The haar was down and the air was like damp grey cottonwool. He turned down towards the prom and began to run along the wet sand at the water’s edge. The beach was almost deserted, all sound muffled except for the gentle lap of the receding tide. Occasionally the ghostly figure of an early-morning walker and his dog loomed out of the mist but no greetings were exchanged.
His head throbbed and the damp cold air seemed to scratch his lungs like a Christmas tree. At first he had to force his legs forward but when he got into his rhythm, his mind came into gear, too. He wasn’t just going to sit around and do nothing until his mother’s meagre inheritance ran out. He had to be proactive; he was going to stay in Edinburgh, look for somewhere to live and find a job.
He stumbled as he missed his step. This thought seemed to have jumped fully-formed into his mind without any warning. He wasn’t going back to South Africa. Already Plettenberg Bay seemed so far away and the years he’d spent there melted into a blur of nothingness. Scotland was where he belonged.
The sun was shining above the mist, casting a shimmering sheen over the damp sand. Tom stopped and looked at the sky as the sun broke through the clouds. Taking his mobile phone from his back pocket, he found Sarah’s number. Thinking of you. Anything at all I can do to help, just let me know. Hope to see you soon, Tom. It was very bland but he guessed there would be lots of family around Sarah at this time. He hoped his message would show he was thinking of her, but not cause any problem if anyone else read it. He hesitated for a moment and then pressed send.
He turned round and made his way back along the beach. Looking up at the row of Victorian houses, the red-stone tenements, the baths, his school and the Free Presbyterian Church lining the shore, he was taken back to the life he’d lived here – before Shona was taken from them.
Next to the church were the tenements where Logan Baird had lived. Where was he now? Had he come back to the only place that he’d ever known, apart from Carstairs? Hatred welled up in him like a wave of nausea. Years of anger had their own power, which he struggled to quell: Logan Baird was innocent, the DNA tests had proved this, so Logan Baird was a victim, losing so many years of his life locked up in that institution.
Tom walked towards the prom, almost feeling that Baird would appear like a ghost before him at any moment. Would he even recognise him now? He must be getting on for sixty, so very different from the spooky teenager he vaguely remembered.
He stepped up onto the prom. In the front garden of Captain Kidd’s house he saw his old teacher, bent over some rose bushes, dead-heading the shrivelled blooms. He was wondering whether to speak or just pass by when HJ Kidd raised his head.
‘Tom,’ HJ stood up and approached the low granite wall. He held out his hand.
Tom shook it. ‘Have you seen Sarah? How is she?’
‘I went round to visit her briefly. She seems to be bearing up remarkably well, considering…’ His handsome features twisted in pain. ‘You know I was there when it happened? After we saw you at Rory’s house, we did some filming and then climbed up the Salisbury Crags to catch the sunrise. I was just about to read, Rory was getting the right angle, he stepped back and…’ his voice cracked in pain.
Tom felt sympathy for the older man. He hadn’t really thought about how the accident had happened until that moment. He realised he’d only been thinking about Sarah and himself. ‘I haven’t seen many news bulletins. They just said it was an accident. I didn’t know you were there – it must have been awful.’ He shuddered, his body cooling down in the chill morning air.
HJ noticed. ‘I do apologise, you must be freezing. Please come in for a cup of coffee.’
Tom hesitated, then accepted. He wanted to find out more about Sarah.
They went through the hall into the large kitchen at the back of the house. There was a range along one wall and a long scrubbed wooden table in the middle of the room. Hannah Kidd came in from the scullery, drying her hands on a cloth. The room was warm and welcoming with the smell of coffee and fresh washing.
Hannah made some coffee as HJ described going round to Sarah’s, and seeing Lottie and Archie with her. Tom was pleased to hear that – it made it seem more normal for him to contact her, too. He felt the shape of his phone in his back pocket. Had Sarah replied? He hadn’t heard it beep, but sometimes the sound was masked by the roar of the sea and wind when he was jogging. He resisted the temptation to sneak a look.
HJ finished speaking and then looked over the table at Tom. ‘And how are you, Tom? You’re still staying in Portobello, I see.’
Tom began to explain what he had decided on his run, his ideas hardening as he formulated them into words. He explained that he’d decided to stay in Scotland and was looking for a job and a place to stay.
HJ looked thoughtful. ‘You said you did odd jobs in South Africa?’ He hesitated. ‘Now, I don’t know if you would consider working as a janitor/handyman, but I have an idea that might help you.’ Tom sat up straighter, eager to hear what he had to say next. ‘Have you heard of the Canongate Centre? It’s an old church near the Grassmarket, which is used as an arts centre, and for community groups. There’s a playgroup and a youth club, for example. It’s where my poetry group meet and there’s also an amateur theatre group that puts on small experimental productions. We’ve had a resident caretaker there for as long as I can remember, but he’s well past retirement age and wants to go and live nearer his daughter and grandchildren in Forfar.’
Tom felt a glimmer of hope. HJ looked up at him as if to gauge the reaction on his face. ‘I’m on the Board of Governors and we thought it would be quite easy to find a successor for Jimmy, but it’s been proving surprisingly difficult. There’s many a person with the practical skills who can deal with small repairs, but we need someone who can satisfy the background checks, as there will be children and vulnerable adults there. The hours can be long and we need someone prepared to take responsibility for the day-to-day management of the centre. Also the accommodation’s very small, only suitable for a single person.’
Tom tried not to show too much enthusiasm. It sounded ideal, although he was a bit worried about the long hours. ‘How long would I actually have to be on duty?’
‘There has to be someone there, for security reasons, whenever the centre’s open, but it wouldn’t always have to be you. You would be in charge of a small team of hourly-paid workers, including cleaners, and it would be up to you to draw up a rota so that there was always a responsible person there. We have an established team, as we pay above minimum wage and want to be fair employers, but they’re mostly part-timers and none of them are interested in the responsibility of the full-time job.’
Tom’s mind was already racing. This could solve all his problems, the chance to find a home and a job in one go. ‘I’d certainly be very interested.’
HJ looked encouraged by his enthusiasm. ‘I’ll have to contact the other board members about an interview, but if you’d like to have a look round, there’s our poetry group meeting this evening and you could come along with me to talk to Jimmy and see the accommodation. If you like what you see, you’ll have to submit your CV and references and we could start the vetting process. You are still British, aren’t you?’
‘Yes, no problem there.’ Tom grasped HJ’s hands. ‘Thank you so much. You’ve got no idea what this means to me.’
HJ smiled again. ‘I’m happy to help you in any way I can.’
Tom stood up. He was eager to get back to the B&B and start getting things organised, tweaking his CV and collecting references. He would also have to see the police before any kind of background check was set in progress.
He arranged to meet HJ that evening and jogged back along the prom. Looking round the saccharine room he fantasised about sleeping in the gothic gloom of a decommissioned church. He looked at his phone: a message from Sarah. Missing you x.
*
Sarah bustled around in her kitchen, putting coffee cups on a tray. Her mother had come round early ‘to
help’ and had got in her way. Patsy arrived with a cake, which was thoughtful of her, but dissolved into such floods of tears that Sarah ended up comforting her. Now Flora and Patsy were sitting in the drawing room, swapping reminiscences, in competition with each other about how upset they were.
Sarah wished she could be anywhere else; she was tired of being strong and brave. She wished Tom were with her; she wanted his arms round her, keeping her safe.
Flora was dabbing her eyes with a lace-edged hankie as Sarah came into the room. ‘We were very close, the dear boy.’
‘It was only the other week we had our reunion and the dedication at the school,’ added Patsy. ‘He was so charismatic, he lit up the room.’
Flora could trump that one. ‘I shall so miss our Sunday lunches. He was so charming, so attentive. Only last Sunday he called me his little flower.’ She let out another sob and then looked up at Patsy, ‘Because of my name, you know.’ Patsy patted the older woman gently on the arm, acknowledging defeat.
Sarah clattered the tray down on the coffee table. She distributed the cups and Patsy’s chocolate cake was duly admired.
‘Do we know when the funeral is?’ asked Patsy, wiping the crumbs from her mouth.
Sarah shook her head. ‘We’ve decided we’re going to have a very small private family funeral as soon as the body is released and then there’ll be a bigger memorial service arranged by BBC Scotland. Nick phoned today. He’s been doing the liaison with the Procurator Fiscal. The post-mortem’s been carried out, and a fatal accident inquiry isn’t necessary. I think the fact that HJ Kidd witnessed the whole thing and was able to make a full statement has helped. I’d like the funeral to take place as soon as possible.’
‘If there’s anything I can do to help, just let me know,’ Patsy said.
Flora nodded morosely. ‘That poor dear boy.’
Sarah was overcome with a wave of total weariness. It was so hard keeping up the pretence of normality, when underneath her brain was whirred with the maelstrom of feelings about Rory, about Tom, about her family, about Shona… about Tom. She couldn’t help it, her thoughts were always returning to him.
She stood up. Her limbs seemed so heavy, she felt she could hardly move. ‘Thank you so much for coming, both of you. But I’m feeling really rather tired now, so I think I’ll have a lie down before Nick and Lottie come round.’
Patsy leapt up, gathering the dishes, and carrying the tray into the kitchen, calling back over her shoulder. ‘Just leave these to me! Anything I can do to help!’ Flora stood up and carefully placed her Liberty scarf around her neck. She pecked Sarah on the cheek and made her way to the hall, collecting her coat. ‘I’ll see myself out. And I’ll come again tomorrow to give you some more help.’
Sarah stifled the groan she felt. Her mother meant well but her ‘help’ consisted of sitting around saying how wonderful Rory was, and how much she missed him. Sarah briefly wondered how she’d react when the inevitable ‘Rory the philanderer’ stories got into the papers. A small mean part of her wanted her to find out what her beloved Rory was really like.
Patsy followed the older woman into the hall. ‘Let me know if there’s anything I can do for the funeral. I’ve let all the old schoolfriends know and I’m sure there’ll be a good turn-out from them. And if you need anyone to give a reading, or say anything…’ She smiled expectantly.
Sarah muttered something about the memorial service being the place for that, and waved them off as quickly as she could. When the door slammed behind them she mouthed a silent scream and took a bottle of wine from the rack in the kitchen. She poured out a large glass and sat down with it in the drawing room, feeling her heart rate return to normal.
Nick and Lottie weren’t coming round this evening. She wanted to have a little time to herself. She looked at the phone. She really ought to contact the police to reschedule the meeting, but that could wait until tomorrow.
She looked hopefully at her mobile phone and saw there was a message from Tom. She hadn’t heard it coming in. She read it with a tingle of excitement. Up in town this evening. OK to pop in for a short visit?
She sent one back quickly. Great – looking forward to seeing you. X
Chapter 19
Sarah sat back in the Chesterfield listening to Pachelbel and sipping her wine. She relished the peace and beauty of the Georgian room, lit only by the standard lamp behind her head. Despite all the conflicting emotions in her, she felt a strange glow of contentment. Tom was coming round.
The phone rang. She looked at it wondering if she should just let it ring out. Oh, what the hell. If it was a journalist, she’d just tell him where to go. Feeling a kind of recklessness, she picked up the receiver.
‘Hello, Sarah, it’s Barbara.’
Sarah hesitated. The voice sounded vaguely familiar, but she couldn’t place the name, although the caller obviously expected to be recognised. ‘Hello?’
‘It’s Barbara, Barbara Barrowfield, Rory’s first wife,’ the voice said firmly, obviously detecting her hesitation. ‘We need to meet to discuss the funeral arrangements. Would this evening be convenient?’
Sarah’s jaw literally dropped. She’d never thought of consulting Rory’s ex-wife. In fact, because Rory never mentioned her, she’d almost forgotten her existence. Of course, there was Rory’s daughter. She would want to come to the funeral, although Sarah didn’t think she and Rory had much contact.
‘Hello, are you there?’ Barbara’s brisk tones made Sarah realise she hadn’t answered.
‘Sorry, I was just thinking. We don’t actually have a date for the funeral yet.’
‘I think the sooner we discuss this the better,’ the efficient voice rapped back.
Now Sarah remembered why the voice was so familiar. After being the Drama teacher at Brunstane High, Babs had gone on to achieve minor fame in a TV police soap, playing the aptly-named Sergeant Mone. She’d developed something of a cult following, partly for her Rottweiler tones, but mainly for her prominent breasts encased in her police uniform. Listening to her now, Sarah realised the character she played was not that different from herself in real life.
Sarah hesitated. ‘Well, I am free in the early evening…’ Better that Babs came round now than when the twins – or worse, her mother – were around.
‘Very well, I’ll be round in twenty minutes.’ Sarah heard the click that signified the end of the conversation and was left staring at the handset. Oh well, might as well get it over with. At least she’d have Tom to unwind with later.
She took another swig of wine and looked out at the traffic driving down Howe Street. Cars and buses were waiting at the traffic lights, a taxi was picking up a man in a pin-striped suit and shoppers were scurrying across the street laden with shopping bags. It seemed unbelievable that everything was carrying on as normal and her life, once so quiet and dull even, had been turned upside down in the last few weeks. Meeting Tom again, the news about Logan Baird, Nick’s revelation, Rory gone… so much had happened.
She felt the wine going to her head. She looked at the bottle and shrugged her shoulders – she was a widow, and her husband’s ex-wife was coming round. She deserved a drink. She poured another glass.
*
The Canongate Centre was on the Cowgate, the gloomy street running under the elevated sections of the South Bridge and George IVth Bridge. It led from Holyrood to the Grassmarket and got its name from the fact that cattle were herded to market there in the old days. Tom remembered that it was considered a dangerous place when he was young, where the homeless gathered with their cheap drinks, waiting for the hostels to open. It was still dark there, but the Grassmarket had been gentrified and even the Cowgate seemed cleaner.
On the way, HJ had explained the set-up. When the church became surplus to requirements, Edinburgh District Council had taken it over and had funded the Arts Centre over the years. Unfortunately, it had fallen victim to the cuts. One reason why HJ had agreed to Rory’s programme was that he hoped to raise the pr
ofile and maybe secure funding from elsewhere.
‘I don’t want to be too negative but I can’t honestly say how long the centre will be able to stay open,’ HJ said sadly, ‘so I can’t guarantee the job will last for ever. But Edinburgh is proud of being the Festival City and has a commitment to the Arts, and also to the community groups. To be brutally honest, if we say we can’t fill the post that will be another nail in the coffin. That’s why Jimmy’s stayed on until now, actually, because he didn’t want to let us down. So, I hope you will take the job. I want to help you, but it will also be good for the centre.’
The church was a dark Gothic building, almost overshadowed by the arch of George IVth bridge and the unlit tenements on each side. Tom went through the side door with Kidd into what must once have been the vestry. They were greeted by a gnomic man with random tufts of hair on his head and deep inquisitive eyes.
‘Jimmy, this is Tom McIver. We may have found your successor.’
Jimmy’s wizened face lit up. ‘Good to see you, Tom. Here’s a great wee job. I’ve been doing it for twenty-three years, since my wife passed, but now it’s time I was away to my girl and her weans up in Forfar.’
Tom smiled at him and HJ suggested that Jimmy show them the accommodation. It was not quite the romantic monk’s cell that Tom had imagined but it was serviceable. There was a small sitting room with an old-fashioned gas fire, a G-plan type sofa and an ancient box television. With its swirling carpet and geometric wallpaper it looked like something out of a seventies sit-com, but seemed cosy enough, especially with the long mustard-coloured velvet curtains drawn. To the left there was a windowless bedroom, almost completely filled with a double bed, and to the right a small kitchenette. Even though it was not the Gothic cell he’d imagined, Tom wanted to live here; a base where he could escape the pinkness of the Regent Guest House.
Sewing the Shadows Together Page 16
