Submarine

'Lieutenant-Commander Farge?' the proprietress asked, sliding a registration form and the visitors' book towards him. 'Wartime regulations, I'm afraid, sir. Your room's ready for you in the annexe,' she added, glancing at Lorna.

Lorna stood behind him, watching his hesitation. 'Supper's at seven,' the woman said as he scribbled in the details. 'I've reserved a table by the window.' She was smiling at them both, 'I hope you'll enjoy your stay.'

Thanks. I'll get cleaned up for supper.'

'I'll show you to your room.' The 'kindly Scottish woman glanced across at Lorna.

'Don't bother, I'll take him across to the annexe.' Julian picked up his bag and Lorna led the way to the door opening on to the small courtyard at the rear.

'Number eight,' she said quietly as Julian unlocked his door. 'Mine's in the main building: room five.'

He dumped his bag on the chair and, taking her hands, drew her into the room. He shut the door and encircled her in his arms. He kissed her then gently pushed her from him. 'Let's eat,' he said. 'Then we can talk.'

Later, while the sun crept downwards across the Cuillins, they took the shore road out of the village. When they were clear of the houses, he took her hand. They strode along and for a while he spoke of mundane things: his trip up north, the difficulties of trying to find accommodation at Kyleakin. 'So I left it to you in the end,' he said, smiling down at her. There was a constraint between them which she did not understand.

The deserted road was evidence of the recent petrol-rationing. On their right, the Sound opened up to the northward, the last rays of the sun for a brief moment brushing rose-pink the slopes of the islands. The valleys running down from the northern slopes of the Cuillins were turning blue, deep mauve across the lower slopes where the shore tumbled into the narrows which separated Skye from Scalpay. The granite boulders scattered along the roadside were fringed with gorse, the trembling, golden spikes stilled now that the breeze was falling away. The sea was very blue and white cotton-wool clouds drifted high in the evening sky.

Farge led her by the hand, as they scrambled across the rocks which sprinkled the turf running down to the sea. The heather scratched her bare legs as they strode onwards and she was thankful her coat was long enough to protect her tweed skirt from the worst. At the shore-line he stopped, outlined against the brittle light of sunset, tall and lean in his old grey trousers and blue sweater.

'There,' he said. 'The little bay, out of the wind.'

They spread her coat on a spur of turf and leaned against the rock edging the sand. He drew her into his shoulder and began stroking her hair, pressing her head against his chest. She could feel the beating of his heart and, encircling him with her arms, she turned her face up to him. His brown eyes were flickering with darts of light as he stared down at her, but then his face blurred as he bent to brush her forehead with his mouth. She closed her eyes, felt his lips touching her lids. She reached up and entwining her hands about his head, pulled him down to her. She sealed her mouth to his and, slowly parting her lips for his probing tongue, felt the lick of desire reaching to the very depths of her body. The world dissolved and she was lost, overwhelmed by the frenzy of his loving. She drew back and watched his eyes opening.

'My Lorna,' he whispered. 'I've been searching for you for so long.' He kissed her again, then suddenly pushed her from him. 'I love you so much.'

'Why d'you think I've come up to Scotland?' she whispered.

'We've such a short time.' He traced the outline of her face with his strong fingers.

'Tonight — and tomorrow,' she said.

Neither spoke then, as they leaned back against the rock, her hand on his chest, his hand on her thigh. He began flipping the shale pebbles towards the wavelets lapping the beach.

'Stop,' she said, 'or you'll frighten that lovely bird.'

'Oyster-catcher: look, there's his mate.'

The beautiful sea-birds, resplendent in their spring plumage, with their red eyes and legs, and their long, orange beaks, had alighted on a tide-washed rock, barely ten yards away.

'They must have a nest nearby,' he said. 'Look how contented the hen looks.'

She caught his answering smile as she whispered:

'It's not only the birds who have maternal instincts.' She took his hand and slid it beneath her heavy sweater. She did not know how long she lay there, eyes closed, savouring the delicious seduction of his hands. From somewhere far away she heard his voice: ('Will you marry me if… when I get back?' A small, golden cross hung from a fine chain between her breasts. She lifted it and held it up to his lips. He kissed it and enfolded her hand in his.

'I'm yours totally and for ever,' she replied softly as, gently separating her breasts, he replaced the emblem. Above the lapping of the wavelets, she could hear the oyster-catchers calling to each other on the shore.