A Double Death on the Black Isle (40 page)

“And I've washed my hair so I have to do something.”

“Yes, but what? This is the north of Scotland, you know. Not Paris or New York or . . .”

“Glasgow.”

“You might be pushed for entertainment even in Glasgow.”

“That leaves only one option.”

“Are you suggesting what I think you are suggesting, Mrs. Ross?”

“Absolutely, Mr. McAllister. A nice cup of tea by your fireside. After all, Busty Betsy got her chocolates. Now I want mine.”

“How about a glass of wine?”

“Even better.”

On the drive to McAllister's house a thought struck Joanne.
Is that why my mother-in-law is being so strange? Does she know, or suspect her son is seeing another woman?

At the front door, both were aware that in the soft bright late summer's night they were visible to the neighbors, passersby, the curious, and the gossips of the town. And Joanne didn't care.

McAllister fumbled with the key in the lock. He opened the door.

“You put a match to the fire in the sitting room, I'll get the drinks. There is not much to eat, but I can rustle up some cheese and oatcakes and a rather superior Beaujolais. Will that do?”

“Mais oui, monsieur.”

They sat. They talked. They sipped the wine. They listened to music—jazz. They played cribbage. They talked. Joanne asked him his opinion on various political issues. She knew he was passionately opposed to a war or even a skirmish over the Suez Canal. She knew he hoped for salvation for Hungary and had said hope was as fragile as a newborn. She knew he had not much respect for the “Auld buggers” who made the decision to send men off to conflicts when the country was still recovering from two world wars.

She asked about his reading. Then asked to borrow one of his translations of the French philosophers he admired. He
suggested a book, and it came with the admonition that she should probably start to wear black and maybe a beret, “to get in the mood.”

But not once did they mention what they had witnessed outside the cinema. It was not that they had forgotten, not that it wasn't on their minds, rather it was a built-in reticence to discuss anything personal. They belonged to a country where analyzing feelings was unheard of.

McAllister fetched another bottle.

They talked on, speculating on what brought the “Onion-Jonnies” to town every autumn, wondering why the east coast Highlanders had lost their Gaelic, discussing the book on the Loch Ness monster by Compton Mackenzie. “Cabbages and kings” could describe the conversation. It was almost midnight before Joanne had to put her hand across her mouth to hide a yawn.

The clock in the hall chimed. She knew she should leave, but was reluctant to move from the fire. She had never had a friendship like this—stimulating conversation, new and fascinating music, frequent laughter with a man who found her interesting, valued her opinion.

“It's not important, but can I ask for your perspective on something?”

“Of course.” Her hesitant tone told him it was not unimportant.

“You know my friend Patricia,” she started, “she's my oldest friend, but, if you asked me, I could never say what she would or would not do in a situation, nor what she is capable of. I can never guess what her thoughts are. I'm not even sure she has any thoughts—not ones that really matter.” Joanne stopped. “That's an awful thing to say, but, well, you know what I mean.”

He listened between the lines, heard her trying to express her instincts, the mental whispers. He did know what she meant and attempted to put his observations about Patricia and people like Patricia into words that made sense.

“There
are
people who don't think,” he started. “Not in the conventional sense of course. They are concerned with everyday matters, concerned about family, neighbors, their jobs, their way of life. But the whys and the wherefores, the big questions, don't bother them. The spiritual dimension of their lives is for Sunday church only.”

Joanne said, “I kind of know what you're saying. There are people who think the word ‘spiritual' means using a Ouija board or being a member of a congregation where shaking and rolling around and foaming at the mouth is how they pray.” She smiled at him. “Sometimes I envy people like that. Life would be much simpler if I
didn't
think so much.”

“This is spiritual.” McAllister went over to the gramophone and put on a new recording of Charlie Parker. “So is that.” He gestured to a well-worn copy of
The Works of Robert Burns
on the mantelpiece. “And I know what you mean—it would be simpler to take life as it comes, do what needs to be done, and don't think too much. But that would be anathema to me, and to you.” He examined the embers of the fire through the red of the wine before looking up and grinning. “Boring too.”

“Rob floats through problems, whereas I take it all too seriously. And unlike him, I doubt I'll ever make a reporter—I believe everything people tell me.”

“Don't worry, between Don and myself we will have you a cynic in no time.”

They laughed, and no more was said until the last poignant notes of the music faded.

Joanne looked at the clock. “I have to go. It's well past midnight.”

“Now a
true
cynic wouldn't be saying that.”

“Oh really?”

“Not taking revenge against an erring husband? Shows you are a true daughter of the manse.”

She laughed. “I know. I can't help being what I am.”

“So what will you do about your husband?”

There had been enough red wine between them for McAllister to ask, and for Joanne to answer. “I don't know.”

He offered her another glass, she refused, so he poured himself the last of the bottle.

Joanne spoke carefully, feeling the red wine and the need to explain as exactly as she could. “These last few months, I've been wrapped up in my job, and although it's been difficult at times, it has also been fascinating. I've felt useful, tired, stimulated, frustrated, and . . .
alive
.

“Seeing my husband with Betsy Buchanan was a shock, but only for a second. . . . What I really felt was relief.”

“So what will you do?” he asked again.

“Nothing.” Joanne was quite firm about this. “I shall do absolutely nothing. I will stay strong and wait and a solution will come. Bill Ross is not a man who can survive without a woman running after him.

“Children don't matter—no, that's not true—
girls
don't matter to him. He needs a son. Maybe Betsy can provide him with one. I know she can do the ‘yes Bill,' ‘no Bill,' ‘three bags full Bill,' stuff very well—something I could never manage, so good luck to them.

“As for the future . . .” she stretched her arms above her head. Her jumper rose, revealing a tiny strip of skin, and McAllister
thought for one brief moment that he might reach out, touch that tiny exposed line of flesh, caress it. . . .

“I need to be on my own. Do you realize it will be for the first time ever?” She smiled at the thought. “As you yourself reminded me, I was someone's daughter, then someone's wife—now I want to be me. Then we shall see.” The clock struck the three quarter notes.

“This time I really must be going.” She stood.

“I'll drive you.”

“Thank you, but I want to walk. It will only take half an hour. Besides, I want to dream about my lovely future as a free and independent woman.”

And I can't bear sitting in a car with a man who has had a drink,
she was thinking.

He saw her to the door. They said goodnight.

“Thanks, McAllister, I've had a lovely time.”

“You're welcome.”

He didn't know if he should touch her.
Better not,
he thought,
I'm not sure I can trust myself.

He shut the door and went to clear up. He was rinsing the glasses carefully, rubbing the rim of Joanne's wineglass, rubbing at the faint trace of lipstick. He stepped back, unable to finish, and sat at the table. The sense of desolation was palpable—a pain he had not felt since his lover in Spain had abandoned him for an American photographer who, unlike McAllister, had offered her the safety of marriage and a passport out of war.

But he had been young then and the heart recovers.

You are an old fool,
he told himself,
imagining there might be a future for you in her plans. Joanne is a friend, and an employee, and that will have to suffice.

Joanne walked through town, pausing on the Infirmary Bridge to watch the clouds race past a gibbous moon.

“The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon stormy seas,” she recited to herself.

She smiled, remembering Patricia and herself at school enacting the poem. Patricia, bossy as ever, insisted on being the highwayman, relegating Joanne to the role of the cowering victim.

“The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,

And the highwayman came riding—

Riding—riding—

The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door.”

“But we're not in school anymore, Patricia.”

Joanne spoke out loud. She remembered Dorothy finding herself in Oz, when the film changed to color and the adventure began. The image made her hug herself in delight. With one last look at the moon, she walked along the river, then up past the bowling green to her home, and her children, and her very own adventure.

T
he McPhee brothers had been acquitted, Allie Munro had confessed to killing his son, and five weeks had passed. The Munros knew that every part of the tragedy was being discussed, gossiped about, and speculated upon.

They knew that at this year's Black Isle Show, they, their family, their story, would be as important a matter to the rural community as who won the medals in the livestock competition, who bought the biggest tractor, and who had the bloodiest fight and with whom in the beer tent at the end of the show. Mr. and Mrs. Munro accepted this. It was unspoken between them, but they knew they could not face the certain glances and stares and nudges that would greet them.

The annual agricultural show had grown hugely since the end of the war. It now attracted people from the towns and villages outside the agricultural community. To the children the attractions were the animals, to the teenagers “the Shows,” as they were called in the north—carnival rides elsewhere.

The Women's Institute had a large tent. Prizes for the best Victoria sponge cake or the best shortbread or jams were as sought after as an Olympic medal.

The prizes in the livestock categories were equally competitive. Hens, pigs, sheep, horses, cattle—in various age and breed categories—were solemnly judged, and the winner rosettes displayed on the pen or on the animal's halter.

The most spectacular were the Aberdeen Angus bulls. Murmurs went through the crowd as they were paraded round the ring. The onlookers couldn't help be impressed by the sheer size and weight and power of the gleaming beasts. On one side of the ring, a shrill of giggles rose and fell—a group of young women were pretending not to hear the comments on the bulls' prowess from the nearby bunch of lads. As the ribald comments were called out, the boys were also picking out their own prizewinners, examining the girls as closely as the judges examined the animals.

The display of the latest big bright shiny tractors and combine harvesters also had its admirers, not least boys between ages three and one hundred and three. The machines would never be this gleaming again.

Joanne loved the carthorses best. The huge beasts, in matching fours, pulling a distillery dray or marching in pairs, were impressive. The carefully combed fringe of hair and the polished hooves accentuated the size of their huge feet. The manes and tails were plaited and beribboned. The harnesses gleamed and the silver medallions glinted and jingled with every step.