by A. D. Scott
“Plimsolls,” the shop assistant in Woolworth’s called them when she pointed out the school sports shoes lying in bundles, black or white.
The dress didn’t matter, but she added the floral cotton tabard cum apron, the uniform of housewives, in a clashing print to the head scarf, this time with pansies and another indeterminate flower in a lemony shade of orange. The coat, a war-era utility label raincoat, martini-olive green, she had found in a fund-raising bring-and-buy sale held in the Northern Meeting Rooms for the Liberal Party. A shopping basket in wicker, rescued from a dustbin, the edges broken, with stray strands poking out at just the right angle to catch on clothes, completed the disguise.
What she hadn’t thought of was buying the bus ticket. First, she didn’t know the price; second, she didn’t know which bus to take, plus she did not want the bus conductor to remember her, especially her voice. So she walked. She hadn’t walked more than a hundred yards for many years. The plimsolls were no help; she had been walking standing stumbling wearing high heels for two decades, calf muscles atrophied in a tiptoe position.
When she arrived at the street, she once more reconnoitered the house, the garden, the neighbors, the hiding places. When satisfied, she saw a bus coming towards her and was about to take it, but decided it was safer to wait for the next one and get on around the corner. Take no chance of being recognized, she told herself.
The journey back to town was short—only four stops. She changed out of her disguise in the ladies’ toilets in the train station; she had donned her disguise in the bus station toilets, but they were disgusting.
As Mae Bell once more, she walked across the station square towards the covered Victorian arcade. Halfway across the street, she discovered she was still carrying the basket. Dressed again in her usual garb of cashmere and silks, the basket smelled of poverty, of her childhood, of her mother, and she wanted to throw it in the nearest bin but couldn’t see one. It was a bus driver blowing his horn, making her jump, that brought her back to where she was—back to the place she should not be.
Would Robert want me to do this? She hid the basket behind a parked car. Of course he would.
She walked towards Eastgate, heading for McAllister’s house, not noticing Rob McLean, even though he was in clear view in the window of the café at the entrance to the arcade, observing her. He was smiling. He thought nothing odd of her behavior and saw nothing odd about the basket. It was his habit to notice strangers. He thought, She’s a fine-looking woman, but very different from us. He couldn’t say why he thought that, but knew it was not because she was American. There were depths to Mae Bell that an older person might, or might not, recognize as scarring.
Rob ordered a second cup of tea. Then called the waitress back. “And another bacon roll, please.”
As he waited he wondered if he should once more attempt smoking—it seemed a useful habit for passing the time of day. He looked across at the station clock. Fifteen minutes to spare. He paid and went across Union Street to Arnotts department store, up to the men’s department, and saw Frankie shake a man’s hand, then give the customer what was obviously a suit neatly wrapped in brown paper and tied with string with a loop for a handle. The parcel looked substantial.
“Heavy tweed. Three-piece. It’ll see him to his coffin.” Frankie was still new to the bereavement scenario, making remarks that some would call in bad taste, refusing to be anyone other than Frankie Urquhart. It was only when Rob asked him where he had been hiding these last ten days that he became a furtive Frankie Urquhart.
“What do you mean? I’ve been around.” Frankie started tidying up, putting discarded choices back on their hangers, then back on the rails, then moving them so the spaces were exactly equidistant.
“Friday night, you coming to the Strath? There’s this band from London playing; they’re meant to be great.”
“No, I can’t make it. Family—you know.”
Rob couldn’t believe Frankie wouldn’t come to the dancing in Strathpeffer with a London rock band top of the bill. He saw how Frankie couldn’t look at him, busying himself doing very little with scissors and pens and string. “Oh, I get it.” Rob laughed. “You’ve found a girlfriend.”
“Naw. I just don’t feel like going out.” Frankie couldn’t bring himself to say that he was worried about his father, who seemed to have aged twenty years in two weeks, plus a sister who hid in her room saying she was doing her homework—hours upon hours of homework.
“Sorry. I’m being insensitive.” Rob felt so helpless, unable to comfort his friend. “Your mother wouldn’t mind you getting on with your life . . .”
“Can I help you, sir?” The manager had moved in as though on silent wheels.
“I’m fine, thanks. Must be getting back to work. Thank you, Mr. Urquhart.” Rob was joking, but there was no humor in the manager’s eyes.
Frankie didn’t look up as Rob left, saying, “Catch you later.”
It was not only his father and his wee sister who were lost; after the blessed numbness of the funeral, life without their mother was empty and, without their mother to cook and shop and do the washing, chaotic. Frankie would never dare tell his best pal that many nights he set up the ironing board to see to his work shirts and his sister’s school uniform. His father worked in the foundry, and his blue boiler suit went unironed. Frankie hadn’t the time to iron them as well as everything else. Mr. Urquhart’s workmates noticed. But no one commented.
What with Joanne going to Stirlingshire to bury her father, and McAllister with her, and with Frankie avoiding him, and no fresh leads in the investigations, it turned into a week when Rob had no real friends to talk to or go out with.
In desperation he’d asked Hector, “Do you want to come to the dancing in the Strath? I’ve got my father’s car and . . .”
“No thanks, I’m busy.” Hec grabbed his school satchel and beetled down the stairs.
When Hec was gone, Rob realized Hec hadn’t even asked what night the dancing was.
Don came in.
“I think I have a bad case of psychic stink,” Rob declared. “No one wants to come out with me.”
“I’ve no idea what you’re blethering about, but it won’t get these pages done.” Don shoved two heaving marked articles at Rob and said, “See if you can fix these. They’re from a man from Daviot who thinks he’s a poet when he’s supposed to be writing an article on sheepdog trials.”
They worked away.
“No progress on who left the letters?” Rob asked.
“None. But I hear Mrs. Bell received another one.”
It took Rob a moment to register who Mrs. Bell was. “What did it say?”
“I don’t know; Fiona gave it straight to DI Dunne.” Don was aggrieved because he did not get to read the letter. Fiona told him, “I have to follow the detective inspector’s orders.”
“Leave it to me,” Rob said, “I’ll find out.”
• • •
Mae Bell was not expecting Rob. But from the way she was dressed, the way she was sitting in the Station Hotel foyer, on the edge of a hard leather sofa, legs together and at a slight but studied angle, it was clear she was expecting someone.
“How good to see you, Rob. How did you find me?” The tone was honey, the intent the opposite.
Rob saw it, was hurt, but recovered. He couldn’t tell her he had spent an hour running from one place to the next—bar, café, hotel—looking for her. “I can see you’re busy, so can I ask a quick question?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “Another anonymous letter came for you at the Gazette. What did it say?” He saw her eyes widen slightly. Assumed it was at the thought of the letter.
Mae could see the hotel receptionist, listening, not missing one word, including the and letter.
“Say, why don’t we discuss this someplace else?”
Mae Bell steered them towards the Carlton’s cocktail bar, a short walk away. Rob was worried he wouldn’t have enough money to pay for a martini, as he was severely bro
ke. As usual, most of his wages went on buying records.
“The anonymous letter was more of the same,” she began to explain. “So I’m choosing to ignore the unpleasant.” She smiled and looked up at the chandelier, blowing smoke towards the glistening crystal drops. He noticed the darkness under her eyes. He observed how the smoking was now constant. He saw her nail polish was chipped. He felt for her and was all the more determined to find the letter writer.
“What did the letter say exactly?” Rob was persistent. He wanted a story, if not to publish, then to share with Don.
Mae pursed her lips, gave a tiny shake of her head. “It was unpleasant. Definitely the same writer and”—she leaned forwards, her eyes meeting Rob’s with an intensity that made him look away—“I will not be frightened off by some cowardly rat of a . . .” She was about to say bitch, but stopped. That was crude, and might give too much away. There had been much speculation that the writer was a woman—No need to confirm it, she told herself.
Rob stayed for one glass of wine, then said he had some work to do.
Mae said she too had to leave.
When the bill came, Mae said, “My treat.”
“Thank you. And Mrs. Bell, Mae, I want you to know I am doing everything I can to find out who is sending these horrible letters.”
“Don’t.” She put a hand on his arm. “It’s not important. Please leave it.”
She was gone, off down the street, before he could reply.
On the drive home, Rob was not thinking about the letters but about Mae’s request. Why shouldn’t I look for the letter writer? Why is she warning me off?
He wheeled the bike through the garden gate and into the garage, taking care not to scratch his father’s car. It puzzled him but eventually he put it down to an older woman concerned for a young man’s safety; Mae worries about me, the same as my mother. Just how wrong he was he would never know.
• • •
That night Mae Bell resumed her watch.
Four times now she had checked out the house and the garden and come to the conclusion it was the shed that mattered. She had seen the woman, and occasionally the man, unlock the door, stay for only a few minutes, then lock the largish, concrete, tin-roofed, obviously home-built structure with, from what she could deduce, at least two padlocks. The small window, facing a garden wall that was at least six feet high, she could only see from a narrow angle.
“So late for here,” she muttered, a half-smile stretching her lips, for once without the deep red lipstick, “but about the time I usually go onstage.”
Sure enough, a church bell started chiming. She counted eleven. As the last bell sounded, she thought she heard a cry. Or crying. Then it died.
“Very soon now,” she whispered to the night. “Back in Paris very soon now.”
SEVENTEEN
Fiona was young. She was bright. She qualified top of her year at school. She could have gone to the academy but chose the technical high school because she was good at sports, and they had much the better facilities.
Besides, she told her mother, I want to learn shorthand and typing, not Latin. Her mother was slightly put out—she’d have loved to impress the neighbors with her lass in an academy uniform. But her husband disagreed.
“Academy brats,” was what he called the few pupils in their royal blue blazers who came from their council estate.
Fiona never regretted the decision. I have a great job here. I’m saving money. I’m seventeen in three weeks. I don’t go out with the wild bunch. Why can’t I have a boyfriend?
She had rehearsed her lines over and over, was now word-perfect and ready to tell her mother—but not her father.
“Hiya.” Hector had come in to reception without her noticing.
He knows what I’m thinking . . . she was frantic for a safe topic of conversation, anything to banish her dreams of a white wedding dress and a piper in full dress kilt playing the music as she entered the church.
“Hiya.” They had picked up the greeting from Rob. It was hard to have a conversation in the office; Fiona was terrified her father would hear and make her leave the Gazette. It was not that her father had an opinion on Hector, but he certainly had an opinion on his granny. “Witch” was one of the kinder things he said when describing Granny Bain.
Hec wanted to tell everyone, especially Rob, and Hector was incapable of hiding anything; even an untruth would make him blush “beetroot,” as Fiona put it.
“I’m taking photos in Kiltarlity on Saturday afternoon. Do you want to come?”
“The shinty?” she asked.
“Aye.”
Mal Forbes came in. “Shinty is for teuchtars.” He winked at her as he said it, then leaned over the desk, rifling through the mail. Finding nothing of interest, he asked, “Where’s McAllister?”
Hector answered. “He’s gone to Elgin.”
Mal Forbes went as still as the proverbial statue, back rigid. “And his bidie-in, is she here? Or with him?”
Hector took a step backwards. Bidie-in, the colloquial term for a woman living in sin, shocked him. He knew McAllister and Joanne Ross were friendly; it was the first time he had considered they were more than that.
“We know nothing of Mr. McAllister’s personal life.” Fiona, suddenly ten years older, glared at Mal Forbes.
“Aye. I’m sorry. That was right rude o’ me.”
The phone rang. “Gazette, how may I help you?” She started writing. “That’ll be fine. Bring it in this afternoon and it will make the next edition. Thank you.” When she hung up, Mal Forbes was gone, but not Hector.
“Jings, you stood up to him—an’ he’s your boss an’ all.” His eyes were shiny, his grin megawatt.
“Mrs. Ross is great. She’s always kind to me. Maybe we can have a double wedding with them . . .” It was out before she knew it. Her hand over her mouth, she was furious with herself.
“Joanne is already married.”
“Oh, Hector.” She was giggling. “Hector.”
“What? What have I got wrong this time?”
• • •
Joanne knew of Elgin but had never visited it. An ancient cathedral town, with a hill reputed to be the realm of the faeries not far from the town center, it was a bonnie and prosperous place.
Joanne was interested in history, in ruins, and towns with character—some of the many reasons she was looking forwards to Elgin.
She had a book borrowed from the library. “It says here, Elgin has a rich and ancient history. The cathedral was built in 1224. It was burnt down later, then . . . hmmm . . . various battles and . . . this looks interesting, the Bishop’s Palace, early thirteenth century as well . . .”
“I researched Elgin and Morayshire. More distilleries than you can poke a stick at.”
“Trust you!”
They parted in the town. McAllister left the car in the square, walking to his appointment with the newspaper editor.
Joanne went to the library, her point of reference in every town. There she found the notice board with all the parish happenings. One of the librarians also provided information on the best café, with toilets, for it had been a long journey. Walking around, she was struck by how prosperous the town seemed, then she remembered the air force base. And the distilleries.
The farmland they had driven through was prosperous too. Rolling, tree-studded hills, a castle or three, substantial stone steadings and farmhouses, dairy cattle, Aberdeen Angus beef herds, crops showing through in green shoots from dark earth, with frequent rivers and burns falling from a horizon of hills and the distant Monadhliath Mountains. The rivers Nairn and Findhorn had sweet water with trout and salmon abundant and water that gave the whisky its distinct peaty color and flavor.
Findhorn Bay, at the mouth of the river, was a renowned beauty spot. Joanne remembered Don’s teasing. Roll in the dunes indeed; she was smiling to herself when the waitress came up and asked if she would like more tea.
“I’d love some.”
W
hen the tea arrived, Joanne went straight to the point.
“I don’t live here, but I’m trying to help my American friend. Her husband was lost in that air crash in the North Sea a few years back . . .” She didn’t need to say more. The woman was out of the starter’s block faster than a greyhound.
“Thon was terrible. Nice young men like them, what a waste.”
“You knew them?”
“No, but you can’t grow up hereabouts an’ no’ meet the airmen. They come to town to the dancing and the pubs, most o’ them are right nice. Aye, we had some fun.”
“This is the notice my friend put in the newspaper.”
The woman took the notice Joanne had cut out, held it at some distance, and squinted. “Bell. Bell. I remember the name from the accident, but I didn’t know him. Aggie!” she screeched. “Come away out here.”
The only other customer ignored the shriek. Probably deaf, Joanne thought. A shepherd, she guessed, seeing a crook leaning against the wall. Maybe not, maybe he’s part of the historic decorations—who walks around town with a crook?
A younger, shorter, thinner, fairer version of the waitress appeared, shaking Joanne out of her dwam.
“This is Agnes, ma wee sister, and I’m Effie Forbes; it’s ma teashop,” the older, chattier woman said.
“I know a man called Forbes from here, Malcolm Forbes.” Joanne saw the woman’s cheery face turn wary.
“His daughter is in the same class at school as my daughter.” She didn’t know why, but for once Joanne was not eager to say she worked on a newspaper.
“She’s no blood relative,” Effie Forbes continued, “but Mal, he’s good to his wife right enough.”
“Aye,” her sister agreed, shaking her head as though baffled by their cousin’s choice of wife. “She’s not from here you know; she’s from the Highlands.” Aggie Forbes said this as though she shared the view of the English that Highlanders, although a mere seventy miles away in distance, were another race, an uncouth, unwashed, uneducable rabble.
“Anyhow, show Aggie your wee bit o’ paper.” Effie Forbes wanted the subject dropped.
