Bonnie Jack

by Ian Hamilton

  “What would you have me do?” Anne asked.

  “I’d like you to be the kind and supportive woman I’ve always known,” Maggie said. “Help him write the letter. And if his sister responds positively, get on a plane with him and go see her.”

  “It’s just been such a shock,” Anne said.

  “Imagine the shock of being abandoned by your mother at the age of six,” Maggie said.

  “Maggie is right,” Allison said. “I don’t know how Dad survived that and became the man he is.”

  Anne wiped a tear from her eye. “I know he must have been in pain. I mean, I know he told us he didn’t think about it, but how is that even possible? My only regret — no, my only wish is that he had told me sooner.”

  “But he didn’t — maybe because he couldn’t,” Maggie said. “Now he has, and what he needs is for us to rally to his support. And he needs no one more than you, Anne.”

  Maggie’s words sank in. That night, after the children had left, Anne went to the den, where Jack was still struggling through The Prince of Tides.

  “I know you’ve been working on a letter to your sister. Can I help you with it?” she said.

  “I’d like that,” he replied.

  The next day the letter was sent, and for the next three weeks Anne haunted the mailbox until they received a reply. It was terse and rather suspicious in tone and did not include the phone number Jack had requested.

  “I think you were right about her not having a phone,” Anne said.

  “Maybe I was,” Jack said, disappointment in his voice. He had mixed expectations when the response came, but he hadn’t anticipated what he was reading.

  Dear Mr. Anderson

  I am in receipt of your letter dated November 30 from Boston, U.S.A.

  You were right to think the news it contained would come as a surprise to me. I did have a brother named Jack, but this is the first I’ve heard that he went to America. If you are my brother, and I have no reason to doubt you or your explanation for the family name change, then I’m pleased to know that you are alive and well.

  I am not sure what good can come from us meeting, but if you did come to Scotland, I would be willing to sit with you.

  Yours sincerely,

  Moira McPherson

  Jack wrote back to say that he indeed planned to visit Scotland and asked which dates would be best for her to see him. He also asked if she could tell him what had become of their mother and father. Moira replied in early January.

  I hate to think you would be coming all that way just to see me. But Irvine is in the heart of Robert Burns country, and there are many historic sites within an easy car ride. Glasgow itself is only thirty minutes away. As for me, I don’t stray far from the house. I’m in most days. I used to work at the woollen mill but had to give it up when my emphysema became too bad.

  The weather is usually fierce in January and February, so if you want to come I would suggest from March on. I wouldn’t come any sooner.

  With regard to your question about our parents, I think you should know that my mother has been dead for many years now. I have no idea what became of him, although given how much he used to drink, I’d be surprised if he was still alive.

  Yours sincerely,

  Moira McPherson

  “That’s rather a cold letter,” Anne said after she read it. “And that remark about ‘my mother’ — she could at least have acknowledged that she was your mother as well.”

  “Reading between the lines, it seems to me that she’s not a woman who’s been very successful in life,” Jack said. “She’s still using the name McPherson, so I’m assuming she’s never been married. Her manner could simply be that of a shy and lonely woman.”

  “Are you still intent on going to Scotland?”

  “Will you come with me?”

  “Of course, but I have to tell you I’m glad your sister mentioned Robert Burns and those historic sites. If she fails you, we’ll at least have those to fall back on.”

  “What do you think about her idea of going in March? Personally I don’t care about the weather, and I’d rather not wait that long,” he said. “Irvine is only a few miles from Prestwick Airport, and there are direct flights from Logan to Prestwick two or three times a week, year-round.”

  “She might have another reason for suggesting March,” Anne said. “Maybe, for example, she isn’t ready to see you yet. I think we should respect her wishes, don’t you?”

  “I guess so, though I really don’t like having to put this off,” he said.

  Anne picked up a calendar from his desk and turned to March. “Easter is the last weekend in March, and we have nothing to keep us here before that. Why don’t you ask your assistant to book us flights to Prestwick in the first week of the month.”

  “Okay, but since the trip is personal, I’d rather ask the local travel agent to make the reservations. How long do you want to stay?”

  “There’s no point in travelling all that way for less than a week,” Anne said.

  “I’ll look after it tomorrow,” he said.

  5

  Ayrshire, Scotland

  March 1989

  Three weeks before Easter, after an overnight flight, Jack and Anne landed at Prestwick International Airport, which was about ten miles south of Irvine. Jack picked up their rental car at the airport and drove to the Marine Hotel in Troon, about three miles to the north. They had arranged to see Moira the following day; Jack’s immediate plan was for them to get caught up on sleep and become acclimatized to the surroundings. They checked in, ate a big breakfast, went to their suite, and promptly fell asleep.

  It was early afternoon when Jack woke. He opened the curtains on a grey, rainy day. The hotel overlooked the Royal Troon Golf Club, one of the rotating venues for the British Open. From his window he could see golfers scurrying along a fairway with umbrellas in front of their faces to deflect the wind and rain. He had heard that Scots golfed in all weathers, but he wasn’t sure that spoke well of them.

  He roused Anne. “We should do something active,” he said. “If we hang around we’ll just want to sleep, and then we’ll be up all night and jet-lagged for the next week.”

  While Anne showered, Jack called the front desk to ask about local Burns sites. He was told they were nearly all in and around the town of Ayr, about eleven miles to the south, and that a local tour bus was scheduled to make a pickup at the hotel at three. Jack booked two places on the bus.

  They didn’t get back to the hotel until six, after three hours of trying to stay dry at the Burns Monument, the Robbie Burns Cottage, the Robert Burns Museum, the Alloway Auld Kirk, and the Brig o’ Doon, a narrow cobbled footbridge that Burns had immortalized in his poem “Tam o’ Shanter.” They towelled dry their hair, changed clothes, and then went downstairs for dinner.

  As soon as they sat down in the dining room they ordered a martini for Anne and a Scotch for Jack.

  “You know when I was at UMass I had to put up with and absorb way more Emily Dickinson than seems humane, but I’ve never seen a poet idolized as much as Robert Burns,” Anne said.

  “Is that a criticism?”

  “Not at all. People should love poetry and their poets.”

  “Then what are you trying to say?”

  “We’re not in Wellesley anymore.”

  Jack raised an eyebrow.

  “What I mean is that this is a different country and a different culture. They may speak English — albeit with an accent — but they aren’t us.”

  The waiter arrived with the drinks and the conversation died. They toasted each other’s health and then sipped appreciatively as they looked at the menu.

  “Roast beef for me, I think,” Jack said.

  “There’s a surprise.”

  “And for you?”

  “Dover sole.”

&
nbsp; “Also a surprise.”

  “The real surprise,” Anne said carefully, “is that we haven’t discussed your sister since we landed.”

  “I’ve been trying not to think about her.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Maybe I’m afraid she’s changed her mind and won’t invite me in when I show up on her doorstep.”

  “Jack, you’ve read her letters. I’d be shocked if she didn’t. But I also wouldn’t have any expectations that she’ll be particularly welcoming.”

  “Is there a reason why you can’t be more positive about this?” he asked abruptly.

  Anne heard the anxiety in his voice and sensed she might have hit a nerve. “I’m sorry. All I’m trying to say is that the woman might not have all the answers.”

  “I’m prepared for that.”

  “Good. Then you won’t be disappointed, no matter how it turns out.”

  Jack started to respond but stopped when the waiter reappeared. They ordered the beef and sole and another round of drinks. “I don’t think I want to discuss my sister anymore tonight,” he said when the waiter had left. “Neither of us can predict what’s going to happen tomorrow, so it’s pointless to speculate.”

  “Jack, all I want is for you to be satisfied, to get some kind of closure,” Anne said, reaching for his hand. “Although I know you’ll never admit it, I think the past few months have been difficult for you. Too often I’ve seen you staring off into space as if you were somewhere else. That isn’t like you.”

  “I have been somewhere else.”

  “Where?”

  “I’ve been sitting in a movie house,” he said.

  “What?”

  “I’ve been sitting by myself in a movie house, waiting for my mother to come back.”

  6

  The next morning Jack woke at five after a sleepless night. Anne hadn’t shared his restlessness and was still gently snoring when he closed the bedroom door behind him and went into the sitting room. He opened his briefcase and took out the work he’d brought with him. As he leafed through it, he phoned his assistant’s line in Boston to leave a succession of messages and instructions. There was a five-hour time difference between Troon and Boston, so it was midnight there.

  He worked steadily until just past seven, when Anne appeared in the doorway. “Have you ordered coffee yet?” she asked.

  “There’s no room service until seven,” he said, checking his watch. “I can order it now.”

  At eight-thirty they made their way downstairs for breakfast. Jack stopped at the concierge’s desk to pick up a local map and a guide to Ayrshire. Pam, his personal assistant at Pilgrim, had already given him very specific driving instructions from the Marine Hotel to Moira’s Bank Street address, but Jack wanted a better feel for the entire area. He perused the map and the guide over a breakfast of Ayrshire bacon, potato scones, and fried eggs. He had declined the blood pudding, even though he was told it was the perfect accompaniment to the rest of his meal.

  “It says here that on a clear day we should be able to see the Isle of Arran across the Firth of Clyde,” Jack said, looking out a rain-streaked window at the misty Royal Troon golf course.

  “If we have time and the weather is decent, that might be a nice side trip, assuming there’s a ferry to take us across,” Anne said.

  “Better still, Kilmarnock is only five or six miles east of Irvine, and it’s the home of Johnnie Walker whisky. The guide recommends a tour of the distillery.”

  After you see your sister, the distillery might be necessary, Anne thought.

  It had stopped raining when they left the hotel, but it was cold and blustery. Anne wore a raincoat over a thick angora sweater and wool slacks. Jack had on a long-sleeved polo shirt, jeans, a blue blazer, and a Boston Red Sox cap. Anne saw several women in the lobby eyeing him as they walked by. If anything ever happened to her, she was sure there would be a lineup of women at the door.

  “Here are the directions I got from Pam,” he said, handing her a slip of paper as they got into their Ford Escort. “You’re in charge of navigating.”

  The roads were well signed and the directions precise. The Andersons found themselves in the centre of the old town of Irvine within twenty minutes of leaving the hotel. Jack drove along the High Street, then turned onto Bank. Moira lived in the middle of a row of rather grim-looking houses, their doors set into walls of grey stone with windows on either side. Some of the doors had been painted bright colours and some of the windows had lace curtains, but Jack couldn’t help but think of the houses as institutional. Moira’s door was a dull brown, and instead of curtains there were half-drawn blinds.

  Jack parked on the street directly in front of Moira’s house. As he got out of the car he thought he saw someone moving behind one of the blinds.

  Anne joined him on the sidewalk. “Are you ready?” she asked.

  “As ready as I’ll ever be.”

  They walked up to the house. He knocked and took two steps back. When the door opened, he felt immediate disappointment.

  The woman was at least a foot shorter than his six feet four inches, and even wearing a baggy sweater over an ankle-length dress, she looked skeletal. Her hair was greyish white and hung limply around a face that was all jutting bones, except for the washed-out blue eyes.

  “Hello, you must be Jack,” she said, exposing stained yellow teeth.

  He looked at her fingers and saw dark nicotine stains. “I am, and you must be Moira.”

  “I am.”

  “This is my wife, Anne,” he said.

  “Come inside,” Moira said, without a shred of enthusiasm and not offering either of them her hand, let alone anything as intimate as a hug.

  They walked into a tiny vestibule furnished only with a four-pronged wooden coat rack. “You can put your coats there if you like,” Moira said.

  Anne took off her raincoat and hung it on the rack. Jack put his cap next to it.

  “We’ll go into the sitting room. I’ve put the heat on,” Moira said.

  They followed her into a small room with a window that looked onto the street. A sofa and two easy chairs were grouped around a coffee table holding a teapot, three cups and saucers, a sugar bowl, and a small milk jar. A small television sat on an end table in the corner. Behind the sofa was a large, colourful print of what looked like the charge of the Light Brigade.

  Moira closed the door behind them. “I hope you don’t mind me closing the door, but this radiator is the only heat I have in the house.”

  “I don’t mind at all,” Jack said. “Where would you like us to sit?”

  “Wherever you wish. I’ll sit in this chair,” Moira said, slipping into the easy chair closest to the window.

  Jack sat down on the sofa and Anne sat next to him.

  “Would you like a cup of tea?” Moira asked. “It won’t take long to boil some water.”

  Jack shook his head while Anne said, “No, but thank you all the same. We drank too many cups of coffee this morning.”

  Moira nodded. “How was your journey?” she asked in a matter-of-fact manner.

  “Long and tiring. It might take us a few days to get over the jet lag,” Jack said.

  “I’ve never been on an aeroplane,” Moira said. “It must be exciting.”

  “After a while it isn’t much different than getting into a car,” he said.

  “I wouldn’t know,” she said, turning her head and looking out the window.

  “I want to thank you for agreeing to see me,” he said.

  “How could I say no?”

  “So you’ve accepted the fact that I’m your brother?”

  “Aye. Why would anyone invent a story like that?”

  “It isn’t a story. It happened. I remember it quite clearly.”

  “Actually, so do I. It took a wee while, but eventuall
y it came back to me.”

  “That’s good to know,” said Jack.

  “Why?”

  “Because maybe you can explain to me why she did it.”

  Moira blinked. Her fingers gripped the hem of her sweater and she began to rub it between them. She looked at Anne. “You’re very blonde. Is the colour real?”

  “It is. My family is Estonian and we’re all blonde.”

  “Estonian. Is that Christian?”

  “Very Christian. My father was a Lutheran minister.”

  “I’m Presbyterian.”

  “Which means that we’re both Protestants. For some reason Jack ended up as a Catholic.”

  “So he’s a Celtic supporter.”

  “I beg your pardon?” Anne said. “I don’t understand what you mean.”

  “All the Catholics in Scotland support Glasgow Celtic. The Protestants support the Glasgow Rangers.”

  “I don’t support either of them,” Jack said.

  “You don’t like footie?”

  “No.”

  “When I worked at the knitting mill, I supported Irvine Meadow. Their grounds were only a few hundred yards from the mill, and after working on a Saturday morning, all the girls from the mill would go there to cheer on the lads. One of the girls married a Meadow player, but at least three others got pregnant and there weren’t any marriages.”

  Jack sat forward on the sofa, his elbows on his knees. “That’s all very interesting, Moira, but it doesn’t answer my question.”

  “Which question is that?”

  “Why did my mother — our mother — leave me in the movie house?”

  Moira looked at Anne. “This is upsetting. All very upsetting.”

  “I can understand that it is for you, but it’s also upsetting for Jack. He’s simply looking for an explanation of something he can’t understand,” Anne said.

  “Why not?” she said.