Frost has hardened the paths up to Kirkwall Town Hall as people gather for another meeting. There is a white rime on the leaves of the bushes, which glitter as bodies brush past, breath steaming from open mouths. It is past blackout, so they shuffle and huddle close together to avoid stumbling.
In the dim light of the hall, John O’Farrell is waiting, his jaw tense, his hands in fists on the table in front of him. There is a serrated, raw feeling in the air, like the metallic tang of a gathering storm, and no one has ever known John O’Farrell to flinch from a fight.
When this meeting about the newly arrived prisoners was called, there had been plans to stage a protest – as if a meeting would do any good! As if talking would make a difference! Some had even said that they should boycott the meeting, should deal with the problem themselves, quickly and finally. Someone else had pointed out that there could be nothing quick or final about getting rid of a thousand foreign men.
Now the people mutter to each other, waiting for John O’Farrell to speak. The women rustle their skirts and the men clutch their caps. They know what they will do, if the meeting doesn’t go their way.
O’Farrell gives a sigh, a tight smile. ‘I’ll get directly to the point,’ he says. ‘It’s not escaped my attention that there’s been some distress around the idea of our Italian guests.’
‘It’s not the idea of them,’ a man calls. ‘Ideas don’t eat all our food and leave our children hungry.’
‘Aye,’ agrees O’Farrell. ‘And ideas don’t paint threats on the side of buildings, either, Robert MacRae. But I don’t suppose you’d know anything about that, would you?’
Earlier that day, someone had noted the black letters on the town-hall door, reading, ‘Fuck the Italians!’ The words were three feet high and had taken hours of scrubbing to remove. A faint scent of turpentine still hangs in the air.
MacRae colours and shifts in his seat, and the men surrounding him, who had been grinning at his smart response, look down at the floor. The mood of the crowd warms towards O’Farrell – MacRae and his cronies are a bunch of thugs and have been the cause of various troubles over the years.
O’Farrell continues: ‘While I’m not in approval of some of the protests and grumblings that have reached my ears, neither am I ignorant of the problem we have. I’ll not stand and watch your children going hungry any more than you will. But the barriers must be built and the Italians are here to stay. We must play our part in the war, like everyone else –’
There are grumbles at that. Some telegrams and letters from the brothers and sons who are fighting have found their way home, but some have not.
We’re shedding blood in this war. Orcadians are laying down their lives. Isn’t that enough?
As if he can hear their thoughts, O’Farrell raises his hands. ‘You’ll all have got wind of the rumours about the horrors happening in France and Belgium, of Russia being invaded, of England being bombed.’
Nods and grumbling from around the room.
‘Folk say there’s nothing left of some parts of London,’ someone mutters.
‘Exactly,’ O’Farrell says. ‘And there’s no purpose in panicking, but what we must remember is that we’ve a chance to do our bit here –’
‘By feeding Fascist soldiers?’ one of MacRae’s cronies calls.
‘By fortifying these islands. Stopping ships and submarines striking us from the north and going down through Scapa Flow to the rest of Britain. Or have you forgotten the submarine attack? Eh? That sinking ship slipped your memory already, has it? Or maybe it’s your geography that’s off, Matthew MacIntyre? Perhaps you should have stayed longer in school, rather than running about on the streets and giving yourself flat feet so you can’t go off and fight.’
Laughter then, and MacIntyre hunches lower in his seat.
‘As I was saying,’ O’Farrell goes on, ‘we’ve all to do our bit. But there’s the problem of feeding these men, while making sure there’s enough to go around for the rest of us. So, to that end, I’ve spoken to Major Bates, and he’s willing to let some of the men come across to Kirkwall and help with the farm work and so on –’
‘Are you mad?’ a voice calls. ‘I’ll not have foreign men working my land –’
‘And no one will force you to, George,’ O’Farrell cuts in. ‘But you’ve a fence that needs mending and a field that’ll go unplanted this year without your lads here.’
George scowls but has no reply.
And by the time the meeting ends, half an hour later, John O’Farrell has a list of tasks for the Italian men, which he will take across to Major Bates the next morning. The feeling of unease in the room has shifted: no one will reject the offers of help – they’re not fools, after all. But, still, it’s important that people prepare themselves. It’s crucial that no one falls into the trap of trusting these soldiers, these foreigners who will be working their land.
Back in their homes that night, the women will press kisses into the cheeks of their sleeping children and promise to protect them. The men – old, thin, weak-chested – will fetch out the knives they use to gut fish and trim hoofs. The darkness will be full of the scrape of metal being sharpened on stone.