Sewing the Shadows Together (16 page)

Tom felt a glimmer of hope. HJ looked up at him as if to gauge the reaction on his face. ‘I’m on the Board of Governors and we thought it would be quite easy to find a successor for Jimmy, but it’s been proving surprisingly difficult. There’s many a person with the practical skills who can deal with small repairs, but we need someone who can satisfy the background checks, as there will be children and vulnerable adults there. The hours can be long and we need someone prepared to take responsibility for the day-to-day management of the centre. Also the accommodation’s very small, only suitable for a single person.’

Tom tried not to show too much enthusiasm. It sounded ideal, although he was a bit worried about the long hours. ‘How long would I actually have to be on duty?’

‘There has to be someone there, for security reasons, whenever the centre’s open, but it wouldn’t always have to be you. You would be in charge of a small team of hourly-paid workers, including cleaners, and it would be up to you to draw up a rota so that there was always a responsible person there. We have an established team, as we pay above minimum wage and want to be fair employers, but they’re mostly part-timers and none of them are interested in the responsibility of the full-time job.’

Tom’s mind was already racing. This could solve all his problems, the chance to find a home and a job in one go. ‘I’d certainly be very interested.’

HJ looked encouraged by his enthusiasm. ‘I’ll have to contact the other board members about an interview, but if you’d like to have a look round, there’s our poetry group meeting this evening and you could come along with me to talk to Jimmy and see the accommodation. If you like what you see, you’ll have to submit your CV and references and we could start the vetting process. You are still British, aren’t you?’

‘Yes, no problem there.’ Tom grasped HJ’s hands. ‘Thank you so much. You’ve got no idea what this means to me.’

HJ smiled again. ‘I’m happy to help you in any way I can.’

Tom stood up. He was eager to get back to the B&B and start getting things organised, tweaking his CV and collecting references. He would also have to see the police before any kind of background check was set in progress.

He arranged to meet HJ that evening and jogged back along the prom. Looking round the saccharine room he fantasised about sleeping in the gothic gloom of a decommissioned church. He looked at his phone: a message from Sarah.
Missing you x
.

*

Sarah bustled around in her kitchen, putting coffee cups on a tray. Her mother had come round early ‘to help’ and had got in her way. Patsy arrived with a cake, which was thoughtful of her, but dissolved into such floods of tears that Sarah ended up comforting her. Now Flora and Patsy were sitting in the drawing room, swapping reminiscences, in competition with each other about how upset they were.

Sarah wished she could be anywhere else; she was tired of being strong and brave. She wished Tom were with her; she wanted his arms round her, keeping her safe.

Flora was dabbing her eyes with a lace-edged hankie as Sarah came into the room. ‘We were very close, the dear boy.’

‘It was only the other week we had our reunion and the dedication at the school,’ added Patsy. ‘He was so charismatic, he lit up the room.’

Flora could trump that one. ‘I shall so miss our Sunday lunches. He was so charming, so attentive. Only last Sunday he called me his little flower.’ She let out another sob and then looked up at Patsy, ‘Because of my name, you know.’ Patsy patted the older woman gently on the arm, acknowledging defeat.

Sarah clattered the tray down on the coffee table. She distributed the cups and Patsy’s chocolate cake was duly admired.

‘Do we know when the funeral is?’ asked Patsy, wiping the crumbs from her mouth.

Sarah shook her head. ‘We’ve decided we’re going to have a very small private family funeral as soon as the body is released and then there’ll be a bigger memorial service arranged by BBC Scotland. Nick phoned today. He’s been doing the liaison with the Procurator Fiscal. The post-mortem’s been carried out, and a fatal accident inquiry isn’t necessary. I think the fact that HJ Kidd witnessed the whole thing and was able to make a full statement has helped. I’d like the funeral to take place as soon as possible.’

‘If there’s anything I can do to help, just let me know,’ Patsy said.

Flora nodded morosely. ‘That poor dear boy.’

Sarah was overcome with a wave of total weariness. It was so hard keeping up the pretence of normality, when underneath her brain was whirred with the maelstrom of feelings about Rory, about Tom, about her family, about Shona… about Tom. She couldn’t help it, her thoughts were always returning to him.

She stood up. Her limbs seemed so heavy, she felt she could hardly move. ‘Thank you so much for coming, both of you. But I’m feeling really rather tired now, so I think I’ll have a lie down before Nick and Lottie come round.’

Patsy leapt up, gathering the dishes, and carrying the tray into the kitchen, calling back over her shoulder. ‘Just leave these to me! Anything I can do to help!’ Flora stood up and carefully placed her Liberty scarf around her neck. She pecked Sarah on the cheek and made her way to the hall, collecting her coat. ‘I’ll see myself out. And I’ll come again tomorrow to give you some more help.’

Sarah stifled the groan she felt. Her mother meant well but her ‘help’ consisted of sitting around saying how wonderful Rory was, and how much she missed him. Sarah briefly wondered how she’d react when the inevitable ‘Rory the philanderer’ stories got into the papers. A small mean part of her wanted her to find out what her beloved Rory was really like.

Patsy followed the older woman into the hall. ‘Let me know if there’s anything I can do for the funeral. I’ve let all the old schoolfriends know and I’m sure there’ll be a good turn-out from them. And if you need anyone to give a reading, or say anything…’ She smiled expectantly.

Sarah muttered something about the memorial service being the place for that, and waved them off as quickly as she could. When the door slammed behind them she mouthed a silent scream and took a bottle of wine from the rack in the kitchen. She poured out a large glass and sat down with it in the drawing room, feeling her heart rate return to normal.

Nick and Lottie weren’t coming round this evening. She wanted to have a little time to herself. She looked at the phone. She really ought to contact the police to reschedule the meeting, but that could wait until tomorrow.

She looked hopefully at her mobile phone and saw there was a message from Tom. She hadn’t heard it coming in. She read it with a tingle of excitement.
Up in town this evening. OK to pop in for a short visit?

She sent one back quickly.
Great – looking forward to seeing you. X

Sarah sat back in the Chesterfield listening to Pachelbel and sipping her wine. She relished the peace and beauty of the Georgian room, lit only by the standard lamp behind her head. Despite all the conflicting emotions in her, she felt a strange glow of contentment. Tom was coming round.

The phone rang. She looked at it wondering if she should just let it ring out.
Oh, what the hell
. If it was a journalist, she’d just tell him where to go. Feeling a kind of recklessness, she picked up the receiver.

‘Hello, Sarah, it’s Barbara.’

Sarah hesitated. The voice sounded vaguely familiar, but she couldn’t place the name, although the caller obviously expected to be recognised. ‘Hello?’

‘It’s Barbara, Barbara Barrowfield, Rory’s first wife,’ the voice said firmly, obviously detecting her hesitation. ‘We need to meet to discuss the funeral arrangements. Would this evening be convenient?’

Sarah’s jaw literally dropped. She’d never thought of consulting Rory’s ex-wife. In fact, because Rory never mentioned her, she’d almost forgotten her existence. Of course, there was Rory’s daughter. She would want to come to the funeral, although Sarah didn’t think she and Rory had much contact.

‘Hello, are you there?’ Barbara’s brisk tones made Sarah realise she hadn’t answered.

‘Sorry, I was just thinking. We don’t actually have a date for the funeral yet.’

‘I think the sooner we discuss this the better,’ the efficient voice rapped back.

Now Sarah remembered why the voice was so familiar. After being the Drama teacher at Brunstane High, Babs had gone on to achieve minor fame in a TV police soap, playing the aptly-named Sergeant Mone. She’d developed something of a cult following, partly for her Rottweiler tones, but mainly for her prominent breasts encased in her police uniform. Listening to her now, Sarah realised the character she played was not that different from herself in real life.

Sarah hesitated. ‘Well, I am free in the early evening…’ Better that Babs came round now than when the twins – or worse, her mother – were around.

‘Very well, I’ll be round in twenty minutes.’ Sarah heard the click that signified the end of the conversation and was left staring at the handset. Oh well, might as well get it over with. At least she’d have Tom to unwind with later.

She took another swig of wine and looked out at the traffic driving down Howe Street. Cars and buses were waiting at the traffic lights, a taxi was picking up a man in a pin-striped suit and shoppers were scurrying across the street laden with shopping bags. It seemed unbelievable that everything was carrying on as normal and her life, once so quiet and dull even, had been turned upside down in the last few weeks. Meeting Tom again, the news about Logan Baird, Nick’s revelation, Rory gone… so much had happened.

She felt the wine going to her head. She looked at the bottle and shrugged her shoulders – she was a widow, and her husband’s ex-wife was coming round. She deserved a drink. She poured another glass.

*

The Canongate Centre was on the Cowgate, the gloomy street running under the elevated sections of the South Bridge and George IV
^th
Bridge. It led from Holyrood to the Grassmarket and got its name from the fact that cattle were herded to market there in the old days. Tom remembered that it was considered a dangerous place when he was young, where the homeless gathered with their cheap drinks, waiting for the hostels to open. It was still dark there, but the Grassmarket had been gentrified and even the Cowgate seemed cleaner.

On the way, HJ had explained the set-up. When the church became surplus to requirements, Edinburgh District Council had taken it over and had funded the Arts Centre over the years. Unfortunately, it had fallen victim to the cuts. One reason why HJ had agreed to Rory’s programme was that he hoped to raise the profile and maybe secure funding from elsewhere.

‘I don’t want to be too negative but I can’t honestly say how long the centre will be able to stay open,’ HJ said sadly, ‘so I can’t guarantee the job will last for ever. But Edinburgh is proud of being the Festival City and has a commitment to the Arts, and also to the community groups. To be brutally honest, if we say we can’t fill the post that will be another nail in the coffin. That’s why Jimmy’s stayed on until now, actually, because he didn’t want to let us down. So, I hope you will take the job. I want to help you, but it will also be good for the centre.’

The church was a dark Gothic building, almost overshadowed by the arch of George IV
^th
bridge and the unlit tenements on each side. Tom went through the side door with Kidd into what must once have been the vestry. They were greeted by a gnomic man with random tufts of hair on his head and deep inquisitive eyes.

‘Jimmy, this is Tom McIver. We may have found your successor.’

Jimmy’s wizened face lit up. ‘Good to see you, Tom. Here’s a great wee job. I’ve been doing it for twenty-three years, since my wife passed, but now it’s time I was away to my girl and her weans up in Forfar.’

Tom smiled at him and HJ suggested that Jimmy show them the accommodation. It was not quite the romantic monk’s cell that Tom had imagined but it was serviceable. There was a small sitting room with an old-fashioned gas fire, a G-plan type sofa and an ancient box television. With its swirling carpet and geometric wallpaper it looked like something out of a seventies sit-com, but seemed cosy enough, especially with the long mustard-coloured velvet curtains drawn. To the left there was a windowless bedroom, almost completely filled with a double bed, and to the right a small kitchenette. Even though it was not the Gothic cell he’d imagined, Tom wanted to live here; a base where he could escape the pinkness of the Regent Guest House.

As they walked into the main part of the church, Jimmy explained the different aspects of the job, and reassured him about the hours and responsibilities. The lights flickered over the huge arched vaults, throwing long shadows and reflecting from the simple stained-glass windows. Tom felt comfortable in the stark empty space and had the renewed feeling that this was the place for him, if they’d have him.

‘I’ll be thinking you’re no the nervous type,’ Jimmy added. ‘Some people dinnae want to live alone here. We’re near the Grassmarket and the hostels and that, but it’s no like it was in the old days. We dinnae have trouble with the boys, if you just tell them this is no the place for them. We dinnae have alcohol here so they’re no interested really.’

The front door creaked open and an overweight young man shuffled into the church, avoiding eye contact and sat down on one of the chairs. HJ greeted him and sat down next to him. ‘Hi Neil, how are you today? Have you written anything this week?’ Neil mumbled and pulled some papers out of his bag.

Kidd looked over at Tom. ‘As you can see the group is beginning to assemble. You’re very welcome to stay…’ He broke off as a pretty girl with long blonde hair and a shaggy Afghan coat came in and gave Kidd an enthusiastic hug. HJ shrugged with a
what can I do?
look and Tom looked at his watch.

‘Actually, I said I’d go round and see Sarah.’

‘Of course, the dear girl. I think she needs all the support we can give her at the moment. Please do give her my love.’ He came over to Tom and shook his hand. ‘I hope you will consider the job. Think about it and come round to see me when you’ve got your CV and references. We’ll go through the application process together.’ He smiled hopefully. ‘I don’t think I’m giving too much away when I tell you that the job is yours if you’ll take it. You’re just the sort of person the centre needs.’

Tom smiled and said he’d contact him very soon. The small sum of money his mother had left him was nearly gone. Living and working at the centre would solve those problems and he’d be doing something useful at last.

The thought buoyed him up as he went out into the damp evening air, the mist swirling round the silent dark corners of the Cowgate. As he walked towards the brighter lights of the Grassmarket, he slowed down. It was perhaps a bit too soon to go Sarah’s. He saw the friendly glow of the lights shining through the leaded windows of The Last Drop and popped in for a quiet pint.

*

The bell rang and Sarah opened the door, hearing brisk steps clacking up the stairs. Babs was shorter than she seemed on television and had put on some weight round her middle since her hey-day as Sergeant Mone, but she held herself well, emphasising her huge jutting bosom. She was well into her fifties, with a strong-featured face, thick black brows and startling spiky magenta hair.

As Sarah muttered a few welcoming platitudes, Babs interrupted. She evidently didn’t want to waste any time on social niceties. ‘I haven’t got long, but there are a few things I think we should discuss before the funeral is arranged.’

Sarah nodded and indicated the drawing room where she had arranged the wine glasses and some olives on the table. Babs sat down but brushed aside the offered wine with an impatient gesture. Sarah helped herself to another glass.

‘I don’t suppose Rory kept you informed, but he used to see me regularly. In fact, he came round just last week.’

Sarah tried to remain impassive, but she was sure surprise registered on her face.

Babs gave a smug smile. ‘He needed someone to talk to, someone who really understood him.’

Sarah didn’t trust herself to say anything.

‘I didn’t let him see Abigail at all when she was young, didn’t want her corrupted, but more recently they’ve been seeing more of each other and got on really well. She’s a lawyer now, deals with women’s rights. So now that Rory’s gone, she’s fighting the case for the children.’

Sarah frowned. ‘Children? I thought you only had the one.’

‘I only have Abigail, but there are the others.’

‘Others?’ Sarah gasped. The enormity of the word reverberated round her brain.

‘So he never told you about them. He really did keep you in a glass cage of ignorance.’

Sarah took another gulp of wine. ‘What others?’

‘Four, as far as I know, all boys. There is Daniel and the twins, Simon and Sean, and then little Jamie; he’s only about ten. These boys all know that Rory’s their father, although he’s never publicly acknowledged them. It’s important that they can be included in the funeral, to give them closure, and also to make sure that they get their legacy.’

Sarah hadn’t even thought of Rory’s will and her mind was still trying to catch up. ‘Four children? Who’s the mother?’

‘There are three. Daniel’s mother is Judy Johnstone, the journalist who used to work with Rory at the
Scotsman
. She’s married now and lives up north, but Dan’s always kept contact with Rory. The twins’ mother is Mental Miranda. I don’t know what surname she’s using at the moment. She had a rich husband and passed the twins off as his until the relationship broke down. There was a messy divorce, he got suspicious about the twins, and had a DNA test. That’s when the truth came out. Those twins have just started uni now. Then there’s Jamie. His mother is Rosie, one of the researchers on
Chats with Rory
.’

Sarah, whose mind had been flailing as she tried to follow the list, gasped again. She knew Rosie. She remembered when her baby was born. She’d even asked Rory who the father was, as Rosie seemed determined to bring her son up on her own. Rory had said it was a married man. At least he’d told the truth about that.

‘Anyway, the children should all have their rightful place at the funeral. Abigail has contacted them all and as soon as the funeral details are known she’ll let them know. And she’ll make sure they all get their rightful settlement from the will. Rory has always supported his children, and assured them and their mothers that they would be provided for in the future. Have you seen the will yet?’

Sarah’s brain felt numb. ‘I think it’s at the lawyer’s. Nick’s dealing with that side of things.’

A new worry hit her. She’d always left the finances to Rory. They’d never seemed to have much money, and now she understood why. But they’d had enough and she loved their flat. Surely she’d be able to stay there? She couldn’t bear it if she had to leave.

Babs stood up, thrusting her imposing chest out. ‘There’s no point staying any longer. I’ve said all I have to say. I just wanted you to be aware of the situation.’ She handed Sarah a card. ‘Contact me as soon as you have a date.’

As she was strutting into the hall, the doorbell rang. Sarah pressed the button to open the main door and heard footsteps coming quickly up the stairs. It must be Tom. She hoped Babs would make a move before he reached the top, but she was still at the doorway when Tom appeared round the corner, his long legs taking the steps two by two.

Babs looked at him, and turned to Sarah with a knowing smirk, ‘You’ll be hearing from me.’ With that she gave Tom a nod and set off down the stairs, clacking in her high-heeled boots.

Tom raised his eyebrows questioningly. Sarah pulled him into the hall and closed the door before putting her head on his chest, ‘Oh Tom.’ He put his arms round her and rested his head on the top of her tousled hair, holding her very close.