Bonnie Jack

by Ian Hamilton

“I think it’s even nicer at the back. There’s a large lawn that sweeps down to Loch Faskally. When I came here in the past, I would sit by the loch for hours on end. It was so peaceful.”

  As they approached the main building, Liz came out of its front door with a bundle of manila folders tucked under her arm.

  “Have you been here long?” Georgie asked.

  “About fifteen minutes. I got a ride from the assistant director, who has rented a house halfway between here and Blair Atholl. She has a spare room, which she offered to me.”

  “How lucky is that!” Georgie said.

  “It’s very lucky. Besides not having to find a place to live, I’ll have professional advice close at hand whenever I need it.”

  “And how was your meeting with the artistic director?” Anne asked.

  “Just wonderful. He couldn’t have been kinder. He gave me this armful of scripts with my lines clearly marked and told me how much he was looking forward to working with me.”

  “How many plays are you in?”

  “Four.”

  “Will it be difficult learning your lines for that many?”

  “Well, I’m not the lead in any of them, so I don’t have much to learn. But in addition to those I’m the understudy for the lead role in Little Shop of Horrors, so that will be a bit more work. Rehearsals begin in early April and I want to be fully prepared. Mum is going to be tired of listening to me.”

  “No, I will not,” Georgie said. “I’m so proud of you that you can recite your lines day and night for all I care.”

  “We’re all proud of you,” Anne said.

  “Yes, well done,” Jack added.

  “We’ll have a drink to celebrate,” Georgie said.

  “Not here we won’t,” Liz said. “The bar is closed, and lunch ended at two.”

  “That’s my fault. I had forgotten their hours of operation,” Georgie said. “Oh well, we’ll walk back to town. There are a couple of places on the way.”

  “That reminds me, I should give Harry a call. We haven’t organized anything for tonight,” said Jack.

  “You aren’t tired of us yet?” Georgie asked.

  “Don’t be silly.”

  “I was joking,” Georgie said. “There’s a post office in the centre of town with phone boxes. It’s across the street from a little restaurant I like.”

  “Then let’s go.”

  21

  As they were driving back from Pitlochry after their late lunch, it began to rain heavily. They motored down the M90 towards Edinburgh, but traffic slowed to a crawl as they neared the city. Jack was usually impatient in situations like that, but two Scotches with lunch and the company of three happy women had mellowed him.

  The women had talked incessantly throughout the entire journey, Georgie and Anne thrilled by Liz’s success and Liz getting caught up in their excitement. Jack smiled as he listened. The trip to Scotland couldn’t have been more appropriately timed. It hadn’t started well with Moira, but she was now a distant memory that had been completely overshadowed by Harry and Georgie. Of the two, he was most drawn to Georgie. Despite their differences about their mother, he admired her. She had gone through hell, but instead of giving up, she was getting on with her life. So was her daughter, who more and more reminded him of Allison.

  “What time are we meeting Harry and Barbara?” Georgie asked from the back seat as they reached the outskirts of Edinburgh.

  “Seven.”

  “Will that give us enough time to freshen up and change?” Anne asked.

  “I figure we’ll be at the hotel by six-fifteen, and Harry says the Italian restaurant he recommended is a ten-minute cab ride.”

  “We’re not going home, so don’t worry about us,” Georgie said. “We’ll wait for you in the hotel lobby.”

  “Nonsense. You can come up to our suite,” Anne said. “And you can use our bathroom if you need one.”

  Twenty minutes later, Jack dropped off the car at the hotel entrance and they all made their way upstairs. Liz, Georgie, and Jack sat in the living room while Anne changed. When she came back, he headed for the bathroom, where he brushed his teeth, washed his face, and quickly changed shirts. On his return to the living room, he found Anne and Georgie sitting side by side on the couch looking down at Georgie’s lap. Georgie glanced up at him with a look that seemed slightly guilty.

  “What’s going on?” he asked.

  “Georgie brought some photos of your mother,” Anne said. “She didn’t think you would want to see them, so we were taking advantage of your absence.”

  The photos on Georgie’s lap formed a small stack. He stared at them for a few seconds and then asked, “Does Allison look like her?”

  “Both she and Liz do,” Anne said. “But why don’t you look at them yourself and draw your own conclusions.”

  Jack hesitated, surprised by how nervous Anne’s suggestion made him feel.

  “If she is the devil in your life, don’t you think it might help to put a face on her?” said Anne.

  Georgie patted the couch. “Come and sit next to me. There aren’t many to look at, so it won’t take long.”

  Jack stared again at the pile of photos, then crossed over to the couch. He sat down next to Georgie.

  “I have them arranged by year,” Georgie said. “I’m sure Anne won’t mind if I start over.”

  “Please do,” Anne said.

  Georgie shuffled the photos and then picked up the oldest. She held it in front of her so everyone could see it. A young girl sat against a plain sheet backdrop and looked into the camera with a hint of a smile. It was a black-and-white photo, but it wasn’t hard for Jack to imagine the colour of the wild, curly hair that circled her head like a halo.

  “She was fourteen when this was taken. Wasn’t she a pretty girl, with those big eyes, that fine nose and delicate mouth?” Georgie said. “I have a school picture of Liz that reminds me of this one. They have the same bone structure, and of course that hair.”

  “Like Allison,” Anne said.

  “This one was taken in 1925 by a commercial photographer at a fairground,” Georgie said, turning over the photo so Jack could see the handwriting on the back. “She made a note of the year and place.”

  “If the birthdate on her tombstone is accurate, she was sixteen then,” Anne said. “She was likely pregnant with Moira.”

  “She was just about to turn seventeen when Moira was born,” said Georgie.

  “Just a girl,” Anne said. “I can’t imagine being pregnant at that age. I was in my twenties and out of university and still felt overwhelmed by it.”

  “Me too, and I was almost thirty when Liz was born,” Georgie said, and then turned to the next photo.

  It was a full-length shot of Jessie standing arm in arm with another woman in front of a shop window. They wore unbuttoned woollen coats over dresses. Jessie’s was snug and showed off a slender frame and legs. She had a big grin on her face, as if the women had just shared a joke. The photo was in faded colour, but her hair was undeniably auburn.

  “This was taken in 1927,” Georgie said, again showing Jack the writing on the back. “With Alice McDonald at Duncan Newsagents. She was Mum’s best friend. She died ten years before Mum.”

  “I was born in 1928,” Jack said.

  “I know,” Georgie said, and then quickly leafed through several pictures before stopping at one. “This is you when you were three.”

  Jack stared at a picture of a small boy in shorts and a short coat buttoned to the neck, standing on a sand dune and pointing a stick towards the sea. Behind him, sitting on the dune and also warmly dressed, was Jessie, her hair windblown and dishevelled. Her attention was fixed on the boy, who had a determined look on his face. She was smiling broadly.

  “ ‘July 1931, an outing to the Irvine shore with my Bonnie Jack,’ ” Georgie r
ead from the photo’s back.

  “Are you sure that’s your mother’s handwriting?” Anne asked.

  “Absolutely.”

  “Why is ‘Bonnie’ capitalized?”

  “Because that’s what she called him. It was never just Jack. It was always Bonnie Jack,” Georgie said and smiled. “So you see, Bloody Jack isn’t your first nickname.”

  “I think that’s lovely,” Anne said.

  “I don’t,” Jack muttered. “And I’m not sure I want to see any more of these.”

  Georgie’s hand slipped into his and she squeezed. “One more, please? Just one more?”

  “One,” Jack said.

  Georgie freed her hand from his and slipped out a photo from near the bottom of the stack. “This was taken in September 1934, at Mason’s Commercial Photography Studio in Glasgow,” she said. “She must have made a special trip, and it would have cost her more money than she could probably afford. The back reads, ‘Me and my Bonnie Jack and beautiful Moira.’ ”

  “I hadn’t seen this one,” Anne said, trying to keep a check on her emotions as tears began to fall.

  “I’m not showing this to be cruel, Jack,” Georgie said. “All I wanted was for you to see her face.”

  He looked quickly at the photo and then turned his head away.

  “Let me see it,” Anne said, extending her hand. Georgie passed it to her. In the photo, Jessie sat on a low stool with her children seated at her feet. Jack’s hands were cupped under his chin and his elbows rested on the knees of his crossed legs. He looked bored. Moira’s hands were folded neatly in her lap and she was smiling. “Even in faded black-and-white you can see that Jack’s shirt is frayed at the cuffs and collar, and that cotton dress of Moira’s looks well worn.”

  “What do you think of Mum?” Georgie asked.

  “I hardly know what to think. She looks like a different person from the other photos,” Anne said. “She’s so skinny, so haggard. Her eyes are sunken and there’s no life in them. You can see the hollows in her cheeks. Her mouth is downturned as if all the joy has been wrung out of her. I’ve rarely seen anyone look so incredibly sad.”

  “She was just twenty-five at the time, but she looks fifty-five,” Georgie said. “This was two months before she left McPherson.”

  “Pass it to me,” Jack said suddenly.

  He took the photo from Anne and walked to the window. With his back turned to them, he held it at waist level and stared down at it.

  Anne debated going to him, but then she wondered what she could say or do to make it any easier for him, and decided to stay where she was. Georgie started to rise to her feet, but Anne placed her arm across Georgie’s lap and shook her head.

  No one spoke for several minutes. Liz, sitting in a chair opposite the couch, raised her eyebrows at Anne and Georgie and mouthed, This is getting uncomfortable.

  “Lizzie, if you have to go to the bathroom, this might be a good time to do it. We’ll be leaving for the restaurant shortly,” Georgie said.

  “That’s a great idea,” Liz said.

  As Liz stood up, Jack turned towards them. “I’m glad I saw this,” he said.

  Georgie closed her eyes and pressed her lips together. Anne saw tears start to form. “I can’t begin to tell you how —” Georgie began, only to be interrupted by the phone ringing.

  Jack picked up the phone as it started its third ring. “This is Jack Anderson,” he said. Checking his watch, he added, “I’ll be there within the next two hours. Do what you can to make sure he doesn’t leave.”

  “McPherson?” Georgie asked.

  “Yes. That was the Tartan Rover. He’s there.”

  “What are you going to do?” Anne asked.

  “I’m going to the pub.”

  “Right now? Didn’t Harry say he would go with you?”

  “He did.”

  “Then don’t you think it would be appropriate to give him the chance?” Anne said. “I suggest that we go to the restaurant as planned, and then the two of you can leave together from there.”

  “The barman did say that McPherson generally stays the night. I don’t think there’s any need to rush,” Georgie said.

  “What time does the pub close?” he asked.

  “Eleven, with last orders at ten-thirty.”

  He looked at his watch again. “Okay, we’ll go to the restaurant. But don’t expect me to eat.”

  “Jack, are you sure this is the right thing to do?” Georgie asked.

  “There’s no point in talking to him about this anymore,” Anne said. “When he’s this determined, nothing can change his mind.”

  “Then I’ll stay quiet,” Georgie said.

  “One thing, though,” Jack said. “Can I keep this photo?”

  “Of course. I have another copy,” she said. “And here, take the one of you and Mum on the dune.”

  “Thank you,” he said as he slipped the pictures into his blazer pocket.

  22

  Salvatore’s was a boisterous, unpretentious place imbued with a wonderful aroma of garlic. It was exactly the type of Italian restaurant Jack enjoyed — except he wasn’t staying.

  Harry stood up to greet them as they approached. “How was your day in Pitlochry?” he asked.

  “It was fine. I’ll tell you about it on the way to Glasgow,” Jack said.

  “Glasgow?”

  “The guy at the Tartan Rover pub just called. McPherson is there now.”

  “So you’re intent on going through with this?”

  “Jack is determined, and I’ve been told there’s no use in arguing with him,” Georgie said.

  “Do we at least have time for dinner?” Harry asked.

  “I don’t want to risk missing him,” Jack said.

  “Then I guess we’re off to Glasgow,” Harry said with a quick glance at Barbara. “Am I driving?”

  “If you would, I’d appreciate it,” Jack said.

  “I’ve told Harry I’m not happy with this idea of meeting McPherson,” Barbara said to Jack.

  “He doesn’t have to come,” Jack said to her.

  “Yes, I do. I’m not going to let you do this by yourself,” said Harry. “God knows what could happen to an American wandering around that part of Glasgow alone at night.”

  “If that’s what you’re worried about, Harry, I think I’d better come with you. I’m the only one here who actually knows her way around Glasgow and how to handle Glaswegians,” Georgie said.

  “I thought McPherson scared you,” Jack said.

  “He does. I’m expecting you and Harry to keep me safe.”

  “We will,” Jack said.

  “Mum, do you want me to come with you?” Liz asked.

  “No, this is something my brothers and I have to deal with by ourselves.”

  “Then let’s go,” Jack said, and turned to Anne. “We’ll meet you back at the hotel. I can’t imagine we’ll be late.”

  “Yes, please don’t be late. And if there’s any kind of a problem, call me at the hotel.”

  “Worry not,” Jack said, bending down to kiss his wife.

  Harry’s Jaguar was parked nearby. They piled in, with Georgie, again acting as navigator, sitting in the front with Harry.

  They were quiet for the first part of the trip, each absorbed in their own thoughts. Harry broke the silence as they neared Glasgow. “How old is McPherson?”

  “Eighty-two. He was fifty-five when he was sent to prison for manslaughter, and almost seventy by the time he got out.”

  “And he’s had a clean record since then?” Harry said.

  “As far as I know, but I didn’t spend much time researching his life after prison.”

  “What made you look for him in the first place?” Harry asked.

  “Mum’s horror stories about him got to me, and desp
ite everything he did to her, I always thought that deep down she wanted to know what had happened to him.”

  “She didn’t still care for him, did she?” Harry asked in disbelief.

  “Of course not. But like it or not, he had been a big part of her life. I guess as she was getting close to death she wanted some kind of closure where he was concerned.”

  “But she had been dead for quite some time before you found out where he was,” Jack said.

  “That’s true.”

  “So why did you keep looking?”

  “Why did you come to Scotland?”

  “To see Moira.”

  “That’s only part of it, Jack. Another reason — and maybe the biggest, from everything you’ve said — is that you wanted to know why our mother abandoned you,” Georgie said. “You came here searching for answers about her.”

  “But why did you keep looking for him?”

  “He’s my father,” she said.

  “Come on, Georgie!” Harry blurted.

  “Harry, like it or not, he is our biological father. I know that seems abstract, but the more I thought about it, the less abstract it got. I mean, his impact on Mum was profound. He shaped the woman that she became, and the way she raised us was at least partially a reflection of the way he treated her. So even if it was in a second-hand way, he had a bearing on our lives.”

  “Like Jessie had on mine,” Jack said. “Thanks to her, I’m mistrustful of just about everyone I meet, and that makes me cold and calculating. That, I think, is Jessie’s legacy for me. Any humanity I have comes from my late adoptive parents, Anne, and my kids.”

  “That last bit sounds like an exaggeration,” Georgie said.

  “No, it’s the truth. I’ve always felt like I’m alone on an island, and the only way to survive is to keep everyone else off it,” he said, and then smiled. “I didn’t get the nickname Bloody Jack by being a nice guy. I trust no one. Everyone is disposable.”

  “That’s in business, but what about with your family, with Anne?” asked Georgie.

  “I love Anne, but there are things I don’t tell her, and some of those things she has a right to know. What does that say about me?”