Cold in the Earth (15 page)

The bank manager had said to her the other day that they’d set out with ‘the fatal combination of optimism and inexperience’ – well, why couldn’t he have told them that at the start instead of now? She kept her mouth shut, of course, because she’d to keep on his good side, but it made her sick to her stomach when she thought back.

The improvements went way over their budget; they’d had to borrow extra to pay for them but even so when the inspectors came round from the Tourist Board they only gave them one star – ‘acceptable’ – when they’d been counting on three stars – ‘very good’. And Lisa’s cooking was only ‘acceptable’ too – well, she’d never thought she’d be in
A Taste of Scotland
right off, but she’d shed hot tears over the insult. Advertising was something they hadn’t allowed for properly either, and since they couldn’t afford a computer they weren’t on the Internet, which didn’t help. They’d got by last year, just, on casual visitors for overnights and meals, along with the bar profits.

That was before Scott began drinking them. He’d missed the outdoor work and the beasts at Chapelton – he’d been there a long time – and once the first excitement of being his own boss wore off, he hadn’t enough to do. His drinking had started during the long, dreary winter months when he’d have a dram with the regulars, just to be sociable, he said. Then, as the business failed to meet its targets and the bank got restless, he began to match them glass for glass. Now, with the locals staying at home and the countryside officially declared closed, he was seldom sober.

Lisa had never dreamed that she’d have to take on such an awful lot of responsibility. Scott was nine years older, an old-fashioned husband who in their nine-year marriage had never expected her to do more than look after the house and the weans and have his meals ready for him when he came in. He’d lifted his hand to her once or twice recently – but then, she tried to excuse him to herself, it was really hard on him when what mostly needed doing was stuff he called ‘woman’s work’ and he felt he was lowering himself if he did it. He hated taking orders from people too, even if they were the paying customers.

Lisa’s eyes filled with tears as she looked down at the name on the register. They needed the money so badly! Foot-and-mouth had been the last straw for their ailing business, and they wouldn’t be in line for fat compensation cheques like the farmers, like the Masons. Repossession was staring them in the face and then what would she do with two children and a crippled husband? Then she sniffed and wiped her eyes fiercely with her fingers. She hadn’t time to waste fussing about the past – or even about the future. What she had to do at the moment was to work out a lunch for Mrs Mason that wouldn’t have the old bag demanding a refund. Oh, and how to break the news to Scott so that he wouldn’t set about their much-needed guest, even verbally, let alone – she felt sick at the thought – physically.

At least she’d been smart enough to overstate the price of a room so that even after she’d let herself be beaten down she would still be getting £10 a night over the normal rate. At the memory of Brett Mason’s satisfaction at the bargain she had struck, the faintest ghost of a smile crossed Lisa’s lips, though it didn’t last long.

9

The police, arms linked, had formed a solid, double-banked line across the road and were gradually but inexorably pushing back the struggling, shouting protestors. They made an unlikely mob, with tweeds and oiled jackets predominating, but anger thickened the air like fog as they found themselves forced to retreat down the narrow walled lane, away from the junction where a line of vehicles had drawn up: 4x4s with officials and government vets, a van with equipment, police mini-buses and escort cars with their lights flashing. Breathing heavily, Tam MacNee pushed forward. He hated being drafted on to uniform duties, hated wearing the bloody thing, come to that. And the waistband wasn’t as comfortable as it used to be; he’d need to have a word with Bunty about her high teas.

‘Remind me,’ he muttered to the officer on his left, ‘what was it about being a uniform that made me go for the CID?’

The man, breathless himself, grinned mockingly. ‘Not hard enough, eh? I’m telling you, this lot’s frigging amateurs. All they’ve thrown is tatties and there’s not one on their backside in the road. I’ve seen worse at a Women’s Guild outing.’

With a final push they cleared the road-end. The crowd gave a last, despairing heave, then as the waiting cars swept by a groan went up. There was the sound of sobbing, but the pressure on the police line eased.

The gate was shut across the farm drive and in front of it a man and a woman stood, his arm around her shoulders, blocking the way. The leading police car stopped and four officers, one female, jumped out. A conversation ensued; the crowd, their view of the proceedings blocked by the dark blue phalanx, surged restlessly forward and again were forced back.

At last the woman, breaking down in tears, stepped aside, violently shrugging off the policewoman’s attempt at comfort. Her husband put up no more than a token struggle and as the police restrained him, gave up. The gate was opened for the vehicles, then shut behind them, and he turned away, head down, broken.

The second line of police moved back to block access to the gate and with that secured the order came for the front row to stand down. As the police broke ranks the crowd, subdued now, pushed sullenly past them. Many of the women were in tears; a young man, fair-haired and fresh-complexioned, his face contorted with rage and grief, lunged towards MacNee, drawing back his fist, but an older man restrained him.

‘Don’t sully your fists, laddie. Scum like them isn’t worth it.’

MacNee, tensed for evasive action, dropped his eyes. It was a dirty business, this whole thing. It really got to him and he was a townie. What must someone like Marjory be feeling now? He could see her, a tall figure in a belted trench-coat, standing beside one of the cars at the back.

A group of women had reached the farmer’s wife by now and she was the centre of a huddle of concern as they tried to coax her away. Suddenly the sound of sheep bleating in alarm filled the air and the mood of the crowd, which had been dispersing hopelessly, turned ugly.

‘Proud of what you’ve done?’ a man’s voice yelled. ‘No guts, no decency.’

All at once the situation was tense again. Unbidden, the police immediately drew closer together, but these were law-abiding citizens, unused to confrontation with the forces of order they had respected all their lives. They looked about them uncertainly and the moment passed.

Just then, as he was heaving a sigh of relief, MacNee noticed that the farmer’s wife, with her friends, had drawn level with Fleming, saw too with dismay that they obviously recognised her.

‘Marjory Fleming, I can’t believe you’re standing here, letting them do that.’ Her voice was shrill.

MacNee began shouldering his way to her side and heard her say quietly, ‘I’m sorry, Susie, I’ve no alternative. It’s my job.’

‘Get a better job then,’ another woman shouted. ‘If you all resigned, they couldn’t do this to us, could they?’

‘Rather have the army instead, would you?’ The bulky figure of Conrad Mason, made even more intimidating by the uniform, loomed up out of the crowd. He was scowling. ‘Move along now, madam, you’re causing an obstruction.’

Drunken football hooligans seldom fancied their chances when Mason flexed his muscles; the women, exchanging uneasy glances, did as they were told and he turned away, satisfied. But as the farmer’s wife drew level with Fleming she turned to look at her stonily, then very deliberately spat straight in her face.

MacNee was there in two strides but Fleming’s hand shot out, restraining him with an iron grip. ‘Leave it, Tam.’ She stood impassively, the spit trickling down her cheek until the women had passed, her jawline and her shoulders rigid, her hands clenched so that the knuckles showed white. Then she took out a handkerchief, wiped it carefully away and without speaking turned to get back into her car.

MacNee caught her arm. ‘You’re a professional, Marjory,’ he said, the roughness of his tone concealing his concern. ‘You’ve been spat at before.’

‘Not by someone who’s had coffee at my kitchen table,’ she said dully.

‘Och, don’t take it to heart. She’s not herself, that’s all. She’ll be round to say her “sorry” in the morning.’

‘I won’t be holding my breath.’ Fleming opened the car door, then, as he made to follow her in, said, ‘No, Tam. I’ve got to handle this on my own. It’s my job and I wanted it.’

‘Away and have a chat to Bill on the phone,’ he urged.

She looked at him stonily. ‘You’re joking, of course,’ she said, climbed in and drove away.

In the gathering dusk, Laura might almost have missed the Chapelton sign, if it hadn’t been for the police car parked across the entrance and the pitiless illumination of arc-lamps which silhouetted a group of buildings against the skyline. She caught her breath; here she was seeing the harsh reality of foot-and-mouth, hinted at before by the greasy smuts on her windscreen, the oily, acrid smell and the wreathing black smoke of pyres which she’d noticed on her journey north.

She had formulated no particular plan in taking the narrow road up over the moors beyond Glenluce where Max had said the farm was situated. After a long drive up from London, with the early darkness of a Scottish winter evening, nowhere booked to stay and more hope than expectation of even locating Chapelton, this wasn’t exactly a rational thing to do. But she had felt all day that she was retracing Dizzy’s steps and there was a sort of romance about that which had gripped her, even as an inner voice howled:
What do you think you’re doing? Latching on to someone else’s adolescent rebellion to compensate for your own low-key, conventional life?

Well, she’d located the farm, and it was obviously in a state of siege. Was Max inside there, she wondered, presiding over a macabre slaughter of his father’s treasured cattle? And if so, would it seem some sort of symbolic catharsis as the lives sacrificed atoned for his own losses – his mother, his home? Perhaps, even, the loss of a father’s love?

Anyway, driving aimlessly on in drizzling rain and growing darkness wasn’t constructive. She’d noticed the lights of a small hotel just outside the last village she’d gone through; that would do for the night, might even if it was half-way decent prove quite a good base for research for her article.

She’d been considering that on the way up; she needed to talk not only to farmers who were clearly suffering what could only be called bereavement but to people working in the infrastructure of small businesses – shops, restaurants, little hotels like that one – who were dependent on tourism in countryside which had been officially declared closed, without any hope of the compensation for lack of livelihood which would be available to the farmers.

There was a passing-place at a point where the road was a little bit wider too. She turned the car and set off back down the road she had come. As she turned a corner, a big black bird rose, startled, from where it had been tearing at some unidentifiable road-kill and flapped off towards a Forestry Commission plantation, dark against the sky.

‘Light thickens, and the crow

Makes wing to the rooky wood,’

Laura found herself muttering. That was
Macbeth
, wasn’t it – the Scottish Play, you were supposed to call it to avert bad luck. And the speech went on to say something about ‘night’s black agents’. She shuddered involuntarily; not a pleasant thought, out here in the wilds where you might almost be the only person on the planet.

But in fact, there were the lights of the hotel ahead, and she turned into the car park, suddenly bone-weary. She got out, fetched her suitcase and walked towards the building, then hesitated on the doorstep. There was a dispirited air about the place, indefinably depressing; perhaps it would be better to look for somewhere else? But she was very tired, and after all she needn’t commit herself for more than one night. She opened the door and went in.

The woman who appeared in answer to Laura’s tentative ping on the bell looked even more exhausted than Laura felt, heavy-eyed and with a tiny muscle jumping above dark brown eyes which looked too big for her thin face. She seemed surprised, as if the request for a room was unusual, but yes, she certainly had one available.

‘I hope this’ll suit.’ She was looking anxious as she unlocked the door to a room at the back of the house. ‘The two biggest rooms are taken.’

‘I’m sure it’ll be fine,’ Laura said soothingly, then, as she saw the simply furnished room with its cheerful curtains and bedspread, added, ‘This is lovely – very comfortable.’

The woman’s tired face lit up with an unexpectedly sweet smile. ‘I’m awful glad you like it. It makes a real difference.’

There was an unspoken suggestion that not all guests were as appreciative. Not an easy job, running a hotel!

‘Yes, lovely,’ Laura repeated. ‘And that’s the bathroom?’

‘Just a shower-room.’ The anxious look reappeared. ‘I’m sorry, I know a lot of folk like a bath, but we’ve not a lot of space, you see—’

‘Don’t worry. That’s fine, honestly. And I’ll be able to have supper here?’

‘Yes. Well, it’s nothing grand, just two choices. But the fish van was round today and I’ve some real nice fish that were out there swimming around this time yesterday.’

Laura laughed. ‘That sounds wonderful. And I can get a drink in the bar?’

‘Yes. Er, yes, of course. My – my husband does that. It’ll be open at six. Probably. And the meal’s at seven.’

Laura noted the nervous hesitation but said only, ‘That’s fine. I’ll have plenty of time to have a shower and change. Thanks very much, Mrs—?’

‘Oh, Lisa. Lisa Thomson.’ She looked down at her watch with a harassed, White Rabbit expression. ‘Sorry, I’ll need to be getting on. There’s the bairns’ tea, you see—’

‘Of course. Don’t let me keep you.’