by A. D. Scott
“Why not?” McAllister said. “First we’ll start a shinty column. That gives us an excuse to hang around teams and supporters. Rob, you report on the games, Hec takes pictures, see if you come up with anything . . .”
“And make sure you get the names and teams right.” This came from Don McLeod, who had come in in a current of rain, his coat and hat wet, and the turn-ups of his trousers a distinct shade darker than the legs. “There’re an awful lot o’ McLeods and Macleods and MacLeods, to say nothing o’ the Alisters and Alastairs. If two are the same, ask their father’s name, I’ll work it out from that.”
Rob really liked Frankie Urquhart; he was one of the few in the town who shared Rob’s twin enthusiasms—music and girls, but not girlfriends, for Rob was a recovering lover—and they had known each other forever. Frankie understood Rob when he said he was getting out of here one day, and he believed him.
Rob said, “There go my Saturday afternoons.” But he was secretly pleased that he might help the Urquhart family, secretly pleased that he was once more on the hunt for a scoop.
Mal Forbes came in with a tentative layout for the next edition.
“We’re starting a shinty column,” McAllister said as he looked at the advertising blocked out on the sports pages. “We’ll need space for it.”
“Why? There’s no money in shinty, only football.”
“Do you think of nothing else?” The remark was out before Joanne could stop herself.
Mal smiled. “Aye, you’re right. I do tend to be a wee bit single-minded.”
Joanne squirmed. “Sorry.”
Mal Forbes ignored her. Not nastily. His only concern was the newspaper. Obsessive, his wife, Moira, called him. He agreed. If a job’s worth doing . . . he always said to his wife and family. He asked Don how many column inches were needed for “this shinty lark.” Don told him. He left.
No one said anything, just went on with the morning’s work. It was as though Mal was part of the team but separate. McAllister, being the only newspaperman to have worked out in the real world, saw this as normal; advertising and editorial seldom mixed. Don, who had only ever worked with the late office manager, Mrs. Smart, missed her and her no-nonsense approach to the job. Every day. Joanne thought everyone should be friends. Rob didn’t care. Hec never noticed.
Much later Rob asked, “Jo, come with me to Arnotts. I need your help with a present for my mother’s birthday.”
“Only if we don’t take too long. I need to go home to make lunch for Annie.” She saw Don look up. “Nits.”
“Aye, come the Apocalypse, the nits will survive.”
“Not in my household.” She stood, smiled at McAllister. He winked. And the day suddenly became much better.
• • •
She and Rob were at the cosmetics counter. Joanne had pointed out Margaret McLean’s favorite perfume. As they were waiting for it to be wrapped, Rob said, “You should ignore Mal Forbes, he’s not deliberately trying to annoy you.” Rob was counting out what seemed like an enormous sum of money.
“I know. But he is so . . .” She didn’t know a word for men who treated women as wee fluffy creatures that should be kept on the mantelshelf and cuddled every so often.
“He’s good at his job.”
“I’m sure he’s a nice man. Fiona likes him. So do his clients. All he says is no more than most men say and think . . . Ouch, what was that for?”
Rob had nudged her with his elbow. Accidentally hard. “I’m not most men.”
“That’s because you’re still a boy at heart.” She ran off up the street, a thirty-one-year-old woman giggling and running, and giggling some more as Rob shouted out, “I’m not most boys.”
When he caught up with her she said, “Feels like I haven’t laughed in ages.”
Rob drove them to her house in McAllister’s car, the unofficial office car.
Rob admired Annie’s hair. Joanne reheated the potato soup and buttered rolls.
“Nurse Urquhart, is she going to be all right?” Annie asked Rob, knowing Uncle Rob would tell the truth.
“Not really. She’ll live, so Frankie says, but she may never be able to speak again.” Eating, drinking, and breathing will be almost impossible too, but Rob didn’t want to share that.
“You don’t have to speak to tell someone they have nits,” Annie pointed out. “You just jump back . . . that’s what everyone does when you tell them you have nits.”
“Like this?” Rob leaned towards Annie, then jumped back, holding his hands up in mock horror, and Joanne agreed with Rob’s certainty that he would one day make it big in television.
• • •
Rob was right. Nurse Urquhart would never be able to talk again.
Frankie and his father had taken the train to Aberdeen. Neither of them knew the city and neither of them could understand the accent until a bus conductor took pity on them and told them which bus to catch and where to get off. Coach Frank Urquhart had spent most of the train journey in silence, his only real comment on the strangeness of his wife being taken to Aberdeen by air ambulance.
“It’s more gentle than the road or train,” Frankie explained, not wanting to say it was for serious cases only.
“Aye, but she’s so far away.”
Now, a few days and another two operations later, Frankie was hoping his mother was over the worst, hoping the longer she lived, the better her chances. Just plain hoping.
Nurse Urquhart—like his father, Frankie thought of as a nurse first, mother second, and as a wife never. In his picture of her she was always in uniform with the upside-down watch pinned to her chest, sleeves rolled up, hair short and tucked into her cap. In winter she wore a navy blue trench coat, tightly belted, and until last year went everywhere by bicycle. The health authority gave her a car, dark blue, to match her uniform, she said. She treated it like a cherished offspring—keeping the polish sparkling, patting it on the bonnet as she went around to the driver’s side, proud she needed no man to ferry her . . .
“Mr. Urquhart?”
“Ma dad’s outside.” There was no need to say that in this situation and in this hard, driving rain, he was outside only because smoking was forbidden in the hospital.
“You are Nurse Urquhart’s son?”
Frankie nodded. “Frankie Urquhart. Mr. Urquhart’s my dad.”
The man held out his hand. “I’m Mr. Beattie, the surgeon . . .”
“Pleased to meet you . . . are you all right?” The man was looking tired, uncomfortable, unable to look directly at Frankie. Frankie worried he might be unwell. He didn’t want the surgeon to be unwell.
“Mr. Urquhart, Frankie—can we go into my office? I’d like to talk to you and your father together.”
“You can tell me, I’ll tell Dad. She will be fine, won’t she? My mother, Nurse Urquhart, she’s as strong as a Clydesdale. Big feet like a Clydesdale too, she always jokes, she’ll be fine . . .” He knew he was blethering. He didn’t want to hear. He told himself that if he kept talking, the man wouldn’t say what he feared he was going to say.
He looked at the doctor. He could see the man was no good at this. He then knew that he would have to say the words. Always get a nurse to give the bad news, his mother told him, doctors is a’ useless at the right words.
“My mother didn’t make it.”
“I’m so sorry.” It was all the surgeon could say. He offered his hand again. Frankie took it. It was cold. He caught a glimpse of whiteness and short clean nails. Smelt a whiff of antiseptic. Carbolic soap, he was thinking, Mum uses that.
“Thank you for everything,” Frankie was comforting the surgeon, feeling his distress. “And don’t worry, I’ll tell my father.”
The relief was obvious, and Frankie felt sorry for him. “Don’t worry,” he repeated, “I’ll tell Dad.”
• • •
When they walked into the reporters’ room, they knew immediately it was bad.
Don and McAllister were sitting together, smoking and s
aying nothing. McAllister looked at Don. Don looked away. He had had enough of death in the past months.
“Nurse Urquhart died this morning.” McAllister came straight out with it; there was no way to lessen the shock.
“No,” was all Rob could say. He was shaking his head from side to side, “No.” Joanne had her hand on his arm. Rob was blocking the horror for both of them.
“Frankie and his father are still at the hospital in Aberdeen. I don’t know much more.” McAllister put out his cigarette.
“Someone should tell Hector.” It was only Joanne who guessed how guilty Hector must feel.
“He’s at home printing this week’s pictures; I’ll go round and tell him. And his granny.” Rob wanted to do something, anything, for the Urquharts. They would need their neighbor and friend Granny Bain in the months to come. And Hector and his granny needed to hear of the death of Nurse Urquhart from a friend. Who would tell Morag, Frankie’s sister; he didn’t know but hoped it wouldn’t be him. “See you later.”
McAllister looked across at Joanne. She looked back.
“I know. We’re a newspaper. We’ve work to do.”
He nodded. Don sighed. McAllister rolled a piece of paper into the typewriter, then sat for a moment, thinking.
“I’d like to write the obituary.” Joanne had never written one before, but she knew this was right.
“Thank you.” He wanted to touch her, but didn’t.
“I need a drink,” Don said, but didn’t move.
So they did what they did best, turned out a newspaper that honored Nurse Urquhart.
• • •
Joanne’s obituary reminded the community—mothers and fathers, grandparents and colleagues, the shinty community, the schoolteachers, the health workers, the children—all reminded what a good woman, what a straightforward, old-fashioned yet progressive, efficient, funny, and caring woman she was. Some remembered her prowess at Scottish country dancing; some remembered how she always rubbed her hands together to warm them before examining the unborn in Mummy’s tummy, as she would say. A shinty player who received a particularly painful bash on the shins shared his story of the medicinal flask of whisky handed out with a smile and This’ll make it go away.
“We’ll no’ see her likes again.” That old Scottish phrase was said often, before and after the funeral and for many a year after that.
The church was full, with many more standing outside—friends, acquaintances; parents, headmasters, and teachers from all the schools Nurse Urquhart had ever worked in; the shinty teams and the mothers and wives who did the washing; neighbors and families. Along the streets, as the funeral cortege passed en route to Tomnahurich Cemetery, people gathered outside their homes, silent, the curtains of the houses closed in the traditional mark of respect.
Frankie, his sister, Morag, and his dad, Coach Frank Urquhart, felt supported by the sheer number of mourners, the wreaths, the bouquets, the small bunches of garden flowers from children who liked the school nurse because she told the truth.
Yes, she would say, the needle hurts a wee bit but it’ll soon be over. Or, Nits is awful wee beasties, but they don’t bite. Or she’d say that the cold or the flu or the measles or the mumps or the whooping cough is nasty, But soon you’ll be all better.
They all knew what had happened but couldn’t comprehend such a crime. Who would want to hurt her? was one question. Who would do such a thing? was the other. Acid—that’s so horrible, so vicious, so . . . this observation was often followed by a shudder and a loss of words; it was beyond them to fathom out the evil behind such an act. Above all hung one question—why?
“Oil of vitriol is the old name for acid,” McAllister said as he and Joanne walked from the cemetery.
“Vitriol, vitriolic, that certainly sums up the attack.” Again, as she pictured it, she recoiled. Although she had never seen an acid burn, or been around acid outside the school science laboratory, she could imagine what Nurse Urquhart had endured, and feel it, to the point of her skin burning.
McAllister took her hand and linked it through his arm. “Let’s take the Infirmary Bridge.”
They were quiet, just walking side by side, occasionally mentioning a trivial work matter, commenting on the weather, Joanne saying she was glad they had the excuse of work to avoid the funeral feast of sandwiches and whisky. His sense that the wind and the river and the occasional shaft of sunshine would wash the image from their minds didn’t completely rid them of the sadness, the waste of a life, the loss of a vibrant, cheery woman who never harmed, always helping the children, the families of the town. And although Joanne did not appreciate this until much later, in the company of McAllister, there was no need to say anything; his quietness was his strength, in turn giving her strength.
As they came up the steps into the office, they saw that Fiona was back in her usual place behind the front desk, Hector having given her a lift back from the funeral. She had been crying, but now seemed anxious.
“Mr. McLeod is waiting for you upstairs; he said it was urgent I find you but you were . . .”
“Thanks,” was all McAllister said.
Don didn’t bother to greet them or wait for them to take off their hats or sit. “A bottle of sulfuric acid is missing from the print room. I left a message for DI Dunne.”
“He was at the funeral.” McAllister was standing, but Joanne now had to sit, had to put her elbows on the desk, had to hide her face in her hands; the mention of acid, the thought of burning flesh, made the horror return.
“The inspector’ll be here soon enough.” Don said no more. He hadn’t been at the funeral. He couldn’t bear the thought of standing at the graveside of another woman he had known for decades, murdered. Nurse Urquhart was buried in the ground, never again to be seen at the shinty with her first aid kit, shouting at “ma boys,” cheering every pass, every corner, booing at every penalty awarded against them, jumping up at every goalmouth stramash that brought her team closer to the Camanachd Cup.
McAllister lit a cigarette. They waited, in silence. When the sound of footsteps carried up the stone steps, the steps where the middle had been worn into a bow curve, all three of them knew that the investigation—perhaps involving someone in the Gazette, someone they knew, worked with—was not going to be pleasant.
EIGHT
Mae Bell said she had been in Edinburgh for a week. When she returned, the first person she contacted was Joanne.
“I read the newspaper. The nurse was Frankie Urquhart’s mother, right?”
“She was. It’s a terrible story.”
“Let’s meet.”
They met in Gino Corelli’s café, as Mae Bell loved the place, its warmth and the steam and the noise. And she liked Gino. Old friends at first sight was how she described him to Joanne.
“I’ve moved in to the hotel along the river from here.” She removed a silk scarf in a print of many colors. “This side of the river reminds me of Paris, and I love looking across at the castle.” They were sitting in the window, and Mae gestured across the river that today was a dark blended-whisky tone.
“Paris?” Joanne thought the comparison very far-fetched.
“Didn’t I tell you I live in Paris? I sing in a club in Saint-Germain, with some old friends.”
“That’s where McAllister saw you.”
“Ten years ago. Don’t remind me, it makes me feel old.”
Mae’s laugh was the same. She was as elegant as ever. But there was a weariness around the eyes and a slowness in the way she stirred her coffee that made Joanne examine her. Mae was tired. And Mae was looking, almost, her age. Delicate lines ran down from nose to mouth that could be laughter lines but were not. Furrows above the nose were only obvious when the dark magnetism of her eyes did not distract with the fatal attraction of a deep, dark well. But her hair was freshly gold, her nail polish red, the same dark red as her mouth, and her coat, a wool from some baby animal unknown in these parts, was black, showing no stray hairs, nor flecks, nor imprin
t of child.
“First,” Mae said, “tell me about Mrs. Urquhart.”
For an American, she says the name right, Joanne thought, she gets the Scottish ch sound.
“Nurse Urquhart, she was flown to a hospital in Aberdeen but . . .”
“She passed away.”
“Aye. Nothing could be done. And now it’s a murder inquiry. But so far . . .” Joanne didn’t know how much to tell. The wide-open eyes, the quiet way Mae Bell sat, her legs tucked under the table, her hands resting crossed on her lap, made Joanne want to tell her all. So she did.
Gino was watching from behind the counter, and he did not interrupt. Customers came and went. A waitress, a new woman Joanne did not know, was clearing the lunchtime dishes from tables around them, but at a shake of the head from Gino left Joanne and Mae to their conversation.
When Joanne finished, Mae said, “Poor Nurse Urquhart.” She said it simply, the voice, the emotion coming from a dark place inside her; she knew what it was to be physically assaulted. They dipped their heads simultaneously, an acknowledgment of the death of a fine woman.
“Is the death of the nurse connected to the anonymous letters?” Mae asked.
“I don’t know.” Once more they were quiet, once more thinking the same thought: Why? And, though neither said it, there was also the fear that Mae Bell might be next.
The bells, from different church steeples around the town, struck two o’clock.
“I must get back,” Joanne said, even though Mae had not had a chance to tell her of the Edinburgh trip. “Look, this evening, after deadline, I usually have a drink with McAllister. Why don’t you join us?” She knew that McAllister would be more than delighted to have Mae Bell visit his home. “Eight o’clock suit you?”
Mae smiled, nodded, saying she would love to. Joanne scribbled down the address, and Mae watched her run across the street and onto the bridge, hair and coat flying, and she smiled. She liked Joanne, was sorry she was deceiving her, but needs must. It was a phrase her Scottish grandmother used to use. It made her smile again. Only Gino, watching like a bird on a branch, saw the melancholy in the smile. Triste, he would say. Blue, she would say. Or sing.
