The serial: Largie Castle, A Rifled Nest Day 95

There was honey to be gathered from Daisy’s beehive, raspberries from the garden, trout caught in the loch, a rabbit stew or jugged hare

During the early months of the war my grandmother Daisy, now 60 years of age, felt her sons were reasonably safe. Jock was a captain in the 8th Argylls, Simon an officer in the Lovat Scouts, and Angus was serving overseas in Singapore. Back at home friends like Edna Greenfield, the mother of Angus’s former commanding officer admired Daisy.

Daisy was president of the local branch of the Scottish Women’s Rural Institute (SWRI) and during the war served as President and Secretary of the Argyll Federation, which supported the war effort.

It was a period of unusual calm and as autumn turned into winter, my grandmother could be forgiven for wondering what all the fuss was about. Then it changed.

On June 3, 1940, while in France with the British Expeditionary Force, Jock was severely wounded. Following her eldest son’s injury and hospitalisation, the only one of Daisy’s five offspring free to help was Esther, my mum, so she was granted compassionate leave from the ATS.

Subsequently, each summer Esther returned to Largie for three months when she worked on the farm, tended the garden, and managed the castle filled with evacuees. Bombed Secreted away from any city, you might think the war hardly impinged on the community. This was far from the case.

On September 16 1940, German aircraft spotted, close to Rathlin Island off the northeast coast of Northern Ireland, the SS Aska, a British steamship sailing towards Liverpool from West Africa, with French and British troops and 600 tons of cocoa on board.

The enemy bombed the converted liner three times after which the beleaguered ship drifted eastward towards the Kintyre coast until it ran aground on the north shore of Cara.

Some weeks afterwards, Daisy’s nieces, Barbara Gordon Clark and Anne Swann with their young children took a day trip to the island.

Four-year-old Charles Gordon Clark was thrilled to play on the beach’s fine, white sand, see the wild goats and sit on the Broonie’s chair.

Looming before them in the water was the wreck of the Aska, its cargo strewn along the shoreline and floating in the sea.

Most tantalising was the sight of dozens of oranges bobbing on the water’s surface but these were uneatable, contaminated by salt water.

I can’t help wondering if the spoiled fruit wasn’t a joke played on the children by the Broonie.

After all, Cara was his island and the Highland fairy could be at times possessive, moody or just plain obstreperous.

Were Daisy’s nieces disrespectful towards him? Perhaps they patronised or laughed at the idea of the Broonie, in which case he wouldn’t have hesitated in some retaliation.

It was mean to tease these hungry girls and boys by placing dozens of intact, but inedible, oranges within their reach. Barbara’s children could scarcely remember the last time they had seen, still less tasted an orange or for that matter, a banana, peach or grape. Rationed Recently, all they could lay their hands on was an apple, pear, or plum, and a variety of berries: strawberries and raspberries mainly. Sweets and chocolate, of course, were strictly rationed.

Conversely, the Highland fairy was quite capable of indulging people, especially lovers. In Spring 1947 my recently engaged parents visited Cara.

During their excursion my father dropped his wallet and only discovered it was missing after his return to the castle.

Two days later he received it in the post. A retired doctor found Dad’s wallet on the island and posted it back to him. Mum was convinced the Broonie had helped them find it.

Closer to Largie and more intrusive was the wartime range at Rhunahaorine Point where RAF training squadrons fired at and bombed various land and sea targets.

So that they could view the firing range, Jock’s young sons, John and Donald climbed to the top of the castle’s tower where they peered out over the fields towards the Point.

Nobody avoided wartime rationing and coupons for clothes, fuel, and food. Sugar, tea, and coffee, were limited, and imported foods were banned.

Diets became simple and restricted but at Largie, there were treats: there was honey to be gathered from Daisy’s beehive, raspberries from the kitchen garden, trout caught in the loch, a rabbit stew or jugged hare.

Just as life at Largie became more manageable with Esther’s prolonged summer leaves, Jock’s slow recuperation from his injury, and the occasional wartime entertainment when neighbour, Naomi Mitchison, arrived with her theatrical troupe of local fishermen and farmers, news came that Japan had invaded Malaya.

Daisy waited anxiously for word of Angus. Astonished by the lightning speed with which the eastern power’s forces advanced down the length of Malaya, she was appalled to hear that the defending army had retreated to Singapore Island.

As for the surrender, it wasn’t really much of a birthday present.

On Sunday February 15, Daisy was 63 years old and that evening, shortly after Lieutenant General Percival had signed the surrender papers in the Ford Factory on the outskirts of Singapore city, the prime minister of Great Britain, Mr Churchill, announced in his BBC broadcast from London that Singapore had fallen. Courage The following day, Daisy discovered more when she read the newspapers. “Singapore Forced to Capitulate” declared the headline in The Times.

News from the Far East took precedence over columns on Rommel’s desert advance, the RAF’s Rhineland targets, and Germany’s invasion of Russia. Singapore had surrendered unconditionally.

The pill could not be sweetened for the public even if The Times’ headlines stressed the courage of the British Imperial Forces.

“Gallant Resistance Ends” and “Stubborn Fighting to the End” introduced accounts of British, Australian, Indian, and Malayan troops trying to check the Japanese advance.

The fall of Singapore was an unmitigated defeat, the likes of which the nation had never seen since the American Revolutionary War (1775–83), and Angus was caught up in it. More tomorrow © 2017 Mary C Gladstone, all rights reserved, courtesy of the author and Firefallmedia; available in hardcover and paperback online and from all booksellers.