that she closed her eyes for a few luxuriously drowsy seconds, then opened them. 'Why are you doing this for me?'

'Andrew Stewart has been very much the Commander's protegé. He was brought up on the estate. His mother is an old family retainer. I'm speaking for my husband as well as myself when I tell you that we both feel responsible for any wrongdoing of Andrew's.'

'Andrew hasn't done wrong,' Flora said. 'He wouldn't let down the Commander or his Ma.’

'Then consider that you are being offered a helping hand.'

Lady Campbell put a gentle hand on the counterpane but did not meet Flora's eyes. Instead she stared into the distance as she said, 'You do see that Mrs Stewart must be told first. She would not wish to be the subject of servants' gossip.

Flora whispered, 'Please. Tell her I’m sorry ...'

'Then you tell nobody about the pregnancy, especially Nanny Taylor, who will look after you. Not yet.' Lady Campbell smoothed the sheet. 'And whatever you do, don't try to get out of bed. The medicine will make you unsteady.'

When Lady Campbell left the room, Flora lay back against the pillows as warm tears rolled down her face and under her chin to soak into the cotton nightdress someone had put on her. All she could remember was falling, then Lady Campbell ringing for help and the woman who had served lunch lifting her on to a sofa - then nothing.

Her limbs were heavy, the pain was less but she could not stop the tears that continued their relentless rolling down her cheeks. She had never been one for crying. Lately, everything brought her to the brink of tears and she could not help herself. Last week, in church, they had sung 'Eternal Father Strong to Save' and she'd blubbed throughout the service, thinking of Andrew in peril on the sea. Everything scared her. The very word 'pregnant' terrified her. It was an ugly word. She didn't want to be pregnant. But she was and she must tell Andrew. She'd write:

Dearest Andrew I am at Ingersley. Please come and save me. Help me.

I am expecting our baby. It was conceived under the weeping tree on the night we were married. I went to find your mother like you told me to do but she is in hospital. She has the flu and I have this terrible pain in my back. I collapsed outside. Lady Campbell is going to tell your mother about the baby. Please, please, Andrew you have got to come and get me. They will send me to a workhouse and the baby will be taken away. Nobody should do that to a girl -take her baby away.

Please. Help. I have nobody but you. I love you. Flora.

The Rutland docked late at night under a magnificent sky, lit from the horizon to the zenith by the waving curtain, pearly green, amber and red, of the aurora borealis. With the engines closed down, the ship's company had been at the rails or standing on the dock, marvelling at the calm, the quiet, the lights and the sheer relief of a safe harbour after months of war. Gordon left the bridge and went ashore to put in a call to Ingersley.

Ruth answered. 'You have only just docked, darling?' She sounded pleased to hear him, and his mood lightened. 'I'll be home the day after tomorrow,' he said. 'I can't take my leave in the first wave.'

'No. Stay where you are. I'll be with you as soon as I can. I'll book into an hotel in Inverness.'

'Will you really? That's good of you.' She must have missed him badly. 'I'll expect to hear from you tomorrow evening then.' Bemused, he put the receiver down.

Now, the following morning, with dawn breaking across the water, Gordon looked out from the bridge and saw that crew, sailors and a contingent of Royal Marines that the Rutland carried were crowded on deck, waiting at the rails for the bells to be piped before they could pour off the ship and make for the railway station, going home for three blessed days to family, wives and girlfriends. Only he, their captain, knew that they would be sailing for the Mediterranean as soon as the repairs were done. They would be gone for months. How many of them would see their loved ones again? The naval losses, conveyed to him with the sailing orders by coded wireless telegraphy message from the Admiralty, were grim. Three months into the war 114 ships had been sunk by V-boats.

Then, as he stood watching the men, he found himself staring in astonishment. Ruth was being escorted up the gangway by one of the senior officers. He blinked, closed his eyes for a moment in case he was imagining it and opened them. It was Ruth - Ruth, wearing a coat of jade green in the new wide-shoulder, swing-back style, over a matching costume, and both trimmed with black velvet at the stand-up collar and pockets. A black Cossack-style hat set off her golden hair, which swung with every movement and brought appreciative smiles and looks of admiration from the sailors and the Lieutenant-Commander who escorted her to him.

‘How on earth did you get here so soon?' he asked once they were alone together in his cabin and he had given her a warm kiss. Then, smiling, 'You look wonderful.' It was good to have a wife waiting for him. He felt a surge of gratitude at seeing her here. 'Let me look at you.

Jade-green boots of suede with black fur cuffs could not conceal her long, slender legs that swished, silk on silk, as she returned his kiss. She did it lightly, brushing her lips gently across his before she took out a lace handkerchief to dab away traces of scarlet lipstick. Her arm was bandaged. He said, 'Your wrist? What have you done?'

'Nothing much. A slight sprain. It hasn't prevented me from driving.'

'You drove the Armstrong Siddeley all this way to be with me?' He could scarcely believe it. His earlier gloomy mood was changing to one of gratitude and delight. 'You drove through the night, in this bitterly cold weather?'

'There was no snow. Patches of ice -but I was desperate for you, darling,' she said. He felt the familiar thrill of arousal and tried to draw her close but laughing she said, 'The Armstrong Siddeley is on the quay. Drive me to the hotel in Inverness. I can't wait.’

'Give me an hour.' He wanted her now. Ruth knew the power of her sex appeal. He dared not imagine the pleasures to come or he would be unable to work. 'Have something to eat while I do what has to be done.'

Two hours later, with the hotel bedroom door locked and the 'Do Not Disturb' notice hanging from the handle, he took her in his arms and found her so gentle and loving and eager for his caresses that he could forget the war for a few minutes and forgive the demanding side of her nature - the side that had always wanted to dominate and have power over him. He needed her body.

Afterwards he lay with an arm protectively around her while she rested her head over his heart, her injured arm loose across her stomach. He had told her all he could tell - that he was going to be away from her for months, possibly as long as a year -and she had cried a little and clung to him and whispered words of undying love. He was grateful and glad to be loved. He smiled when she begged him to flee from the enemy, not put himself in any danger. He traced his finger over her face, along the clean lines of her jaw, to her delicate ear, and then ran his hand through the fair tousled hair. He said, 'Ruth, why can't we always be like this? You make me so very, very happy.'

She smiled back at him, then eased herself into a sitting position so that he lay flat and she could look down at him. 'Gordon ...?'

'What?' He stretched contentedly and tried to pull her down on top of him.

'Come here. I didn't want to tell you before. I wasn't sure. I didn't want to disappoint you.'

'What are you talking about?'

'I'm having a baby. It was conceived on the last night you were ...'

His head lifted quickly, startled. 'Are you sure?' His face paled. 'Have you seen the doctor? Had it confirmed?'

'There's no need. I'm as certain as anyone, even a doctor, can be.'

He sat up. 'Oh, Ruth!' A flush of excitement and pride spread across his face even as he knew enormous fear - for Ruth, for his baby. He could not marshal his thoughts. He was going to be a father. After all this time, he was going to be a father. He held her close and kissed her gently, on the forehead, the cheeks, the throat. 'Should we have made love? Won't it disturb the baby?

She pushed him back a little way, reached for her nightgown and carefully slipped it on. 'It won't do any harm at this stage.' She smiled and added, 'Besides, if I were not already pregnant, I would certainly be after this morning.'

'No. No. Don't!' He hated it when she spoke that way. It was coarse.

'I was teasing,' she assured him. 'But in another couple of weeks I shall have to take care.' She swung her legs over the side of the bed and felt for her bedroom slippers with a long, delicate foot while he watched, fascinated. She turned and said gently, 'I didn't tell you before because I needed your love. Just as much as you needed me.'

Gordon kissed her then started to dress as elation lifted him. He had fathered a child. A son, perhaps - but what did it matter? A girl or a boy. His girl or boy. He turned to Ruth, who was now dressed and looked as chic and calm as any mannequin. He said, 'There are no signs. You are sure?'

'I am very healthy, darling. It is only the size of ...' She made a small space between her left thumb and forefinger and smiled at him.

He must not get over-anxious or excited. He'd been down this path before. He said, 'You will take great care? Your sister-'

'Elizabeth lost all of hers. I'll be careful. Nanny will look after me.'

'Nanny! Oh, goodness. Have you told her?'

'No. 1 wanted you to be the first to know,' she said. 'Besides,I hardly see her these days. She delivers babies, drives an ambulance and has volunteered her services as relief district nurse,' Ruth said. 'But this gives us a reason to keep the Armstrong Siddeley. We also get a bigger petrol ration.'

'We'll tell Nanny when we get home.' He would not have been able to contain himself if he'd been Ruth. He said, 'You will see a new side to Nanny once she has a baby to care for. She will overrule everyone.' He smiled, remembering Nanny, as protective as a mother hen. 'The baby always comes first with Nanny. Will you mind?'

'I'll probably be glad,' she laughed.

'Where will you go for the birth?' She must not take any risks. She should go to a cottage hospital in the Borders.

'Nanny will deliver it at Ingersley. I'll be perfectly all right there,' she said. 'It has been the birthplace of the Campbell family for generations.'

Gordon could barely keep still. He wanted to pace the room, to run outside and shout it from the rooftops. 'We’ll stay here overnight. I'll drive you back tomorrow and return the day after.'

'Darling?' She came to him with arms outstretched. 'I want to stay with you here until you sail.'

This was so unlike her normal demanding behaviour that Gordon was taken aback. 'But the drive? You hate driving. And in your condition ...'

She put an arm round his waist, clutched tight and murmured, 'I won't go home, Gordon.I’m quite capable of driving myself back when you are gone. I’ll take the journey slowly.'

He placed his hands on her shoulders and buried his face in her hair. 'Oh, Ruth ... Oh, Ruth!'

What once he had thought of as a calculating expression in the back of her eyes today he saw as concern for him as she asked, 'You won't miss Ingersley if you don't see it this leave?'

'No. Not with you here.'

'You promise you won't think of selling? You will want your son to have an inheritance?'

He felt tears pricking the back of his eyes. 'Of course I do. I shall do all I can to save the estate.' He felt her relax, with an outrush of breath like a sigh of contentment. He was so lucky. He said, 'Speaking of Ingersley, darling, young Andrew Stewart is going to officer training at Portsmouth. He's done us all proud.'

He felt her stiffen then suddenly pull away to say, 'How long for? Where is he now?' in a hard, shrill voice.

'Aren't you proud of him?' he asked, and when she repeated her question, 'The course normally lasts six months. These days it could be as short as five weeks.'

She interrupted, 'But where is he?'

'I saw him on deck when you arrived. He has a weekend leave, forty-eight hours, then he has to report to Portsmouth.'

'So he won't be coming back to the Rutland?'

'No. He will be given another posting. They don't return new officers to ships where their old shipmates are still serving as lower ranks.' He smiled. She did not normally show any interest in the boy he had guided. 'His mother will be as proud of him as I am.'

'I delivered a letter for Andrew,' she said. 'I left it at the office. It will be given to him? Do they ever make mistakes?'

He pulled her close and kissed her again. 'You are becoming very maternal, dear. Worrying about young Andrew Stewart. He'd have been given his mail when he collected his rail warrants. He's a brave and courageous sailor. He will make a fine officer.'

The 9.30 train, crowded with sailors, had taken five hours to travel from Inverness to Edinburgh with delays all along the way. But at last it was pulling in to the capital. 'See any signs of battle?' Andrew asked Greg as he dragged his kit bag off the luggage rack.

Greg opened the compartment door and went ahead into the corridor. 'No. Auld Reekie's just the same as every place we've passed through,' he called over his shoulder. 'No wonder they call it the Phoney War.'

'It's all happening at sea, then.' Andrew came to stand beside Greg as the train entered the tunnel. 'And you'll be back in the thick of it ...'

Greg hauled his kit bag up on to his shoulder. 'Staying the night at my place?'

'Yes. I'll come up with you now, to dump this.' Andrew lifted his case. His fore and aft peaked cap tipped forward. He grinned and put it straight. At Invergordon he'd been kitted out in petty officer's uniform and given a green ATB bag for his luggage. He had what was left of today free. Tomorrow he would travel down to Portsmouth to join the course, which started on Monday morning. 'I'll be late back tonight,' he said as the train came to a stop at Waverley station.

Greg leaned out of the window and unlatched the door. 'So will I,' he laughed. 'But I have three nights. You've only one.'

Andrew followed him down the platform. And now they saw the difference. It was still light outside but here, where the glass roof that covered the great station had been covered and protected, it was almost dark, lit only by flickering lamps which created a pool of light here and there, briefly revealing the faces of those who searched for friends or family in the steamy, sooty gloom. There was a bank of sandbags in front of the waiting room and ticket office. Greg went striding ahead with only the round naval cap to distinguish him from the crowd. The station clock was lit and showed the time to be 2.30.

Greg stopped and said, 'I'll take your kit. Meet me in the Black Bull at nine o'clock tonight.' He slapped Andrew hard on the shoulder. 'Make the most of it. You might not see her again for a while.'

Andrew returned the comradely punch, waved Greg off then found his way to the WVS canteen, where uniformed lady volunteers served the servicemen and women who were joshing and hailing complete strangers like long-lost friends. He queued for tea, took it to a corner table, and there, ignoring the sailors who shared the table with him, he took out the only letter that had been waiting for him at the regulating office in Invergordon.

He opened it, flattened it on the table and saw that it had been written by, of all people, the woman he so disliked, the new Lady Campbell. He read: Please inform Leading Stoker Andrew Stewart that his mother is at present a patient in the Morningside Nursing Home. After this came the address and, Mrs Stewart will be convalescing for the next few weeks after a severe attack of influenza. Please inform Leading Stoker Andrew Stewart that it is unnecessary for him to make the journey to Ingersley.

This last sentence was both odd and superfluous; Ingersley was the last place he'd want to be unless Ma was there. He drank the tea quickly and went out to the telephone kiosk, where he put in a call to Mr Davidson's house. He had been unable to get through at nine o'clock this morning. Now he drummed his fingers on the black metal coin box while he waited. There was no reply. He pressed button B, got his money back and tried again. Still no reply.

'Blast!' he said under his breath to cover his anxiety with anger. 'Where are they?' They could be at some church thing, or rehearsing. But why had she not written?

He left the gloomy station and stepped out into daylight and the freezing air of a January day. He ran up the ancient stone steps that led, wide and steep, to Princes Street, where he caught a tram to the Morningside convalescent hospital. There, he found Ma in a three bed ward on the third floor, sitting propped up, tucking into a plate of ham and chips. She looked thin and pale, but was full of good humour.

'Andrew!' she cried in delight. 'You're an officer.'

'Not yet, Ma.' He kissed her. 'Acting petty officer. But I'm going for a commission!' and while he stole chips and bread and butter from her tray he told her all about the forthcoming months in Portsmouth. 'I'll probably get a week's leave when it's over,' he said as he swilled down a cup of tea. A nurse appeared bringing another tea tray, for himself.

'Ta!' He smiled at her and saw a pink blush come to her face. Then he said to his rna, 'So. Tell me all about it. How long have you been here in all this luxury?'

'Three days,' she said. 'It is luxury.'

'Who's paying for it?'

'Lady Campbell.'

‘She's had a change of heart then,' he said. Ruth Bickerstaffe had never done a good deed in her life, in his opinion. There must be a reason for this uncharacteristic act. 'When do you go back?' he asked, and followed it quickly with, 'I don't want you to go back. Leave Ingersley if it's making you ill.'

'Lady Campbell came down to the ward to see me.'

'Ward?'

'At Ingersley. It's a hospital.'

‘Right. I remember.' He said, 'You must have been very ill.'

Ma had gone even paler. She closed her eyes for a few seconds then leaned back against the pillows to get her second wind. 'Lady Campbell came down to see me in the ward of ten beds that used to be the drawing room. She said, "Mrs Stewart, influenza is a serious illness, ye ken.’ I said, ‘But wee Bessie's gone doon. How can ye manage?’She said, Your health is mair important, Mrs Stewart! Besides, we are at war. We all have to go short of something, ye ken.’

Andrew grinned at Ma's attempt at a cut-glass accent but said, 'Some hope of her going without anything.'

Ma's face was all alive, remembering. She told him not to be so cynical, then she was off again, retelling what she saw as her moment of glory. 'It was a surprise. She said, "I've been forced out of my ain harne, Mrs Stewart. I must needs look after myself under vairry cramped conditions. You ken that ladies with no children will be obliged to work? We cannae justify having servants when the country needs all the workers it can get.’

Ma heaved herself up high against the pillows. "'We must all make sacrifices. I must do for myself.” I said, "What do you want me to sacrifice, Lady Campbell?" and she said, "I shall find you a position, Mrs Stewart. Until the war is over. I know many places that are looking for lady cooks and paying vairry good wages, too. I shall make certain that your conditions and accommodation are equal to Ingersley. "

Andrew gave a dry laugh. 'They'll have to be a damn sight better, Ma -or I'll see her and tell her …’

'You'll do nae such thing,' Ma said, and went on, 'She said, "I will close the South Lodge. Your home will be waiting for you when this terrible war is over."' Ma smiled. 'She's on the billeting committee. She'll keep our house off the list, I'm sure of it.' A look of worry crossed her face briefly. 'What do you think?'

'She's up to something. I'm sure it's nothing trivial,' Andrew said.

'She's going to visit me when she has something fixed up. And Andrew ...?'

'What?' There was a look of pride on Ma's face as she waited a few seconds before announcing, 'She paid me off handsomely. A hundred pounds in notes and I'll be getting twice as much in wages. Four pounds seventeen and six a week if I get into one of the good army billets.'

Andrew dared not upset her. 'She's up to no good, Ma. But it can't affect us and I'm glad you're getting out of it. Take no notice of what she suggests. I want you to find a good house. I'll pay the rent. Expense no object.' He implored her, 'Don't use your own money. I'll be on twenty-four pounds a month. And on my next leave, Flora and I are getting married!'

Ma's face split into an enormous smile. 'Did she say yes?'

'Aye.' He picked up her hand and whispered so only she could hear, 'We both want children and a happy home. We want you to live with us, in Edinburgh.'

'Och! Not many lasses want their mother-in-Iaw-'

'Flora hasn't got anyone else in the world but you and me, Ma,' he said. 'I need to know you are looking after one another - and waiting for me to come home.'

He gave her his new address in Portsmouth and left the hospital to take a tram to Portobello. It was growing dark by 4.30, and the buses and trams ground slowly up Lothian Road. Andrew felt a quick thrill of recognition sweep through him when he made out the frozen white branches of the weeping tree in the graveyard under the castle. The tram turned the comer and the dynamo picked up pitch and speed as they went faster towards the East End of Princes Street. He pressed his face to the window to see where they were, but the monuments on Princes Street had either been taken down or sandbagged into neutrality, for he could not pick out one recognisable feature as they trundled on, leaving Princes Street for the pitch blackness of the road to Portobello.

It seemed odd, not seeing people about. Houses and shop windows were blacked out. Here and there he saw a faint flicker of light where a lone pedestrian flashed a pencil torch beam for a few seconds while he crossed a road or turned into a close. It was, as Flora had told him in her letters, dangerous to be out at night. The tram's speed could not have been more than fifteen miles per hour, for it was not until an hour later, at nearly six o'clock, that he got off at the power station in Portobello.

He walked along the deathly cold esplanade, where there was reflected light from the moon over the water. Then he was there - and knocking anxiously at Mr Davidson's door.

There was no sound - no reply to his knock. His anxiety grew. He tried the back gate. It was bolted. He climbed the wall and dropped six feet down into the back yard. The house was still. He put a bare hand on the window pane to melt the ice, and when he had cleared a patch he saw that the blackout curtains were not pulled and no fire glowed in the kitchen.

Alarmed, he climbed the wall again and headed towards St Philip's church. That, too, was closed but he could hear someone moving in the church hall. He rattled the door. A man who must be the old verger drew back the bolt and ushered him inside quickly so as not to show a chink of light. The place was deserted. Andrew asked, 'Do you know where I'll find the organist, Mr Davidson?'

'He was not at church last week,' the verger said. 'We are having to make do with the Sunday school pianist.'

'What about Flora? The girl who keeps house?'

'Nobody's seen her. They say she's left. That's why he can't get to church.'

Left? How could she just leave? Where had she gone? She had nobody. Worry was gnawing at him as he went back to the house. Stamping his feet, clapping his hands together to warm them, he waited - but not for another half-hour did he remember Flora's mentioning the woman next door, who took an inordinate interest in her movements.

In the blackout it was impossible to know if anyone was at home, but smoke was drifting thinly from the next door's chimney. He knocked hard before opening the letter-box flap and peering in. He saw an elderly woman coming towards the door.

'Who is it?' came her harsh voice.

'Andrew Stewart. I'm looking for Mr Davidson.'

The bolt was drawn. The door opened a little way and he rushed to say, 'I'm looking for Flora - my sister. She's nowhere to be found.'

She opened the door further and allowed him into the hall, then pulled a curtain across the door he'd come through and switched on a light, which showed her to be considerably older than Mr Davidson. A bad-tempered look was etched on her thin, lined face. 'You may well ask where Mr Davidson is,' she said. 'That sister of yours let him down, badly. Going around with a painted face.'

'That's enough!' Andrew said. He would not stand and listen to this. 'Flora would not upset Mr Davidson.'

'Then why wouldn't she let him know where she'd gone?' the woman snapped back. 'The first thing he knew was that she'd fallen on the ice and had been taken to hospital. A nurse came round. Then a different woman came by the next day to collect her belongings.'

'She fell? Which hospital?' He'd wasted all this time. He could have gone to half a dozen hospitals.

'I don't know. The woman didn't say.'

'Who was this woman? A nurse, you say?'

'I never saw her. She told Mr Davidson that Flora wasn't badly hurt, but the poor man was worried sick. And he was in a dreadful state the next day when the other woman came and asked for the girl's clothes and said she wouldn't be back.'

'How long ago?'

'About ten days.'

Flora had not written for at least three weeks.

'No explanation! The poor man has gone to live with his sister in Kelso. He'll not be back, I shouldn't wonder.'

Andrew was wasting his time talking to her. There was nothing for it -he'd have to ask Greg to spend a day of his leave making enquiries in every hospital in the area, as well as the shops and munitions factory here in Portobello. Meanwhile he must hope she'd written to him. The Royal Navy would send mail on wherever he was. His service number, not the name of the ship, ensured it.