Letters from Skye

Chapter Six Margaret

Edinburgh

Friday, 19 July 1940

Dear Paul,

She’s gone.

The morning after the bomb fell, I went back to the house, intending to patch things up. All night, I couldn’t sleep a wink, thinking about how we argued and how she pushed me away after those letters came tumbling out of the wall. My stomach was in knots.

But when I got up to the flat, it was empty. The wainscoting still gaped open, but every last letter was gone. And both of my suitcases.

My mother, who has never been away from the house for longer than a few hours, has packed up and left. And I have no idea where she’s gone.

I went to the neighbours’. I checked in the library. I walked around Holyrood Park three times. I even stopped in St. Mary’s Cathedral, thinking it not out of the realm of possibility that she was in her usual pew with the suitcases of letters. But no one had seen her. I went to Waverley Station, thinking surely she hadn’t boarded a train, that she was just sitting on a bench, trying to work up the courage to board. No. She wasn’t there.

So here I am, back in the empty house, not knowing if I should be worried or not. If she wants to take a little holiday, she’s certainly entitled. She can take care of herself. But the way she looked last night, Paul. Her eyes, they were haunted. She looked defeated sprawled out there on the floor. I may not know where she is, but I know she’s not on a jaunt to the seaside. Wherever she’s gone, she’s chasing something. Memories, regrets, her past. I’m not sure.

What I do know, though, is that it involves a letter from an American to someone named Sue. I always did like following a good mystery. Shall I?

21 July 1940

Maisie dear,

I hope this reaches you before you set out in search of adventure. You always did long to be a detective. Remember the time we crawled all over the Meadows at twilight, in search of the Hound of the Baskervilles? We were such kids then.

I do wish I had a bit of adventure myself. I’m still grounded until my wrist is all mended. So, instead of being off flying, I’m back lurking around the airfield. Can I be your Watson?

I hope, though, that your proposed detecting takes you safely out of Edinburgh. Granny never said a word about air raids in the city. Though, knowing her, she stood on the steps, shaking her fist at the Jerrys as they flew over. Now that I know there are real bombs falling right there where we used to play rounders, I hope you go elsewhere.

Perhaps your mam had the same thought. Don’t worry about her, Maisie. She’s as tough as my gran. She’ll be just fine.

Be safe, my sweet lass.

Edinburgh

Wednesday, 24 July 1940

Dear Paul,

I thought, if anyone I know could shed some light on Mother’s “first volume,” my cousin Emily could. She’s known Mother longer than I have. I took that single yellowed letter to her house and, in between loads of washing at the steamie, she told me all she knew. Which, really, isn’t much.

She remembers staying with Mother during the last war. Aunt Chrissie sent the children from the city to keep them safe after a Zeppelin attack. Even then there were evacuations. In their case, all the way up to the Isle of Skye.

I still can’t believe that my mother, who’s never walked beyond the edge of Edinburgh, once lived up in the Western Isles! It’s no secret—she’s told me stories of growing up, of skipping down the braes in search of fairy folk—but, nonetheless, I’ve always thought of her as an Edinburgher through and through. But she spent her girlhood there. Not so strange she should have a letter from Skye.

There was some bit of scandal with a girl and our two uncles. Perhaps the girl was called Sue? Emily couldn’t remember. And I can’t write to my gran to ask, as she only reads and writes in Gaelic. Emily suggested I write to our uncle Finlay, who stays in Glasgow.

I knew my mother had three brothers (two after Emily’s da died), but she’s never said much about them. Just that Alasdair was the smart one, Willie the cheeky one, and Finlay the one who lost something and never came back. About that, Mother never would explain further. Only that one day Finlay had more anger than he could keep inside and he left.

Emily never would’ve known Finlay was in the city at all—no one knew where he’d gone when he left Skye—but she was shopping in Glasgow one day years ago and passed a man who looked just like her da, Alasdair. She was young when he died, but Aunt Chrissie always kept a wedding photo by her bed. Emily chased the man down and, on a whim, threw out her da’s name and was shocked to find out that he was Alasdair’s younger brother. But it was no heartfelt meeting. Uncle Finlay shook her hand firmly, passed along his best wishes amidst other banalities, and then continued on his way. If Emily didn’t immediately hurry to find a telephone directory and learn that he had an address in Glasgow, the family might have lost that one brief reappearance of Uncle Finlay.

Thank goodness for curiosity, else I’d probably not have the courage to write to an uncle I never knew existed. And a disagreeable uncle at that, if rumours are to be believed. Wish me luck!