The Restless Sea

‘So are you.’

Charlie glances at her and then down at his feet. ‘Yes. I suppose I am,’ he says. He is not smiling any more.

Firemore beach is on the south side of the loch, a long horseshoe of reddish golden sand. Charlie insists on taking both oars, while Olivia throws the creels and lines over the side, the muscles in her brown arms tensing with effort. When she has finished, she hangs over the edge, enjoying being rowed by someone else for once. She sees silver slivers of sand eels dart beneath the boat, and dangles her hands in the water, leaving glittery trails. The loch is calm and the air is warm; the heat makes her light-headed. Two oystercatchers flit past, black and white against the pale water, their distinctive peeping whistles ringing out across the loch, their orange beaks and pink legs vivid against the blue sky. They flash their white underbellies before turning and sweeping back around, the white V on their backs and the white stripes down their wings in perfect symmetry. She wants to ask Charlie whether he flew at Dunkirk, but the words won’t come. The familiarity of their letters doesn’t seem to translate when he is actually here, in front of her. She closes her eyes, the world a haze of unanswered questions behind her eyelids.

Charlie suddenly stands, setting the boat rocking. Before she can tell him to sit down, he has unbuttoned his shirt, taken off his trousers, and leapt overboard, his pale body distorted beneath the water. He breaks the surface, his hair flashing in the sunlight, sleek against his head. ‘Are you coming in?’ he asks.

‘What about the boat?’

He laughs. ‘She’ll be fine. There’s not a breath of wind, and the tide is on the turn,’ he says. ‘Chuck the painter over the side and let her go. I’ll grab her in a minute.’

Olivia needs no further encouragement. She slips off her shorts and pulls her top over her head, already dressed in her bathing costume. She throws the end of the rope into the water and leaps over the side with a whoop, scattering the fish and sending glittering droplets into the air.

The change in temperature makes her draw her breath in sharply when she emerges. She slips under the water again. Relishes the coolness, the translucent green, the muffled sound of Charlie’s voice above. Then she breaks the surface again, and everything is bright and clear. She can just touch the bottom. Her toes scuffle along the cold sand, trying to get a purchase. She joins Charlie and grabs hold of the side of the boat, helping to tug it in to shore, their legs kicking out beneath the hull. His arms are strong and thick next to hers; the water glistens like dew drops on the blond hairs.

They drag the boat up on to the beach. It shooshes along the sand, leaving a groove. The tide is out and the beach is vast. They are the only creatures on it, apart from some sandpipers that fly up and settle further away, whistling to each other as they go. Charlie’s skin is pale where it has been covered by his uniform. His chest is smooth and hairless.

They soon dry in the heat of the sun. They eat sandwiches while sitting on the sand, digging their toes through the warm, dry top layer into the cool damp below. Afterwards, they explore the beach, turning over heavy stones to look for crabs that burrow secretively away from them. Olivia climbs a mound of rocks and surveys the loch. The water is cobalt blue further out, turning to emerald green as it grows shallower. To the left she can clearly see the open sea, the hills at the mouth of the loch gradually sloping into it until there is nothing, just endless ocean. It is easy to pretend the smattering of ships and the pillboxes aren’t there.

Charlie calls out and points at a round shape like a brown balloon bobbing on the surface of the water. Olivia spots it just as the seal disappears from sight. ‘Oh!’ she says, disappointed.

‘It’ll come up again,’ says Charlie. ‘There!’ It is much closer this time. Close enough to make out the mournful black eyes and mottled head.

‘Sing to it,’ says Charlie. ‘That’s what they say. If you sing to them, they come closer.’

‘I’m not going to sing to it,’ says Olivia self-consciously, then laughing as Charlie starts to sing, ‘God Save Our Gracious King’, and the seal watches them both, bemused, before disappearing again.

‘You’ve scared it away,’ says Olivia.

But Charlie is undaunted and carries on, tunelessly. The next time the creature comes up, it is a bit closer. So Olivia joins in, and they stand there singing as the sun beats down and the sandpipers feel braver and rush closer on their tiny legs, and the minutes stretch and mould into hours, and war and the cold ships that lie on the other side of the island are far from their minds.

Charlie is insistent that he teach Olivia how to shoot. He borrows an old air rifle from the gunroom at the back of Aunt Nancy’s house. Uncle Howard’s shotguns and rifles line the walls neatly, like sentries on duty. The room smells of gun oil and leather.

He hands her the gun. ‘Practise first,’ he says. ‘The principle is the same.’

Olivia holds it awkwardly while Charlie rigs up paper targets outside. The targets seem tiny, but Olivia is beginning to learn that she likes a challenge. Her first few shots are way off the paper, but she quickly gets her eye in and it turns out she’s pretty good. Soon she is just a hair’s breadth off the centre. Charlie nods as he watches her break the rifle and feed another silver pellet into it. She snaps it shut, aims and fires. There is a tiny hole in the bull’s-eye. And again. She hits it four times in a row.

‘I guess you’ve either got it or you haven’t,’ she says, smiling.

‘All right, all right,’ says Charlie, laughing. ‘Let’s try with the proper rifle.’

The sporting rifle is much heavier. Olivia lies next to Charlie on the ground. First he demonstrates how to put the safety catch on. Then how to lock and unlock the bolt, and where to lay the smooth, pointed bullets. She takes one and slides it into its chamber.

Charlie shows her how to steady the gun. ‘Use my arm, if you need to,’ he says. He pulls the rifle up and into her shoulder. The cold stock touches her warm cheek.

‘Feel there?’ he says. ‘Where the stock sits comfortably?’ She nods.

‘Now, when you fire, you squeeze the trigger. Don’t pull it. Just squeeze.’ He holds his hand over hers to demonstrate. ‘This rifle will have more of a kick than the air rifle. So make sure you hold it in.’ She can feel his breath on the tip of her ear.

‘Line up the sight like you usually do,’ he says. She drops her head. Looks along the top of the barrel. Adjusts the position until the marker sits between its dip.

‘Fire when you’re ready. But only if and when you’re a hundred per cent ready, with a clear, true shot.’

She pulls the trigger and there’s a zipping noise and the rifle kicks back against her shoulder. Charlie gets to his knees, squinting at the target: there is a neat hole ripped just on the edge of the bull’s-eye.

‘Looks like you’d give my gunner a run for his money,’ says Charlie. Olivia grins. ‘Seriously, though.’ Charlie’s brow furrows, and he sits back on his heels so he can look at her properly. ‘This could be useful if things get sticky.’

‘I don’t think I could shoot someone, if that’s what you mean,’ she says. ‘Not even a Nazi.’

‘I hope it won’t come to that, but you might get short of food. It sounds ridiculous now it’s summer, but once winter comes again I think rationing will really bite …’

‘We’re stocking up. We’ve been pickling and bottling like mad.’

‘But there are many more people living here at the moment – and you’ll need fresh meat once it’s too cold to fish. Get Mac to show you which deer need taking, and you’ll have fresh venison.’

‘Mac’s given all that up.’

‘He may have to change his mind.’

She sits up too, dusting the soil from her elbows. ‘Do you really think things are going to get that bad?’ she asks.

‘I’m sure they will. The Germans are in the north of France. They’re in the Channel Islands, for God’s sake. It’s only a matter of time before they strike.’

‘Sometimes it’s hard to believe that anything will happen. All we’ve had here are a couple of ineffective mines and some fly-pasts. You know, Mother said she’d heard it called the “phoney war” in London.’

The colour drains from Charlie’s face. ‘Is that what you think?’ he asks.

‘No,’ she says. ‘I suppose I’ve been lucky, that’s all …’ Olivia is startled by the sudden change. His eyes have clouded to a turbulent green. His whole body is tense. He starts to walk away.

‘Charlie …’ she calls out after him. He doesn’t turn to look at her, just carries on walking, his back straight, his hands gripping the rifle, knuckles white. She has to jog to catch up. ‘I’m really sorry,’ she says. ‘I know you’ve had a terrible time …’

‘You don’t know anything,’ he says. ‘You’re just a child.’

‘Then tell me?’ she says. She rests her hand gently in the crook of his elbow. He slows a little, and then sits on a fallen tree. Olivia sits next to him. The bark is old and spongy, crumbling a little beneath their weight.

‘I couldn’t,’ he says. ‘It’s not the kind of thing a girl like you should hear.’

Olivia leans against him, and he puts out his hand and she holds it in hers. ‘I’m here if you want to,’ she says quietly. They sit in silence for a long time, while the branches of the trees creak and rub above them.

A week’s leave is over quickly. Charlie has shown her his favourite spots. He has taught her how to build a small fire on the beach to cook her catch on, finding the driest leaves and hearing them crackle as they catch and burn. He has taken her up to the string of freshwater lochs, and to the places where the golden eagles glide on thermals high above the hills. The osprey nest was not used this year – possibly because of all the commotion around the loch, but it meant they could get a bit closer to examine the great heap of twigs and branches. Sometimes, in the evenings up at Taigh Mor, she catches him staring at nothing and glimpses that darkness or hardness again in his eyes. But she doesn’t pry.

She tries to be cheerful on his last day, but she knows she will miss having him around. His case is packed and he is getting a lift to Inverness with some of the other returning sailors. ‘Thank you,’ he says, taking her hands in his.

‘For what?’

‘I’ve had the best leave ever. Like one of the summers of my childhood. Swimming. Shooting. Fishing. Heaven.’

‘Do you know where you’re going next?’