Page 25 of Midnight on the Scottish Shore

25

Dunnet Head Saturday, January 10, 1942

Cilla carried a paraffin lantern up the spiral staircase for the start of her watch. With the sun rising so late during the winter, she’d work by lantern for the first hour of her shift.

In the lightroom, Mr. Palmer, the assistant keeper, gave Cilla his report and departed.

A half-moon lit the clear night sky and the dark sea, still and calm from a lack of wind. Cilla wouldn’t make her first meteorological readings until nine o’clock, the same time the sun would rise and allow her to observe shipping.

Fair weather meant the Luftwaffe’s planned supply drop would likely occur tonight. When Hauptmann Kraus transmitted to Cilla at midnight, he’d send the instructions and MI5 would prepare for reception.

Cilla scanned the waters but saw nothing for her log.

After she and MI5 received the explosives from the Germans, they could plan the fake sabotage for Burns Night. Cilla didn’t like the idea, but she certainly preferred it to returning to Germany.

At the worktable, she set down her lamp and pulled out her basket. Whilst cleaning, she’d found a box of fresh rags in soft blues and grays and greens. She’d never been artistic and had never had the patience for sewing, but a vision had flown into her head.

Cilla unfolded the fabric she was assembling into a seascape, with one shade of blue for sea, a lighter one for sky, gray for beach, and green for cliffs. Her stitches were too long and uneven for her mother’s taste, and Cilla could hear Moeder’s amused chiding in her head.

Her heart clenched. How she missed her parents. They knew Cilla’s shortcomings and flaws and still loved her.

Until recently, Cilla would have called them quirks, not flaws. Now she knew better. Impatient. Impulsive. Willing to manipulate with charm. Too quick with a joke, and not nearly quick enough to defend the vulnerable.

She huffed and turned on the wireless to drown her thoughts. But the torrent of bad news from the Pacific didn’t help, and she turned it off.

How much longer until the sun rose? Only a pale gray tint to the east promised daytime and the arrival of Lachlan Mackenzie.

A thrill rippled in her chest. She hadn’t seen him since Hogmanay, and she’d need all her acting skills to conceal her feelings for him and keep everything light and teasing.

Cilla lined up pieces of green and gray fabric and pinned them together. Over the years, she’d fancied a dozen men and thought herself in love at least four times. She had indeed fancied them—until she hadn’t. Until she’d realized something was missing in them, and their doting began to grate.

With Lachlan, everything was upside down. Nothing was missing in him—except a romantic interest in Cilla. How could she blame him? All he’d seen in her character was deception and frivolity. Never in her life had she felt she wasn’t good enough for a man. But never in her life had she fallen for a man like Lachlan.

Cilla unspooled a length of thread and snipped it. When dancing, she’d seen his joy and almost mistaken it as interest in her. How arrogant. He’d been enjoying the music and dancing, the company of family and friends, and the break from his cares and responsibilities.

Leaning close to the lamp, Cilla threaded the needle. She took a stitch, and the thread pulled straight through.

She’d forgotten to knot it, and a chuckle released. If Lachlan were there, he’d laugh with her, not at her, same as he’d done on Hogmanay when she’d mangled the dance steps.

At midnight, the entire party had held hands in a circle, Lachlan’s large hand around hers, his rough voice belting out “Auld Lang Syne.” For the final verse, everyone crossed their arms before them and reclasped hands with their neighbors. When the song finished, they all rushed to the center and flipped under their linked hands to face outward. Cilla had spun the wrong way and gotten tangled, and Lachlan had turned her about with much laughter.

She could have kissed him. Kissed that scarred upper lip.

Cilla puffed a breath up her heated face and flipped on the wireless. Thank goodness, the news was over, and a lady was singing a happy tune about blue skies around the corner.

With sewing in hand, Cilla went to the window. In the morning twilight, a fishing boat made its way below the cliff with flocks of seabirds hovering around.

Back at the table, Cilla sewed her crooked seam and hummed to the tunes, singing when she knew the words.

Finally, nine o’clock. The BBC switched to Gordon Banner on the theater organ, and Cilla opened her log to make her weather and shipping observations.

To the east, the sun spilled golden light down the length of Pentland Firth. The fishing boat had meandered slightly to the west, and Cilla peered toward Scapa Flow. How long until Lachlan’s motorboat appeared?

A boom thudded in her ears. Three hundred feet below, the bow of the fishing boat exploded in splinters.

Cilla screamed and dropped her logbook.

The men! Cilla pressed her hands to the windowpanes. Dark shapes splashed in the water, clung to the sinking stern.

She rushed to the telephone and rang Commander Yardley’s office.

What had happened?

No aircraft above. A U-boat? No periscope in sight. How had a submarine approached so close to shore, evaded the radio direction finding at Dunnet Head?

Gwen answered the telephone.

“Thank goodness,” Cilla said. “I must speak to the commander straightaway. A—a fishing boat exploded.”

“Oh no,” Gwen said. “Commander? It’s Cilla.”

As soon as he answered, Cilla blurted out her report.

“Thank you for informing me,” Yardley said, far too calm. “We didn’t hear anything, but I’ll ask the boys at the station if they saw anything on their scopes.”

He didn’t believe her? “Commander, I saw it with my own eyes. You need to send out a boat straightaway.”

“I’ll investigate and if—”

“ Now , sir.” Cilla’s voice climbed, and she stamped her foot. “The boat is sinking. The fishermen are in the water. It’s cold. Send out a boat straightaway.”

“You do not give me orders.” His tone cut. “I’ll investigate. If you’re telling the truth, we’ll send rescue vessels from Scapa.”

“Scapa! That’s too far. I—I’ll go myself. I’ll take one of the boats at Brough.”

“You’ll do no such thing. Reese—go to the lighthouse and make sure our selkie doesn’t do anything stupid.”

Cilla slammed down the receiver. Men were dying, and she was supposed to do nothing?

She raced down the spiral staircase. She’d done nothing when Hilde goaded little Gerda to her death. She’d done nothing when Arno and his thugs killed Dirk. What good could she have done? Maybe she couldn’t have helped. Maybe she would have died herself. But she would have died with a clear conscience.

What if those men in the water—what if their boat had been sunk because of one of Cilla’s messages?

She gulped down a sob and thumped down the last steps.

The front door opened—Gwen.

Cilla dashed to the Wren. “Come with me. Two of us can pilot a boat better than one.”

Gwen’s eyes stretched wide, and she set her hands on the doorjamb on either side. “Commander Yardley told me not to let you—”

“Save men’s lives?” Cilla shook her arm in that direction. “You won’t let me save men’s lives? This can’t wait.”

“I will not let you leave.”

And Cilla would not let Gwen stop her. She shouldered past the Wren and dashed into the courtyard toward the bicycles leaning against the whitewashed wall.

On the other side of the wall sat Yardley’s staff car.

“Commander!” Gwen yelled. “Commander! She’s escaping!”

Cilla released a strangled cry and tested the car’s door. It flew open. She slid inside and started the engine.

Commander Yardley burst out of the keeper’s house.

No time to spare. Cilla stomped on the accelerator. The car lurched forward, and Cilla sped down the road, gravel rattling on the undercarriage.

She swiped tears from her eyes. Yardley didn’t believe her. Gwen didn’t believe her. All this time, and they still didn’t trust her.

On the far side of the stone wall, Cilla cranked the steering wheel and turned down the road to Brough.

Gwen thought Cilla was trying to escape?

Cilla thumped the wheel with a fist. Had she risked imprisonment? Execution?

What did it matter?

If she remained at Dunnet Head and waited for Yardley, every one of those fishermen would die.

They still might die. She pushed the accelerator to the floor.