‘Archie!’ she yelled. ‘Two cuts! Two cuts!’

At her cry, heads emerged from cottage doors, above the Street wall, around spinning wheels and washing lines. Archie, who was repairing a section of wall for Ma Peg, looked up as the words carried and the villagers were rustled into the same frenzied panic as the puffins on the ledge. He saw Effie running towards him, her arms like pistons and the whites of her eyes on show, and he knew the words had come from her. He dropped the rock he was lifting and began running with his distinctive limp, down the plot towards the beach. There was no point in asking ‘What?’ or ‘Who?’. None yet knew.

The boat had been pulled just past the high tide line. In the winter it had to be weighted down with stones and sod to stop the winds from lifting it or the storm surges from grabbing it, but now it sat ready for a return trip they were still a day or two due from making.

Together with the women who got there first – Rachel McKinnon, Mhairi’s mother and Effie’s own Aunt Mary – they began to push the boat down the beach. Effie, Sholto and Jayne arrived moments later, all of them putting their weight behind the effort.

‘Where’s Lorna?’ Effie asked, looking about for the nurse.

The women looked at one another. Everyone in earshot had heard the shouts, they’d all been brought forth by the commotion.

‘I’ve not seen her in hours,’ Aunt Mary said. ‘Did she go fishing? She mentioned she might.’

Rachel McKinnon shrugged. ‘Or is she with Mary? She said she had to check on her.’

‘Shall I look?’ Effie asked, poised to sprint again.

‘No, there’s no time,’ Archie replied grimly. ‘She could be anywhere and we can’t afford to wait.’

The boat was nosing the waterline now.

‘I’ll help you,’ Sholto said, wading into the sea with Archie and jumping into the boat as it began to float.

Archie McKinnon simply nodded, his face grim set; there was every chance it was one of his own sons they were saving. The two men grabbed the oars and began to pull, their bodies dipping back and forth in unison as they coaxed the boat into cutting a line through the water.

Along with the other women, Effie stood up to her knees in the water, watching them go. Their hands were pressed to their mouths, tears gathering in their throats, but there was no use in crying. Not yet. Though they were racked with alarm, it would be several hours before the men got back here and they knew who to worry for. All they could do now was watch and wait.

It was the children’s idea to run tags from Rubha Cholla, the point where the boat would round the headland at Oiseval and slip back into the embrace of Village Bay. The older ones formed a broken line along the track, Neil MacQueen, Flora’s younger fourteen-year-old brother, taking up position as the sentry. ‘He’s got wheels,’ their father always said of him, and sure enough the boy sprinted like Hermes himself once the boat came closer.