—
I went upstairs and hid in my room, but about an hour before Meg usually returned from the sawmill I began to panic. Anna had not come back, and she always started the dinner, which Meg then finished and served to the customers. Eventually, I crept downstairs again, thinking I’d at least better warn Mr. Ross that there would be no food to serve, but there was no sign of him either.
I didn’t know what to do, but since I’d somehow managed to cause the problem, I ducked into the kitchen and scoured the pantry for the makings of a meal.
I realized almost immediately that it was hopeless, not only because I couldn’t find any of the meat I’d seen delivered that morning, but because even if I could, I wouldn’t have had a clue what to do with it. I wasn’t even sure how to start potatoes, and in about an hour upward of twenty men would start arriving, each of them expecting to be fed.
When Meg came in the back door, she found me leaning over the butcher’s block table, my head buried in my hands. She quickly assessed the situation, her eyes landing on the empty range.
“Anna left early,” I said.
“What’s happened?”
“I said something to upset her.”
“And what was that?”
“I’m not exactly sure,” I said miserably. “But I can tell you I didn’t mean to do it.”
I expected her to grill me, but instead she simply set her coat and gas mask on the chair and said, “Right then. Can you get the tatties going?”
I blinked a couple of times. “Yes. I think.”
“You think, or you can?”
“I think.”
The truth was, I didn’t even know how to slice bread. During my ravenous adolescent raids of the kitchen, I’d torn the bread off in chunks, digging out the soft middle to eat first, and then gnawing at the crust over the sink so I could rinse away the evidence.
Meg told me to fill the largest pot with water, add salt and forty potatoes, and put it on to boil. She stoked the fire herself while instructing me to hurry up about it so my husband didn’t come back and catch me where I didn’t belong, because she had a feeling that wouldn’t go very well.
Then she went out back to retrieve something she called “potted hough,” for which she thanked the dear Lord, for she had some on hand and it was served cold.
—
The bar was abuzz that night with news of the bombing, which distracted somewhat from the mashed potatoes, which tasted as though I’d boiled them in seawater. I also hadn’t realized I was supposed to remove the skin or dig out the dark spots, or that the knife was supposed to glide smoothly through before I declared them done, all of which Meg explained to me later. I saw more than one man lift a full fork, examine it with disbelief, and then attempt to fling the potatoes back onto the plate to see how tenaciously they stuck. Poor Meg—although there wasn’t a man in the room brave enough to complain, she was assumed to be responsible.
Conall, who’d joined me by the fire as soon as Hank and Ellis arrived, didn’t seem to mind how gluey they were. I was convinced that he’d come because he knew I needed moral support, so to thank him I began slipping him tiny bits of mashed potato on the end of my finger, which he gravely licked. At one point, I thought I saw Mr. Ross watching when I had a potato-dipped finger extended in offering. Apparently Conall thought so too, for he stared straight ahead and ignored it until his master’s attentions were elsewhere. Only then did he tip his head toward me and let his tongue sneak out the side of his mouth.
Since the bombing hadn’t made it into the paper, people were adding their own bits of knowledge to the general story. Hank and Ellis listened with great interest.
Two bombers had flown down the Great Glen from Norway, targeting the British Aluminium plant in Foyers, a village several miles down the other side of Loch Ness. One night guard had been killed when the blast threw him into the plant’s turbine, and another died of a heart attack.
When someone shared the news that one of the Heinkels had gone down in Loch Lochy almost immediately after, I gasped and looked at Mr. Ross. He finished pulling a pint and slid it across the bar to one of the locals as though he hadn’t heard.
“Well, whadya know,” said Hank, his voice betraying a sliver of respect. “He shot down a bomber with a fucking rifle. I wonder why he’s not fighting?”
“That’s a very good question,” said Ellis. He twisted in his seat and said, “Say, bartender, my friend here has a question for you.”
“Don’t!” I whispered, utterly appalled.
“Why?” he asked.
“Because it’s none of our business,” I hissed. “And he’s the landlord, for goodness’ sake, not the bartender. Can’t you show a little respect?”
But it was too late.
“And what would that be?” asked Mr. Ross.
“You’re pretty good with a gun,” said Hank. “Why aren’t you at the Front?”
The room went silent. Mr. Ross simply stared at Hank.
It was Rory who finally spoke. “That’s funny,” he said slowly. “We’ve been wondering the same about you.”
“Medically unfit,” Hank said, as though it were all a joke.
“You look healthy enough to me.”
“I have a condition called pes planus,” Hank said.
“Do you now?” said Rory. “Is that Latin for yellow belly?”
Hank jumped to his feet. The lumberjack also rose, but slowly. He was clearly more than a match for Hank.
“Hank, sit down,” I pleaded.
“And let him get away with calling me a coward?”
“If the shoe fits,” said Rory.
“Ellis, are you going to just sit there and let him call us cowards?” Hank said, outraged.
“He wasn’t talking to me,” Ellis muttered.
“As a matter of fact, I was,” said Rory. “Have you got some fancy diagnosis for lily liver too? Planus lilicus, perhaps?”
“I have protanopia,” said Ellis. “I can’t see color. And for your information, I tried to enlist twice.”
“The lot of you should mind your own business,” said Meg, coming out from behind the bar.
“It is my business, if he calls me a coward,” said Hank.
She threw him an exasperated look, gave up, and turned to the lumberjack. “You can’t fight him, Rory. You heard what he said. He’s got a medical condition. You can’t go around beating up invalids.”
Hank opened his mouth to protest, and Ellis whacked him on the side of the leg.
“They don’t look sick,” said Rory.
“Well, you don’t always, do you? George the Jannie looked just fine until he dropped dead of a weak heart. You can’t fight a man with pes planus. You might kill him on the spot.”
Rory stared at Hank for a long time. He finally returned to his seat. “I suppose you’re right,” he said with a sigh. “It would be like kicking a puppy, wouldn’t it?”
“Of course I’m right, you daft fool,” said Meg, slapping him on the arm. He responded by slapping her bottom. She whipped around and pointed a finger in his face, but he just laughed and blew her a kiss. She glared at him and sailed back behind the counter.
As the rest of the men returned to their conversations, Hank and Ellis sat in silence, both of them ashen.