The deserted road was evidence of the recent petrol-rationing. On their right, the Sound opened up to the northward, the last rays of the sun for a brief moment brushing rose-pink the slopes of the islands. The valleys running down from the northern slopes of the Cuillins were turning blue, deep mauve across the lower slopes where the shore tumbled into the narrows which separated Skye from Scalpay. The granite boulders scattered along the roadside were fringed with gorse, the trembling, golden spikes stilled now that the breeze was falling away. The sea was very blue and white cotton-wool clouds drifted high in the evening sky.
Farge led her by the hand, as they scrambled across the rocks which sprinkled the turf running down to the sea. The heather scratched her bare legs as they strode onwards and she was thankful her coat was long enough to protect her tweed skirt from the worst. At the shore-line he stopped, outlined against the brittle light of sunset, tall and lean in his old grey trousers and blue sweater.
'There,' he said. 'The little bay, out of the wind.'
They spread her coat on a spur of turf and leaned against the rock edging the sand. He drew her into his shoulder and began stroking her hair, pressing her head against his chest. She could feel the beating of his heart and, encircling him with her arms, she turned her face up to him. His brown eyes were flickering with darts of light as he stared down at her, but then his face blurred as he bent to brush her forehead with his mouth. She closed her eyes, felt his lips touching her lids. She reached up and entwining her hands about his head, pulled him down to her. She sealed her mouth to his and, slowly parting her lips for his probing tongue, felt the lick of desire reaching to the very depths of her body. The world dissolved and she was lost, overwhelmed by the frenzy of his loving. She drew back and watched his eyes opening.
'My Lorna,' he whispered. 'I've been searching for you for so long.' He kissed her again, then suddenly pushed her from him. 'I love you so much.'
'Why d'you think I've come up to Scotland?' she whispered.
'We've such a short time.' He traced the outline of her face with his strong fingers.
'Tonight — and tomorrow,' she said.
Neither spoke then, as they leaned back against the rock, her hand on his chest, his hand on her thigh. He began flipping the shale pebbles towards the wavelets lapping the beach.
'Stop,' she said, 'or you'll frighten that lovely bird.'
'Oyster-catcher: look, there's his mate.'
The beautiful sea-birds, resplendent in their spring plumage, with their red eyes and legs, and their long, orange beaks, had alighted on a tide-washed rock, barely ten yards away.
'They must have a nest nearby,' he said. 'Look how contented the hen looks.'
She caught his answering smile as she whispered:
'It's not only the birds who have maternal instincts.' She took his hand and slid it beneath her heavy sweater. She did not know how long she lay there, eyes closed, savouring the delicious seduction of his hands. From somewhere far away she heard his voice: ('Will you marry me if… when I get back?' A small, golden cross hung from a fine chain between her breasts. She lifted it and held it up to his lips. He kissed it and enfolded her hand in his.
'I'm yours totally and for ever,' she replied softly as, gently separating her breasts, he replaced the emblem. Above the lapping of the wavelets, she could hear the oyster-catchers calling to each other on the shore.
'You're cold,' he said, pulling down the sweater. 'I'll find somewhere out of the breeze.' He climbed to his feet and scrambled down to the tide-line fringing the cove. She watched him scouting round the rocks and then, when he was out of sight behind the promontory, swiftly climbed to her feet. Sweeping her sweater over her head, she slipped into her gaberdine raincoat; unzipping her skirt, she watched it tumble to the turf. She stepped from it and folded it inside the sweater. Placing the makeshift cushion on the turf, she buttoned her raincoat and sat down, her hands behind her, waiting for him.
The last rays of the sun were streaming across the wild countryside behind her, deliciously warm, heightening every glorious colour, the vivid greens, the blues, the shining golds…. 'Dear God,' she cried out, 'please, oh please, don't take him from me.' She turned abruptly as she heard Julian scrunching on the shale from somewhere between the rocks.
'There's nowhere better,' he called to her.
She smiled, holding a hand out towards him. 'It's lovely here,' she cried. 'Warm, now, in the sun.' She lay back. 'Come,' she called softly.
Kneeling beside her, he took her face between his hands. Then, without a word, opening the collar of the coat, he began to caress her body.
'My God — you're beautiful.'
She felt his ringers at the buttons, undoing them one by one. She watched his dark eyes lingering over her, saw the gleam in them as he folded back her coat. Her arms went around him, pulling him down roughly, taking him to her:
'I want our child, now, now,' she whispered fiercely. 'Then I'll have you for ever. Whatever happens…'
The peaks of the Cuillins, tipped crimson and orange by the afterglow of sunset, cotton grass whispering in the moorland behind them, and the call of a curlew floating plaintively in the silence of the gathering dusk… she would cherish this instant when time stood still, this moment when finally she opened her eyes, until the end of her mortal days.
Chapter 9
'Is that our last run, Number One?' asked Coombes.
'Yes, sir. Noise trial completed.'
Commander Coombes glanced at the clock above the submarine's chart table. 'Time to go home,' he said. After surfacing, you can send your libertymen to clean. I'll take her on the watch to Pabay Island.'
'Thanks, sir.'
'What time's the liberty-boat?'
'1615, sir.'
'ETA Pabay, pilot?' Coombes asked his navigating officer, Lieutenant Everard Farquharson, who was crouched over his chart table in the starboard for'd corner of the control-room.
'1605, sir.'
Coombes glanced at the men around him: Fleet Chief Petty Officer 'Bull' Clint, his extrovert cox'n on the planes was keeping the ordered depth of two hundred feet. Standing alongside the cox'n in the port for'd corner of the cramped control-room was the 'outside wrecker', MEA/Mech I Hank Botham, who was supervising the newly-joined PO MEM watchkeeper on the sec. Between the two athwartship periscopes stood the WEO, Lieutenant-Commander Simon Grenville. The first lieutenant, the senior two-and-a-half on board, Stuart Hamilton, hovered on the port side of the masts from where he kept an eye on his AI team.
'No other contacts, sir: only Orcus bearing 015°.'
'Cabot's keeping the area clear: I won't stop on the way up today, Number One,' Coombes said. 'Stop engine. Periscope depth.' He nodded at the ship control officer of the watch, 'Six up.'
The captain stood between the periscopes, watching as the incredible machine responded to the sensitive controls, all 4,500 tons of her. He could feel her under his feet, the angle coming on as she adopted her six-degree bow-up angle.
'No contacts,' the sound-room reported. In the hands of a good operator, the 2001 sonar was a magnificent set.
'No contacts, watcher,' again from the sound-room.
Coombes was happier now, after the hard time he'd had licking his ship's company into shape before his first wartime patrol off the Faeroes.
'Seventy-two, seventy feet.'
'Up search,' Coombes snapped, taking his hands from his pockets. This was the tricky bit, blind still, unpleasantly vulnerable to deep-draught ship tankers — VLCCS- now drew ninety feet. To be safe these days, Safari had to be at 190 feet.