The Low Road (42 page)

He looked at the loch, a dark deep stain in a crevasse created millennia ago in an ice age beyond time beyond the Highlands and the Highlanders. Beneath the neat chaos of the dry-stane dyke he read the marker stone. Twenty-seven miles. He was light-headed. Exhausted. He needed food. He needed coffee. He needed his own bed.

As he looked around one last time before continuing onwards, he smiled.
Saint Paul on the road to Damascus—I know how he felt
.

At the next stone, marking fifteen miles to town, he started to hum. He was unable to hold a tune. He knew this, and sang only in the solitude of his car. Stuck in his head was the tune the piper had begun to play as he had driven off.

He began to hum. Then sing in his fledgling-crow bass.

Step we gaily on we go,

Heel for heel and toe for toe,

Arm in arm and row on row,

All for Mairi's wedding.

Only he changed it to “Joanne's wedding.”

Glasgow Herald

12 September 1959

On the 9th of September the body of a man was recovered from the River Clyde. It was found trapped in the pilings of a dock outside a warehouse in Whiteinch.

The man has been identified as Alexander Malcolm Gordon. His brother James Gordon, a former Glasgow city councilor, was unavailable for comment as he is currently on remand in Barlinnie Prison awaiting trial on corruption charges. No one else in the family could be contacted to comment on the death.

Sergeant John Dick, 47, of Partick Cross police station, said in a statement to the
Herald
reporter, “The body was spotted by a passing tugboat crew member. The deceased had been in the water some time. The report to the procurator fiscal's office stated that the throat had been cut and the city police have set up a murder inquiry. Any witnesses are asked to contact this station or their local police.”

CALUM SINCLAIR

McAllister read the article and was uncertain whether to make the call. In the end, curiosity overcame doubt.

“
Glasgow Herald
.”

“Can you put me through to Sandy Marshall?”

“Sorry, Mr. Marshall is out of the office this week.”

He had forgotten the dates but remembered Sandy saying that he would be playing in a golf tournament on Turnberry Links. He hesitated. “Put me through to Mary Ballantyne, please.”

“Miss Ballantyne no longer works at the
Herald
,” the voice, a woman's, said. “Shall I put you through to Calum Sinclair on the crime desk?”

“No. Thanks.”

He hung up. He lit a cigarette. He called Mary's home telephone. It rang out. His phone book still open on his desk, he saw Mary's mother's number scribbled in pencil under her number. He remembered Mary had put it there when they were on the island, in Millport. “Emergencies only, McAllister,” she'd said.

He dialed.

“Ballantyne residence.” In her tone, and in her accent of privilege and wealth, Mrs. Ballantyne's voice conveyed a disappointment with life as obvious as her status.

“Mrs. Ballantyne, this is John McAllister, a former colleague of your daughter.”

“I remember who you are, Mr. McAllister, and I cannot believe you have the audacity to telephone. What you have done to my daughter is unforgivable. And you a married man. You are beyond despicable.”

He thought she might be crying but dismissed the notion as ridiculous.
Can't cry if you're made of stone
.

“Would you ask Mary to call?”

“Mary is no longer in the country. When she left, she gave me specific instructions to tell no one of her whereabouts. Please do not call again.” She hung up.

“Nasty auld bag,” he muttered.

“Who?” Don asked as he came in with the dummy for the next edition.

“Mary Ballantyne's mother. I wanted to ask about this.” He pushed the article towards Don.

“Aye, I saw that. Justice, if you ask me.”

McAllister was staring at the dummy for the next edition.
What had her mother said? What I have done? Unforgivable? Married?

Don didn't notice. He was in a hurry to finish then get to the pub for a beer with an old friend from Fort William.

“Don, do you know where Mary—”

“McAllister.” Joanne was standing in the doorway wearing the white summer frock printed with poppies that he loved. “Ta-raa!” She was waving a small piece of paper. “Look, a check for twelve guineas.” She was laughing. “Don, congratulate me, I've sold my very first story.”

“Congratulations, lass. Well done.” He took her hand and was pumping it up and down. “Your first story—must be a great feeling.”

“It is.”

McAllister took the check his wife offered and saw it was from a well-known publisher of women's magazines. “This is marvelous. Absolutely wonderful. I had no idea. Why didn't you tell me you were writing stories?” He was grinning, thrilled at her laugh, her smile, her pleasure.

“It was my secret escape. And as this is my very first payment for my very first story, I'm taking you out to lunch.”

Don looked at them, saw what he saw, and left them alone. They didn't notice.

“Mrs. McAllister,” McAllister began, “I can't begin to tell you how proud I am of you.”

“Tell me over lunch,” she replied. “I'm starving.”

• • •

Over the rest of the year and into the next, McAllister would wonder occasionally where Mary was. That she would be a successful career woman he had no doubts.

Sandy Marshall, when he recovered from his initial anger at Mary's walking out with only one week's notice, was also curious but, he later told McAllister, no one had heard from her. “Perhaps she's locked herself away to write a novel.”

They laughed, knowing that that was the fantasy of many a journalist, and knowing the crossover from reporter to novelist was seldom successful.

Rumors reached them that she was at the
Manchester Guardian
, but that proved to be untrue. Someone said she'd been seen in Paris. One woman insisted Mary was in London. But no one spoke to her, or read her work, and life moved on.

She became a person McAllister remembered fondly but did not want to think of much as it reminded him of Jimmy McPhee. And he needed to forget he had come close to losing his reason over Mary Ballantyne.

T
o Cat Wheeler, author, raconteur, environmentalist, and a key founder of Growing Old Disgracefully (Ubud, Bali chapter). Thank you for showing me another side of Ubud and Bali.

To John and Barbara Orme, thank you for your many kindnesses, and thank you Barbara for allowing me to stay in your lovely home whilst I wrote.

As ever to Tran Duc and Ly Le for the wonderful food and the love without which I doubt I could ever write.

To Pete, for the L.O.V.E.

I thank my agents Sheila Drummond and Peter McGuigan. I know, I know, it's your job. But the effort and enthusiasm and dedication you both put into representing your authors is truly appreciated.

To all at Atria Books, a publishing team that makes authors feel part of a family, thank you for your continuing faith in the folk at the
Highland Gazette
.

Thank you once again to a woman whom I have never met, Anne Cherry, the copy editor on my books. Her eagle eye, her comments and suggestions, her patience, are truly appreciated.

No book of mine would ever be complete without the encouragement, the wisdom, and the intelligence of Sarah Durand. Thank you.