The Low Road

by A. D. Scott

  It was mid-evening, and once again McAllister was alone with his whisky and a book. He was reluctant to put on a record, half listening for Joanne, half worried she might have a nightmare and he might miss her cries.

  He fell into a reverie; not a nightmare, not a dwam, more a fantasy. He was back in the city, in a tall room with deep casement windows overlooking a square, much like Blythswood Square. There was the sound of a piano being played, Brahms, he fancied. There was a woman, indistinct yet familiar, the identity not yet revealed. He had a newspaper on his lap, a whisky in hand, and he was reading a page five in-depth analysis of some current topic, again not revealed, but he knew he had written it.

  “Are you awake?”

  The voice startled him.

  Joanne was standing in the doorway, holding her arms around herself as though she was cold.

  He smiled. “Come and sit down. Can I get you tea, a drink?”

  “Later. First tell me about Jenny. How is she? Did you reassure her Jimmy can look after himself? Tell me all about it.”

  Since the attack, and the possibility of brain damage not yet clear, he wasn’t certain how much he should tell her. The specialist had warned that worry was bad for her. He’d told her that, and she had been furious.

  “McAllister. I had a horrific experience. I was hit on the head, locked up in the dark, I nearly died, but I’m alive. And I’m very, very grateful. These spells I have, they will pass. I have to believe that.” She looked at him, and her eyes shone bright with the intensity of her resolve. “But one thing, McAllister: I always know when you try to hide bad news from me, and when you do, I’m scared it’s about my health. All of you—you, the doctor, my mother-in-law—think it best to keep things from me, but it’s not. I hate it.”

  He smiled and nodded. “Sorry. I’ll do my best.”

  “Just treat me as though everything is normal . . . which it will be soon.”

  Looking at her, at her ghostly skin, her wrist bones sharp knobs on stick-thin arms, the dark shadows under her eyes, and the gingerly way she moved, he knew that was not possible. And the lapses in memory, the searching for simple words, the way she seemed unable to concentrate for more than half a minute on any simple task like reading the newspaper, that worried him most of all.

  But he did as asked and told her of Jenny’s concern that Jimmy hadn’t returned home to prepare the horses for the Black Isle Show.

  “And all you found out was that he did time in Barlinnie?” she asked when he finished.

  He thought of lying, then remembered her plea. “No. A childhood friend came to see me at my mother’s flat to warn me off.” He told her about Gerry Dochery, but not of his reputation, only saying he was a petty criminal. She seemed to believe him.

  He finished by telling her his mother would come north for their wedding, and she seemed satisfied. And not once did he mention Mary Ballantyne.

  “I’d love that cup of tea now,” she said. “And would you put on one of my new records?”

  He selected Kenneth McKellar. He took the record out of the cover, put it on the turntable, and aligned the needle, letting it gently drop into the grooves. The young tenor’s voice, sweet yet strong, floated across the room.

  Ae fond kiss and then we sever,

  Ae fareweel, alas, for ever . . .

  McAllister could not bear to hear any more. He fled to the kitchen and busied himself with the kettle, the teapot, and a plate of shortbread. No longer could he hear the melody, but the words, he knew them by heart.

  Had we never loved sae kindly,

  Had we never loved sae blindly,

  Never met—or never parted,

  We had ne’er been broken-hearted.

  He rejoined Joanne in the sitting room to pass the evening chatting quietly, with long silences, mostly comfortable; Joanne had the knack of sitting, saying and doing nothing, seemingly content. He put on more music, the Pastoral Symphony. Anything but “Ae Fond Kiss.” And nothing more was said about tinkers or criminals or health. Or the future.

  FIVE

  Wednesdays at the Gazette were busy. Seldom frantically busy—this was a local newspaper in a small town—the stories were subbed, set by the typesetters picking out the type with tweezers, checked again by Don McLeod, reading upside down and back to front as easily as he did normal type. The spaces for the advertising and the articles set, there were sometimes gaps; these adjustments Don made on the stone. But not many changes; with over forty years’ experience, he knew how much space a story would take with only an and or a then to be deleted or the font size of a headline changed. The Gazette would be published on time and, much to McAllister’s chagrin, the most-read column was “Births, Deaths and Marriages,” or, in newspaper parlance, “Hatched, Matched and Dispatched.”

  Between five o’clock and seven in the evening on deadline day, Don was up and down the stone stairs—the only exercise he ever took, several times an hour. He seldom answered the phone in the reporters’ room—that had been Joanne’s job. This afternoon, the phone wouldn’t stop. He picked it up to shut it up. A voice yelled loud enough for him to hear even though the receiver was only halfway to his ear.

  “McAllister, answer the bloody phone!”

  “Now what would you be wanting with our esteemed editor?” Don asked. Rob McLean looked across the desk at Don and, seeing his expression of part amusement, part exasperation, assumed it was someone they knew.

  “It’s bloody important.”

  “And who might you be, Miss Important?”

  “Mary Ballantyne, crime reporter, Glasgow Herald.”

  “Wait a wee moment, Miss . . .”

  McAllister walked into the room.

  Don laid the receiver on the table. “It’s yer girlfriend from Glasgow,” he said and slipped off his stool to go back down to the stone. He heard no protest at his joke. But he did catch a glimpse of McAllister’s face.

  He’s looking guilty, Don thought. And halfway down the stairs he was shaking his head, thinking, For the love of the Wee Man, that’s all we need.

  Now Rob was curious, and was trying to listen in as McAllister took up the receiver.

  “McAllister. Oh, hello. No. I haven’t seen today’s Herald. Really?” He listened intently as Mary told him the gist of the newspaper article. “And you’re sure there’s a connection between this man and Jimmy McPhee?” He listened for a minute more, then said, “Of course. I’ll let her know. And Mary . . . be careful.” McAllister was not being condescending when he said this; the new development was disturbing.

  Now Rob was really interested. Even though the editor’s back was turned, Rob could feel the tension. “Bad news?” he asked.

  “Aye. But not our bad news.” He went to his office, needing time to think. He knew Joanne and the girls were not expecting him home until late. But still he felt he should call.

  “Hello.” Again it was Annie.

  “Everything fine?”

  “Why wouldn’t it be?”

  A surge of exasperation made him snap. “Annie, I’m calling to make sure your mother is okay.”

  “Mum is in the kitchen with Granny. If I get her to the phone she’ll wonder if something’s wrong.”

  He knew she was right. “I’ll be back later than I thought, so don’t wait up for me.”

  “I’ll let Mum know.” And the girl hung up.

  He was furious. He knew he had no right to be. He knew she was scared, afraid her mother would never be the same and, with the wisdom of an ancient, the child was protecting her.

  From him? came a fleeting thought. No, stop imagining things.

  He reached for the phone, took a deep breath, and dialed the Herald. He asked to be put through to the editorial floor.

  The phone rang out again. “Is Mary Ballantyne there?” he asked.

  “She’s out.”

  “Can I leave . . .” a message, he was about to say to the dial tone. He knew it must be that man, the one who loathed Mary, bitter that she gave him
no attention—or had stolen his thunder. Whatever the excuse, McAllister thought him totally unprofessional. He was about to redial and ask for Sandy Marshall, then thought better of it.

  “Glasgow Herald.”

  “Can I leave a message for Mary Ballantyne?”

  “Certainly, sir. Can I have your number?”

  “It’s John McAllister. Tell her I’ll be in Glasgow tomorrow night.”

  “I’ll give her the message. Nice to hear from you, Mr. McAllister.”

  As he hung up he was smiling. Not forgotten, then. Then he jerked back in his chair. Why did I do that? He had had no intention of returning to Glasgow. Jimmy can look after himself. But he knew he would go.

  He waited until he heard the presses rolling. Even from three floors up and even though the machinery was entombed in a carved-out rock cave of a room, the noise was loud, the vibration slight but noticeable.

  When McAllister was in the office, Don was in the habit of joining him for a celebratory drink. Another edition put to bed, Don would say, and McAllister would open the filing cabinet and bring out the good whisky, the one they kept for themselves, not visitors.

  He poured. Don came in and sat in the visitor’s chair. McAllister passed him a tumbler of one of his favorite whiskies, a Glenfarclas. They drank. No toast, only a silent raising of the glasses.

  “Any problems?” he asked his deputy.

  “None.”

  “There might be a problem—in Glasgow.” He wasn’t looking at Don as he said this. Instead his eye was following the whisky as he swirled it around the glass, creating a vortex, releasing a scent of heather and moorland and loneliness. He’d always thought Scotland’s national drink a duality—comfort yet pain. Much like the stories of this nation, he once wrote in his younger, more pretentious, days.

  “Jimmy McPhee was apparently hiding out in a boxing club in the Gorbals. Last night the building was torched. It’s badly damaged and a body was found . . .” He saw Don’s eyes widen. “No, not Jimmy. It was the owner, Jimmy’s old trainer from the prewar days.”

  Don, shaking his head as he considered the development, said, “Bad news indeed.”

  McAllister was grateful. He had no need to explain why he was involved. Don knew McAllister was obliged to help Jenny McPhee any way he could, if she asked for help. And she had.

  It’s just the way o’ it, he would have said if asked to explain the Highland etiquette of obligation, hospitality, those invisible bonds that tied you to your friends, your neighbors—even strangers; the Good Samaritan would have recognized the Highland code.

  “An anonymous caller phoned the Herald with a message for Mary Ballantyne. Someone is looking for Jimmy, they said, and next time, he won’t be so lucky.”

  “And Jenny McPhee, she still wants you to find him?”

  “Find him, bring him home . . .”

  “That’s if he wants to come home.” Don took a sip of the whisky. He rolled it around his mouth before swallowing it in obvious appreciation at such fine malt. “The last thing you should be doing right now is getting involved with criminals, especially in Glasgow.” He did not need to explain why.

  McAllister said nothing.

  “Do you know why Jimmy’s wanted?”

  “No, I don’t know who wants him, or why.” McAllister did not add, And I didn’t ask. “I know this man Gerry Dochery is involved somehow, and he’s a hard man . . .”

  Don knew what that meant. A hard man in a city of hard men was a gangster in any other parlance.

  “We grew up together. He came to my mother’s house looking for me. He warned me off, but indicated there would be no mercy for Jimmy.”

  It took a silence and a refill before Don gave his verdict. “Best be off down south, then. It’ll never go away, so get it sorted out as fast as you can.”

  “Joanne, the girls . . .”

  “Talk to Elsie Ross. Have her move in. She’s lived through two wars. She’ll no’ like it but she knows it’s what men do—go off on dangerous errands against the barbarians, the Huns, all that, and she knows what women do . . . sit at home and wait.”

  McAllister had forgotten that Granny Ross had a Christian name—Elsie. She was Granny Ross to everyone in the household, including Joanne. “And the Gazette?” he asked.

  “We’ll manage.” Don was firm, giving McAllister no choice.

  “Jenny McPhee?”

  “I’ll talk to Jenny. I’ll tell her you’ll give it one last try. But if you canny find him . . .”

  McAllister nodded, grateful that Don was releasing him from the responsibility of making decisions.

  “Don’t be away too long.” Don looked at McAllister, a man young enough to be his son, trying to make light of the task. “I’ve been promised first dance with the bride, after the groom, of course, so we need you back in one piece.”

  McAllister stared at him.

  “Your wedding. July. Or have you forgotten?”

  He couldn’t look at Don. “I hope Joanne will be well enough by then.” He said no more, guilty at blaming her for his uncertainty.

  “She will.”

  After Don left, McAllister stayed in his office, and another dram, another bout of guilt later, he knew he should go home. He would go to Glasgow. He had to. The obligations to the McPhees went too deep. If asked, he could not explain his attachment to Jenny and her son. Fascination, even. He knew it was likely a romantic notion that they, the Traveling people, were the true Scots, the remnant of the indigenous tribe of Iron Age metalworkers roaming the land for thousands of years. Sir Walter Scott and his writings were too florid for McAllister’s taste, yet he recognized a similar romanticism in himself.

  “Breathes there the man with soul so dead . . .” A poem he had often mocked, but in coming to the Highlands he now recognized the wellspring of the verses.

  On the slow walk home through the long gloaming, he tried all he could to banish the many reasons for leaving the town for his city: trepidation at what marriage with a ready-made family would entail, boredom with a local paper editorship, never again being on a challenging and exciting newspaper writing stories read by tens of thousands.

  And much as he didn’t want to admit it, there was the thought of once more working with Mary Ballantyne. Her voice, her way of staring into his eyes, listening with all her body, from her he wanted the acknowledgment that he had once been somebody. He had been John McAllister, renowned war correspondent, the newspaper’s man in Europe mixing with writers and philosophers and photographers and musicians, covering everything from Berlin to Paris to Rome and Madrid. Now he was a middle-aged man in a small town on a local newspaper, a pillar of the community, about to marry, about to lose his independence. And lonely.

  • • •

  The next morning did not start well.

  Granny Ross normally came to the house after the girls had left for school. Today she was an hour early—something about needing to be at an important Women’s Guild meeting in the church hall.

  McAllister was sitting at the table with Joanne, explaining his reasons for leaving once more for Glasgow. The girls were in and out, asking for more toast, or where their schoolbags were, Jean wanting Joanne to tie ribbons to her pigtails, and Annie wanting her mother to whiten her school plimsolls. On being told by her grandmother to do it herself, she started complaining that if no one would help her she would be late for school.

  Mrs. Ross was listening in to McAllister’s conversation, darting from sink to pantry to cooker to sink, interjecting with a commentary on Joanne’s health and the need for McAllister to stay at home.

  “I can’t be expected to do everything,” she was muttering to no one, as no one was interested. “I’ve ma own life to lead and a husband to see to.”

  “Hopefully it will be sorted out quickly and I won’t have to go back again,” McAllister finished.

  Joanne smiled. “You can be back in time for tea tomorrow. Betsy Buchanan—sorry, Ross—is coming round with the new baby. I
said you’d be here to say hello.”

  Betsy Buchanan, as everyone still called her, was the former advertising manager at the Gazette, Bill Ross’s new wife, and Granny Ross’s new daughter-in-law. Even after marrying Joanne’s former husband, they remained friends. When she discovered the affair, Joanne had confessed to McAllister that she was grateful to Betsy. “Betsy is good for Bill,” she’d told him. “That makes my life much easier.”

  “Say hello from me,” he said. He reached across and took her hand. “I won’t be back until Sunday. Monday morning at the latest.”

  She nodded, then looked at him, her eyes liquid dark like those of a wee mouse cornered by a cat. “You will come back, won’t you?” It was an echo of Annie’s question less than a week ago.

  “Annie, Jean, get a move on. You’ll be late for school,” Granny Ross snapped, her voice like a whip crack.

  Jean jumped. She did not know what was happening, but she felt the tension.

  Annie glared. McAllister was leaving her mum. Again.

  “Of course I’ll be back.” He still had Joanne’s hand in his and could feel her trembling. “But this is something I have to do.”

  “Schoolbags. Now,” Granny Ross ordered. Some things, most things in her opinion, should not be discussed in front of children, particularly her eldest grandchild.

  “I’ll be back as soon as I can. Promise. And I’ll try to persuade my mother to come back with me,” McAllister continued. “She said she’d come for the wedding but I’d like her to get to know you before that.”

  “I’d like that.” She was smiling, but it was a faint nervous twitch of the mouth, not the full-lips-and-cheeks-wide smile of a former Joanne.

  The trust, the love that radiated from her made him ashamed. He knew that the trouble with a lie, even a partial lie, was that it was corrosive. It made everything dirty. It spread and soiled and tainted every part of a conversation. It made fissures in a relationship that could be covered but never mended.

  Jean came between them, kissed her mother, and said, “Cheerio, McAllister, see you soon.”