by A. D. Scott
Mae knew that Moira was part of the clique who went to the dances held in the air base canteen. Mae now knew that Moira had known Robert. She knew Moira was already married to Mal Forbes, with a daughter, but that didn’t stop her flirting with the airmen. She had found out that both Mal and Moira were working at the air base at the time of the plane’s disappearance. Mae was convinced something had happened.
Then Moira had caught Mae Bell trying to pry the metal off the air raid shelter window. Mae Bell was trying frantically to reach whoever was crying bitterly, from pain or from fear. Moira had come up behind her, unheard because of the sobbing from the shelter, and grabbed Mae Bell by the hair, yanking her backwards onto the grass.
Moira was sitting on top of Mae Bell, straddling her. She started pounding up and down on Mae’s torso like a frenzied perversion of sex, knocking the wind from Mae’s lungs.
“What are you doing in my garden?” she’d said, the voice direct into Mae Bell’s ear, not loud, more a hissing noise. And spitting. Mae felt the saliva running down her neck and longed to wipe the evil off her skin, but with both arms pinned to the ground, she could barely move. She was kicking, squirming, trying to bite, then decided on calm. She went slack. She would use her voice. Moira was too strong; she had the strength of a gymnast—or a woman possessed.
“You know what’s in here.” She took a bottle from her pocket, and without taking off the lid, she terrified Mae. She was waving it in Mae’s face. “I’ll pour it into yer eyes, see if that stops you being so nosy.”
“Hey. Let’s talk about this. I’m sorry. If you let me up . . .” Mae tried to talk to Moira the way she would talk to the old horse that lived out the back of her late grandmother’s place in the country. “I’m sorry,” but Mae found it hard to say more than “sorry.”
The continuous keening of the voice in the shed was disturbing, heartbreaking. Mae couldn’t compete. She went stiff. The terror in her eyes was clear to Moira.
“That’s better. Now I’m going to get up and you’re going to go into the shed. Then I’ll bring us all a nice cup o’ tea.”
Mae had done as she was told. She went into the shed. At first she did not see whoever was in there with her. She sat on the floor, handed over her handbag; she had done everything Moira Forbes told her to do—the flat blue bottle hypnotizing her.
Mae waited first for Moira to return with the cup of tea. That didn’t happen. She waited for the person whom she could hear breathing noisily through mucus-filled nostrils to calm down and speak.
Mae met the boy in the dark, dank shelter. Immediately she saw him in a chink of light; when she saw him, she knew he was Robert’s child. For days and nights he cowered in the corner and wouldn’t speak. It was like taming a wild animal. Moira must have put something in his food, because at night the boy slept for twelve hours, barely moving. In the daytime he was restless, lethargic.
It was after hearing the distant voices of strangers in the house that Mae and the boy were moved to the underground part of the former air raid shelter; from a dark, damp, but not pitch-black room to the semi-basement of a dirt-floored, narrow, coffin-shaped space at the end of the original shelter. Normally the boy was in the house during the day, but after whoever it was had visited, no more daylight for the lad.
It’s like those atom bomb shelters people in the States are being told to dig, Mae joked to herself.
Her sense of humor was now exhausted along with every part of her body. It was Mal Forbes who had dragged Joanne in. Mae had been hoping, praying, he didn’t know of his wife’s madness and would release her when he found out she was being held prisoner. The sight of Mal holding Joanne by the arms, ignoring the blood from her head, ignoring the obvious—that she was injured, unconscious, in need of a doctor—made all hope vanish.
Mae Bell had tried to reason with Mal Forbes. “Help me. Help Joanne.” He didn’t answer. It’s as if he can’t see or hear me, she thought. As if he’s hypnotized.
Moira was now removing the empty food containers. Then she took out the bucket that was near the door. Next she passed in a pail of fresh water—all the while holding out the bottle of vitriol.
“You must get help for Joanne.” Mae was trying to keep her voice calm. “No one will miss me, but you can be sure the police and everyone else will be looking for Joanne.”
“No one cares about Mrs. Joanne Ross.” Moira put in an empty toilet bucket before taking out the full one, as calm and organized as a farmer cleaning out the pigpen. “That woman’s nothing but a hoor, living wi’ a man she’s no’ married to.”
The boy was moving, swaying, muttering, not words, only sounds but increasing in volume. “Muuum. Reeen.” He hated the smaller room, the one he was always locked up in when he tried to get out into the garden and the light. He hated having to share with two big people, the space so tight he couldn’t move around. He tried to stand.
“Get back!” Moira shrieked.
He moaned. Mae tried to grab his leg but missed. His moans became louder. Mae was horrified that even in these wretched, torturous conditions, he was reaching out to the woman saying, moaning, Mum. Muum. Reaching out for a touch from this monster. This demon he called Mum.
“Go on, get in there. I promise I’ll be back for you soon, ma wee man. Just wait till we’re rid o’ them two, then you ’n’ me’ll be thegether again.”
That phrase sounded like a death sentence—just wait till we’re rid o’ them; it paralyzed Mae Bell. She knew what she’d said was true; there would be a major search for Joanne. Apart from the police, and her colleagues, she was absolutely certain McAllister would never give up until he found Joanne. The man is in love. He is intelligent. He will do all that it takes to find her. But will he be in time?
“Let us out or you’ll be the one locked up!” Mae Bell had summoned all the strength she could to threaten the woman, but Moira Forbes shut the door and all Mae could hear was the rattle of chain and padlock, the moving of furniture, and silence.
She felt across Joanne’s body and held her fingers lightly against her temple. The pulse was faint. She tried the wrist. Very faint. The bleeding had stopped. Externally anyhow. Internal bleeding was another matter she tried not to think about. Her hearing was keen, and the lightness of Joanne’s breathing, the shallow in-and-out, worried her most of all.
Joanne spoke—or rather breathed, single words, minutes, half hours, hours apart, throughout the day; consciously or unconscious Mae could not be sure. McAllister. Water. Father. Nits. Water.
Mae was unsure of the last word but the boy said, nits, and scratched his head with both hands, saying, nits, nits.
Mae told him, “We don’t need nits right now.”
The boy smiled, the whiteness of his teeth creating a flash in the pitch black. “No nits. All gone.” He reached out and touched her lightly, and the touch of his wee hand on her leg made her almost weep; but she didn’t. Knew she mustn’t, knew if she started she would not be able to stop.
No nits, she was thinking, but the itching, the crawling sensation on her skin revolted her. She tried rubbing her hands and arms and legs with cold water and the edge of the filthy sheets she had lain in for . . . How long? Two weeks? Less? More? She rubbed the dirt off in small granules, pellets, making her feel slightly cleaner. She stank but could no longer smell herself.
She was so hungry she was no longer hungry. Don’t need to use the bucket as much, she said to herself, taking comfort from small mercies. It was the clumps of hair coming out in fistfuls when she scratched her head that upset her the most. Robert loved my hair.
“A real blonde,” he said when they first spent the night together.
Not so much anymore, she thought.
“Nits.” Joanne spoke clearly this time. “Nurse Urquhart . . .” she faded again.
Next night when the door opened, it was dim outside, northern long gloaming dim. With the toilet bucket removed, and the water bucket full, Moira put a tray with bread, cold potatoes, digestive bis
cuits, and a lump of cheese inside the door. The cheese, although tasty, with bread and biscuits and not enough water, made Mae Bell thirsty. But the boy liked it. He also had extra rations.
“Some nice ham sandwiches for you, ma wee lamb,” Moira crooned at the boy. “Thank you, Mummy,” he said. He’d learned good manners meant treats. “Good boy, Mummy. Can I play with Maureen?”
“Maureeen,” Joanne echoed in a voice so low it came out as an elongated keening.
“Get her a doctor, you bloody madwoman.” Mae was struggling to stand. “Throw your dammed acid but get her a doctor.” She fell backwards, landing on Joanne’s foot. Joanne jerked, gave a cry, then passed out.
This time, when Moira Forbes once again dragged the cupboard across the door and they were left in the dark so black that the air itself felt heavy like a woolen wartime blanket, this time, Mae started to sob.
She shook. Her body convulsed with sobs so deep, she felt she would never have the strength to take the next breath. The little hand patting her, small regular pats on her back, slowed the sobs.
“There, there, dinny cry.” His accent an exact echo of his sister’s, the gesture the same. He patted Mae Bell, his father’s wife, his father’s love, until her breathing became regular. Then she slept.
And when both women were deep asleep, he pressed up against the door and whispered, Maureen, Maureeen. He whispered at irregular intervals for almost an hour. He breathed the chant, Maureen, Maureen, Reen, Reeen, Reeeen. He stopped. Listened.
He heard movement but not the moving of the cupboard. It was too heavy for Maureen to shift, but she could whisper to him. The old door her dad had used, when he blocked off the space at the end of the shed with the two leftover sections of timber from the fence, did not fit. There was a good four inches at the bottom, wide enough for Maureen to pass a banana, a packet of shortbread, three gobstoppers, and a comic through. It never occurred to her that he could not read. Nor see in the complete dark.
“Crying,” he said. “She’s crying.”
“Don’t worry. She’ll be gone soon.”
“New lady’s sick.”
This puzzled her. She knew Annie’s mother had disappeared. She had heard her father shouting at her mother: “Moira, I can’t protect you this time. The police are already suspicious.”
Could it be . . .? No. Why would Mum . . . ? She tried desperately to work out what was going on. She had heard her father make odd noises. He sounded like he was crying.
“Moira, Moira. What were you thinking?” he’d asked.
For Maureen, this was the worst part—her father crying. She felt helpless. She felt lonely. And really scared.
“I have to go,” she whispered through the gap in the door. “Night-night, Charlie, see you tomorrow.”
“Nigh-nigh, Reen.”
As she crept back to the house, taking care to keep to the shadow of the fence so her mother would not see her, she thought about it. The lady would be gone soon; her dad said so. But what about Annie’s mother? Is she in there too? And how will the other lady leave? Will she catch the train? Will she keep the secret about Charlie? Will the welfare come and get him like Nurse Urquhart threatened?
Maureen knew it was all her fault. Her mother had told her after Nurse Urquhart came to visit that it was all her fault.
“Why did you tell her you have a brother?” Moira shouted. “We’ve told you never to mention him. Now they’ll take him away.”
“The nurse asked if we had brothers and sisters ’cos they might have nits too.” Maureen was terrified. And confused. Maybe Charlie would be better off somewhere else. Somewhere he could run and sing and sleep in a real bed.
That night before going to sleep, she knelt down beside her bed, clasped her hands like her mother taught her, and said her prayers.
“God bless Mum. God bless Dad. God bless Charlie. God make me a good girl.” She opened her eyes. Then quickly closed them. “God bless Annie Ross’s mum and help her come home.”
Her mother came in to kiss her good night.
“Said your prayers?”
“Yes, Mum.”
“Good girl.” Her mum ruffled her hair in that way Maureen didn’t like.
When the lights were out, and the wind still, and the night dark but bright with stars, Maureen was almost asleep when she heard it. Not the song, but the tune. The one she had taught Charlie. He didn’t know all the words, but he remembered most of them. He learned the tune even after her singing it only two times. It was a song she learned in school choir. She listened again. Yes, it was Charlie. Singing the song she had taught him, his voice was high and sweet and true. And the woman, the lady as Maureen thought of her, she was joining in. Faintly, but singing along with her brother—
Dreams to sell, fine dreams to sell,
Angus is here wi’ dreams to sell . . .
Throughout the town, there was a sense of busyness. More police walking the streets, and many volunteers, going into shops and cafés and bars, into the Victorian market, the bus station, the train station, the petrol stations, distributing the poster that Don had the printers make up, headed MISSING.
Underneath was a picture of Joanne. Hector volunteered the photograph, one he had taken of Joanne leaning against the guardrail on the riverbank. She had been joking with Rob, unaware Hec had his camera out. Her hair flying in the wind, her head slightly to one side, her eyes bright even in black and white—you could see that if you met this woman, she would light up your life.
Most of the phone calls to the police station were people asking for information. And the sightings—they were for days and times before the disappearance. One person thought she had seen Joanne on the Dochfour Drive bus, but she couldn’t remember the day, only that it was early afternoon. That being the bus that passed her parents-in-law’s house, it was dismissed.
Annie Ross went into the newsagents on Glen Urquhart Road near her school. She had stopped the home delivery of the Girl comic. As they now regularly stayed at McAllister’s house, she preferred to collect it herself and pick up the Bunty for Jean. When she saw the poster with her mum smiling out at her, she ran outside to grab her sister. She always complained Jean was a slow coach, always hated waiting for her sister to catch up; this time she was grateful.
“The comics aren’t in yet.” She surprised Jean by taking her hand, saying, “I have a sixpence, let’s catch the bus.” She could see one in the distance. She was desperately hoping it wouldn’t have the picture of their mum. There was no picture. It had fallen down and the conductress hadn’t put it back up, as she had no sticky tape.
“Two halves to Dochfour Drive, please.” Annie held out the money, then took her sister’s hand again. That was what scared Jean.
“What’s happened to Mum?” she asked quietly, knowing Annie might answer, knowing no grown-up would.
“I don’t know.” Annie was staring straight ahead, kicking the seat in front as though she were six, not eleven. “She’s gone off somewhere and forgot to tell anyone.” That was what she was trying to believe, but failing. She knew their mother would never leave them.
“Let’s say a prayer.” Jean closed her eyes tight. Still holding Annie’s hand, she started, “Dear God, please tell Mum to come home. Amen.” That was it. No more.
Annie was close to crying. She opened her eyes. They’d missed their stop. She rang the bell. They hurried down the stairs. Hand in hand they walked back to their grandparents’ house. Granny Ross was waiting for them. Desperate for something to do, she was in the garden weeding the rockery. She looked up. Seeing her granddaughters walking towards her, holding hands, she could not stop the tears. She rushed into the house, calling out to the girls, “I think I left the gas on.”
• • •
Maureen Forbes saw the poster taped to the inside of the phone box on the corner of her street. The border of the pane of glass cut off the words, but she recognized Joanne Ross; she had seen her dropping Jean and Annie off at Sunday school and thought she
looked happy, not like her own mum. She knew Mrs. Ross was missing—everyone in their class was talking about it. And she was scared. She didn’t know why she was scared, but why had the police come to their house, twice that she knew of, to ask about Mrs. Ross?
She was in a hurry to get home. She was eleven and a half and only her mother knew she had started her periods three months ago. She had been terrified, no idea what was wrong. She thought she was really ill.
She ran into the house. Her mother was in the sitting room, sleeping with the curtains closed. Maureen could tell from the way she was breathing and the small bubbles of spittle coming out of the side of her mouth that Mum had taken too much of her medicine. Nothing would wake her for a long time.
She went into her parents’ bedroom, to the double wardrobe. Mum left the pads in a brown paper bag in the back, behind her shoes. It was dim in the bedroom. Mum always kept the curtains shut. Maureen felt around for the bag. Her hand caught something unfamiliar, something leather. A bag, it felt like. She took it out. It was not new; it was not her mother’s. She put it back. She had what she came for, went to the bathroom, went back to her bedroom. But curiosity about the bag made her check her mother. Moira Forbes was snoring lightly; it was safe.
She opened the wardrobe again and took the handbag to her bedroom. It was brown, not very big, closed with a clasp in silver, and had a shoulder strap as well as handles. Inside was a purse, a hankie, a wee spiral-bound notebook full of what looked like scribbles, a pencil, and a fountain pen—a blue-marbled Conway Stewart that looked old.
Maureen took out the family allowance book. Her mother had one, so she knew what it was. She opened it. She read Mrs. Joanne Ross. Underneath, it had Annie Elsie Ross and Jean Joanne Ross and their dates of birth. She was so shocked, she didn’t even register Annie’s middle name—Elsie—a name that in better times she would have teased her almost friend about.
The back door opened. “Hello. Where’s my girls?”
