A Small Death in the Great Glen

by A. D. Scott

  “I think we both know that that’s not the way of it, Mr. Grieg.” McAllister, icily polite, stood. “I must be off.”

  He picked up his hat, his newspapers, and strode out the bar, peeved and hungry.

  ELEVEN

  McAllister’s return to the Highlands and the office brought him back to the unquiet of the other death, the other boy. An uncommonly subdued Don McLeod nodded as he came in for the Monday meeting. A terminally cheerful Rob McLean grinned through a thatch of hair that badly needed cutting. And Joanne? He couldn’t make out her mood, but then, he reminded himself, understanding women had never been his strong point; hence the life of a bachelor free, he joked sadly.

  “Any news whilst I’ve been gone?”

  “The funeral is the day after tomorrow.” Don looked tired. “I know it’s taken a long time to release the body, an eternity to the parents no doubt.” Don gestured with open hands. “It doesn’t bear thinking about.”

  McAllister was fascinated to note the nicotine stains that covered the center of his deputy’s left palm, remembering that Don had spent his boyhood at sea. Smoking with the cigarette turned inward to protect it from the wind was an ingrained habit. Don McLeod, once he had been around the world twice, had forsaken merchant ships and taken up journalism. To him it was not a highfalutin occupation; it was a trade. A job where you did an apprenticeship, worked your way up the ladder, to produce a newspaper in the same format as time immemorial. Police statements, reports from the procurator fiscal, news from the councils were run verbatim. Occasionally he would do a rewrite in reported speech to present a smatter of variety. And if Don knew there was more to the story than was published in the local press, he would say, in private, usually in the Market Bar, of course there’s more to it than that, and tap his nose, and wouldn’t reveal what he knew, just allow the remark to hang there in the smoke, adding to his reputation for being the man in the know.

  “It’s a crime that’s cracked a faultline as deep as the Great Glen through this whole community, a faultline marking the before and after. We’re innocents, McAllister. Stuff like this is for the big cities.”

  “I know.” McAllister changed the subject, weary of thoughts of death. “Any news on Councilor Findlay Grieg’s grand schemes?”

  “Not yet,” Joanne answered.

  “Any more on Karl the Polish gentleman?”

  “Still locked up.” It was Rob’s turn.

  “The Corelli family?”

  “A bit upset but fine.” Joanne again.

  “So nothing, no news.” McAllister was becoming exasperated.

  “Oh, aye, some great news.”

  McAllister cheered up.

  “The chip shop’s open again. Must have been your brilliant editorial.”

  They busied themselves divvying up the rest of the routine. Joanne reached for the bundle of illegible handwritten reports from contributors, the typing of which made her consider profanities. But she was too well brought up to even think of a swear word without blushing. Rob left on mysterious Rob business. McAllister signaled to Don.

  “A word?”

  In the editor’s office, the door firmly shut, McAllister didn’t have to ask.

  “No, it’s not got out. Though how long the news can be kept quiet in this place …” He lit up. McAllister took one of his own; he couldn’t manage the Capstan Full Strength that Don smoked.

  “And aye, you’re right. Things like this can go on anyplace; although it’s usually kept in the family hereabouts, well hidden. We know our own perverts and we keep an eye on them. But this? An assault on a wee boy by a stranger?”

  “And the Polish man Karl will take all the blame?”

  “Who else?” But Don looked uncomfortable. “He may have done it; on the other hand … Let’s just say I’m yet to be convinced. Inspector Tompson has never, in the eight years since he was posted to the town, been this efficient.”

  McAllister couldn’t bear talking about the matter a second longer.

  “I need to find Jimmy McPhee.”

  “Join the queue. Peter Kowalski is desperate to find him. The polis too. Anything I can help wi’?” Don took McAllister’s shake of the head in his stride. He’d find out why sooner or later. He always did.

  Joanne walked back to the office after her break, still stunned.

  “He gave me permission, permission to work.” She was disgusted with herself, not Bill. “How did I get inveigled into that weekend away? I might just as well have hoisted up a surrender flag.”

  She dawdled down the hill. “I’ll bet that brother-in-law of mine had something to do with this; he said he’d talk to Bill. Till death do us part indeed! All very well for a minister to say, but we could do with an extra commandment, ‘Thou shalt not drink and hit thy wife’!”

  Back at the desk she attacked the typewriter. That felt better. But she couldn’t type accurately. The rendezvous with her husband had left her completely flummoxed.

  “Why on earth do I always give in?”

  Bill had phoned her at the Gazette office, unusual, asking to meet for a coffee—most unusual.

  “I can’t get out right now,” she replied. Fearing he would come round and drag her out of work, she suggested, “How about the Castle Brae Café at twelve?”

  “Right you are.”

  Replacing the receiver all she could think was, I wonder what he wants.

  Sitting at a window table, watching the town pass by, she spotted Bill coming up the brae. She studied him as he strode toward her, taking the steep hill as though it was a stroll across a football pitch. She had loved him. She had married him. They had had good times—but too far back to remember. The weekend away had been good in parts but now came the negotiations for her surrender. What choice did she have? The girls had been through enough already. And why oh why, she asked herself, why can’t you be like everyone else? Why can’t you accept your lot? Her mother’s words echoed around her head, echoed as they had done on and off for ten years or so—“You’ve made your bed. …” The sensation of being run over by an emotional steamroller had her almost forgetting to breathe.

  Bill told the waitress to hurry. He had an appointment, he said. The woman rolled her eyes but took the order. Joanne leaned forward, speaking in that hushed voice reserved for ministers, doctors, bank managers and public places, and asked, “Have you talked to Mr. Keir at the bank yet? He’s called a few times to ask where you are.”

  “That’s my two o’clock meeting.” Bill was strangely confident. “I told him about your job. He liked that.” He had doubled the amount of her wages when the subject was discussed. That had done the trick. “But still, he has no right to call you at work. I’ll have a word about that.”

  “Mr. Keir was only trying to find you.” Joanne was aware that she was once again placating her husband. “Like you said, an extension on the loan is the best idea.” It was a habit, a necessary habit; she had to keep the peace after all. “It’s good, though, isn’t it? The bank agreeing to the extension on the loan? You’ll be fine financially now, won’t you?”

  “Of course. You leave all that to me.”

  Enough, Joanne told herself, don’t push it.

  “Guess what?” he went on. “I found out that thon firm, the one that came in second in the bidding for the contract out west, that’s the firm doing the work on Grieg’s lodge. So, if I don’t finish on time, the second bidder can take over. That’s the way the contract is worded. So maybe that’s what the other crew has been promised.”

  “Councilor Findlay Grieg! The rat,” Joanne exclaimed.

  “Rat or no, he’s got me. All legal too. But no if I finish on time. I have a wee scheme.” He explained his plan to get a couple of caravans and some workmen from the town to go over to the west coast to finish the job.

  “But it’ll mean spending cash to get ahead. And spending time over there. I can work seven days a week even if those west coast Holy Joes can’t.” He finished his tea. “Most of the joinery on thon
houses I’ve done myself already, some plumbing too. So, since I’ll be away for a while, you can keep your wee job—seeing as how it makes you happy.”

  He patted her hand across the table. It was like she was his pet.

  “You’ll let me keep the job,” she stated.

  “So long as it doesn’t interfere with you looking after the house and the girls.” He was pleased with himself, everything settled, no deep discussions like she usually wanted. “I’ve got to be off. Can’t be late for the meeting.” He leaned forward, hand on her arm—“See you tonight, eh?”—and winked, leaving a pound note on the table.

  Joanne sat, registered him turning left instead of right toward the bank, and continued to sit as the waitress cleared up around her. All her intentions, all the discussions about their life, their marriage, practiced over and over in her head, vanished when confronted with the reality of Bill. Her optimism, that lifebuoy of hope that kept her floating above the reality of the marriage, seemed insubstantial in the face of the force that was her husband. Disgusted with herself, she recited her internal chant.

  “I am a person, not a possession.”

  Bill was not on his way to the bank, had never had any intention of going to the bank, cap in hand. He was not on his way to the council works department, cap in hand, to ask for an extension on the contract. He was on his way to meet his savior. The money to see him through the winter and more besides, in five minutes hence, would be his. No questions asked. More than you could say for the bank manager. He recalled the earlier meeting with barely suppressed fury.

  “What security can you offer, Mr. Ross?”

  “May I remind you, Mr. Ross, that your current loan is way behind schedule?”

  “I need more than just your word, Mr. Ross.”

  Bill couldn’t be doing with the doubting Thomases of this world; he would pull this off all by himself. Cash to settle his suppliers, two caravans and some time, that was all he needed. It wouldn’t do for Joanne to find out, though. He turned down the lane to the bar near the station. With Joanne, he thought, he had won. She’d never leave him. She couldn’t take the shame. She’d never go against the Church. Touch and go though for a while, he knew. Good that he’d taken her out west. And that idea, he remembered, was all thanks to that brother-in-law of hers—first time a minister’s ever been useful, he thought with a smirk. He pushed through the swing doors and looked around.

  “Over here,” a voice called out in a Glasgow accent.

  That evening, Bill Ross was at home. Slumped in his armchair, a newspaper open, foot tapping to the Strathspey on the wireless, he was in a rare good mood.

  “Now another from Jimmy Shand and his band, this time a Shetland reel—‘Hens o’er the Midden …’” The music started up.

  Annie was furtively eyeing her father, assessing his mood. She instinctively knew the time to strike. This was big, though. Her mother said they couldn’t afford it. But his foot was tapping.

  “Dad, Mum, can I go round to Sheila’s house to watch television?”

  “No you can’t,” Joanne replied.

  Bill and Joanne knew that Mrs. Murchison pumped the girls for information.

  “It’s no fair. I’m the only one in my class doesn’t have a telly,” Annie lied, directing her protests to her father.

  “I’ve told you before, we can’t afford it,” Joanne shouted from the kitchen.

  The child was not about to give up.

  “Everyone else’s dad bought one,” Annie persisted, exaggerating as usual. “Everyone thinks we’re poor ’cos we don’t have one.”

  That got his attention.

  Joanne, peeling tatties for supper, was half listening in.

  “We’ll get a telly.” Bill was definite. “I’ll have a look first thing tomorrow. I’ll get you one before I leave for the west coast.”

  “I want to look too, but I’ll be at school,” Annie wailed.

  “I’ll pick you up. We’ll look in the shop window and you can help choose.”

  “Me too, me too.” Wee Jean was thrilled. She desperately wanted to watch Muffin the Mule.

  Annie danced into the kitchen. “Dad says we’re getting a television.”

  “We’ll see about that.” Joanne frowned. Maybe they could manage to pay for a television on hire purchase. Then again there might be a problem getting the loan. “Christmas is coming up, so if you do without a big present, maybe we can manage it. But no promises, mind.”

  “But Dad said we’re getting one tomorrow.”

  “I said, we’ll see. Now into the bath with you both—we’ll play dominoes later.”

  The girls ran upstairs, no squabbling for once, excited by the magical news—a television. Joanne came into the sitting room, wiping her hands on her apron.

  “Bill, what’s this about a television?”

  “It’s high time we got one. We’ll be the first in our street. Besides, it’s good for the bairns. Educational.”

  “You yourself told me to go easy until the contract paid out. I could only afford one bag of coal last month. The girls need winter coats before anything else.”

  The first sign of anger appeared on his cheekbones, a hint of a flush that she knew all too well.

  “Here, take this.”

  He reached into his back pocket and peeled twenty pounds from a big roll of cash and thrust it at her. “Don’t let anybody ever say I don’t look after my family.”

  She stared at the banknotes.

  “I won it on a horse.”

  And I’m Grace Kelly, she wanted to say. But she prayed that, even though the last thing she wanted was a television set, he would not let the girls down, he would keep his word this time. But she doubted it.

  TWELVE

  Wednesday at the Gazette, two days before Halloween, the building and all who voyaged in her hummed to the weekly pre-publication countdown. A deadline had never been missed and, as McAllister often reminded them, was unlikely to be missed until they put some guts into this piddling wee paper. But the smell of print and paper tinged the pervasive cigarette smoke haze and adrenaline haar in the reporters’ room. Joanne’s Wednesday-night ritual was to wash her hair twice or the stink of tobacco would permeate her dreams.

  Much had been left to the last afternoon. As always. Don, up and down stairs from the stone to the desk, would argue, often for form’s sake, with the compositor over late changes. Rob was late, as usual, with a sports report on an intercounty shinty game. As he typed, his toes throbbed at memories of playing in the Camanachd Cup against Kingussie. The memory of the frozen, granite-hard pitches, the shin-shattering knocks, the chilblains and perpetual defeats, still hurt.

  McAllister was putting the final touches to his editorial, then he was off to the funeral. A fervent plea for Hungary, a plea that a drop of sanity in an ocean of political stupidity may prevail, was his topic for the week as there was nothing he could write on the subject shaking the town. Maybe after the funeral, he thought. For now, Hungary. Don would take his red pencil through much of it, Joanne would retype it, two, three, four times, they would argue about the relevance in a local paper of news that was unconfirmed, only a whisper, from a country no one cared about, and yet, yet … he knew he had to make a stand—if only for himself.

  McAllister finished and left without a comment.

  Joanne, looking up from the typewriter, blew a strand of hair from her face, stretched her shoulders and saw the cobblestones gleaming wet on the lane below.

  “Oh no! It had better clear for Saturday night. I couldn’t bear guising in the rain and the bonfire a fizzler.” She was also praying that Halloween would be a great success as, just as she had feared, there was no further word about the television. She couldn’t bear the girls to be disappointed yet again.

  Rob was confident of bad weather. “I remember once”—he took a break from pounding the Underwood so they didn’t have to shout—“we went guising in sleet. I was nine and I came down with pneumonia after and my mum was not sy
mpathetic.”

  Joanne laughed. “Why not?”

  “I insisted on going as a Roman gladiator. A belt, a sword, bare legs, sandals, a wee kilt thing and two bits of cardboard for armor. I turned from a Roman to a Pict—blue all over.”

  Don came in with a flurry of paper. “Come on, come on”—he grabbed copy from Rob—“less o’ the gabbing.”

  They got back to their typing.

  The service, conducted in the rituals of the Free Church of Scotland, was traditional. Rain was also traditional for a funeral. No women, no children, no outsiders could take part in the final rites, but outsiders had been allowed into the pews on a balcony overlooking the body of the kirk. The singing of the ancient psalms, the haunting plea for comfort and acknowledgment of God’s will, was sung in Gaelic, the sound not dissimilar to the Aramaic of the Apostles. The words, unchanged in seventeen hundred years, and sung in Scotland for more than a thousand years, sustained these austere Christians.

  The service over, a plain wooden box was gently carried through the doors of the kirk as though it were a cradle, not a coffin. McAllister, the headmaster Frank Clark and a few other men, not of the faith but wishing to show support for Jamie’s father, followed at the end of the procession, then hovered discreetly inside the lee of the high stone wall that surrounded the burying ground. Assembled around the open grave, the congregation of black-clad men put McAllister in mind of a gathering of hoodie crows. He shook the image away. The sonorous voice of the minister declared the last funerary rites, his strong cantor’s voice uplifted into the wind, sending Jamie’s spirit westward, along the glens, back to his ancestral home. “Over the sea to Skye” indeed.

  McAllister knew of the psalmody of the Free Church but had never before been immersed in the eerie sound. On the walk along the riverbank back to the office, the chanting from the presentor, answered back and forth by the voices of the mourners, a sound more like the ocean breaking rhythmically against the shoreline than singing, had become imprinted on his brain. Any effort on his part would not rid him of that sound, this he knew, and would always, any and every time heard, be the anthem to this time, this place, this tragedy.