The Last Wolf (26 page)

A week later, Reinhard heard the bad and sad news that Metzler's boat had been lost at sea with all hands. A thousand, thousand pities! He could have told the old clown that the Norwegian maidens weren't nearly as icy as he'd feared.

Christmas Day had been a day like any other at Western Approaches. Someone had draped hand-coloured paper chains around, but otherwise it was strictly business as usual in the Navy Map Room for the plotters. The girls in Stroma's watch were old hands at the job, except for the newest who was also the youngest. She had made a mistake or two where mistakes weren't tolerated; any more errors and she would be removed from her duties.

Near the end of their final watch, when they were all very tired, Stroma saw the girl standing at the bottom of the tall ladder, tears running down her cheeks, her body shaking.

‘I can't go up there . . . I can't do it any more.'

It was no good telling her that she could, and that she must. The girl was obviously too terrified to move, let alone climb the dizzy heights of the wall map. Stroma had done it many times and even to her it was unnerving. From the top, the map table looked a very long way down.

She said, ‘Go and sit down until you feel better. I'll take over.'

She went up, holding on to the iron rail with one hand and then reaching over to the wall map to alter the latest position of a convoy.

It was always tricky. Signals came in as the convoy progressed across the ocean and you had to know the speed of a convoy, its ships and their escorts, to make the changes accurately on the wall. Usually, there were U-boats around to deal with as well, but this time none had been reported in the area.

When she'd finished she started to climb down again, feeling for the rungs with her feet as she went. Later on, she thought the accident had probably happened because she was tired and not paying proper attention, or maybe because she was in too much of a hurry. Whatever the reason, halfway down she somehow missed a rung. Her foot trod on air instead of metal. At the same time, she lost her grip on the handrail and fell the rest of the way down on to the concrete floor.

‘You're an extremely fortunate young lady, you know.' The surgeon wagged a finger severely at her. ‘You could easily be dead.'

The pain was so bad that Stroma wasn't sure that she wouldn't prefer to be. The surgeon went on talking – not to her this time, but to the attentive little group of junior doctors and students gathered round the end of her hospital bed, hanging on his every word. He was an iron-grey-haired man with the look of a headmaster, accustomed to instant obedience from all. It would not have surprised her if he had carried a cane.

Her injury was being discussed as though she weren't present – or, at least, not conscious. A very nasty break of the femur – the large upper bone in the leg. A spiral fracture, apparently caused by the way she had landed so awkwardly on the concrete. The surgeon seemed to blame her for that extra piece of carelessness, and he was probably quite right. Of course, if she had fallen straight backwards on to her head, he probably wouldn't have to concern himself with her at all. Instead, she had twisted round, grabbing frantically at the rungs as they went by.

‘We'll keep her in traction for a few more days,' the surgeon was saying, waving his hand at her leg suspended in the air by ropes and pulleys. ‘Wait for the swelling to go down before we put the leg in plaster for at least two months. It's going to take time, and we have to hope that the break mends evenly, otherwise the patient could be left with one leg shorter than the other and a permanent limp.'

The satellite group all nodded, one of them even smiled at her brightly. Then they moved on to the next bed in the ward, occupied by an old woman who had also fallen – but over her cat not down a steep ladder – and had broken a hip.

Stroma shut her eyes. Only morphine would stop the pain and it wasn't time for another dose yet, so there was nothing to do but put up with it. Nothing to do but lie there and think how stupid she'd been. If she had paid proper attention, not been in such a rush, it would never have happened. She would still be at Western Approaches, doing her job, not stuck in a hospital ward for weeks to come. No use to the war effort. No use to anyone. At first she'd wept and felt sorry for herself; now she still wept sometimes, but it was no longer from self-pity, but anger at her own stupidity.

The other Wrens came to visit her, bringing books and magazines, precious sweets from their rations, lavender-scented soap, talcum powder, hand cream. She was overwhelmed by their kindness and put on the cheeriest face that she could – laughing at their jokes and listening to the latest gossip. But it was hard to watch them walk away down the ward and not be able to walk with them.

Her parents came up from London and she put on a cheerful face for them, too. Her father, of course, would know all about how tricky spiral fractures could be, but he didn't mention it. Her mother was shocked by how deathly pale she looked and said her hair needed washing. After they had left, she borrowed a hand mirror from another patient and saw that both things were true.

The leg had been in plaster for three weeks by the time Hamish turned up. She got him to sign his name, alongside the Wrens and the naval chaps who'd also visited. Some of them had drawn pictures and written rude verses. He read them and laughed. She had expected him to tell her what an idiot she'd been, but for once he kept his thoughts to himself.

‘I bet it hurts a bit.'

‘Not too bad. They give me stuff.'

‘Hmmm. Well, they seem to think it'll be quite a while before you'll be let out of here.'

‘I know. One of the Wren admin officers came the other day. She said they'll probably send me home to practise walking around. I'll be on crutches at first. It's going to be a real bore.'

‘Well, you'll just have to be patient.' He glanced at the next bed where old Mrs Campbell with the broken hip was clicking away with her needles at something long and khaki-coloured. ‘Perhaps you could take up knitting? Comforts for the troops?'

‘The troops wouldn't get much comfort from a scarf full of holes. I'm hopeless at it.'

‘Well, the war may be over soon, anyway. The Yanks and us seem to be doing pretty well in Europe and the Russians are very busy slaughtering Germans. It's practically full steam ahead.'

She said slowly, ‘How about the U-boats?'

‘Not many of the buggers left, I'm glad to say. It's been a hell of a battle, as you know, but we beat them hands down in the end. They know they can't win now.'

Reinhard must certainly be dead, she thought. And probably long ago. She hoped it had been a quick and merciful end for him.

Hamish had moved on from U-boats. ‘By the way, Alice is already planning our wedding. Maybe in September. She wanted to know if you might like to be a bridesmaid.'

‘I'd love to be, if I can walk all right. The surgeon said something about a limp if the bone doesn't mend properly.'

‘Oh, I shouldn't worry about that. It'll be fine.'

‘Well, I'll do my best. Will you stay in the Navy – when the war's over?'

‘I think so. I'd rather like to make a career of it.'

‘Admiral Mackay?'

‘Maybe one day. If I'm lucky.'

She had no doubt that he would be. ‘I wanted to ask you something, Hamish.'

‘Fire away.'

‘Well, apart from reading, I don't have much to do except lie here and think. And I've been thinking about Craigmore.'

‘Hmm. What about it, exactly?'

‘Well, when the war's over – whenever that is – I don't want to stay in the Wrens – not sure they'd have me back now, anyway – and I don't want to go and live in London and work in some office there. What I'd really like to do is go and live up at Craigmore – that's if you've no objection. I wouldn't live in the house; maybe in one of the cottages. If you wouldn't mind.'

‘Of course I wouldn't mind, you idiot! But I think you should live in the house. It needs somebody to look after it. We can't just leave it empty forever. Of course, I'll be up there whenever I can – bring a few chaps for a bit of shooting and fishing and what not – and maybe Alice will come too, sometimes. We ought to try and get a housekeeper and cook . . . Perhaps Ellen would come back.'

‘We could ask her.'

He frowned. ‘But wouldn't you be a bit lonely up there, Stroma? It's pretty isolated. Not much fun for you on your own, I'd have thought. OK for a few weeks, but all the year round? What on earth would you do?'

‘Actually,' she said, ‘I've got an idea.'

‘Not something damn stupid, I hope.'

‘No. I think it's rather a good one.'

He sighed. ‘I may as well hear it.'

‘Well, I happened to be reading an article in a magazine that one of the Wrens brought me. It was all about tweed cloth and how it's made, and when I'd read it, I started thinking.'

‘Thinking about what, for heaven's sake?'

‘About starting a woollen mill.'

He looked at her blankly. ‘A woollen mill? What on earth for?'

‘Well, it would be a good thing for the island. Something to give people employment when the war's over.'

‘The distilleries will do that.'

‘Yes, I know. But the island needs something else. There's the sheep, of course, and Highland cattle and the fishing and the game, but that's about the lot. Now, if we had a working woollen mill, it would make good sense. A lot of the women can spin. Grace has a spinning wheel – I've often seen her using it, sitting outside the cottage. She keeps some of the sheep's wool, spins it on her wheel, and then she knits it up into jumpers for Angus.'

‘I've seen them. They're awful.'

‘But if our wool were made into a good enough quality tweed – something really distinctive – it could be sold in England, perhaps even all over the world – like our whisky.'

He shook his head. ‘You've been dreaming, Stroma, not thinking. Spinning's not enough; you need looms for weaving and that's complicated and expensive machinery.'

‘Remember old Kildale mill? You've fished in the stream that runs right by it. Grandfather didn't bother much with it but it's on the Craigmore estate so it belongs to us.'

‘But it's a ruin.'

‘No, actually, it isn't. I went and took a look inside once, just out of curiosity. The building's in quite good repair. And it's still got two looms.'

‘Nobody's worked there for about fifty years or more. The looms would be useless now.'

‘I don't think so. They're beautiful old Victorian things. Made to last forever. I bet we could get them to work again. And I'd like to try.'

He sighed. ‘Well, that's up to you, old girl. I wouldn't have the time. Personally, I think it's a crazy idea, but if it amuses you . . .'

‘It's not a question of it amusing me, Hamish. I'm serious.'

‘It'd need a load of money to get it started, you realize that?'

‘Maybe not so much, and not all at once. Next time I get up to Craigmore, I'll go and have another look at the mill. And I'll talk to Mr Pirbright and Mr Ross about it.'

‘That's OK by me. So long as they're involved, they'll stop you doing anything too stupid.'

‘Was that your boyfriend, dear?' Mrs Campbell asked Stroma when Hamish had gone.

‘No, he's my brother.'

The old woman sighed. ‘So handsome in that lovely uniform. I've always fancied the Navy. All the nice girls love a sailor, don't they?'

It was not until the middle of February that Stroma was released from hospital. The break had taken its time, but it had healed evenly. As the surgeon kept reminding her sternly, she was a very lucky young lady.

Learning to use the crutches to walk with was more difficult than she had expected. She couldn't imagine how Long John Silver always seemed to get around so easily. The crutches rubbed painfully and got tangled up in things, including herself. When she'd finally got the hang of them, after walking what seemed like miles up and down the ward and round the hospital, they'd sent her home to London.

She went by ambulance, in company with another Wren who had broken her ankle in the blackout, an able seaman who had mangled his hand in a boat's chain, and a young rating who had been badly burned in a boiler explosion at sea. He was swathed in bandages and didn't speak at all.

The V2 rockets were still falling on London, but there were fewer, and people had become used to them and were going on with their daily lives. With no sound and no warning, there was no way of avoiding fate, and so no point in hiding. But, if London was taking it, German cities were being hit even harder. According to the news on the wireless and photographs in the papers, they were in ruins.

Rosanne, who was working as a doctor's secretary in Reigate, came to visit at the weekend, wearing a sparkly ring on her left hand. She sat on the sofa, showing it off, and produced a photograph of her fiancé – an army lieutenant called Christopher. They'd met at a dance in Reigate and were engaged two weeks later. Like Hamish and Alice, they were getting married as soon as the war was over.

‘He looks super. Your parents must be awfully pleased.'

‘Yes, they are. They've never got over losing Jeremy, of course, but I'm hoping this might help.'

‘Specially if you have children.'

‘We plan to do that, as soon as possible. We want at least four.'

Rosanne was looking so radiant and so happy that, just for a moment, Stroma wished she'd said ‘yes' to Tom, then she, too, could be wearing a sparkly ring and planning a lovely wedding and children. Tom was such a nice person that it would probably have been easy to live contentedly with him. Except, of course, that she wasn't in love with him. Which made it quite wrong, and not at all fair on Tom.