He inhales deeply, filling his chest with a resounding longing for home. It echoes through his limbs, leaves him trembling, on the verge of tears.
When he opens his eyes, he has decided: they must build a church on this island.
March 1942Orcadians
It is Robert MacRae who first hears from Angus MacLeod that the prisoners are to build a chapel – a Catholic chapel – on Selkie Holm.
They’re drinking ale in the pub in Kirkwall, hunched over their pints in the corner, listening to the rain and wind batter the blacked-out windows.
‘What do they need a chapel for?’ Robert asks, sipping his pint. ‘Isn’t God everywhere?’
‘Exactly,’ Angus says. ‘I tried telling Major Bates it was a bloody cheek that they’re demanding a special place to pray.’
‘Well, at least that will stop them from trying to sneak into the church in Kirkwall. Neil MacClenny said he saw two of them trying to get into the church when they were supposed to be digging a ditch.’
‘Maybe. But still, it’s not right, is it? Foreigners building something on our land. I told Major Bates that people on the island wouldn’t like it, that the prisoners are here to work, not to spend their time building their own church in a place that doesn’t belong to them.’
‘What did he say?’
Angus stares moodily into his pint. The major had shouted that Angus was a jumped-up little worm who couldn’t find his way out of a wet paper bag and he should stop interfering when he’d caused enough bloody trouble already. All of this mess is your fault. I should have you sent off to fight and die in Africa, but I suppose you’ve got some medical exemption or other. What’s it for – stupidity?
‘He told me to mind my own business,’ Angus says.
‘Who does he think he is?’ Robert demands. ‘The English are arseholes, I tell you. How does Major Bates think they’ll get the materials for building a church? Going to ship everything in, is he? Because I’m sure the German U-boats in the North Sea need some target practice.’
‘He’s using two of the old metal huts and some leftover materials from the barriers –’
‘The causeways.’
‘Aye.’ Angus smiles. ‘The causeways. And they’re going to use scraps of metal and the like. He seems to think that some of the prisoners will be able to work with metal. He’s going to let them have a workshop with a furnace. Can you imagine? Think what weapons they could make in there. I told him it’ll only be a matter of time before a guard gets used as a pincushion. Those prisoners are angry – there’s a lot of rage for them to let loose.’
‘You’re right! What did he say?’
Major Bates had raised his eyebrows at Angus and asked if he was offering himself as a fucking pincushion.
Now Angus says, ‘He didn’t agree with me.’
‘Well, he’s a fool. From everything you’ve told me, that island is a powder keg.’
Angus nods and, without thinking, he rubs at the irregular semicircular scar that stretches over his wrist. The skin is smooth, now, and numb, but sometimes, when the sunlight catches it, it shines and he’s certain he can still feel the warmth of her breath.
Robert watches Angus and, very quietly, says, ‘Have you spoken to her?’
‘Not for a while.’ Angus stands up so suddenly that the chair falls over. The other men in the bar freeze, but don’t dare to look over. Best to turn the other way when Angus is in this sort of mood.
Angus downs his pint, bangs his glass onto the table, then stalks from the bar, leaving his chair on the floor and the door wide open to the biting cold and rain.
March 1942Constance
The mist is massing thickly on the hills when the last lorry clanks past the infirmary, delivering supplies up the hill for the new chapel.
‘It’ll blow away in the first storm,’ I say to Dot. ‘Won’t it?’
There is no answer, and when I turn, Dot isn’t behind me – I’m so in the habit of speaking to her that I’d forgotten she isn’t there. I haven’t seen her all morning and I’m starting to worry.
I search behind the curtain in the infirmary: our bed is neatly made and bare. Her boots are gone. I walk past the lines of beds, aware of the men’s eyes following me. None of them calls but, still, their gaze feels like something heavy pressing on my skin. I keep my head down.
The bed that had been Cesare’s is empty too – he was sent back to his hut yesterday evening, still coughing, but without the fever. He had recovered so quickly, after he’d spoken to Major Bates about the chapel. Every time I saw him, he seemed stronger, his limbs filling out, his eyes brightening. He and Dot had sat late into the night whispering. She had laughed and leaned forward over his bed. I had watched from behind the curtain as her hair fell across his face. I had watched him reach out and gather it in his hand, twisting it into a long red rope. My breath had stopped in my chest. I’d imagined him winding that rope of hair around her throat, or yanking on it to pull her in closer.
I stepped forward.
He’d looped her hair over her shoulder and released it so that it spilled down her back. She’d tucked it behind her ear and smiled at him.
Still, the fear swelled like a balloon beneath my ribs. He’s pretending – I know he is. All the prisoners are play-acting the role of polite gentlemen, but it is a shabby costume. I know how a man can pretend to be affectionate and concerned when he wants something. I know how warmth can deceive.
Now I can’t find Dot, the mist is closing in and there are
