The Low Road (10 page)

“Aye. But not our bad news.” He went to his office, needing time to think. He knew Joanne and the girls were not expecting him home until late. But still he felt he should call.

“Hello.” Again it was Annie.

“Everything fine?”

“Why wouldn't it be?”

A surge of exasperation made him snap. “Annie, I'm calling to make sure your mother is okay.”

“Mum is in the kitchen with Granny. If I get her to the phone she'll wonder if something's wrong.”

He knew she was right. “I'll be back later than I thought, so don't wait up for me.”

“I'll let Mum know.” And the girl hung up.

He was furious. He knew he had no right to be. He knew she was scared, afraid her mother would never be the same and, with the wisdom of an ancient, the child was protecting her.

From him?
came a fleeting thought.
No, stop imagining things.

He reached for the phone, took a deep breath, and dialed the
Herald
. He asked to be put through to the editorial floor.

The phone rang out again. “Is Mary Ballantyne there?” he asked.

“She's out.”

“Can I leave . . .”
a message
, he was about to say to the dial tone. He knew it must be that man, the one who loathed Mary, bitter that she gave him no attention—or had stolen his thunder. Whatever the excuse, McAllister thought him totally unprofessional. He was about to redial and ask for Sandy Marshall, then thought better of it.

“Glasgow Herald.”

“Can I leave a message for Mary Ballantyne?”

“Certainly, sir. Can I have your number?”

“It's John McAllister. Tell her I'll be in Glasgow tomorrow night.”

“I'll give her the message. Nice to hear from you, Mr. McAllister.”

As he hung up he was smiling.
Not forgotten, then
. Then he jerked back in his chair.
Why did I do that?
He had had no intention of returning to Glasgow.
Jimmy can look after himself.
But he knew he would go.

He waited until he heard the presses rolling. Even from three floors up and even though the machinery was entombed in a carved-out rock cave of a room, the noise was loud, the vibration slight but noticeable.

When McAllister was in the office, Don was in the habit of joining him for a celebratory drink.
Another edition put to bed,
Don would say, and McAllister would open the filing cabinet and bring out the good whisky, the one they kept for themselves, not visitors.

He poured. Don came in and sat in the visitor's chair. McAllister passed him a tumbler of one of his favorite whiskies, a Glenfarclas. They drank. No toast, only a silent raising of the glasses.

“Any problems?” he asked his deputy.

“None.”

“There might be a problem—in Glasgow.” He wasn't looking at Don as he said this. Instead his eye was following the whisky as he swirled it around the glass, creating a vortex, releasing a scent of heather and moorland and loneliness. He'd always thought Scotland's national drink a duality—comfort yet pain. Much like the stories of this nation, he once wrote in his younger, more pretentious, days.

“Jimmy McPhee was apparently hiding out in a boxing club in the Gorbals. Last night the building was torched. It's badly damaged and a body was found . . .” He saw Don's eyes widen. “No, not Jimmy. It was the owner, Jimmy's old trainer from the prewar days.”

Don, shaking his head as he considered the development, said, “Bad news indeed.”

McAllister was grateful. He had no need to explain why he was involved. Don knew McAllister was obliged to help Jenny McPhee any way he could, if she asked for help. And she had.

It's just the way o' it
, he would have said if asked to explain the Highland etiquette of obligation, hospitality, those invisible bonds that tied you to your friends, your neighbors—even strangers; the Good Samaritan would have recognized the Highland code.

“An anonymous caller phoned the
Herald
with a message for Mary Ballantyne. Someone is looking for Jimmy, they said, and next time, he won't be so lucky.”

“And Jenny McPhee, she still wants you to find him?”

“Find him, bring him home . . .”

“That's if he wants to come home.” Don took a sip of the whisky. He rolled it around his mouth before swallowing it in obvious appreciation at such fine malt. “The last thing you should be doing right now is getting involved with criminals, especially in Glasgow.” He did not need to explain why.

McAllister said nothing.

“Do you know why Jimmy's wanted?”

“No, I don't know who wants him, or why.” McAllister did not add,
And I didn't ask
. “I know this man Gerry Dochery is involved somehow, and he's a hard man . . .”

Don knew what that meant. A hard man in a city of hard men was a gangster in any other parlance.

“We grew up together. He came to my mother's house looking for me. He warned me off, but indicated there would be no mercy for Jimmy.”

It took a silence and a refill before Don gave his verdict. “Best be off down south, then. It'll never go away, so get it sorted out as fast as you can.”

“Joanne, the girls . . .”

“Talk to Elsie Ross. Have her move in. She's lived through two wars. She'll no' like it but she knows it's what men do—go off
on dangerous errands against the barbarians, the Huns, all that, and she knows what women do . . . sit at home and wait.”

McAllister had forgotten that Granny Ross had a Christian name—Elsie. She was Granny Ross to everyone in the household, including Joanne. “And the
Gazette
?” he asked.

“We'll manage.” Don was firm, giving McAllister no choice.

“Jenny McPhee?”

“I'll talk to Jenny. I'll tell her you'll give it one last try. But if you canny find him . . .”

McAllister nodded, grateful that Don was releasing him from the responsibility of making decisions.

“Don't be away too long.” Don looked at McAllister, a man young enough to be his son, trying to make light of the task. “I've been promised first dance with the bride, after the groom, of course, so we need you back in one piece.”

McAllister stared at him.

“Your wedding. July. Or have you forgotten?”

He couldn't look at Don. “I hope Joanne will be well enough by then.” He said no more, guilty at blaming her for his uncertainty.

“She will.”

After Don left, McAllister stayed in his office, and another dram, another bout of guilt later, he knew he should go home. He would go to Glasgow. He had to. The obligations to the McPhees went too deep. If asked, he could not explain his attachment to Jenny and her son. Fascination, even. He knew it was likely a romantic notion that they, the Traveling people, were the true Scots, the remnant of the indigenous tribe of Iron Age metalworkers roaming the land for thousands of years. Sir Walter Scott and his writings were too florid for McAllister's taste, yet he recognized a similar romanticism in himself.

“Breathes there the man with soul so dead . . .”
A poem he had often mocked, but in coming to the Highlands he now recognized the wellspring of the verses.

On the slow walk home through the long gloaming, he tried all he could to banish the many reasons for leaving the town for his city: trepidation at what marriage with a ready-made family would entail, boredom with a local paper editorship, never again being on a challenging and exciting newspaper writing stories read by tens of thousands.

And much as he didn't want to admit it, there was the thought of once more working with Mary Ballantyne. Her voice, her way of staring into his eyes, listening with all her body, from her he wanted the acknowledgment that he had once been
somebody
. He had been John McAllister, renowned war correspondent, the newspaper's man in Europe mixing with writers and philosophers and photographers and musicians, covering everything from Berlin to Paris to Rome and Madrid. Now he was a middle-aged man in a small town on a local newspaper, a pillar of the community, about to marry, about to lose his independence. And lonely.

• • •

The next morning did not start well.

Granny Ross normally came to the house after the girls had left for school. Today she was an hour early—something about needing to be at an important Women's Guild meeting in the church hall.

McAllister was sitting at the table with Joanne, explaining his reasons for leaving once more for Glasgow. The girls were in and out, asking for more toast, or where their schoolbags were, Jean wanting Joanne to tie ribbons to her pigtails, and Annie wanting her mother to whiten her school plimsolls. On being told by her
grandmother to do it herself, she started complaining that if no one would help her she would be late for school.

Mrs. Ross was listening in to McAllister's conversation, darting from sink to pantry to cooker to sink, interjecting with a commentary on Joanne's health and the need for McAllister to stay at home.

“I can't be expected to do everything,” she was muttering to no one, as no one was interested. “I've ma own life to lead and a husband to see to.”

“Hopefully it will be sorted out quickly and I won't have to go back again,” McAllister finished.

Joanne smiled. “You can be back in time for tea tomorrow. Betsy Buchanan—sorry, Ross—is coming round with the new baby. I said you'd be here to say hello.”

Betsy Buchanan, as everyone still called her, was the former advertising manager at the
Gazette
, Bill Ross's new wife, and Granny Ross's new daughter-in-law. Even after marrying Joanne's former husband, they remained friends. When she discovered the affair, Joanne had confessed to McAllister that she was grateful to Betsy. “Betsy is good for Bill,” she'd told him. “That makes my life much easier.”

“Say hello from me,” he said. He reached across and took her hand. “I won't be back until Sunday. Monday morning at the latest.”

She nodded, then looked at him, her eyes liquid dark like those of a wee mouse cornered by a cat. “You will come back, won't you?” It was an echo of Annie's question less than a week ago.

“Annie, Jean, get a move on. You'll be late for school,” Granny Ross snapped, her voice like a whip crack.

Jean jumped. She did not know what was happening, but she felt the tension.

Annie glared. McAllister was leaving her mum. Again.

“Of course I'll be back.” He still had Joanne's hand in his and could feel her trembling. “But this is something I have to do.”

“Schoolbags. Now,” Granny Ross ordered. Some things, most things in her opinion, should not be discussed in front of children, particularly her eldest grandchild.

“I'll be back as soon as I can. Promise. And I'll try to persuade my mother to come back with me,” McAllister continued. “She said she'd come for the wedding but I'd like her to get to know you before that.”

“I'd like that.” She was smiling, but it was a faint nervous twitch of the mouth, not the full-lips-and-cheeks-wide smile of a former Joanne.

The trust, the love that radiated from her made him ashamed. He knew that the trouble with a lie, even a partial lie, was that it was corrosive. It made everything dirty. It spread and soiled and tainted every part of a conversation. It made fissures in a relationship that could be covered but never mended.

Jean came between them, kissed her mother, and said, “Cheerio, McAllister, see you soon.”

Annie stood in the doorway and said, “See you Sunday night, McAllister,” daring him not to be back by then.

The front door slammed. They were gone.

Joanne said, “I'm going out to the garden.”

He was uncertain if she wanted to be in the garden or not be in his company. “I'll join you in a minute.” Alone with Granny Ross, he started, “Mrs. Ross . . .”

Something in his tone made her squint her eyes at him. “Aa' ye?” she drew out the word to a question.

“I know it's a lot to ask, but would you be able to stay here over the weekend, until Monday?”

“If needs be, of course I will. They're my family.”

He suspected from the way she was standing, facing him square on, that she was not happy with his decision.
Or is it something else
?
he wondered.

“Mrs. Ross, I'd like to pay you to be our housekeeper—you're here every day, and most weekends, and you deserve payment.”

“Please don't insult me, Mr. McAllister. Joanne is like a daughter to me. And I'll remind you that those girls are my grandchildren.” She turned towards the sink and began clattering the dishes so loudly he feared the crockery would crack. “I'll be here as long as I'm wanted. You can count on that.”

He had the good sense to say no more. “Thank you, Mrs. Ross, I'm sorry if I offended you.”

“Just be back when you promised. Monday morning. That should give you enough time to do whatever it is needs doing.”

“I will. And thank you again.”

There was no reply.

He went to the garden. Joanne was in the deck chair doing nothing. He hugged her goodbye.

“See you very soon,” he said.

“Aye, I hope so.” She closed her eyes against the sun and didn't open them until she heard the back door open, then shut. Then she closed her eyes again. “I'm as scared as you, McAllister,” she said to no one in particular. “I made a disastrous choice the first time around, so I'm just as scared as you.”