The Forgotten Shore

by Sarah Maine

Genres: Historical Fiction; Women's Fiction; Historical Romance

Synopsis

1940. Wounded and guilt-ridden, war hero Archie Maxwell returns to Rosslie, his beautiful family estate in Argyll, where he finds himself in the uneasy company of his father's young new wife - and his own nightmares. 1965. In the Newfoundland fishing harbour of Heart's Repose, eleven-year-old Eva Bayne strikes up an unlikely friendship with the local outcast, Tam Nairn. But against the threat of change, and the hostility of Tam's son, suspicions flare - until a crisis threatens to rip all their lives apart. 1980. The disappearance of Rosslie's heir has cast a shadow over the Maxwell family for almost 40 years. When Eva, now a fledgling journalist, is drawn into the mystery, the glimpse of an old photograph unlocks painful childhood memories. Will the past give up its secrets?

Release date: August 10, 2023

Publisher: Hodder & Stoughton

Print pages: 368

Sample

CHAPTER 1

Rosslie, Argyll, 1980

Eva

‘Ladies and gentlemen, your attention, please.’

The hall fell silent. Heads swivelled, faces turned forwards and Eva watched as the auctioneer scanned the gathering, gauging the anticipation, letting it build. ‘We begin with lot number one, a charming landscape attributed to Sir James Guthrie. Note the distant view of Rosslie House out towards the headland. Dated to just before the Great War and presumably painted when he is known to have visited. While unsigned, it has all the hallmarks of Guthrie: his broad, confident brushstrokes, the tonal quality and . . .’

Eva surveyed the hall while the man continued his practised patter; there was excitement in the air. The sale had brought punters from all over Scotland. Some had come up from London, David had told her, scenting desperation and bargains to be had. The rows of seating set out in the oak-panelled hall were packed and all eyes were fixed on the central staircase, its wide bottom step serving today as a makeshift podium. Austere portraits lined the walls, eyeing the proceedings with cold disapproval.

‘So, who will start the bidding?’

David leaned sideways, reeking of cigarettes and grubby pubs. ‘Flogging the family silver,’ he murmured. ‘Duncan Maxwell’s that dark-haired, stony-faced chap at the foot of the stairs; between a rock and a hard place, he is.’

Eva had wondered if it might be him, the heir apparent, and decided that he was a good-looking man – though with a rather aloof demeanour – somewhere either side of forty. He looked tense, though, as well he might, and his resemblance to the portraits was unmistakable: same high forehead, same long nose. He was, in essence, a younger version of his father, the late Sir Andrew, whose portrait was prominently placed on the staircase and whose demise had precipitated this sale of paintings. His death, in his ninety-sixth year, was hardly unexpected but had left the family in a fix.

There was enthusiastic early bidding but interest soon faded and the bidding stalled. ‘Thank you, sir, with you at a thousand. Who will give me eleven hundred? Come now, ladies and gentlemen, that’s hardly a large sum for such a delightful painting, whose value’s increasing even as we sit here.’

David leaned close again, too close. ‘Entering stage left, the grieving widow. Still a cracker, eh?’ Lady Jillian Maxwell had that sculptured sort of face that aged well; her silver hair had been stylishly cut, her make-up carefully applied, and she took a seat with a cool nod to her neighbour. A renowned patron; an avid collector, David had said, and Eva admired her elegant red outfit, chosen perhaps to express defiance in the face of the family’s very public financial difficulties. Eva studied her, making mental notes for the article that would come from this afternoon’s outing, and watched as a fair-haired young man pulled up a chair beside her and whispered in her ear. Her ladyship’s face lit with a smile and she tapped his arm in affection, or admonition; it was impossible to say.

David had seen him too. ‘Keith Maxwell,’ he informed her in a whisper. ‘Younger son. Pain in the arse, according to Duncan.’

‘Going once . . . and twice.’ The auctioneer left a tiny final pause before letting the gavel fall. ‘Sold to the gentleman in the tweed jacket. Thank you, sir. And now we come to lot number two.’

David whistled as another painting was placed on the easel. ‘My God, that’s a Peploe! If I’d the cash, I’d bite his hand off. How can she part with it?’ Eva shushed him, conscious of dark looks and disapproval from their neighbours. ‘Needs must, I suppose, until they find the missing link.’ A long career in journalism had given David Mallory a rock-hard shell and he regularly mortified her. The auctioneer glanced their way, sensing a bid but David shook his head and dropped his voice to a whisper. ‘Whatever they raise today’ll only pay off immediate debts, I’m told, and it’s capital they need. Can’t see how they’ll keep things going unless the man’s found.’ David might claim Duncan Maxwell to be his friend but there was ghoulishness in his tone.

Bidding was brisk for the Peploe and Eva saw Duncan Maxwell exchange a nod with his mother as it fetched a rather better price. One or two further paintings came and went, most selling at knock-down prices, and there was then a brief interlude during which caterers filled glasses and the auctioneer’s easel was adjusted to take a larger painting. David sipped at his drink, his fourth or fifth, she’d lost count, his eyes continuing to skim the crowd. ‘They’re all talking about it,’ he remarked, returning to the earlier topic. ‘You can hear it, eh, taste it and smell it, and they’re just loving it! Their very own Lord Lucan.’

‘Except this man’s not suspected of murder.’

David shrugged. ‘Must have done something disgraceful or why vanish? What’s the story, eh? Massive row, I expect, but over what? Duncan just clams up, claims not to know and Lady J ain’t for telling either – eats journalists alive if they ask. Proper shit-storm until he’s found.’

The final lot was now in position and the auctioneer cleared his throat, adjusting his smile. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, an exciting late addition!’ The easel had been draped with a cloth and the man allowed a murmur of curiosity to swell before he whipped it away. ‘A very rare opportunity to acquire a little-known but certified work by the renowned William McTaggart. We’re calling it lot number—’

A commotion erupted at the front of the hall. The auctioneer broke off and Eva craned her neck to see that an elderly gentleman with a walrus moustache had got to his feet and was jabbing towards the painting with his cane. ‘You can’t sell the McTaggart!’ he declared and swung round, scanning the punters, and then addressed the hall. ‘Known it these fifty years or more. Used to hang in the dining room.’ The auctioneer’s assistant went over to him and spoke in a low voice that Eva couldn’t hear.

David leaned forward, his eyes alight. ‘’Ello, ’ello.’

At the front of the hall the dissenter was shaking his head and continuing to protest. ‘Jilly said they were selling her paintings, from her own collection, not the ones from the house. Where is she?’ His eyes swept the company again, not seeing where she sat ramrod straight but expressionless. Duncan Maxwell stepped forward to speak to him but the old man was not to be won over. ‘And can you prove it’s yours, Duncan?’ he demanded, audible to all. ‘If you can’t, then it belongs to Archie – it’s part of the estate! Known it half my life, I tell you. Hung over the sideboard in the dining room. Always admired it.’

‘Oh, lordie, lordie.’ David looked around gleefully as the argument continued and the muttering spread. The pur­chasers of the unsigned Guthrie and the Peploe came forward and joined the huddle, as did one or two other buyers, and Eva saw Duncan Maxwell run a harassed hand through his hair. The auctioneer stepped back, distancing himself from the whole unsavoury business, leaving his assistant to fence with the moustached gentleman who would not let the matter rest. ‘I know he’s missing, young man, everyone does, but Archie’s a ruddy war hero, for goodness sake. Can’t flog the damned thing behind his back.’ David had pulled out a notebook and was scribbling rapidly. Duncan Maxwell’s response was inaudible but the old man’s voice carried well. ‘Yes, I know. So where is he, eh? If you ask me, Duncan, after almost forty years it’s time he was found.’

The auction descended into chaos and Eva could only feel sorry for the Maxwell family. Such a very public humiliation. She began to feel like a grubby voyeur rather than a decent journalist. Not so David, he was in his element. If she could have left without him, she’d have done so, but they’d come in his car and so she was compelled to watch as he fought his way to the front of the hall where the argument was intensifying. She saw him accost the auctioneer, shrug off the disdainful rebuttal to turn, undaunted, and work the punters, swiping a drink off a passing tray as people milled around in a buzz of excitement. Some began drifting towards the door. ‘See how they run,’ David muttered, as he passed her, squeezing her arm. ‘This is gold-dust copy, girl; this’ll sell the paper all on its own.’ She backed away and waited in a corner, shamed by his antics.

Things came abruptly to an end. The auction was halted, a postponement, the auctioneer announced, adding with a haughty detachment that the family apologised for the confusion. Once matters had been resolved, a future sale would no doubt be announced but his tone made it clear that his auction house would not be involved.

The maybe-Guthrie and the Peploe were left, shamed and unclaimed, propped against the easel and the cloth was discreetly replaced over the McTaggart.

When David finally came to find her, he was high as a kite. ‘I’ll drive us back,’ she said.

‘Nah, nah. I’m fine.’

His car was the last to leave Rosslie House. He made a flamboyant turn, skidding on loose gravel before speeding off down the drive then cut in front of a tractor as they rejoined the main road. ‘Woohoo! What a show, eh? They pulled out, you know, both those buyers, the Peploe and the Guthrie, and one or two others. Walked away! Nothing scares off the punters faster than a dodgy title. And poor old Duncan was left standing there with his trousers down, worse off than before cos he’ll have the auction house to pay. And they were not amused, I can tell you . . .’

So much for the alleged friendship, she thought, glancing at David as he punished the clutch. His pen would be merciless, and it was unlikely now that she’d get the promised shared byline; David would fly this one solo.

He’d briefed her on the background as they’d driven over that morning. ‘Andrew, Fourth Baronet of Rosslie, died a month ago. Old soldier. Fought in the Great War and so forth. Eldest surviving son, Archibald, VC, hero of El Alamein, inherits, except for the juicy fact that he went missing, straight after the war. Hasn’t been seen for decades. Vanished! No one knows if he’s dead or alive or has kids of his own. Duncan stands to cop the title and most of the estate but in these circs, he can’t inherit. Limbo land. He and brother Keith are Lady Jilly’s sons, second brood, half-brothers to our hero. The dearly departed Andrew remarried during the war, almost sixty, the randy old bugger, when she was half his age. Raised a few eyebrows at the time, I’m told.’

Rosslie House had come into sight by then, silhouetted on a slight rise, backlit by the sun. It looked very fine, settled comfortably into the landscape, the red sandstone warmed by the sun’s oblique rays, giving no hint of its current troubles. At its core was an ancient tower house, adapted as a shooting lodge in later times and altered over the years to reflect the fluctuating wealth and status of the baronetcy. ‘They’re stalled until the man’s found or proven to be dead, and no one’s got a clue where to start looking.’

Eva frowned. ‘It was always going to be a problem, surely. They must have anticipated this.’

‘They’d sent out feelers, I’m told, but drew a blank.’ David went on to cheerfully disclose what Duncan Maxwell had confided in him. The Rosslie estate was in a financial mess, its twentieth- century decline held in check by a successful salmon farm, which Duncan had persuaded his father to allow him to establish in the estuary. But expansion was needed if they were to make serious money, and the estate had debts, lacked capital. ‘I met him when I was doing a piece on fish farming for the paper and we’ve kept in touch.’ Which probably meant that David, a shameless social climber, plagued the poor man to death. ‘He’s the brains behind the operation, brother Keith not being keen. Something of a prig, I gather. Anyway, there’s now concern that the fish farm’ll have to be mothballed, or sold, as he can’t compete now that others are springing up. Duncan says he had some big investors all lined up but they’ve gone coy until matters of title are resolved, so his hands are tied. Selling his mother’s paintings seemed the only alternative.’

Until that plan had run spectacularly into the sand.

‘When was Archibald Maxwell last heard from?’ Eva asked now as they approached the outskirts of Glasgow.

David chuckled. ‘Nineteen forty-five.’

She turned to stare at him. ‘He’s dead, then, surely?’ She hung on, white-knuckled, biting back a protest as he took a corner with a squeal of tyres, narrowly missing a cyclist.

‘They can’t assume that – there’re rules about this sort of thing. They’ve got to explore every lead and then wait God knows how long. He’ll be in his early sixties now but I’m with you, and I reckon he’s six feet under.’

CHAPTER 2

Rosslie, 1940

Archie

Archie switched on his bedside lamp and lay there sweating as the frights retreated. A glance at the clock showed it was barely two o’clock and he groaned at the hours which stretched before him. Cravenly he’d believed that being at home would help. On the train north, attended by a nurse paid for by his father, he’d salved his conscience by telling himself that he would mend faster at Rosslie, escape the frights, and be fit to return to the fray all the sooner.

Maybe then he would shed this burning sense of shame.

‘Shame!’ Andy had retorted when they had spoken briefly on the hospital telephone and Archie had tried to express to his brother how he felt. ‘Christ, man! You escaped, you chump, against all the odds! You should be crowing that you got away. It’s what you’re supposed to do, and you got those others away too. Survival’s what it’s all about right now and frankly what you did was a triumph amidst this madness.’

Aye, but hundreds had died, he countered, left on the beach to be picked over by gulls and corrupted by flies, but his brother was having none of it. Archie tried to describe the desperate retreat and how he’d felt, knowing that the rest of the Highlanders had been led off, exhausted in defeat, compelled to accept humiliating terms of surrender. Men and boys from every household north of the border, forced to lay down their weapons and submit, condemned to spend their war in POW camps. God knows how they’d survive that!

‘And you’ll take that on yourself, will you? The whole bloody retreat, and the surrender? All on your account, eh?’ But Archie sensed that his brother understood. ‘Go home, Archie,’ he said, ‘get mended, get better, then come back and we’ll give ’em hell, eh?’ There was a pause on the line and a change of tone. ‘And her ladyship’ll be there to look after you . . . Give her my best, won’t you?’

And so he arrived at the station, his brain a coiling mess of pain and anguish, not caring a scrap that his father’s new wife was now installed as chatelaine in his boyhood home. It had been a shock to learn of the sudden marriage earlier that year but, with weightier matters to consider, he’d hardly thought about it since. Rosslie was still home after all and he knew his father well enough to know that nothing in the running of the estate would change. Rosslie was a sacred trust to Pa, and then it would be Andy’s; no woman would alter that.

Heavily drugged and exhausted from the journey, he was only vaguely aware of her standing on the platform beside Roberts. Between them all, and painfully, they managed to get him into the back of the Bentley with Roberts and the nurse on either side of him, and then her ladyship had driven them home. He’d been in no mood for social niceties that day, but once the nurse had settled him in and departed, the woman had begun popping in, asking what she could do for him, until he made it clear that he preferred the attentions of Roberts. She stood at the door, contemplating him for a moment, then left without a word.

But she got the message, and stayed away.

Archie reached for his cigarettes and lit one, remembering that today was the day set for the great descent. Lady Maxwell, Roberts had told him, was away for a day or two, which suited Archie fine; he didn’t need an audience. He drew on the cigarette remembering too that Selkirk was due this morning to see if he passed muster. The doctor was a local man who’d come out of retirement on account of the war and had known Archie since childhood. No Captain Maxwell, sir, from him, but robust encouragement. ‘Need to keep exercising, lad,’ he’d told him on his last visit. ‘Muscles’ll weaken if you don’t and that’s no good at all. A few steps a day, every day. Roberts will support you, eh?’ Roberts had nodded gravely. ‘Just in your room to start with and then up and down the corridor outside, and then the stairs. Take care on the stairs, Archie – last thing you need is a tumble.’

Archie had given a bleak smile, and had done his best.

Over the weeks he’d made progress, determined to get used to the crutches, gritting his teeth and pushing himself to transcend the pain. ‘Nerve damage,’ Selkirk had said, seeing his jaw tighten. ‘But they’ll heal in time. Might need further work once this craziness is over. You’ll always limp, I imagine, but think yourself lucky you kept the leg.’

Lucky. Archie stubbed out his cigarette and pulled himself up, resting a moment against the bed head. He’d try and remember that! Using the hook of his stick, he managed to pull back the curtains and saw that dawn was breaking. A pale mist rose from the stand of ancient Scots pine on the hillside, etched dark and lovely against a lavender sky, and he had a sudden yearning to be out there and whole, his rod in his hand, settling down beside the chill river waiting for the trout to rise.

How strange it was to be here. How quiet, almost other-worldly. The nightmare he’d escaped from was still all too real in his head and yet here he was, at Rosslie, in some sort of mystical cocoon. Europe had been transformed into a version of hell where life and sanity were threatened by an apparently unstoppable foe, but Rosslie continued its charmed existence, unchanged except for the fact that his father was absent, in charge of a desk down in London, and Andy was somewhere on the south coast flying sorties to God knew where.

And an intruder now lived here, playing hostess. Disturbing the dust.

* * *

His progression that afternoon, along the corridor and down the stairs with Roberts at his elbow, was slow and excruciating, and did little to improve his mood. Selkirk proclaimed himself delighted, deposited Archie in the library where he promptly fell asleep and slept for a couple of hours until he was woken by noises in the hall. Roberts appeared at the door. ‘Lady Maxwell has returned, rather sooner than expected, and has gone to take off her hat. I’ve laid two places in the dining room and she said she’ll be down directly. Shall I help you through there now, sir? Dinner is ready.’

Damn, Archie thought as he struggled out of the chair. Polite chit-chat was the last thing he wanted, but he saw no way out. He’d stiffened while he slept so progress was slow and he arrived to find her ladyship already seated at one end of the table. ‘Oh, well done, Archie!’ she said as he lowered himself into a chair opposite her.

An expanse of polished mahogany stretched between them.

‘All the way downstairs without a stumble, I hear. Some feat!’ She raised a hand to her forehead and laughed. ‘Oh God, sorry, feat–feet. Dreadful pun.’

‘Except it’s my leg.’

‘Yes, of course.’ She bit her lip and dropped her eyes to her soup. ‘I won’t ask if it was painful, as it obviously was.’

He felt childish then, and churlish. But found he had nothing to say . . . Until this moment he’d not really considered what his father’s marriage would mean but now that the reality of it was sitting opposite him, looking very much at home, he found himself unreasonably nettled by her. It wasn’t as if the woman had usurped his mother’s place, as he could barely remember her, but she was another damned thing that required accommodating.

And she was so young! She made Pa look ridiculous, he thought, frowning down at his plate. Besotted old fool. Young enough to be his daughter. Glamorous too . . . Was Pa hedging his bets, he reflected grimly? With two sons in uniform, replacements might well be needed; the family, the baronetcy and succession, were an obsession with him.

Belatedly he realised she was speaking to him. ‘Sorry? Forgive me.’

‘I was just saying that Rosslie must have been a wonderful place to grow up. For you and Andy.’

‘Yes, it was.’

‘All this space.’

‘Lots of space,’ he agreed, and thought he caught a flash of wry amusement. He pulled himself together and made an effort, giving her a tight smile. ‘We were very fortunate. Lacked for nothing.’ Except a father who exhibited any sort of human trait. His mother, he sometimes thought, must have concluded that the fourth baronet would never change his autocratic ways and had given up trying to penetrate his thick hide, and had slipped quietly away, leaving him a vague memory of her as a sweet and gentle soul. Cancer of some sort had taken her off but sometimes, after one of his more painful confrontations with Pa, Archie decided it had been despair. He’d been eight at the time, Andy fourteen, and learned the hard way that his father was a cold man, aloof and domineering, devoid of empathy and humour with no interests beyond the estate, the army and his status in the county. He’d often wondered what sort of marriage theirs had been and once puberty had raised an interest in such matters he and Andy had speculated on the reason for the gap between their ages. ‘Just twice, m’ boy,’ Andy had said, in accurate mimicry of his father. ‘Once every six years is quite enough for that sort of thing.’

He raised his eyes and studied the new Lady Maxwell as she turned to address Roberts. The act of procreation between his father and this vivid creature was too ghastly to imagine . . .

He called his mind to order.

He was being rude, he knew he was, but his leg was paining him and he’d have preferred to eat alone in his room. The woman, however, seemed entirely unperturbed by his silence and had begun telling him about the old walled garden and the glasshouses that were under repair. His father had mentioned something about this the one time he’d come down to see Archie at the hospital in Kent. ‘Working jolly hard on it, she is, and it needed doing,’ he’d said, as if this somehow justified his extraordinary marriage. Archie had given no response; set beside the raw pain of seeing Scotland’s manhood heading for defeat, the flourishing or otherwise of vegetables had seemed entirely inconsequential. His father had appeared uncomfortable and found nothing more to say beyond a gruff command to get better quickly and back to the field of conflict. Andy’s telephone call a couple of days later, had been brief, but much more sustaining.

Across the table the woman was persevering and Archie half-listened, nodding occasionally as he continued to examine her. ‘The glasshouses themselves weren’t in bad shape, just needed a few panes replacing and the hinges oiling . . .’ She was a looker, he’d give her that, sleek and well-groomed, but in her cream cashmere and narrow black skirt nothing less like a gardener could be imagined. Town clothes. She’d been away, of course . . . But surely she could have done rather better than Pa. Or was the title the attraction? And the prospect of wealth? Ha! She’d miscalculated there, and he doubted she’d money of her own, otherwise why choose Pa? He stretched his leg to relieve the pain and watched her paring an apple with a delicacy that grated. She must be what, thirty-ish? Did she intend to breed, he wondered, and produce little half-siblings twenty years his junior? Good God, what a thought. And if Andy married, as he surely would after the war, his children would be the same age as hers. His brother had a long-standing thing going with Fiona Brodie from the neighbouring estate, and they were expected to make a match of it once hostilities were over. Andy had confided that he couldn’t take on the responsibility of a wife right now in case things went badly, and it had been Archie’s turn to scoff. He was a survivor, was Andy, and he would come home, marry Fiona, spawn little Maxwells, and eventually inherit Rosslie, making a dowager of this newcomer.

Archie repositioned his leg. He rated his own chances of getting through the war pretty low; he’d used up his luck at St Valéry. The idea of dying didn’t bother him all that much, as long as it was quick – not a death prolonged, alone, in darkness, like the poor bastards they’d left on the shore, too wounded to move, knowing that no one would come for them other than an unkind foe. His heart clenched at the thought as he reached for the bottle to refill his glass. Andy had damn well better survive, he thought, watching the firelight catch the crystal as he raised it. The prospect of surviving himself only to be burdened with the estate, the baronetcy and all the associated claptrap made death with his comrades a preferable option. Andy was born to it and would take it on with the cheerful self-assurance that defined him, with or without a stepmother his own age to deal with.

He became aware that she was watching him and made another effort. ‘You’ve been away, I gather?’

‘A friend was up from London, visiting in Glasgow.’

‘Nice time?’

‘Splendid, thank you.’ But the smile she gave him was brittle.

They ate in silence for a while. ‘Good food,’ he said, though it was dull stuff.

‘Rabbit,’ she replied. ‘Kenny shot him in the cabbages, so to speak. The vegetables are ours too. Nourishing, though hardly haute cuisine. Our own barley bread and butter too.’ Why not eat better, he wondered. There were salmon in the river still, and deer multiplying in the hills, but perhaps austerity was what the servants would notice and report.

Good move, Lady Maxwell.

Did she know, he wondered, that he had been ruthlessly working through his father’s wine cellar? His malts, too, bidding Roberts keep him supplied in his room. Pa wouldn’t be amused when he discovered this but too bad . . . Another casualty of war. Tonight Archie had taken it upon himself to send Roberts for one of his father’s finest clarets and the man finally baulked. ‘A little heavy, perhaps, Mr Archie,’ he’d remarked, glancing at his mistress, ‘with the rabbit?’

But Jilly applauded his choice. ‘Just the thing for the season,’ she said. ‘Lovely and mellow and warming.’ He felt oafish then, realising belatedly that he should have consulted her since, like it or not, the cellar was more hers than his.

Raising his glass he studied her over the rim. It wasn’t easy to come to terms with a stepmother who wore her glossy hair piled up on her head like a starlet and who’d found a source of bright red lipstick somewhere in wartime Argyll. Unless she’d had it sent up from London, which wouldn’t surprise him; she looked the type. Perhaps her friend had brought it up with her . . . The claret did little to improve his mood as the meal progressed and he began to find her appearance (her very existence?) an increasing affront, so he rose as soon as they’d finished eating, making a brusque apology, and staggered off on his crutches to sit before a smouldering fire in the library and consume several glasses of his father’s cognac. Where her ladyship spent the rest of the evening he neither knew nor cared.

And if she considered him a bore, so be it.

He felt vaguely ashamed of himself, though, as Roberts helped him up to bed, his head heavy with brandy and dark thoughts. Hardly a good start to the night and sure enough the frights soon penetrated his sleep. They arrived with the ghastly throb of the Stukas which had trailed them to the coast, followed by the dreaded high-pitched whine which presaged a cacophony of explosions and responding fire. He moaned as he endured again the sight of his comrades being flung into the air, jerking grotesquely to fall beside dead horses or lorries ablaze along the road, and smelled once more the blood and carnage.

Film-like, the nightmare then cut forward to the hours of darkness to the heart-pumping escape along the beach beneath the cliffs, pursued by flares and the beam of Very lights which illuminated with cruel clarity the living as they’d fled among the dead. They had developed an almost choreographed routine to avoid its scrutiny: freeze, run; beam sweep, drop and freeze, run – hiding behind boulders or lying doggo beside the dying as the light passed over them.

Tonight the frights added a new twist, winding the reel back in time to when fragments of the ragged Highland Division had reached the cliffs above St Valéry, knowing that they were surrounded with nowhere left to go, the relieving ships fog-bound in the Channel. Archie had turned to his childhood comrade, Fergus Kincaird, and gestured to the cliff edge. ‘We could do it!’ he’d cried, the adrenaline pumping. ‘Let’s give it a go.’ As boys they had scaled the rocky off-shore stacks together, raiding gulls’ nests for the thrill of it. And Fergus had nodded, his eyes ablaze.

And so,