The Flight of Gemma Hardy_ A Novel - Margot Livesey [68]
During one of these conversations I finally learned the meaning of the phrase Bevin Boy. In 1943, Vicky explained, Lord Bevin had declared that more coal was needed to fight the war; one in every ten men who enlisted was chosen by lottery to go down the mines. “Seamus wanted to be in the RAF, like Mr. Sinclair,” she said, “but he ended up a Bevin Boy. At least it kept him safe.”
No wonder he had cursed my innocent question. I was still shuddering at the idea of spending hour after hour underground as she described how her parents had spent the war in dread of a telegram. “If someone was wounded, or worse”—she reached for a clump of stamens—“that was how the news came. We’d see a motorbike coming down the road and we’d hide behind the curtains, hoping it wouldn’t stop at our house.” She had been too young to understand the first time the bike stopped, in June 1943, but not the second time, in April 1944. “My poor mother,” she said. “Still I hardly knew my brothers, and the war was exciting. When a convoy was coming into Scapa Flow, you could feel the air buzzing even in our wee village.”
I recognised another strange phrase, this one spoken by the young man in the library at Claypoole. What was Scapa Flow? I asked, and Vicky said it was the harbour below the south island. The German fleet had been held there in 1919, until they sank their own ships. Then in 1939, just before she was born, a German submarine stole into the harbour and torpedoed the HMS Royal Oak. Afterwards the Italian prisoners had built a barrier to protect Scapa Flow.
“Oh, I know about the prisoners,” I said. “The person who first told me about the Orkneys said one of the prisoners had a beautiful voice and married an island girl.”
“Who was that?” said Vicky.
I could easily have said something vague—a neighbour, a friend—but for some reason I answered with Audrey’s full name.
“Audrey Marsden!” Vicky dropped her little hammer. “Where on earth did you run into her?”
“She used to cook for a neighbour, near Perth.”
“I always wondered what had happened to her. She was one of those girls who had to leave the island suddenly. I see her mother sometimes in Kirkwall.”
“Suddenly?” She had given the word special weight.
“She was expecting.”
“You mean”—I hesitated—“she had a baby? We always called her Mrs. Marsden, but she never mentioned a husband, or children.”
“Well, her husband wouldn’t have the same surname, would he?” said Vicky. “It’s not many women who can make Alison’s choice and have a child on their own.” She held up the flower, the four pink shells glowing on the end of their green stalk.
Later that night, lying in bed, I pictured Mrs. Marsden’s neat bun and respectable clothes. Could someone who looked like that secretly have a baby? I remembered her saying that orphanages were dreadful places. Then I found myself thinking about Drummond and Ross. For the first time it occurred to me that perhaps their sudden departure from Claypoole was connected to Drummond lying down with the boy, between the raspberry canes.
I spent many hours in Vicky’s company, but we did not exactly become friends; her duties as housekeeper set her apart, and we both had our areas of reserve. While I dodged questions about my past, she was reluctant to talk about Nell’s mother, although the first time I asked, she did give a brief biography. Alison was one of those girls who can ride almost as soon as they can walk; she got her first pony when she was four years old and later, at boarding school near St. Andrews, she competed in gymkhanas. When she