A Small Death in the Great Glen (51 page)

Duncan Macdonald had placed the phone calls some time before, soon after the searing shrieks from his niece at the Halloween party. There had been no response, so he was surprised when the letter arrived.

After the usual preliminaries, the writer came to the point.

The Reverend Macdonald put down the letter and sighed. Poor fellow, he thought, some of those homes for the wayward, as they were often referred to, they made a prisoner of war camp look easy.

Jimmy McPhee had yet to make up his mind. He thought of calling McAllister, many times, but the phone was not a usual form of communication for him. He thought of visiting, but visiting a person in a house was not his way either. A pub was too public; the
Gazette
office was not an option he even considered. No, he would let it go, and if he happened to bump into him, then maybe they would tell him. Then again, probably not. But he would have liked to look at that photo again. He would have liked to look at the faces, count the survivors.

Joanne too was distracted. She couldn't keep avoiding Bill. Tonight, now that all the bridesmaids were gathered, there was a final rehearsal for the wedding. But after that, she would have to return home. As for going to the wedding reception without him, that was unthinkable. Everyone would notice, comment. The excuse of his being out west would not work; this was the wedding of the year. The thoughts churned up her stomach and she began to fear a quick dash out of the church in the middle of the bridal procession. But most of all, a crushing envy of Chiara shamed her. A grand white wedding,
that
she had never coveted,
but a marriage to a good man who would love and cherish her,
that
she was deeply jealous of. You are not the heroine of a story in
People's Friend
magazine, she reminded herself; no happy ending for you.

She continued pottering around the office, tidying up, filing, doing the jobs that the men never noticed needing doing before another edition, another deadline came around.

Don, as usual on a Friday, was up and down the stairs, in and out of the office, clutching betting sheets instead of copy paper. He had nothing to say and less to worry over except for the usual quandaries, all to do with horses.

Rob knew better than to ask why Joanne had stayed at their house last night. But he was confident that whatever needed to be fixed, his mother would see to it. He finished his notes on the convoy, dumped them on McAllister's desk without a word, and left. With no luck after driving past two cafés and one chip shop hoping to find Bianca, Rob caught a whiff of acrid smoke from the foundry chimney and remembered. He headed home.

His mother was out, his father at work, the street deserted. He went to the end of their garden, pushed his way through the gap in the shrubbery and went round the back of the Big House to test his theory. Yes, the coal hole was unlocked. He kicked open the low door. He checked around to see if anyone had heard but not even the birds noticed. He found a piece of sack to sit on and slid down the filthy chute, emerging in the cellar. Three steps up and he was in the kitchen scullery. Here the smell was of damp, paraffin and burnt wool. He listened—only a passing car and the sounds of an empty house. He opened the door to the kitchen—nothing, no one. He sniffed. The smell of burning wool was mixed with the scent of paraffin. He opened the door of the Raeburn and, using the poker, he lifted out pieces of blackened cloth. It was wool all right, thick and heavy, not a blanket, a coat
maybe. Rob started to put the bits back into the stove but some instinct, which he would later wonder about, made him wrap some of the remnants into an old copy of the
Gazette
lying in a box along with the kindling. A blackened button fell out and that he put in his pocket.

Might as well look around while I'm here, he told himself, and made for the stairs.

The sound of someone unlocking the front door made Rob freeze. The shadow of the person showed clearly through the stained-glass panels. Rob ran to the kitchen door. The key had been left in the lock. He shut the door behind him as quietly as he could and, bending double, the makeshift parcel clutched to his chest, he scuttled along the border of shrubs back to his own kitchen, where he stood waiting for his heart to stop racing, before laughing at his panic.

“Big bairn.”

He made tea, then sat at the kitchen table staring out, seeing nothing. It took a good few minutes for his heartbeat to return to normal. Then he began to wonder why there had been no sound of a car in the next-door driveway. He checked. No car was parked in the street. So, who had a key? He had assumed it was the police checking again. But they would have driven in and the noise on the gravel would have been unmistakable. Maybe he should give Ann McPherson a call. The shrill of the phone made him jump. He mocked himself again—guilty conscience!

“McLean residence.” He went pink with pleasure. “Gino gave you my number? No, no problem. One o'clock at the café. Great. See you, Bianca.”

He looked at the clock—half past twelve; time he was gone. Then he noticed the coal dust footprints on the carpet. In the hall mirror he saw the halo of coal dust in his hair. He saw the black
fingerprints on the phone, on the table, on the door and, he knew without looking, it would be a disaster zone in the kitchen. As he told Joanne a few days later, when he heard his mother unlock the front door, he didn't know which sound of which key in which door had scared him the most.

T
WENTY-TWO
 
 

The first miracle of the wedding day was that it was fine; sunshine, blue skies and a crisp clean cold with so much oxygen in the air, a deep breath brought on a rush of exhilarating energy. Annie and Joanne were to dress and have their hair styled at the Corelli household, so after dropping Wee Jean off at her grandparents', the two of them walked the short distance to prepare for the ceremony. Or rather Joanne walked, Annie ran ahead jumping on the spot at every corner, impatient for her mother to catch up. Granny Ross had refused the invitation to the wedding; she wouldn't set foot in “yon heathen church,” so Grandad was bringing Jean to the service.

Joanne rang the bell, and the door opened to a hallway seething with half-dressed girls and boys running in and out of rooms, up and down the stairs, ignoring the yells in Italian from adults, themselves half-dressed, some women with their curlers still in, some of the men, their cummerbunds flapping, all jostling for a place at the hall mirror.

Annie spied one solemn pageboy standing in the bay window. Embarrassed by his velvet breeks and white stockings, praying no one from his school would ever see pictures of him in such sissy clothes, he was trying to distance himself from the mayhem. Annie decided he would be her ally for the day. No giggling girls for her. She stood beside him. In that mysterious way of children, with nothing said, he took one half look and an instant bond was formed.

“Stop running. Line up.” Even the adults jumped to it; in any language, Aunty Lita was not to be ignored. She sent them to
their various assigned tasks and eventually, all were dressed, all stood in a line down the steps and out into the street. She solemnly walked along the line, basket in hand, handing out corsages for the ladies, buttonholes for the men. That done, she called up the stairs for the bride and her attendants. Chiara floated down, her face pale, her knees shaking. Gino, waiting on the doorstep, offered his arm and with the bridesmaids and matron of honor holding up the heavy train, the procession walked along the riverbank and into the chapel.

Curious onlookers and excited children stood outside for a glimpse of one of the biggest weddings the town had seen. The children knew Uncle Gino from his ice-cream van, knew he would be generous with the pennies, maybe even a sixpence or two, after the service.

At the church entrance an usher handed the other guests a buttonhole of a single rose or a corsage of cream roses and lily of the valley. Grandad pinned one on Jean's coat. The little girl was thrilled. They sat toward the back on an aisle seat. The church was packed.

Peter had arrived a good twenty minutes earlier with his best man, Karl. This had caused a raised eyebrow or two, but Peter and Chiara were certain. He was the best best man Peter could wish for. Both stood proud and solemn, both with a military bearing, picture perfect; no one would have been surprised if they had worn swords at their sides. The organ music filled the church; the murmur of conversation, like waves on a pebble beach, rose and fell in greeting at each new addition to the congregation. The murmurs rose to a crescendo as Chiara, in her wedding plumage, came gliding down the aisle on her father's arm. Gino had looked so comic in a morning suit and top hat that Chiara diplomatically asked that he wear his Italian wedding outfit, “just like at home.” Gino had tried to look solemn, but solemn did not come
naturally to him. He beamed to left and to right. His white stockings and black pumps danced him down the aisle.

Three bridesmaids to each side supported Chiara's train. The long trailing ends of white velvet cloak were trimmed with white fur and much admired by the ladies of the parish. Two pageboys followed. Joanne knew one of the pageboys and two of the bridesmaids. They were wee horrors. But not today, today they were angelic. Annie was paired with an Italian girl of similar age and height. They had overcome their communication problems—the girl's Glasgow accent was unintelligible to Annie—by nudging each other or hissing “stop” or “go,” loving every moment of the long slow walk down the aisle. Annie smiled at her grandad and sister as they passed. Bianca and another cousin followed last and this time it was Rob's turn for a big smile.

The procession reached the altar without mishap. Chiara still looked solemn; this was her wedding day, and, as she confessed to Joanne later, she was freezing cold and terrified she would trip and scared the pageboys would have bubble gum or peashooters or somehow manage to mangle up the wedding train. It wasn't that I was feeling serious, it was a good old-fashioned dose of stage fright, she joked when it was all over. When the bride reached the altar, there was Peter, waiting and smiling and holding out his hand. Then everything around her dissolved and she was aware of nothing except her husband.