reaction, he had to admit, had been disquiet. A disquiet which he hadn’t been able to fully explain, but definitely involved the certainty
that nothing good would come of the flowers being disturbed. That’s why he’d urged Mike to put the flower back and not to touch the others.
You can leave the past behind, but it will never leave you.
And then had come news of the unearthing.
A coincidence of course. And yet?
Sam wished that Jean was still there with him. She might have set his mind at rest.
He glanced at the empty chair opposite.
‘You know what I’m worried about, don’t you?’ he said quietly.
He rose and went to the window. There were no lights now, not the way there had been back then. Yet the concrete-clad buildings still stood, resolute against whatever the wind might throw at
them. According to his mother, the area around them had been alive with people. Incomers who had changed the island and its way of life forever.
Sam had been born in 1944 at the height of the war. During that time, the island had doubled in population, four hundred servicemen stationed there over the term of the
hostilities. Before that, three hundred labourers, skilled workmen and technicians had arrived in 1940 to start work on the wireless station – a vital link in the radar and wireless system
designed to warn troops stationed around Scapa Flow when enemy aircraft were approaching.
As a baby he’d known nothing of this, but as a boy he’d explored the empty concrete-clad buildings, and heard plenty of stories about those years. Before the war many Sanday folk had
rarely strayed beyond the limits of their own parish with its local shops, school, kirk and chapel. During those years, everything had changed in that respect. Mechanical transport was suddenly in
abundance and islanders outside the North End were transported to events at camp. There had, unsurprisingly, been quite a few marriages between islanders and service personnel, and plenty of
liaisons, both admitted to and secretive. Babies had been born, like him, in the final days of the conflict, many more in the aftermath.
Then the airmen and soldiers had left, taking some of the island women with them.
The war years were past, but perhaps not the fallout from them.
His initial thought had been that the grave Hugh had uncovered would prove to be yet another manifestation of Orkney’s distant past, like the numerous brochs and standing stones that
littered the islands. Sand was a great preserver of bones as he knew from his work at the museum.
Then Erling had revealed that the bones weren’t so old after all.
Sam addressed the empty seat on the other side of the fire. ‘The scientist, a woman who’s in charge of excavating the grave, told Erling that she’s lain there fifty years or
more.’ He paused to let that sink in. ‘A lassie, Jean, buried in the old playground. How could that be?’
Sam tried to imagine her reaction to the startling news, but wasn’t able to. That was the problem. As their time apart lengthened, her voice, once so easily recalled, had grown
fainter.
His mood, disturbed by news of the magic flower and darkened by Erling’s call, had now reached rock bottom. The reason of course being that he thought he might know the answer to his own
question.
The child shouldn’t be out on a night like this.
The face at the window had seemed at first like a pattern made by raindrops. His eyesight being what it now was, both distant images and those up close had assumed the quality of an old film. He
needed new glasses, but chose to make do, because he didn’t like life to be too magnified. Then he could see the dust that had accumulated, the smeared marks he hadn’t cleaned.
He rose to open the door.
Her face and hair were wet. She wore a waterproof jacket but had chosen not to raise the hood. When he scolded her for that she just smiled. She removed the jacket, shook it and hung it on a
hook next to the door, then took
that nothing good would come of the flowers being disturbed. That’s why he’d urged Mike to put the flower back and not to touch the others.
You can leave the past behind, but it will never leave you.
And then had come news of the unearthing.
A coincidence of course. And yet?
Sam wished that Jean was still there with him. She might have set his mind at rest.
He glanced at the empty chair opposite.
‘You know what I’m worried about, don’t you?’ he said quietly.
He rose and went to the window. There were no lights now, not the way there had been back then. Yet the concrete-clad buildings still stood, resolute against whatever the wind might throw at
them. According to his mother, the area around them had been alive with people. Incomers who had changed the island and its way of life forever.
Sam had been born in 1944 at the height of the war. During that time, the island had doubled in population, four hundred servicemen stationed there over the term of the
hostilities. Before that, three hundred labourers, skilled workmen and technicians had arrived in 1940 to start work on the wireless station – a vital link in the radar and wireless system
designed to warn troops stationed around Scapa Flow when enemy aircraft were approaching.
As a baby he’d known nothing of this, but as a boy he’d explored the empty concrete-clad buildings, and heard plenty of stories about those years. Before the war many Sanday folk had
rarely strayed beyond the limits of their own parish with its local shops, school, kirk and chapel. During those years, everything had changed in that respect. Mechanical transport was suddenly in
abundance and islanders outside the North End were transported to events at camp. There had, unsurprisingly, been quite a few marriages between islanders and service personnel, and plenty of
liaisons, both admitted to and secretive. Babies had been born, like him, in the final days of the conflict, many more in the aftermath.
Then the airmen and soldiers had left, taking some of the island women with them.
The war years were past, but perhaps not the fallout from them.
His initial thought had been that the grave Hugh had uncovered would prove to be yet another manifestation of Orkney’s distant past, like the numerous brochs and standing stones that
littered the islands. Sand was a great preserver of bones as he knew from his work at the museum.
Then Erling had revealed that the bones weren’t so old after all.
Sam addressed the empty seat on the other side of the fire. ‘The scientist, a woman who’s in charge of excavating the grave, told Erling that she’s lain there fifty years or
more.’ He paused to let that sink in. ‘A lassie, Jean, buried in the old playground. How could that be?’
Sam tried to imagine her reaction to the startling news, but wasn’t able to. That was the problem. As their time apart lengthened, her voice, once so easily recalled, had grown
fainter.
His mood, disturbed by news of the magic flower and darkened by Erling’s call, had now reached rock bottom. The reason of course being that he thought he might know the answer to his own
question.
The child shouldn’t be out on a night like this.
The face at the window had seemed at first like a pattern made by raindrops. His eyesight being what it now was, both distant images and those up close had assumed the quality of an old film. He
needed new glasses, but chose to make do, because he didn’t like life to be too magnified. Then he could see the dust that had accumulated, the smeared marks he hadn’t cleaned.
He rose to open the door.
Her face and hair were wet. She wore a waterproof jacket but had chosen not to raise the hood. When he scolded her for that she just smiled. She removed the jacket, shook it and hung it on a
hook next to the door, then took
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