They have their own names for people from different islands: folk from Flotta are called Fleuks or Flounders. People from Hoy are Hawks. South Ronaldsay dwellers are called Witches. Nothing sinister in that – it’s an age-old name and no one asks for reasons.
There’s another, smaller, island too, Selkie Holm, named so for the creatures that are rumoured to swim in its waters: half woman, half fish. Until recently, no person had lived there for more than a hundred years. The only building is a broken-down shepherd’s bothy, which squats on the hill like a decaying tooth. It was uninhabited by anything except sheep until a few months ago, when the Reid twins moved in.
The inlet of Scapa Flow, which runs between the island of Selkie Holm and that of mainland Orkney and Kirkwall, has been used as a naval base since the Great War. No one is happy to see the ships come back, but what’s to be done? The English sailors are loud when they come ashore. There is less food for everyone and the small town of Kirkwall is crammed with young men, who drink too much beer, then whistle at the local girls. Only last week, a sailor grabbed a woman around the waist and tried to kiss her. She shrieked and cuffed him about the head. There was talk later that a group of Orcadian men were going to storm one of the boats and teach the sailor some manners. Nothing came of it – just old men and flat-footed youngsters making threats – but, still, the air has a frayed-rope feel, close to snapping.
Most of the young Orcadian men have gone off to fight. The islands are full of grandfathers, women and children – or young men unfit for combat. Those who remain feel raw and exposed, and huddle together against the gathering storm of war.
In the warmth of a Kirkwall pub, five men crouch around a table. They should have gone home an hour before, when the pub closed, but they have paid the barman well to lock the doors and keep the beer coming. They have cards and stories, which they share by the light of a single candle; they would barely be visible to anyone passing outside.
The old tales are told, one by one, as the cards are dealt: the mists that have been seen around the shores of Hoy, and the shapes stirring within them that one fisherman took for selkies; he steered closer, only to have his boat hit a rock.
‘He had to swim to safety. Spent the night clinging to the cliffs.’
The men laugh, but huddle closer to the fire.
Then Neil MacClenny looks over his shoulder and tells them he’s seen something else, something that doesn’t make sense, and just tonight too, when he was walking to the pub. The moonless sky was lit by the flare of the aurora – the Merrie Dancers – and MacClenny saw something moving just beneath the water out in the bay.
A dark shape. Like some beast, he whispers, leaning forward.
But MacClenny, with his drinker’s nose and his bloodshot eyes, is a gullible fool, even when sober, so the other men clap him on the back and buy him another whisky.
All the same, the story sobers them, quiets their chatter. There is something stirring – they can all feel it. They bid each other farewell quickly and quit the warmth of the pub soon afterwards, running past the sea, hardly daring to look at the water. They arrive home gasping, rushing upstairs to check on their children, and on their wives, who are indignant at having been woken and roll their eyes when they hear MacClenny’s tale. The men look at their sleeping families and laugh softly at their own foolishness. All the same, they snuff out their lights, check the bolts on their windows.
So, after midnight, the ships are silent in the bay and no one is watching when the periscope of the German U-boat snakes above the water, just long enough for Pasch’s trembling crew to load four torpedoes and fire them.Dorothy
I am nearly asleep when the world catches fire.
I had been lying awake for hours, blinking at the grainy darkness, wishing for sleep, but every time I closed my eyes, I found myself counting: we had enough oats to last two weeks, but only enough butter for one. The meat might last ten days, if we were careful. But many of those things could only be found in Kirkwall, and returning there always sets Con to shaking, and stirs nausea in my gut.
Earlier that day, Con and I had rowed across from Selkie Holm to Kirkwall to buy supplies to repair our new home – an old shepherd’s bothy. The door is coming off its hinges and we need wood to repair the broken beams. We also have to find slate for the roof – it would be bearable sleeping half under the stars in the summer, but we’ll freeze this winter.
The war has made it a struggle to find anything for sale. But we had some wool and eggs to exchange, and another supply of washed and rolled bandages to be taken back to the Kirkwall hospital, so I was hopeful, as we moored in Kirkwall – or I was trying to be hopeful. Con’s mouth was downturned, but she wouldn’t argue with me again.
She climbed out of the boat and I squeezed her shoulder. She smiled reluctantly and I could feel her thinking, You wee bampot! It was something our parents used to call us. We both laughed, as if she’d said it aloud. Impossible to argue with someone when you know their every thought.
There were fewer motor-cars than there used to be, because of the rationing of petrol, and most people walked with their heads down. It was still strange to see the streets empty of young men – they’d left gradually, at first, but then in a flood, as the war came
