Sewing the Shadows Together (5 page)

The room is airless, silent except for the tick of the clock. The heavy curtains are drawn, the weak ceiling light sending shadows across the gloom of the best front room.

My father looms over me, thick steely hair combed severely back from his heavy face, deep-set eyes boring into me. His meaty fist is on the Bible. I’m sitting on the edge of a hard chair, my hands clutching the table through the harsh cut velvet of the tablecloth.

‘This was the work of the devil.’ His voice booms harsh and resonant. ‘You will leave that school. You will bring no one to this house. You will go to the homes of no other pupils. You will not go out in the evenings. You will work at school and do the Lord’s Will.’

*

Sarah’s eyes opened. She was in bed with her husband beside her. Although her father had been dead for more than thirty years, his voice rang through the darkness of the bedroom and his eyes looked down on her, condemning her. She sunk her head in the pillow, trying to bury the shame and guilt she still felt so keenly.

Sarah busied herself in the kitchen, peeling potatoes and preparing the Sunday roast. Rory had got up and left early, and she had a few hours before her mother and the twins arrived. And Tom, too. She smiled despite herself, but then shuddered – thinking of him brought back the memory of Shona and that awful night. Should she have followed her? Could she have done anything to save her?

She’d waited in the park for what seemed like hours, until the air turned cold and the last rays of evening light disappeared. Walking home slowly, she’d looked round every time she heard footsteps, hoping they were Shona’s. Her friend running off had made her feel angry at first, but as the darkness fell she started to feel scared. Shona had never left her alone before.

By the black front door of their granite house next to the Free Presbyterian Church, she’d hesitated. She’d be in trouble; she was not supposed to stay out after dark.

Her mother was waiting at the door, crying. Her father had gone out looking for her. Sarah became even more frightened. Her distant, silent father always had an air of barely-suppressed anger, but when this broke through, he could be terrifying.

When he’d come back, he was trembling, angrier than she’d ever seen him before, his stern face dark with rage and his deep-set eyes red-rimmed. She’d been only too glad to retreat to the sanctuary of her bedroom. As she lay quaking in bed, the phone rang. Her father didn’t like people phoning the house at an hour he considered ‘unsuitable’ and had answered sharply: ‘Yes, Sarah is at home. No, nothing at all,’ and replaced the handset firmly. Sarah was sure it was Mrs McIver. Did that mean that Shona hadn’t gone home?

Sarah hadn’t slept well that night.

She basted the meat and went through to lay the table in the high Georgian dining room, going through the comforting ritual of making the table beautiful, laying the cutlery, polishing the glasses, folding the napkins and arranging the freesias as a centrepiece. She must concentrate on today, making it a lovely day for her family, and for Tom. She smiled, despite herself.

*

Tom woke up with a start and looked at his watch.

12.20.

With the long journey, the beers, and the emotional whirl of the last two days, he must have slept for nearly twelve hours. He heard Sarah’s voice in his memory:
‘Lunch 1.30 at 95 Great King Street’.

He showered and dressed quickly, and hurried down the stairs.

‘You’ve missed your breakfast again, Mr McIver.’ Mrs Ritchie stood at the door of her sitting room in her good Sunday coat.

‘Sorry, got to rush.’ Tom ran out into the quiet Sunday street, his landlady’s voice ringing in his ears, still reminding him about Rory Dunbar’s autograph.

Up at the High Street, he remembered the 26 bus used to go up to the centre of town. Checking at the bus stop, he saw it still ran. So many things were just as he remembered them. The long gardens leading up to the solid Victorian houses, the cracked pavements, the trees overhanging the grey stone walls; the familiarity washed over him with a strength that hurt almost physically. He willed the bus to arrive.

When it did come, he went upstairs to his old favourite seat at the front. As the bus made its way slowly through the centre of Portobello, he saw that there were changes; the power station and the open air pool had disappeared, and the old Fun Palace area was now replaced by regular rows of neat housing. He winced again remembering the fire – but it was better really that it had been razed to the ground. It had been an awful place. He remembered trying to keep Shona away from the amusement park, which was filled with Elvis look-alikes hanging on the back of the dodgems, and shifty-looking men bent over the slot machines. She ignored him, of course; she always thought she knew best.

As the bus approached the centre of Edinburgh, he saw the massive hulk of the castle rising above Princes Street Gardens and the timeless silhouette of the churches and high buildings stretching along the Royal Mile. Getting off in George Street, he was surprised to see the crowds of shoppers. Sundays were obviously very different from when he was young.

He had the feeling Great King Street was in the lower section of the New Town, so he set off down Frederick Street. When he saw the Forth glittering in the distance, and the huge outline of St Vincent’s Church at the foot of the hill, it all came back to him, and he was soon turning into the wide cobblestones of Great King Street on his right.

Number 95 was the large grey-stone building on the corner, with wide stone steps leading up to a black door with an arched Georgian fanlight above. He saw DUNBAR on the top brass plate and, after a moment’s hesitation, pushed the buzzer. The door creaked open without any questions from the entry system and he climbed the worn stone steps to the top floor.

The door was open and Sarah stood waiting, silhouetted against the light from the hall. Her dark hair framed her face and the soft heather-coloured pullover moulded beautifully to her body. She reached out her hand and kissed his cheek. A soft breath of perfume. Tom felt aware of his heart thumping, his movements awkward. He regretted being so late and the lack of a bottle of wine or a bunch of flowers.

‘I’m so glad you found it. Come in, you’re just in time.’ Sarah leant forward and whispered in his ear. ‘Don’t say anything about Logan Baird, please. Just keep smiling.’

She led him into the dining room where a long table was set for six. Nearest to him was a smartly-dressed lady in her seventies. Her thin white hair was elaborately styled into a candyfloss halo and her face was carefully made up, with rouged cheeks and arched pencilled eyebrows.

‘Mum, this is Tom McIver. He was at school with Rory. He’s just over from South Africa. Tom, this is my mother, Flora Campbell.’ The old lady looked carefully at Tom and extended her bony hand.

‘You’ve certainly travelled a long way. What do you do in South Africa?’ Tom muttered his stock answer about odd jobs here and there and the old lady visibly lost interest. ‘Rory isn’t here, you know. Working again. He has to work so hard. He’s on television, you know? Meets all kinds of interesting people.’

Tom nodded and Sarah led him round the table to an attractive, dark eyed young man with floppy brown hair. ‘This is Nick.’

‘Nice to meet you.’ His smile and charm made him very much his father’s son.

Next to him sat his sister Lottie, similar but somehow less attractive. Her long brown hair shone, reflecting the light, swinging like a curtain when she moved. Definitely her best feature, thought Tom, like a shampoo advert. Her boyfriend Liam, blond with pale lashes and eyebrows, held her hand under the table. Rory was nowhere to be seen.

As Sarah began to serve the traditional Sunday lunch Mrs Campbell fixed her gaze on Tom again. ‘Why are you here?’

Tom started to explain about going to the Western Isles to scatter his mother’s ashes, but she interrupted him. ‘I mean, why are you here today? Rory isn’t here.’

Tom didn’t know what to say. He wondered himself. Sarah hesitated and then said carefully. ‘Tom is Shona McIver’s brother.’

The old lady looked blank at first, but then leant towards him and tapped his forearm. ‘Shona McIver, yes, I remember – dreadful business. Most upsetting at the time. But it’s a long time ago now and life goes on.’

Nick raised his eyebrows and tactfully asked how long Tom was staying. Tom gratefully seized the opportunity for small talk, and found out that Nick and Lottie both worked for the Royal Bank of Scotland, Nick as a project manager, whatever that was, and Lottie in Human Resources. Liam didn’t say much and seemed to do something with computers.

Flora sat twiddling her fingers and looking bored during this interchange, but as soon as there was a gap in the conversation she seized the opportunity to explain what had happened at her Bridge Club on Wednesday. The back-stories of all the main participants were carefully explained, especially if they had aristocratic connections or successful lawyers in their families. The young ones were obviously used to stories like these as they all nodded attentively. When her mother paused for breath, Sarah offered more vegetables, but Flora carried on as if nothing had been said.

Tom soon lost track of the conversation and his thoughts returned to Shona. What would she be like today? He imagined her as a mother like Sarah, serving her family roast potatoes on a Sunday afternoon. The image was unbearably poignant.

Sarah and Lottie began to clear the plates and Sarah came back with a dish of apple crumble – his favourite. Mrs Campbell was telling the table about the difficulty she had finding a blouse to go with the new autumn suit she had just bought at Jenners.

Lottie patiently gave some suggestions and her grandmother turned her attention to her. ‘You really should do something about that hair – ridiculous for a girl of your age.’ She patted her lacquered white halo. ‘I go to Ricki at the same time every week and it just shows breeding to have a good cut and regular care. Of course, it is very difficult to get an appointment with him. All the best people use his salon, but if I put a word in for you I might just be able to get you an appointment.’

Lottie winced, but answered politely in an even tone. ‘Thanks, Granny, but actually I like my hair as it is, and so does Liam.’ Her grandmother gave a little snort of disapproval and began to push her crumble round the plate; it didn’t look as if she’d eaten any of it. She looked up and raised her empty wine glass, which Sarah patiently refilled.

When everybody else had finished Tom helped gather the dishes and followed Sarah to the kitchen. She poured boiling water into the cafetière. ‘I’m sorry. Mum does rather tend to dominate any conversation. She lives alone and I think she saves up a week’s worth of conversation for Sunday lunch.’

‘It must have been hard for her when your father died.’

‘Everyone thought she would be lost without him, but she immediately got her life very well-organised – always out shopping and going to lunches. And she’s a wizard with finances. That must be where Nick gets it from, because Rory’s hopeless with money – and I’m not much better!’ She laughed. ‘Anyway, we’d better get back and rescue the young ones!’

When they got back into the dining room the conversation had turned to problems with Flora’s drains, complete with a word for word account of the conversation between her and the plumber. She wanted to start at the beginning again for Sarah’s benefit, but her daughter reassured her she’d heard it all from the kitchen.

After they’d drunk their coffee, Nick stood up. ‘Right, Gran. I’ll give you a lift home.’

‘Oh, are you going already, Nicholas?’ His grandmother looked disappointed.

‘Yes, can’t hang about here, places to go, people to see…’ He flashed his grandmother a smile, so like his father’s, and she visably melted.

‘I’m sure you’re going to meet a girlfriend. Why don’t you bring her along to lunch?’ She looked round and fixed her eye on her granddaughter’s boyfriend. ‘Liam comes.’ She managed to say Liam in a tone that left nobody in any doubt of her distaste for him. Liam blushed and Lottie stood up, still holding his hand.

‘We’ll be away too, Mum,’ Lottie said, leading Liam emphatically towards the door. Sarah raised her eyebrows at her mother, who, totally impervious to the atmosphere she’d created, moved towards the hall, waiting for Nick to help her on with her coat.

Tom hesitated. Perhaps he should say his goodbyes too. He wanted to stay and talk to Sarah, but Rory wasn’t here and he wondered if Mrs Campbell would think it odd if he stayed.

Sarah seemed to sense this. ‘Tom, Rory should be back any time now and I know he wants to see you before you go up north so could you hang on for a while?’

Sarah leant on the door and closed her eyes. ‘That’s it over with for another week. Don’t get me wrong, it’s lovely that everyone comes, but Mum’s such a strain. She doesn’t mean to be rude, she’s just spent too long alone – and she’s such a dreadful snob.’

Picking up a couple of glasses and a half-finished bottle of wine from the table, she led the way into the drawing room, a typical Georgian room, with high casement windows on two sides and an ornate corniced ceiling. She sat down on the Chesterfield sofa. ‘We’ll finish the wine off before I face the clearing up.’

‘Do you know when Rory will be back?’ Tom asked. He was surprised that the family had accepted his absence with so much equanimity.

‘Who knows? He often has to work on a Sunday, strategically I think, to avoid my mum. The irony is that she absolutely adores him. He can do no wrong in her eyes. Of course she loves being able to talk about Rory Dunbar, her son-in-law, star of
Chats with Rory
to all her pals at the Bridge Club.’

Tom thought back to Rory’s conversation the night before, but realised that nobody would ever say anything to Sarah. She seemed so calm and content.

A look of sadness crossed her face and she turned to him. ‘I can’t stop thinking about Logan Baird. I can’t believe it wasn’t him. And if it wasn’t him, who was it?’

‘Captain Kidd suggested yesterday it must be someone from outside. There were other serial killers around at that time.’

‘But she was hidden in the culvert, with the grating replaced. Only a local would know about that.’ Sarah shuddered. ‘It’s so frightening to think there’s been a killer on the loose all these years.’

‘Nothing’s happened for over thirty years. I’m sure there’s no danger to us, but as soon as I get back from the Hebrides I’m going to find out who’s leading this investigation and what’s going on.’ Tom spoke calmly in order to reassure Sarah. But it did cross his mind that the real murderer could have thought he was in the clear for so many years and, with Baird proved innocent, and suspicion falling on other people, perhaps the murderer would feel the need to act again.

He changed the subject carefully; he didn’t want Sarah to worry. ‘I have to scatter the ashes first – I want to lay my mum to rest before I start raking up the past.’ He cleared his throat. ‘When my mother was dying, she talked a lot about her childhood. I think she reverted in her mind to a happier time. She made me promise to take her ashes back to Eriskay.’

Tom looked up and was surprised to see a tear running down Sarah’s cheek. ‘Sorry, I don’t know why I’m crying, it’s just… ’ She started to sob. ‘I think back to happier times too, with Shona…’

She took a paper hanky from her pocket and wiped her eyes. ‘I never had a real friend after her. My father took me away from Brunstane High immediately after it happened and sent me up to town to St Margaret’s. No boys.’ She smiled wryly. ‘My mother was pleased, because it was her old school and she thought I’d meet a better class of girl there. But my father wouldn’t allow me to bring friends home, never let me go out after school. I travelled up to Edinburgh on the bus every day and came straight back.’ She twisted the tissue in her hand. ‘I was so lonely. I didn’t have contact with anyone in Portobello any more. Girls avoided me, as if I was tainted by what had happened…’

Tom moved closer, nodding to encourage her to go on.

‘I wanted to go to university. My teachers said I should. I wanted to study History, but my father wouldn’t allow it. He made me go to McAdams Ladies Secretarial College, because he considered it safe and my mother thought it suitable.’

The sobs subsided and her breathing became more even. ‘And then my father died. It was so sudden. He’d seemed so healthy, no one could believe it. My mother moved away from Portobello and started her new life, and suddenly I had freedom too.’ She straightened herself and smoothed her skirt. ‘I don’t know why I’m talking about all this. I never do. I just feel I can talk to you.’

Tom leant over and said softly, ‘I know how you feel. It was also difficult for me to get close to people or talk about what happened to Shona.’

Sarah took another sip of her wine. ‘People think Rory and I are an odd couple in some ways – he’s so outgoing and I’m shy. But he was the first person I could really talk to.’ She looked up at Tom. ‘I met him when I got a job at the
Scotsman
. He listened to me. He understood me and didn’t judge me. When I was with him everything seemed better.’

Tom watched her, filled with conflicting emotions. From the first moment he’d seen Sarah he’d been attracted to her. He’d felt a connection with her that he couldn’t remember experiencing before. When Rory had talked about his other women he’d felt so angry, and he’d wanted to rescue Sarah from him, but now he realised that, despite everything, there
was
something between Sarah and Rory.

Sarah blew her nose. ‘Right, I’m better now. Thank you for listening.’ She poured out the last of the bottle and drank it in one gulp. ‘Now, how about a cup of coffee? And please tell me about you. I’ve been talking about myself all the time.’

Sarah swept up the glasses and walked towards the kitchen. Tom followed her with the empty wine bottle and watched as she ground the coffee and prepared the cafetière.

Sarah smiled. ‘So what’s South Africa like? I’ve never been there.’

‘It’s a beautiful country. When we first went there Plettenberg Bay was just a small fishing village by a long beach. My mum’s Uncle Gus lived there; he’d been a captain on the tankers for years, travelling all over the world, but when he met Betty, a South African widow, they got married and he settled down. Everyone was amazed because he’d seemed like a confirmed bachelor, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen a couple so happy with each other.’

Tom cleared his throat. ‘After what happened he offered us a house, and a job for my father. It seemed too good a chance to miss, to get far away from everything that had happened.’ He drank from his coffee cup. ‘My Aunty Betty’s family owned an old fisherman’s cottage, very simple, just a wooden shack on the sand dunes, with four rooms and a corrugated iron roof. But it had a veranda looking out over the sea and you could stand there and watch the dolphins leaping through the waves. It seemed like paradise after…’ He swallowed. ‘It is beautiful; warm sun, fresh wind from the ocean and the ever-changing shades of blue in the sea and sky.’

Sarah smiled. ‘It sounds idyllic.’

‘In some ways it was, but it was also really hard. I was a sixteen-year-old from Portobello and suddenly I was thrown into a completely different society. The students at the school I went to were mostly Afrikaans speakers. They played rugby and cricket, not football, and we had almost nothing in common. I never fitted in.’ Sarah watched him, sympathy in her wide grey eyes.

‘I dropped out pretty quickly and spent my time with the hippies on the farm over the hill, smoking dope and learning peace and love.’ He gave a rueful smile. ‘That’s before I graduated to being a beach bum, working on the whale-watching boats, teaching surfing, and being a general handyman.’ He paused again. ‘I don’t know what’s happened to the years, they’ve just flown past.’

‘Didn’t you ever meet anyone? Did you never want to settle down and have a family?’

‘Not really. I never felt close enough to anyone.’ Tom thought about Layla, the one girl he’d ever loved. After that had turned out so badly he’d been cautious, never exposing himself to the hurt of losing another girl the way he’d lost Shona and Layla.

His thoughts were interrupted by a click at the front door and Rory came in, clutching a bundle of manila files. ‘Hi, Tom. Glad you’re still here. Something fantastic’s happened. Remember I told you last night that I wanted to do something different? Well, something’s come up which will make a great programme.’

Tom was surprised that there was no word of explanation or apology to Sarah.

‘I’m going to make a programme on Captain Kidd, scion of one of the great Edinburgh families, who spent his whole career teaching in a comprehensive school. Now he’s a published poet, but spends his free time encouraging young writers. He’s part of the new Edinburgh Renaissance.’

He held up the files. ‘I was down in Porty today and got some great things from the Captain. Early unpublished poems and…’ He selected a folded handwritten sheet with carefully crayoned illustrations. ‘Look at this. It’s is a comic he wrote with his sister Antonia when he was about eight. Amazing stuff!’

Tom felt he had to respond to his exhuberance, ‘Sounds great.’

‘Yes, I’m getting fed up with all those interviews, massaging egos. I want to do real journalism.’ He put the files on the table and looked at Tom. ‘So when are you off to the Isles?’

Tom stood up. ‘Actually I’d better be going. I’ve got to leave really early in the morning to pick up the hire car and catch the ferry.’ He walked into the hall, followed by Rory. Sarah remained in the sitting room, collecting coffee cups.

‘Keep in touch, Tommy boy. We’ll have to have another night out when you’re back.’ Rory lowered his voice slightly. ‘Perhaps we’ll ask Jennie to come along. Saw her this afternoon and she mentioned that you and she might have a bit of unfinished business. I can tell you she still knows all the tricks.’ Rory gave Tom a wink and disappeared into a room which appeared to be his study.

Sarah appeared next to Tom. He had no way of knowing if she’d heard what Rory had said. She stood in front of him, almost as tall as he was. Her skin was pale and she looked beautiful, ethereal. Tom looked into her grey eyes and a charge seemed to flash between them.

To his surprise, she moved towards him and kissed him, softly at first but then harder as she held him tightly. He felt passion flood through his whole body.

After a moment he pulled back. He was torn: he felt so attracted to her in every way, physically, emotionally, intellectually, but she was married and her husband was on the other side of the door. Rory was unfaithful, Sarah was vulnerable, and he had to go to the Western Isles tomorrow. He took her head in his hands and kissed her gently on the forehead. Then he left, closing the door quietly behind him.