The Low Road

by A. D. Scott

  “It’s summer,” he repeated, “and I am going to buy you a summer dress. Maybe two if you’re good.” He teased.

  “But the girls need . . .” Joanne was shifting in her chair as though sitting on horsehair, not a gingham cushion. Going shopping for herself was not something she did. Her treadle sewing machine was her wardrobe mistress.

  “Wheesht, the girls are a’ right. You go and get yerself a nice treat,” Granny Ross told her. “You deserve it.”

  Leaving the house, this time walking, McAllister headed down the hill and found himself fearful of what awaited him at the Gazette. The lift he had experienced as Joanne smiled at him, saying, “I’d like that,” in answer to his suggestion that they go shopping, had evaporated and left behind a mild discomfort, much like indigestion.

  In this newspaper, this town, this Highland community, he knew the news before it was written. It went something like this: arguments in council over health services; disagreements over road-widening plans; discussions on raising council rates; a cat down a well and the gallant rescue; the Boy Scouts’ bob-a-job week; the Salvation Army’s blankets-for-homeless-servicemen drive. These, and variations thereof, were stories that were the grist of everyday journalism on a local newspaper—stories that bored him, if not to tears, then to whisky.

  He had transformed the Highland Gazette. Radically. Changed it from broadsheet to tabloid, pursued investigative journalism when it was warranted, altered the layout, instituted new columns, introduced photographs, introduced a sports section, and, the biggest change of all, banned advertising on the front page.

  There had been resistance from some, but approval from most of the readers; the increased advertising revenue reflected that. There had been difficult times, especially when the staff of the Gazette had become involved in the stories they were investigating, yet the newspaper had been published, every deadline reached, every copy distributed, read, and digested and argued over—although it had been a close call on occasion.

  And now, all was back to normal. He knew, as editor, he was needed but not absolutely necessary. The Gazette would continue for another ninety-odd years with or without Mr. John McAllister—so he was telling himself as he climbed Castle Wynd, turning right to another Monday at the office, albeit three hours late.

  “It’s yourself,” Don McLeod greeted him as he came into the reporters’ room.

  There was no answer to that. And none expected. “Anything I should know?” McAllister asked.

  “You’ve only been gone three days and one o’ them the Sabbath,” Don reminded him. “How was Glasgow?” He was watching his colleague, looking to see if there was anything amiss, but unable, for once, to read the editor.

  “My mother’s a lot brighter than I’ve seen her in years.”

  “Any news of Jimmy?”

  “He did thirty days in Barlinnie—the usual, a drunken brawl . . .”

  Don McLeod raised his eyebrows at that; in his experience Jimmy McPhee was not a drunk, the former boxer keeping himself fit, drinking sparingly. Money lending, illegal gambling, boxing, that and more he knew Jimmy to be involved in. But drinking and brawling?

  “He was released and hasn’t been seen since.”

  “Right.” Don said no more, but McAllister could see he wasn’t convinced the matter was ended. Later McAllister would wonder why he hadn’t mentioned the reward out for information on Jimmy’s whereabouts. It wasn’t deliberate, but he was uncomfortable talking about the trip to the city.

  “You’d better let Jenny McPhee know, but aye, Jimmy’s well able to look after himself.” Don glanced again at the provisional layout. There was nothing needing McAllister’s attention. “Maybe you could knock up a few editorials so I’ve always got one handy.”

  “Fine,” McAllister replied. “I’ll write a note to Jenny, then do a couple of think pieces before I leave—I’m taking Joanne shopping,” he explained.

  “Good idea” was all the reply he got, Don busy taking his wee red pencil to some correspondent’s article, leaving very little of the original story.

  McAllister walked across the landing to his office, shut the door, rolled three sheets of paper, alternating with sheets of blue carbon copy paper, into his typewriter. He wanted to shut himself away from company at the communal high desk of the reporters’ room, but again, for reasons he couldn’t fathom.

  He flexed his fingers and was about to start, then stopped. What kind of journalism is it where you can write the editorial weeks in advance? He despaired of a newspaper where the stories were so predictable. He wanted the adrenaline of a city desk, but knew those days were gone. He lit a cigarette. He leaned back until the chair was at a dangerous angle. No, it’s far too early for a dram. Ignoring his inner mother, he went to the filing cabinet, took out the bottle and a crystal tumbler, poured at least half a gill, and sipped. It changed nothing.

  He put the bottle and the dirty glass back into the drawer and went into the reporters’ room. It was empty. No sign of his deputy nor Rob McLean, chief and only real reporter, nor Hector Bain, photographer and all-round nuisance. And Frankie Urquhart, the advertising manager and Rob’s old school chum, bright young man-about-town and cheerful soul, was nowhere to be seen.

  He walked down the semi-spiral stone staircase.

  Only Fiona, the Gazette secretary, was where she should be, manning the reception desk and switchboard.

  “Where’s everyone?” he asked.

  “Out,” she replied. The phone rang. “If you’ll excuse me, Mr. McAllister . . .” She picked up the receiver. “Highland Gazette, how may I help you?”

  I can see I’m not needed, he was thinking as he hailed a taxi on the High Street. Arriving home, he asked the driver to wait while he fetched Joanne.

  “A taxi?” she said when she saw it. “What an extravagance.” But she didn’t mean it. She knew he saw taxis as an everyday form of public transport, not the only-in-emergencies necessity she always regarded them as.

  They emerged in front of the wide stone edifice. In the large plate-glass windows of the only department store in the Highlands were poised mannequins, some showing the latest but one year late compared to London fashions. Other models showed the best-selling tweed skirts and lambswool twinsets. Once through the double swing doors with gleaming brass handles, they took the wide carpeted sweep of stairs to the ladies’ section. As they headed towards a rack of summer dresses, they were waylaid by a shop assistant dressed in the black uniform and the overheavy makeup that seemed to be a requisite for assistants in this establishment.

  “Can I help, Madame? Are you looking for something in particular?”

  The woman came too close, sizing Joanne up, mentally calculating whether there would be a good commission from this customer. And clearly deciding not.

  McAllister felt Joanne shrink into her already much thinner frame. “We’re fine, thanks,” he said. “I’ll call if we need your help.”

  Realizing that the man would be paying, the woman took Joanne by the elbow, steering her towards the more expensive clothing section.

  “I think you’ll find something to suit over here,” she said in her put-on best posh Edinburgh accent. “These would look lovely on Madame.”

  The “Madame” came out as “Modom,” and it was all McAllister could do not to laugh at the preposterous woman but, seeing how nervous she was making Joanne, he once more intervened. Pointing to a white summer dress with a rounded neckline and no sleeves, and large scarlet poppies and lime-green leaves printed on a full skirt, he said, “I like this one.”

  Joanne turned, saw it, and smiled. “It’s lovely.”

  “A little young for Madame, don’t you think? This one is perfect. The latest style from London.” She held up another cotton frock, this one with cap sleeves, buttons down the front, a slightly flared skirt. A nice dress, in a subtle print in shades of blue and lavender.

  Nice for a respectable middle-aged-matron-of-the-town dress, he was thinking, then realized the woman
had steered Joanne into the dressing room.

  “Hold on,” he called out and took the summer poppy-strewn sundress from the rack, handing it to Joanne. When she emerged it was not the white with scarlet poppies she was wearing, but the dress in many shades of blue.

  It fitted well; the fabric was practical, the length right, the buttons delicate. But it did nothing for her; it made Joanne look like any other woman of the town. She looked at herself in the mirror. He had no idea what she was seeing, but she said, “I’ll take it.”

  “And the other one? Try it on,” he suggested.

  “If I was ten years younger maybe.” She smiled—a faint weary smile.

  Oh, my love—he looked away, scared she might read his thoughts—since when did you think like that?

  That evening, after supper, after Mrs. Ross senior had gone home, and after the girls had done their homework, they were all sitting around reading or, in Jean’s case, drawing with her new pencil set McAllister had brought from Glasgow, when Joanne said, “McAllister bought me a dress.”

  “Can I see it, Mum?” Jean asked.

  “It’s upstairs on my bed.”

  Jean ran upstairs, brought it down, saying, “I like the material, it’s lovely and soft.”

  Annie looked at it, picked it up, and held it against herself. McAllister was taken aback to see how tall she was growing, how soon she would be near her mother’s height.

  “Granny Ross will approve.” And with that Annie put the dress on the sofa and went back to her book.

  Joanne agreed. “It’s lovely. And just right for church.”

  McAllister agreed. Just right for church.

  It was late, after eleven. The house was quiet, Joanne and the girls in bed. McAllister was reading, the decanter of whisky on a table beside his chair. He heard the sound of the letterbox flap. And the sound of footsteps receding quickly. He put down the book and went to the front door. Picking up a piece of folded paper, he took it into the sitting room and the light.

  It was printed on lined notepaper. Tomorrow night. Six o’clock sharp. The bar. He knew it was from Jenny McPhee. He knew he would be there.

  • • •

  Next evening, McAllister drove across the Black Bridge, noticing that at low tide and with an unusual lack of rain, the river was low. On the pebbled beach at the bend of the river where the fishermen kept the salmon cobles and where he had first kissed Joanne, the shore was wider and broader than usual. Stones and rounded smooth boulders—never having been exposed to the air before—were now a dull green, not the bright beech-leaf-green normally seen through the running river.

  A drought in the Highlands, he thought, that’ll be the day.

  The road to the ferry led to the meeting place, the pub rumored to belong to Jenny McPhee. Not that she had ever admitted this. Not that anyone was ever able to prove it. He parked outside with five minutes in hand. He knew his car would be safe because this pub, the most notorious in the area, if not the Highlands, was hallowed ground. No one would voluntarily cross the McPhees.

  The sun, still high in the sky even at this hour, shone on the stark edifice of a superbly unattractive blockhouse, doing it no favors. This building was a creature of the night. Daylight revealed rough concrete, badly laid tiles, high dirty windows. To McAllister, everything about the building was saying, Despair all ye who enter herein.

  Jenny was sitting in the snug bar, where he knew she would be. She checked the clock.

  “Right on time,” she said.

  “I’d be too scared not to be after your note.”

  She nodded in satisfaction. “I’ll no’ keep you. You’ll be wanting to get home to Joanne and the girls,” she started.

  She definitely has the second sight, he thought.

  She had her coat on, buttoned up. Her hat, the one that belonged on a scarecrow, was pulled down on the forehead hiding her face, partially. She’s looking old, was his next thought, or is it scared?

  “So what did you find out in Glasgow?” She knew that if he’d found Jimmy he would have come straight out with it.

  “Not much,” he began. He was not offered a drink. She didn’t indicate a chair. Seeing that this was the way of it, he gave his account of the trip to Glasgow as though he was in the witness stand.

  “He did his thirty days. Was released. A reporter at the Herald told me she’d heard there are people looking for Jimmy. She doesn’t know who, but she’s investigating.” He refrained from lighting a cigarette, even though he needed one. This was not a friendly meeting; this was an interview.

  “A man I knew as a boy came looking for me to warn me off,” McAllister continued.

  That made Jenny look up. “And?”

  “This man, he didn’t mention Jimmy’s name, ‘my friend’ is what he said, and . . .”

  “His name?”

  “Gerry Dochery.”

  Jenny was shaking her head, indicating she had never heard of him.

  “He’s well known, runs protection rackets, though sometimes he’ll take a contract, so I was told, but I couldn’t find out how, or if, he is connected to Jimmy.” He knew he wasn’t being completely honest but then again, he was reasoning, Gerry Dochery only mentioned “my friend.”

  “So,” Jenny said after taking a sip of a clear, peat-smelling drink, obviously an Islay malt. “So,” she said again slower this time, “what do we do now? Have you an idea where to look for him?” She knew that if Jimmy were hiding, he’d be hard to trace. If not impossible.

  “Not really. Mary Ballantyne, the reporter at the Herald, she has a better chance than most of finding Jimmy.”

  “Tell her there’s some money in it for her.”

  “I don’t think that will make a difference. Mary is in it . . .”

  “For herself.”

  He’d meant her career. But maybe “herself” was more honest.

  Jenny sighed. “Aye, a woman needs to be tough to get on in a man’s world.” She was looking into the depths of her glass as though it held the secret to her son’s whereabouts. Then looking at him with her black-currant eyes, she said, “But you’ll help this Mary woman when you’re back down to the city to find ma Jimmy.”

  “I’ve a newspaper to run and family to . . .”

  “Mr. McAllister, the McPhee family befriended you. If Jimmy needs you, you’ll be there.” This was said not as a threat, just a certainty. Friendship with a non-Traveler was not given lightly—if ever. “And your Joanne, she’ll recover.” This too was said with absolute certainty. “She’s stronger than you think. She survived thon no-good husband o’ hers, didn’t she? Kicked him out? That lass has spirit.” Jenny was waving his concerns away in a gesture that, not for the first time, made McAllister marvel at her resemblance to the Queen Mother. She continued, “And didn’t Donal McLeod run the newspaper for years before you came up here wi’ your fancy new ways? You owe us, McAllister. Go to Glasgow. Find our Jimmy.”

  “I’m sorry. I can’t. Joanne . . . I can’t leave her.” He met her stare. And shivered. For all the legends and gossip about this woman, Jenny McPhee, head of her clan, rumored to have the second sight, also rumored to be a witch, he had seen only her courage, her fortitude. Never before had he felt someone look right through him to the bone, and look away, leaving him feeling he had failed the inspection.

  “So be it,” she said, “but if you change your mind . . .”

  “I can’t.”

  Walking down the pathway to his house McAllister felt light-headed, and for once it was not whisky. He had been shaken by the way Jenny had gazed, seemingly into the depth of his being. And a suspicion was sprouting; there was more to Jimmy’s disappearance than she was telling, and if she didn’t want him to know what or why he was in trouble, he would never find out.

  The sound of recorded voices and canned laughter came down the hallway from the dining room, now the girls’ domain. The dining table had disappeared under the spread of artwork, pots of poster paint, paintbrushes, crayons, fabric,
pots of glue, and red lentils. The television on top of the china cabinet, which now housed Jean’s dolls, was on, the volume loud.

  McAllister asked, “Done your homework?”

  “I don’t have any,” Jean replied. “I’m too young.” She turned back to the obviously American show that had her mesmerized.

  Annie looked up from rug, where she was sprawled with the journal from Glasgow open on the floor. She had a pen in one hand, and with the left arm she was shielding the page, anxious that, even at across the large room, he might read her writing.

  “Mum’s upstairs. She wanted a lie-down,” Annie told him.

  He went to the kitchen, made tea, took a cup upstairs to Joanne.

  “Knock, knock,” he said to the half-open door. But when he went in, she was asleep. Her fear of the dark often made her sit up all night, lights illuminating every nook and cranny of the house. But the summer nights were a scant five hours long. Thankfully, he thought. The doctor, on a home visit, had said when McAllister mentioned this, “Give her time.” So he did. But it distressed him nonetheless.

  He put the cup down on the bedside table and leaned down to touch her hair. She didn’t stir. He watched her sleeping. She looked herself when asleep; that was the Joanne he wanted back so badly, it was an ache in his chest. He felt powerless. And most of all he felt trapped. He was certain he could not live the rest of his life with an invalid. Too selfish, too stuck in my ways, too used to living life to suit myself, too old to change, he admitted to himself. Yet he knew he would never abandon her.

  He went downstairs and made cocoa for the girls.

  They went to bed themselves, Annie saying she would tell Jean a story. She hadn’t told anyone and had sworn Jean to secrecy, but Annie was writing stories, trying them out on her sister, and if her sister stayed awake until the end of the tale, she would transcribe it into a notebook. From now on, she had decided, the best stories would go into her new journal.