A Double Death on the Black Isle (19 page)

“Aye, mostly.”

“What's the problem?”

“Don McLeod. He's prejudiced. Never gives Clach a fair go.”

“Hector Bain would agree with you there.”

“Now thon's a good lad. His granny too. A fine woman.”

Since McAllister had never heard anyone refer to Hector's grandmother except in terms of asking about her broomstick, this came as a surprise. The foreman noticed.

“She's of a fine, old family from Moidart. Speaks the Gaelic still. All that family do. Or did. There are not many of them left hereabouts. Shipped out to Canada, most of them. Still, she made sure Hector and his sister kept the tongue.”

“Hector speaks Gaelic?” McAllister was surprised.

“Aye. His wee sister has the Gaelic too. You should hear her sing.”

“The sister?”

“No, Mharie Bain, his granny. She does thon mouth music. A champion at the Mod. Right bonnie her voice.”

McAllister remembered Graham Nicolson in Fort William telling him the
Gazette
could do more for the Gaeltacht and the diaspora of Gaelic readers.

“Is it possible to print Gaelic?” McAllister asked the head typesetter. “Do we have a font?”

“Aye, it could be done. Donny McLeod would have to proofread the copy.”

“Aye” was all McAllister heard. A column in Gaelic, another coup for the
Gazette
—it didn't matter how many read it, it was filling the space that mattered.

The extra pages on the new
Gazette
scared McAllister—they may have some good stories now, but what happens when everything settles back into the boring routine of small-town life? Local content was what the readers looked for. The investigative stories excellently written—McAllister's major focus—had created a buzz around the newspaper. But the new columns—the crossword, the page for women, a small children's section—all contributed to what he wanted, a newspaper of quality.

He hoped the changes in the paper had upped circulation, but knew the stories in the last four editions were a more likely reason for good sales. The fire on the boat, two deaths linked to Achnafern Estate—these were real news, and he would milk them for all he could. He must also plan for the weeks of flat calm.

Rob would eventually leave. McAllister accepted that. But
right now, he was needed; to Rob, nothing was sacrosanct if it meant a good story. And he could write. McAllister also knew the
Gazette
needed Joanne; her freshness, her lack of cynicism, would remind him how the readers saw life. Above all, the new-style
Highland Gazette
had to work; his pride was at stake.

He bade the printers goodnight, walked home, put on a Charlie Parker record, poured a whisky, and sat down to plan.

Next morning, McAllister spoke to Rob first. “A word in my office,” he said through the open door of the reporters' room.

Rob shrugged his shoulders at Joanne and walked out as nonchalantly as he could.

“Shut the door.” McAllister lit a cigarette. “Aberdeen.”

“I have to tell them soon but . . .” Rob started. “McAllister, I . . .”

“Let me speak. Then you can think about it. But let me know before you call them. Agreed?”

Rob nodded.

“As you may have gathered, we've still a long way to go before the
Gazette
becomes the newspaper it could be.” McAllister looked straight at him. “Rob, there is no one here can do your job, no one with your abilities, it would be hard to replace you.”

Rob shrugged an “it's nothing” shrug, uncomfortable at such praise, but also acknowledging the truth in the statement.

“You can write,” the editor continued, “but more importantly, you have an instinct for a story even when it doesn't seem there is one. You're persistent. You get people to talk to you.” He paused. “That said, you still have a lot to learn.”

Rob nodded. “I know and . . .”

“I'm not done.” McAllister held up the hand with the smoking cigarette, a typical McAllister gesture. “I may be the
editor of a small paper in a small town, but I'm an experienced journalist. I know what's best for you, you just have to trust me.”

“I do.”

“On a paper like the Aberdeen one, you'd be a junior, on all the shite jobs—as well as making tea and fetching fags for the senior reporters. The training there is one job, one section at a time. You do all the work, a senior reporter takes all the credit. Five years of that, maybe only four if they make allowance for your time on the
Gazette,
it's a long haul.”

“I know.”

“At the
Gazette
, you cover every aspect of a journalist's job—sports, news, features. . . .”

“I booked an advertisement last week. . . .” Rob added.

“See what I mean? You have more freedom, more responsibility than you'll get on a big paper, and you'll learn a lot more.”

McAllister leaned forward. “Here's what I propose. Stay here another two years, I'll make sure you learn everything you need to know, then I'll help you get a job on a national daily.”

Quick as lightning Rob grinned, shook his head, and said, “Thanks McAllister, I'll stay. But forget the national daily, I fancy television journalism—it's the big thing of the future.”

McAllister roared with laughter. “That's what I like about you, you're as direct as a heart attack. You'll do well, Robert McLean.”

With a swagger and a grin, Rob walked back into the reporters' room and sat at his typewriter.

“Well?” Joanne asked.

“Well what?”

She took a swipe at him and missed.

“OK, I surrender.” He held up his hands laughing, “I'm staying at the
Gazette
.”

“Rob! That's wonderful.” She hugged him.

“Joanne?” McAllister was standing in the doorway. With his eyebrows, he indicated his office.

“Sit down, please.”

As he went to light another cigarette, he felt her nervousness, saw how she put her hands behind and smoothed down her skirt then sat with her legs together and slightly to the side, her back straight, her face set to pleasant and interested. He saw again how she was a daughter of the manse, and a credit to her very proper private schooling.

“You've been turning in good stories. Simple, factual,” he started.

“Thank you.” She waited, sure there was going to be a “but.”

“So let's talk about you becoming a journalist.”

“I need all the help I can get.”

There was that earnest look again,
McAllister thought.
I'm your equal,
he wanted to say to her,
not some demigod sitting in judgment.

“Let's start with the direction the
Gazette
is going, see how we can help you with an abbreviated cadetship. Remember though, hard news is not for everyone. There are plenty of other areas in a newspaper where you can shine.”

McAllister went through his thoughts and ideas.

“The new-look edition is into the fourth week,” he reminded her. “Sales and advertising are good. Two more editions and the board of directors will make a decision whether to stick with the new format, or go back to the old-fashioned, been-there-for-centuries newspaper.”

If that happened, McAllister would catch the first train back to Glasgow. He didn't tell Joanne that.

“I would have preferred ten editions before a decision was made,” he told her. “Although my feeling is that as long as the revenue looks strong, I will be allowed to continue my way.”

“Who are they, these mysterious directors?”

“An accountant,” McAllister replied, “a solicitor, and a retired magistrate. They represent the owners of the company that owns the
Highland Gazette
, amongst their other assets.”

He knew and would never tell, secrecy being part of his contract, that the Beauchamp Carlyle siblings ultimately owned a substantial holding in the parent company. Not that either Beech or his sister interfered. McAllister suspected Don knew. But nothing was ever said.

McAllister continued telling Joanne of the decisions and problems of revamping the
Gazette
. She was more than pleased to be treated as a confidante.

“One potential source of problems, the printers and typesetters, turned out to be allies. The change of leading, the space between the lines—they like it. Changing the font, making the leading deeper, combined with larger headings on all articles not just the main headlines, gives us a clean, modern look. ‘It's much easier to read when you can't find yer glasses,' one of the hot-metal typesetters told me.”

Joanne laughed at McAllister's rendition of the typesetter's accent.

“Don has no idea that my inspiration for the design of the
Gazette
comes from a Paris newspaper.” McAllister grinned as he said this.

Joanne smiled. “He's not too keen on anything French.”

“Or foreign. Or anything south of the Grampians come to that.” He saw that she had lost that rabbit caught in the spotlight expression. “We need to produce a paper that increases our readership, is relevant to most of the Highlands and islands, is a serious rival to the Aberdeen paper, and is likely to keep Rob McLean happy for another two years.”

“Has he said what his plans are?”

“Television.”

“Really?” Joanne was surprised that Rob had not told her. Hurt too. “And my role?”

“You have good ideas and you think more like an editor than reporter. You never know, one day you could replace me. But I warn you, Mrs. Ross,” he teased, “I'm not ready to leave just yet.”

Joanne was astonished.

“Don't look so surprised—your articles of interest to women readers, your children's column, are good, solid ideas.”

Joanne had found the solution to pay for the features page. The National Health Service provided a weekly competition to promote good health. It was better suited to children in the deprived areas of the cities than to those in a healthy Highland constituency, but the material was gratefully accepted. There was a comic strip featuring an egg for the main character. Another character was a pint of milk, and a bottle of cod liver oil and a jar of malt were members of the cartoon gang. Best of all, the government paid for the space.

She had also persuaded Beech to compose a crossword. Once a month, he said, too much work to make up one weekly. One of his cronies, a retired colonel living near Kiltarlity, had offered to make up a crossword on alternative fortnights. A fortnightly bridge column from a retired schoolteacher was another of Joanne's ideas. As well as the fiendishly clever bridge tips, the schoolteacher had agreed to select readers' short stories, poems, and reminiscences of bygone times, the prize being publication in the
Gazette
.

“Make sure the pieces are short,” Joanne had warned. “Don McLeod is ruthless with his wee red pencil.”

“The page is very popular, Joanne, your ideas and your choice of stories and correspondents make it work.”

“Thank you. Being a reporter suits Rob more than it suits
me—he's too young to care what anyone thinks, and he's not afraid to come straight out with a question. Some of his jokes are in poor taste though.”

“That could be said of the majority of journalists. Always remember, Rob has fine instincts and asks the right questions.”

“I know. He's a good friend and I learn a lot from him.”

“Joanne, please don't be offended, but I need to say this.” He looked at her as she spoke, but she would not meet his eyes.

“I can see you want to make something of your life. But you don't seem to have a sense of who you are. You were born into one role, daughter of the manse, you married into another set of roles, wife and mother, now you are a separated woman—through no fault of yours. Here, you have a chance to change your life, to take charge; working at the
Gazette
can be more than a job, it can be a good career.”

Joanne was listening intently to McAllister's every word, terrified he was going to talk about her stay in hospital.

“I hate the double standard where so-called respectability is what a woman is judged on. But times are changing. At the
Gazette
, you can become financially independent, and the job gives you the opportunity to use your brain. So tell yourself you can do it, and that you deserve it.”

“Speech over.” He stood. “So work with Rob, find out what's happening on the Black Isle, and write a story to keep our readers agog.”

“I'll try.” She smiled. “I'm curious about Fraser Munro's death. Curious about the charge too—involuntary manslaughter. I don't quite know what that means.”

“Curiosity is what makes a good reporter, an unscrupulous sense of curiosity.”

“I'll leave the unscrupulous part to you. And Don. Rob too. . . .” She hesitated, not sure how to ask.

“You talked before about conflict of interest.”

He waited.

“I find it hard with Patricia. She's a friend. I feel sorry for her. . . .”

“In law, the editor is responsible for the content of a newspaper, so blame me.” McAllister sensed more hesitation. “You said your mother-in-law is related to Mrs. Munro. Will that be a problem?”

“I don't know!” Joanne was flustered at the thought of Mrs. Ross's reaction.

“It's the nature of the job,” McAllister told her. “We are part of the town, but apart.”

I already know that feeling,
she thought.

“I'd like us to work together.” She blushed when she said this. “What I mean is, I've a lot to learn.”

McAllister, sitting there behind the editor's desk, was watching her every expression.

She found it impossible to say what she wanted to say:
I feel alive when I'm here, I feel I am worth something,
she wanted to say,
and I love it when you talk to me as though my opinions matter.
But all she managed was, “I'll do my best.”