‘Amen,’ the congregation intones. A few people sneak glances at John O’Farrell, whose son, James, is an aircraft engineer and was reported missing in action last month. Along with the pity that everyone feels, along with the horror at the thought of one of their own having fallen, there is an undercurrent of relief.
Not my son. Thank God, it’s not my son.
John keeps his head bowed – his hair is even greyer than before, his face more lined. There have been stories about prisoners being sent to German camps. No one knows what happens to them there; no one likes to talk about it.
After the service, the postmistress, Mary Guthrie, goes to give John her best wishes. She, too, looks haggard. At night, when she tries to sleep, her thoughts are full of the hopeful faces of mothers, who have walked to the post office for a letter from their sons. She has handed out one telegram after another, and watched her friends’ faces crumple. In the dark, she imagines the men – the boys, many of whom she has known all their lives: she dreams of their pale skin, like candlewax. Until last week, she dreamed of her own son, Robbie, who is a navigator. She didn’t imagine him dead, but pictured him, aged nine, laughing at the joke he’d told her.
What do you call a deer with no eyes? No idea!
He was forever telling jokes and stories. He was always prone to clowning; he had an infectious laugh. Every Sunday, from when he was fifteen, he’d got up early and fetched some decoration for her breakfast tray. Sometimes it was a rose, sometimes it was a trail of kelp or bladderwrack, but he always woke her with two slices of toast and a cup of tea on the tray he’d decorated.
Last week, Robbie returned to her with a limp. He is thin and dull-eyed; he says barely a word. When he is supposed to be asleep, she hears him crying and banging some part of himself – his foot or head? – against the wall. She can’t imagine him laughing.
Now, she places a hand on John’s shoulder. He pats her fingers and gives a pained smile. ‘Give Robbie my best.’ The words sound hollow; they both hear it. John’s son may be missing, but Robbie is absent too. Some vital part of him was lost in the air over Germany, when he gave directions to help set a city on fire.
As John is leaving the church, Angus MacLeod steps into his path. ‘I’ve been wanting to talk to you about this chapel they’re building.’
‘Not today, Angus. Can you not find something else to amuse you? There must be someone who wants tormenting. A child, for instance, or a harmless animal.’
‘But have you seen the chapel? The time it’s taking. I’ve been talking to people and we agree it’s unwarranted, out of all proportion. These men are prisoners –’
‘I expect they know that, and I expect their families are also aware. Now, step aside, would you?’ John continues walking down the steps but Angus grabs his arm.
‘They’re painting it. One of the prisoners is busy decorating the walls with pictures of people and birds – I’ve seen the pencil marks. Think of the supplies they need – the paint and whitewash. Not to mention the food and drink they’ll be demanding – and for what? To build a chapel, when they should be working on the barriers.’
‘The causeways are well on their way to being finished, from what I hear. They’ll be completed within six months and then the prisoners will be leaving. And if you’ve a problem with them in the meantime, I suggest you talk to Major Bates about it.’
Angus drops his gaze. The drizzle turns to rain.
John gives a short bark of laughter. ‘From your expression, I’d say you’ve spoken to Major Bates already and he gave you short shrift.’
Angus’s face twists. ‘It’s not . . . It’s not just the chapel. It’s the prisoners and the girls –’
John holds up a hand, his expression suddenly hard. ‘You’d best not be talking to those girls – you’d best not even be thinking about them. Other people might be willing to give you the benefit of the doubt, but I’ve neither the time nor the patience to pretend that I trust you. You stay away from those girls, or there will be trouble. Do you hear?’
‘But I –’
John steps forward, so that his face is inches from Angus’s. ‘Do not test me on this.’
Angus steps back, then looks away.
Around the two men, a small crowd has gathered. No one is standing close enough to interfere, but plenty have overheard.
After they have gone, there is a short silence and then a few people go back into the cathedral, out of the rain. Some agree with Angus, that the chapel is ridiculous – a gaudy thing, it will be, full of Catholic icons. There is not a single icon in St Magnus’s Cathedral, which has stood since the twelfth century. The pink sandstone walls are heavily etched with nine hundred years of graffiti: the names of sailors and ships are scratched alongside a skull, the eyes blank-socketed. The building carries the chill and reverence of a life longer than human thought.
‘Their chapel won’t last,’ says Neil MacClenny. ‘It’s made of tin cans and bits of old board, so I hear.’
Everyone nods. No one mentions the cement. No one remarks that, on some nights, if you look out over the sea towards Selkie Holm, it’s possible to make out the faint glow of a lamp burning in the darkness.
May 1942Dorothy
Every night, Cesare paints the chapel by lamplight. And every night, I watch him from the shadows. I don’t know if he sees me. Occasionally, he freezes and half turns. Once, I saw him put down his brush and bow his head. Then he said something that might have been
