A Small Death in the Great Glen (14 page)

And somewhere below the surface of this and other small towns and villages everywhere, he knew there were other visceral tides—dislike of change, anything new, anything, anyone different. Those with a university education, those who were deemed to live above their station, those who spoke or dressed differently, those who didn't go to church, didn't look after their gardens, women who wore trousers or makeup, who hung out the washing on a Sunday, all were victims of the susurration of gossip that permeated the town.

The distrust, even dislike, of outsiders, the Italians, the Poles, the English, all that was spoken of openly. No one saw anything
wrong in calling foreigners by belittling slang names. God help anyone with a Germanic-sounding name, even if their family had been in Scotland since the Hanseatic treaties. All this, McAllister knew, would reflect on whether the charge against Peter Kowalski would be dropped and whether the other Polish man, newly escaped from the Russian occupiers, would get a fair hearing.

The interview with the drowned boy's parents also cast a shadow on McAllister's soul. It brought to the surface the bright pain of another boy, another drowning. He shook himself, hearing his mother's voice telling him, often, that too much thinking never did anyone any good. As he aged, he was inclined to agree.

But the previous night's conversation with Don was sharp in his mind.

Right, he thought, Joanne, he had to talk to her. It was only fair to warn her of the gossip. He walked into the reporters' room.

“Joanne?”

The telephone in her hand, she held up a finger in a “one minute” gesture.

“Yes, who? Mr. McLeod? Hold on.” She had detected Don's laborious shuffle coming up the stairs. “Who shall I say is calling? Righty-oh.” She held out the receiver. “Don, a Mr. Burke for you.”

McAllister was decidedly uncomfortable telling Joanne of the rumors about her husband. Bill's name has been mentioned in the gossip about dodgy dealings with the town council, he informed her. She was not at all pleased.

“Typical,” she fumed. “All the goings-on over council contracts being awarded to favorites, relatives, those that went to the right school, those with families of influence, ‘You scratch my back, I'll scratch yours' kind of thing, and there's Bill, with none of the right connections, trying to make a go of it, fairly and honestly …”

She had no idea if this was really so. She just presumed it must be so because that is what Bill had told her.

“Then, when they, those jumped-up, too-big-for-their-boots, favor-for-a-favor, doing-deals-on-the-side councilors think that maybe they've been found out, who gets the blame? My husband and hardworking people like him.”

Joanne had to stop to breathe.

“Honestly I could—I don't know—I could wring their necks.”

She made a fierce twisting gesture, demonstrating the time-honored way of dispatching a feathered fowl. Certainly not squeamish, was Joanne Ross.

“Finished?” McAllister inquired with a slight smile. He, like many a chicken before him, had been quite intimidated by the gesture.

“It makes me so mad.”

“I know. Can't say as I blame you. Don and I thought you should know the rumors and—”

“McAllister.” Don walked in. A grim-faced Rob followed close behind, as yet unseen by Joanne.

“What's the matter?” She quipped, “Your friend Mr. Burke, or was it Mr. Hare, from the mortuary got a wee tip for you?” One look at his face and Joanne felt her heart leap. “I shouldn't have said that.”

“It's about the boy.” He looked straight at McAllister as though this was somehow
his
fault, as though the new editor's wishes for something, anything, newsworthy to happen had brought this upon them.

“He was dead before he went into the water. It was no accident.”

There was nothing Joanne or Rob or McAllister or Don McLean could say. The news stunned them.

That night, the girls in bed, Joanne sat at the fire with her knitting and a play on the Home Service to distract her. Bill came quietly into the room.

“I didn't hear you.” She put her knitting away. “Tea's finished. I didn't know if you'd be home.”

All this said quietly, casually, trying to gauge his mood. At least he hadn't been drinking—that she could tell.

“It's all right, I had some fish and chips in Eastgate. I was out that way to pick up supplies. I'm off out west soon.”

“Again?”

“Aye. A few problems on the site. Nothing that can't be sorted out.”

“Did you hear the news about the wee boy? The one that drowned in the canal?”

“Aye, they were all talking about it in the chip shop.”

“The news was probably around the town in five minutes,” Joanne guessed. “It's so terrible. How could that happen in a safe place like this?”

“It's not the same since the war,” Bill reminded her. “Too many strangers have moved here.”

Joanne was uncomfortable. They had had this conversation before. He disapproved of her friendship with the Corelli family. The air was full of static, their conversation fading in and out. Nothing of importance would ever be said, nothing that mattered ever be talked about. Her thoughts were as tangled as leftover wool in a knitting basket, and she rehashed all the well-worn thoughts that plagued her with increasing frequency: What kind of a marriage is this, we never communicate, we have children, we share a house but not much else. And the thoughts brought her back to the persistent nagging voice, the wee devil over her left shoulder, saying, there must be more to a marriage, to a life, surely there must.

But she could not give up; for better or worse, in sickness and in health, she'd made her vows. She'd love, she'd honor, yes; it was the “obey” she had problems with. Within the first year of making
those promises she had discovered she'd married a stranger, a damaged man, a Scottish man.

“You have disgraced our family—don't ever expect any help from us,” her mother had told her. So much for Christian charity, Joanne thought, and ten years on, her parents had not relented. No, there was no way out of a marriage, no place to go except to further disgrace. She couldn't do that to the children.

Laying aside her knitting and her frustrations, Joanne asked, “A cup of tea?”

“Great.”

She brought the tea. The ten o'clock news came on.

“Switch that off.” Bill was sharp. “All this Suez nonsense, talk about bringing back conscription, I don't need reminding. Another thing, they're saying some maniac killed the wee boy. You stay at home with the girls till he's caught. You're only a typist. The
Gazette
can easily get someone else to fill in.”

“You're right.” That surprised him. “I'll ask Don McLeod if I can rearrange my hours and work only when the girls are at school. I'll walk with them in the morning and meet them in the afternoon.”

There was not much he could say to that.

Careful, scared, but encouraged by his silence and by the fact that he was there, at home for once, sitting by the fire with her, Joanne decided that it was now or never.

“That Don McLeod in our office”—she tried a laugh—“a big gossip he is and no mistake.” She also knew better than to use McAllister's name. Bill had vented some bitter remarks about the new editor-in-chief. “Them strangers from down south think themselves the bee's knees,” Bill had remarked. Often. It was one of his mother's favorite expressions too. He folded the paper to the sports pages, only half listening; he was not in the least interested in her work.

“Aye, he's heard that Mr. Grieg the town clerk is up to some shenanigans with council contracts.”

Immediately alert, Bill tried not to look up from his page. “What did he say?”

“Not much. Just that Mr. Grieg had better watch his step, that he was being talked about more than usual, and Don McLeod said he was onto Grieg's tricks, and if Grieg doesn't take care, he'll get found out this time, for sure.”

“That'll be the day.”

Joanne was pleased; she'd successfully tiptoed around the subject, given Bill the hint without him blowing up. To her amazement, Bill started to explain some of his business dealings.

“Thon Mr. Grieg, you're right, he does throw his weight around. He makes it hard for small contractors to make an honest living. But it's always the way when you take council contracts, they cut you to the bone, and that's what they did to me with this job I have on over in the west.” He folded the paper. “But it'll all work out, you'll see.” He was sure of himself, something she had always admired. “Come over there with me, next time I go. The weather's usually terrible but it would be a wee break.”

Her eternal optimism drowned out the past few weeks, few years, of unhappiness. We'll give it another go, she thought, another chance, it'll be different this time. She had said this so many times before, it was getting harder and harder to persuade herself, but what choice was there? She was married—till death do us part.

“Aye, I'd like a break. I'd like to get away from all this sadness.”

This Sunday morning in churches and chapels and gatherings throughout the town was a time for fear and a time for reflection. This Sunday's sermons were all on a common theme, the death
of a child in their midst. This Sunday Joanne, along with many another parent, had faced the enormity of what had happened in their quiet community. But with other parents, Joanne had also felt a twinge of guilt as she counted her blessings, saying a quick prayer of thanks to God, who had spared her children.

“Suffer the little children to come unto me … for of such is the kingdom of heaven.” Duncan Macdonald quoted the scripture at his powerful, commanding yet comforting best. The prayers were for the dead, yes, but mostly for the living, those frightened, bewildered, at the very idea that something so terrible could happen. The minister, reminding them that faith and love would see them through, finished the service by leading the congregation in the singing of that ancient song of comfort, the Twenty-third Psalm. “The Lord's my Shepherd, I'll not want … ,” welled up to the ceiling, sung with spirit and the occasional tear, then a subdued congregation walked home, tightly holding on to the hands of their children, home to the Sunday lunch.

Sunday lunch with the Macdonalds was always cheerful. Joanne loved visiting her sister and her daughters loved playing with their cousins. Taken around the ten-seater table in the most agreeable room in the house, the kitchen, where big sash windows looked onto the garden, lawn, fruit trees and vegetable patch, lunch was a family ritual. The children had been asked to gather the leaves off the lawn into a pile, but instead, they were playing, chasing and throwing handfuls and armfuls of the crisp autumn leaves. Thrown high into the cerulean blue, they fell from the heavens in gold and red showers onto dancing, cartwheeling children. Orange and gold and bronze leaves and leaf skeletons and earth-smelling dust clung to their jumpers and hair, making the dancing figures look like little leaf creatures from an illustration in a child's book of Faeries.

Granny and Grandad Ross very occasionally joined in these
family gatherings and somehow it seemed right that they were here, that the whole family was together today. Except Bill Ross. It would have been most unusual if he had been at the table. At the sight of the children enjoying themselves, forgetting the solemnity of the day, Granny Ross couldn't help herself. She rapped on the window. “Stop that. This minute. You're in your Sunday best.”

The children took no notice, pretending they couldn't hear her.

Elizabeth Macdonald set the pots with the homegrown vegetables on the Aga top, occasionally opening the slow oven to baste the lamb. They were awaiting the arrival of Duncan from his greeting and hand-shaking duties outside the church. Duties that could take a good half hour or so, as there was always someone who wanted “a wee word.” Joanne set the table, chatting with her sister, usually about her new job and the people she met. Joanne loved these conversations. Her sister, and her sister's family, were the only relatives she had left.