Epilogue
Within two months, hospital beds and portable screens lined the halls and ballroom. The East Drawing Room became a surgery, and the Great Hall a burn unit. We moved into the servants’ quarters on the top floor with Conall, and before long, Meg joined us, having decided to become a nurse.
The patients both crushed and amazed me. I watched as a forty-seven-year-old sergeant, newly blind and learning to find his way around with a cane, first fingered the petals of a peony, and then leaned over to bury his face in it. I held the hand of a boy who was not yet twenty as he cried in frustration after donning his prosthetic limb for the first time. I cheered from the sidelines during the frequent wheelchair races in the Great Hall. The library became a game room. One indomitable soldier, twenty-two years old, whose spine and left arm had been shattered, had one of us wheel him into the library each morning, then spent the rest of the day defeating anyone who dared take him on at chess.
I rooted for these men, and hundreds like them, as they passed through our lives and our home. It was a comfort to me to see them taking solace in the garden, or cooling in the shade of the fountain.
Meg was a great favorite with the soldiers, and she married a young corporal, who was also from Clydebank, the following Valentine’s Day—an event that Angus and I had to skip for the happiest of reasons. I went into labor the night before, and just like that, Valentine’s Day was redeemed.
Two of our children were born during that time, to the great delight of the soldiers. After all the horror, death, and despair, the babies were the truest possible affirmation of life.
Life. There it was. In all its beautiful, tragic fragility, there was still life, and those of us who’d been lucky enough to survive opened our arms wide and embraced it.
Author’s Note
And now for the usual caveats about writing fiction based on real events: I’ve appropriated some parts of the history of monster sightings. In particular, I transformed the “Surgeon’s Photo” into the “Colonel’s Photo,” and reimagined the Royal Observer Corps sighting completely. The British Aluminium plant at Foyers was indeed bombed during the war, but at noon rather than at night, and in February 1941 rather than January 1945. Similarly, while I tried to stay true to all other facts about the creation of the Special Service Brigade, Achnacarry Castle did not become Castle Commando until 1942.
While I did not fictionalize any of these, the facts and numbers associated with some of the battles and certainly the death camps are inaccurate in the book because I had to base them on the information that would have been available to my characters at the time, which was limited to the nightly BBC broadcast and what was reported in The Inverness Courier. The real numbers and full truth took years to come out, and, as we now know, are even harder to comprehend than those that so horrified Maddie.
For Bob,
’S tusa gràdh mo bheatha
Acknowledgments
I don’t know if writing drives people crazy or if crazy people are driven to write, but I could not possibly have written this book without the help of the following noncrazy people, to whom I am forever indebted: My husband, Bob, my Rock of Gibraltar—without your unwavering support and belief, none of this would have been possible, and I certainly would not be able to continue.
To my sons, Benjamin, Thomas, and Daniel, who are delightful and incredibly well-adjusted young men in spite of having me as their mother.
To Hugh Allison and Tony Harmsworth. It was as though some invisible hand guided me to you. Experts each on Scotland during World War II and the Loch Ness Monster, your willingness to answer my endless questions over the years was nothing short of heroic.
To Hugh’s family members, who invited me in by the fire and made sure (for better or worse) that the level in my glass never went down: Hughie and Chrissie Campbell, Donnie and Joan Macdonald, Jock Macdonald, and Alasdair Macdonald—thanks to each of you for your hospitality and for sharing your memories and mementos with me.
To the people who lived in Glenurquhart during the war and were generous enough to share their experiences: Duncan MacDonald, Angus MacKenzie, Jessie (Nan) Marshall, William Ross, and Bonita Spence.
To Lady Munro of Foulis, for graciously inviting me to Foulis Castle to discuss her experiences in the WAAF, and for allowing me to prowl around the castle’s original kitchen with my camera.
To Siobhan McNab, for her timely and thorough archival work; to Fiona Marwick, from the West Highland Museum in Fort William; and to Sheila Gunn for providing Gaelic translations.
To my trusted critique partners: Karen Abbott, Joshilyn Jackson, and Renee Rosen, each of whom has talked me off the ledge at least once, or, if I’ve already fallen over, pulled me back by my bungee cord. I can no longer count how many books we’ve collectively survived.
I would be remiss if I didn’t also send a heartfelt shout-out to my dear friend David Verzello, who dropped everything to read this book every time I asked him to, which was often.
And a very special thanks to Emma Sweeney, my wonderful agent; Cindy Spiegel, editor extraordinaire; and to Gina Centrello and the team at Random House. All of you have the patience of Job and a keen understanding of the creative process, and you provided an unfaltering but gentle hand in guiding my book toward its finest form. I am also eternally grateful to Lisa Highton, my editor at Two Roads Books, who believed in this book from the very beginning.
To Cindy specifically—life threw me a number of curveballs over the last few years and I am grateful beyond words that you stuck with me. If I hadn’t been sure of your support, I’m not sure I could have crawled through it. Thank you.