Saturday, July 12, 1941
A month imprisoned in a tower like Rapunzel—was it making Cilla eccentric? On a piece of paper on the worktable in the lightroom, she arranged her growing collection of flowers and feathers.
The feathers ranged from stark white to stark black, with shades of gray and brown in between. And the flowers enchanted in pinks and purples and whites.
All collected on her walks around the lighthouse grounds. Imogene and Gwen never joined her but watched from a distance. In her boredom, Cilla had begun noticing tiny flowers brightening the greenery and feathers shed by the seabirds that populated the cliffs.
The eight o’clock BBC news report droned to a close from the little wireless set Cilla had found downstairs in the lighthouse and brought upstairs. Next in the programming, a woman gave the daily Kitchen Front talk on using rations wisely.
“Good morning, ma’am,” Cilla said to her invisible companion. Better than talking to herself. Wasn’t it bad enough that she was collecting flowers and feathers? And enjoying it?
Cilla fingered the curls tickling her neck. Perhaps she should grow out her hair and escape her tower before it was too late.
Footsteps clomped up the stairs, and Cilla swept the paper with her collection into a basket.
Lieutenant Mackenzie entered the lightroom, circled the Fresnel lens, and stopped with his gaze glued on Cilla. “Where’s Commander Yardley?”
“I’m very well, thank you. And you? Lovely day, yes?” With a bright smile, Cilla gestured to the clear blue skies.
Mackenzie closed his eyes and dipped his chin. “Good morning.”
His mother would be proud of how he finally remembered his manners. But he did have a point. “Whereisthe commander? I thought he picked you up at the pier.”
“Only the first day. I walk home, leave my bag, and ride my bicycle here.” He mashed his lips together as if she’d tricked him into revealing the secret of radiolocation.
Not long after Cilla arrived at Dunnet Head, the BBC had announced the use of radio waves in winning the Battle of Britain. After that, Imogene had begun providing Cilla reports of enemy aircraft detected by the Admiralty Experimental Station, using radiolocation, no doubt. Cilla’s source was meant to be a Wren at the station whom Cilla had befriended. Almost true.
At the window, the lieutenant gazed down at the cliffs. The sunlight made his hair glint like gold and copper and bronze all mixed together.
Cilla joined him at a non-threatening distance. Along the cliffs, seabirds wheeled and raced and argued, their raucous calls muffled by the glass.
“Are those puffins?” Cilla pointed to a cluster of black-and-white birds with orange beaks.
“Aye. Summer is nesting season.”
“All these birds nest on the cliffs—these sheer cliffs. It’s astounding. I wish I knew their names. They’re beautiful. Doyou know what that one is called? The dark brown one with the white spectacles?”
“A guillemot.”
“Guillemot. Thank you.” Cilla avoided looking the lieutenant in the eye and scaring him away. “Have you lived here all your life?”
“Since I was a lad of five. Except when I was away at school.”
“Where was that?”
“Dartmouth. Then Edinburgh.” The man’sRs rolled like music.
“Oh, look at those two.” Cilla pointed to two tussling white terns. “Fighting over a fish. Don’t they know the sea is teeming with fish?”
The corner of Mackenzie’s mouth rose. Was he smiling?
Then he met her gaze and scowled.
For heaven’s sake. How could he have come from such nice parents? Of course, his parents didn’t know she was a double agent.
A heavy weight pushed against her chest, but she pushed back against it. “The view is beautiful, but I wish I could see inland as well. See the village. That day in town, I only saw the church.”
In the background, the BBC theater organ played.
