Sewing the Shadows Together (19 page)

‘No problem, we’ll blow the smoke out of the window,’ drawled Simon, or maybe Sean, while the other smirked.

Sarah felt loathing swelling up in her. She looked at them closely – she had thought them good-looking but now she saw the weakness in their mouths, the arrogance in their eyes and saw that they were ugly. ‘I want you to leave now.’

‘Don’t worry, we’re going. Mum’s just seeing if there’s anything else worth taking.’

Sarah stepped out of the kitchen, determined to see what Miranda was up to. A movement in Rory’s office caught her eye and she saw Miranda rifling through some files on his desk. Rory, who could be messy in other respects, was meticulously tidy in his office. Sarah knew the folders hadn’t been on the desk before. When she saw the papers in Miranda’s hands she felt anger exploding in her. The thought of that woman pawing through Rory’s things seemed the final indignity.

‘Get away from those papers.’

Miranda looked up and sneered. ‘I was just checking that there was nothing of value here, and there isn’t. We’ll just stick with the paintings, the McTaggart and the Neil.’

She swept out of the room and signalled to her sons, each of whom was carrying a large framed painting. They left the flat without saying goodbye, slamming the door behind them.

A hush had descended over the flat and Sarah saw the rest of them standing at the door of the drawing room, watching in shocked embarrassment. Babs spoke first. ‘Appalling woman, and those boys are turning out to be just as bad.’ Sarah nodded in heartfelt agreement.

Rosie stepped towards her and took her hand. ‘Thank you, Sarah. I know it’s been a very hard day for you.’ She paused and lowered her eyes. ‘And I’m so sorry for…’

Her eyes moved to her son, who was holding a blue hard-back book of Scottish poetry. ‘Mummy said I should ask if I can have this book. Can I?’

Sarah looked at it. She didn’t remember ever having seen it before. She opened it up and saw an engraved plate on the front page.
Presented to Rory Dunbar. Dux of Towerbank Primary School. June 1971
. So Rory won that prize at his primary school. He may have been boastful, but he’d kept that quiet.

‘What’s a Dux, Mummy?’ Jamie looked up at his mother, a questioning expression in his large dark eyes.

‘That means he was best pupil in his school. Your daddy was very clever.’ Rosie smiled down at her son and turned to Sarah. ‘He goes to the Rudolf Steiner School. Being Dux is a bit of a foreign concept to him.’

Sarah smiled. ‘Of course, you can have it, Jamie. And I’m sure you’ll do just as well as your clever father.’

Rosie looked at her gratefully and gave her a spontaneous hug. ‘I so admire your strength and dignity. I don’t think I could have faced a day like today.’ She lowered her eyes again and blushed slightly. ‘We’ll be going now, but I hope to see you again.’

‘You will,’ Sarah said grimly. ‘Remember we’ve still got the memorial service to get through!’

Rosie took Jamie by the hand and they waved goodbye as they closed the door quietly behind them.

Sarah caught sight of Daniel hovering awkwardly in a corner, his long limbs seeming even more uncoordinated than before. He blushed as he held out a box of cufflinks. ‘Is it all right if I take these?’

‘Of course. I’m sure your father would be pleased for you to have them.’ She smiled encouragingly as the blush deepened and spread over Daniel’s face and onto his neck.

Sarah felt as if she was in the reception line at a gruesome wedding as Abigail stepped forward, holding a small framed photo in her hand. Sarah recognised it; it always stood on Rory’s desk, showing him aged about six, standing with his father and his grandfather in his grandfather’s allotment. Rory had never been family-minded, saying university had separated him from the rest of his family, made him ‘disenfranchised working class,’ so it was strange that he had always kept this photo by him. It was the only photo Sarah had seen of Rory’s grandfather, a small bent man with a flat cap and a large white moustache. Rory’s father also looked old and stooping, with his trousers pulled up under his armpits and elastic round his shirt sleeves to shorten them. Sarah remembered that Rory’s parents had already been well into their forties when he was born, the long-awaited menopausal miracle.

Abigail glanced at the photo again, looking unexpectedly anxious. ‘I know that this means a lot to all of us and I’ll have copies made,’ she said her deep voice sounding even lower.

Sarah was filled with a strange feeling of gratitude. ‘That’s really thoughtful of you, Abigail. But you can keep this one, in the original frame. It shows your grandfather and great-grandfather too.’

Abigail looked up at her and Sarah saw that she had very beautiful eyes, Rory’s eyes.

Sarah gave her a hug. ‘Thank you,’ she said, not quite sure what for. The emotion of the day was overwhelming her.

Babs stepped forward and even she seemed to have mellowed. ‘Apart from that bitch I think it was all very satisfactory. Well done, Sarah.’

Sarah felt oddly pleased by her praise as she watched Abigail and Babs strut down the stairs, followed by the ungainly Daniel.

Nick put his arm round his mother. ‘God, that was awful. But at least that’s it over with now. Come and sit down, Mum. What can I get you?’

Sarah shook her head. She felt numb with exhaustion and just wanted the day to be over. ‘Nothing thanks, Nick. Thank you. All of you. I couldn’t have got through this day without you, but now I just want to be alone.’ She paused as a thought struck her. ‘Where’s Granny?’

Nick indicated his head towards the ‘snug’, the little room with the television where the twins had retreated when they were young. Sarah looked in and saw her mother in an armchair with her head on her chest, fast asleep, still clutching her sherry glass.

‘How did she manage to sleep through all that?’ The twins shrugged their shoulders and Sarah smiled. ‘Actually, I think I could too. I’m shattered.’

‘I’m not surprised,’ Lottie held her mother tight. ‘We’ll just clear up and you can have a lie down.’

Sarah nodded and hugged both of her children. She saw Liam hanging back a little self-consciously and beckoned him over. ‘Come on, group hug. Welcome to the family.’

*

Sarah woke up a few hours later on top of the covers with Sultan lying close to her. She stroked his silky black fur and felt comforted by his purr. She took off her funeral clothes and wandered through to the front room. Everything had been cleared away and there was a note on the table. ‘
Didn’t want to disturb you. Just ring if there is ANYTHING we can do. Mum, you’re the best! Love you Nick, Lottie and Liam x x x P.S. We’ve taken Granny!’

Her heart literally swelled with love. She was so lucky with her children. She picked up the note and held it close to her chest. Then she looked up and saw the pale rectangle above the fireplace where the William McTaggart landscape had hung. It had been a present to Rory from his first editor, the autocratic press baron who’d recognised his potential and taken him under his wing. Miranda was right. It was the most valuable thing in the house.

Thinking of Miranda going through Rory’s papers, the anger rose in her chest again. It was suddenly very important for Sarah to leave Rory’s office in the state he liked. She went through to his study and began sorting through the folders on his desk.

As she put the papers into piles one of Rory’s yellow post-its with his neat handwriting caught her eye. It seemed to be another of HJ’s poems. So they weren’t all in the folder he had collected. Then she saw what Rory had written.
So he liked young girls! Link with family scandal? Find out more!

Her eyes scanned quickly down the lines of poetry and then she began to read the words more carefully.

Sarah put the paper down. A shudder of revulsion passed through her. She remembered HJ coming round just after Rory died, searching in Rory’s office. She’d thought it so odd. Was this what he was looking for?

She looked over the words again. HJ? A paedophile?

She heard the ping from her phone and saw the light was flashing. A message. Her hand trembling, she picked it up and saw TM had sent two messages.
How did it go? Thinking of you x
sent in the afternoon. A more recent message read
You OK? Want company? X

Decisively she stabbed into the keyboard,
Am alone. PLEASE come NOW x

Through the fish-eye of memory the room comes slowly into focus. I sit squashed between two of my classmates on a long sofa, our legs stretched out, white ankle socks and shiny Clarks sandals, below blue school skirts, yellow and blue striped ties. About a dozen girls squeezed onto different pieces of furniture arranged in a circle. The heavy scent of roses from a large bowl on the polished mahogany table hangs in the air.

On a high-backed chair at the side of the tiled Victorian fireplace sits HJ Kidd, his black hair curling over the collar of his green velvet jacket. The After-School Writing Club has been invited to his house.

Through the high bay window the sun shafts into the room, and I catch a glimpse of the wide sky and the sparkling sea stretching towards Fife. HJ’s wife, shoulder-length brown hair pushed behind her ears, brings in a tray of orange squash and butterfly buns. She lays them on the table and goes out, her lips pursed in disapproval. Glasses and cakes are passed round but all eyes are on our teacher.

‘Your short stories were wonderful, all of them. I’m so proud of you and you should all be proud of yourselves. However, there was one that was especially good.’ HJ pauses, and twelve pairs of eyes look at him expectantly. I feel a surge of hope.

‘Shona, your story is exceptional. The imagery, the poetry of your words conjures up such a vivid picture. Come forward. I’d like to read it to our group.’

Shona goes forward and I feel disappointment bitter in my mouth. With his arm round her waist, he holds up her jotter and reads the story. Shona looks proudly round the room. The envy hangs in the air heavy like the scent of roses. Every single girl wishes she could be in Shona’s place, standing close to Captain Kidd with his arm round our waist.

He finishes the reading and the words fade. Shona stands up, eyes sparkling with delight. I see Kidd bend down and whisper something in her ear that makes her smile even wider.

Sarah opened her eyes, for a moment not knowing where she was. The picture of her teacher’s room on the Portobello seafront, where they’d all been sitting just a few weeks before, remained imprinted on the darkness of the bedroom. The memory hung over her like a toxic cloud; her feeling of disappointment, jealousy of her friend, and a strange disquiet as she recalled the smug expression on HJ’s face as Shona had stood close to him. Shona’s face had been triumphant, loving the attention and the praise.

Sarah sat up in bed, suddenly wide awake. Times were very different in the seventies but had none of them thought that a young teacher in his twenties being so close to a thirteen-year-old girl was inappropriate behaviour? They were so naïve. If a teacher had done that when Lottie was at school… Sarah shuddered.

The After School Writing Club at Mr Kidd’s house. It all came back so clearly; that was the day Shona died. Like every Tuesday, they’d all gone down to Captain Kidd’s house after school and he’d talked about the stories they’d written.

Afterwards Sarah had gone home for her tea before going round to Shona’s house, as she did every evening. Shona had been in a funny mood, restless, and said they should go out. They’d hung about the park, Shona making remarks to the boys as they had passed by, and then she’d run off, saying she had a secret. Once again the image of Shona looking back and laughing was imprinted on her eyes.

She turned and saw Tom sleeping next to her, the cover thrown off, his long limbs spread over his side of the bed. His face looked beautiful, moulded in peaceful sleep.

He’d come immediately last night, almost as if he’d been waiting. He was in a good mood, obviously wanting to tell her something, but he listened to her recounting all the day’s events, massaging her shoulders and easing the knots of tension away. It had all seemed unimportant as she spoke to him. She had felt safe, cocooned from the unpleasantness of the day.

Only when she was calm had she asked him about his day. Tom’s face had lit up as he told her the good news, that he’d plucked up courage to go to see Chisholm and that his father was in the clear. His joy and relief were clear to see.

Sarah wanted to share his happiness, but she felt perturbed. Tom’s father being out of the frame meant that they still had no idea who the murderer could be. A seed of suspicion started to grow in her mind: HJ Kidd had been acting very strangely and there was
that
poem.

Sarah showed it to Tom. As he was reading it, he raised his eyebrows in surprise, but at the end he laughed. Sarah felt a surge of annoyance.

‘Don’t worry about it. It’s only a poem.’ Tom kissed the top of her head. She put her arms round him, and not wanting to break the moment, put her suspicions to the back of her mind.

But in the night the memory of that day at Kidd’s house came back to her, as clear and sharp as a film. She got her housecoat and moved quietly into the kitchen, but as she was making the coffee the scene kept replaying in her mind.

She poured the coffee and was just about to take Tom a cup when he came through from the bedroom in his boxers, stretching and yawning. ‘Good morning, beautiful.’ He bent over to kiss her. She looked up and smiled as their lips met.

‘I’m just going to have a quick shower and get round to the Cowgate. I’m meeting HJ.’

As she heard Tom humming through the splashing of the shower, memories started melding together with recent events: HJ holding her a bit too close at the poetry reading; the unease she’d felt when HJ had his arms round the young girl poet that evening – and worst of all, the poem. She couldn’t forget about the poem.

Tom came through, his hair damp from his shower. As he sat down at the scrubbed wooden table and took the mug of coffee, Sarah knew she had to tell him all about it.

He listened carefully as Sarah told him about what she’d remembered, looking thoughtful. ‘So you were all at HJ Kidd’s on that last afternoon. How was Shona after you left his place?’

Sarah sat very still and looked up at Tom. ‘She was in a very strange mood. Said she had a secret. Could she…?’ A thought struck her, so vividly and clearly that she couldn’t believe that it hadn’t occurred to her before. ‘I know where she was going when she ran away. She was going to see Kidd.’

Tom shook his head. ‘I can’t believe he could have anything to do with it. He’s a straight guy, he was a teacher for forty years and he’s married.’ He paused and added. ‘And he’s being so good to me, with the job and everything.’

Sarah felt a surge of irritation. ‘Have you asked yourself why he’s being so good to you? Has it occurred to you that he might want you onside?’

Tom reached out and pulled her closer. ‘Sarah, don’t begin to see evil everywhere. I wasted so much emotional energy suspecting my father and it was nothing.’

Sarah smiled doubtfully. ‘It’s everything that’s happened, everything I’ve remembered. I’m beginning to get suspicious of everyone.’ She wanted to share Tom’s pleasure about the job, but couldn’t.

Tom looked at his watch. ‘Anyway, I’d better get going. HJ said he’d be waiting at ten and no doubt you’ll have family coming round soon.’

‘Oh yes, Mum will be coming round ‘to help’, I expect.’ She sighed and cleared the coffee cups.

Tom had his hand on the door handle when the bell rang. Sarah answered the intercom, puzzled. ‘It’s a bit early for Mum.’ She turned round and mouthed ‘Archie Kilbride’ to Tom as she pushed the buzzer to let him in.

Tom stood up. ‘Should I hide?’

‘Archie’s no problem. You’re just an early caller.’

Archie’s footsteps could be heard coming slowly up the stairs before he arrived at the front door panting. ‘These Georgian flats are all very well but why did they no install lifts?’ He gave an ironic grin and kissed Sarah on the cheek. ‘Hi Tom,’ he said, not seeming to find it strange that he was there. ‘Have you seen any papers this morning, Sarah?’

Sarah shook her head and led him towards the kitchen. ‘Coffee?’

‘I’ll take one in a minute but I think you ought to see this first.’ Archie took a folded newspaper out of his pocket. ‘
The
Daily Recorder
is not usually my reading of choice but this was drawn to my attention this morning.’

He opened it up and revealed the headline:
Rory Dunbar’s secret funeral
over a picture of the children standing in a line in front of the spreading wings of the granite angel at the Seafield Crematorium.

Sarah’s mouth dropped open. ‘That picture was taken on Abigail’s phone. How could she have…?’ She was stuttering, her mouth seeming incapable of forming words.

Archie shook his head. ‘Look at the picture quality and the shadows. This has been taken from a long way away, with a telephoto lens.’

‘But how could they have found out? We were so careful.’

‘There are always people willing to sell a bit of information. Or maybe they just followed you there.’

‘What! People are watching us and following us?’ Sarah was aghast.

Archie patted her arm. ‘Don’t worry. It’s not MI5, just some small-time pap wanting to earn a quick buck. But you’d better take your phone off the hook and don’t let anyone you don’t know into the stair because the sharks will be on your trail. Actually it’s quite surprising they haven’t already been onto you.
The Recorder
must have got the photos at the last minute before the printing deadline.’

Sarah picked up the paper and began to read.

Underneath there was an even more blurred photo of the women standing at the chapel door. Rosie had her back to the camera but Sarah, her mother and Miranda could be seen very clearly. The strapline read.
Rory Dunbar’s Wives Club?
A second fuzzy photo showed Babs and Abigail with the strapline:

Sarah felt breathless with shock. They’d been so careful and this was exactly what she’d wanted to avoid.

The doorbell rang again. Archie raised his eyebrows warningly as Tom moved over to the intercom and said, ‘Your mother.’

Sarah shrugged and nodded her head. How was her mother going to take this? Tom buzzed her up and the click of high-heeled shoes could be heard coming up the stairs. Flora arrived at the door, beautifully dressed in a lilac two-piece with matching shoes and handbag. She was holding the newspaper.

Sarah’s heart sank.

‘Have you seen this?’ Flora waved the article in Sarah’s direction. ‘We’re in the newspaper, not one of the quality ones, of course, but nevertheless. And have you seen the photo? They think that I’m one of Rory’s wives!’ She patted her hair. ‘It isn’t a very clear photo, of course, but it’s quite a good one of me and it’s really quite flattering that they should think I’m young enough to be his wife.’

Sarah’s mouth fell open, shocked at her mother’s self-absorption. To think she’d been worried about how she’d take the revelations about Rory’s other children. To her amazement she’d accepted it with total equanimity, excusing Rory everything and acting as if it were all Sarah’s fault.

Archie watched Flora with an amused smile, before turning back to Sarah. ‘Seriously, perhaps you should think about making a statement, just to fend off any questions. Something to the effect
Sarah Dunbar and Rory’s immediate family laid his body to rest in a private ceremony at the Seafield Crematorium. They now ask that their privacy be respected and they are left to grieve in peace
.’

Sarah breathed a sigh of relief. ‘Could you do this for me? You could also add that a memorial service to celebrate his life and achievements will be held at St Giles Cathedral.’

‘Do you know the date?’ Archie took out a notebook and was scribbling some notes with a stubby pencil.

‘Not yet, it’s being organised by BBC Scotland, but I’ll let you know.’

‘And otherwise, no comment. What about the rest of the family? Do you think they’ll say anything?’

‘Their legacy seems to be dependent on them adhering to some kind of confidentiality agreement that was in operation while Rory was alive. I don’t think we need to worry about them. And anyway now it’s all out in the open it isn’t that much of a story.’

Archie looked up from his notebook. ‘There might be some slappers trying to cash in on the story, but just ignore them. A dignified silence is the way to deal with them.’ Sarah nodded, relieved that Archie was on her team with his practical, unsensational take on things.

After everyone had gone, her mother to the Bridge Club, clutching her photo, Tom to meet HJ, and Archie to his usual Café Royal lunchtime drink, the phone started ringing. Nick and Lottie were both back at work, but had phoned when the photo had been brought to their attention. Neither of them seemed very upset about it, amused rather. Sarah was surprised that Nick immediately sprang to the defence of Abigail, insisting that the photo couldn’t have come from her, even though Sarah had not even suggested it.

‘It couldn’t have been Abigail. She’s a great girl, very loyal.’

Sarah was puzzled that he could have formed this judgement after only one meeting. Or perhaps the children really did have more contact with each other.

After a series of calls from journalists Sarah took Archie’s advice and left the phone off the hook. She wanted peace to think about everything that had happened. She was so confused: she didn’t know how she felt about Rory anymore. In some ways she was angry with him for all the lies and deceit, but at the same time they’d been together for nearly thirty years and there had been some good times.

Then she remembered Tom. She’d almost made up her mind to leave Rory before he died and now the relationship with Tom might be easier. But what would her mother say about that?

Rory! She slapped her forehead. Why was everyone so sure his death was an accident? She had a sudden vision of Rory and Kidd on Salisbury Crags. Kidd was the only person who’d been there, and because he was so charming, so public school, so old Edinburgh law lord family, everyone had believed his version of events without question. But Rory had suspected the teacher of being a paedophile; he’d also found out about the family scandal with the young housemaid. What if he’d found out that Kidd was guilty of Shona’s death and challenged him about it? How very convenient his death would then be for Kidd…