The Low Road

by A. D. Scott

  As he was walking into the hallway to fetch his hat, he overheard his mother say to Joanne, “She’s quite a character, your eldest.” But her tone was not disapproving.

  Out of the mouths of babes and sucklings, he thought as he left, not at all looking forward to the encounter with Jenny McPhee.

  • • •

  “So you’ve no idea where our Jimmy is,” Jenny stated, coming straight to the point, letting McAllister know her displeasure before he’d had a chance to take off his hat, greet her, or order a drink.

  “I was told he is safe,” he said. Then he sat down, asked after her health, inquired if she wanted a drink, then ordered. Since their meeting last week, he thought he could detect extra lines on the map on her forehead.

  “Don’t worry, McAllister.” She’d been letting him squirm before telling him, “I know where ma Jimmy is, or at least in what part o’ the world.”

  “Perthshire?”

  “Aye, and in a castle, no less.”

  McAllister began to laugh. He had guessed a tinker’s camp. He had no idea Mary would put Jimmy in the family castle. But it made sense. Whoever was looking for him was obviously intelligent, would know where the Traveling clans gathered, and might even risk an attack there. Who would guess that a McPhee of the road would be hiding in a castle owned by one of the most illustrious families of the land, a family with more lawyers than the Nuremberg Trials?

  “So how did you find out where Jimmy is?”

  Jenny glared at him. “My Jimmy knows his letters. And I can read.” A wee bit, anyhow, she was thinking. “And there’s such a thing as the Royal Mail even in Muir of Ord.”

  “Is he coming home?”

  “That’s where you come in,” said Jenny. “He needs to know it’s safe. Jimmy says thon lass Mary told him you’re the only one who can find out.”

  Thanks, Mary, he thought.

  “All this would never have come to our door if Jimmy hadn’t . . .” She downed her whisky, obviously a Laphroaig, in one swallow.

  “So you do know what’s going on.”

  “No I don’t. I’m only guessing.”

  Or it’s the legendary second sight. Then he remembered Annie’s request. “Annie, Joanne’s daughter, wants to ask you about witches.”

  It was Jenny’s turn to laugh. “Does she now? Well, tell her I’ll call round one day, see how her mother is doing, and we can all have a right good chat.”

  The thought of Jenny McPhee, Granny Ross, and his mother in the same house made him think of cats in a sack. “That would be grand, Jenny. I’ll let Annie know.”

  When he left, Jenny McPhee called through the hatch to the main bar for another dram. Then she sat back to think. She well knew why all the trouble was happening. But it was now clear McAllister knew nothing. Should I tell him? She considered the price her son was paying to be well beyond his obligation to Joanne Ross. But Jimmy had told her it had been his choice to help Joanne, then and now. His parting words to his mother, and not a word to McAllister, she remembered well.

  “What’s done is done,” Jenny muttered to herself, pulling her coat tight as though an evil wind had somehow managed to penetrate the thick walls of the small room, in the drear bar, in an insalubrious district, in the small Highland town.

  “Where’s thon whisky?” she shouted.

  “Haud your horses, it’s coming.”

  She looked up, saw her second son standing in the doorway. She nodded.

  “Took your time, Jimmy lad.” Her hand was trembling as she accepted the glass.

  TWELVE

  Breakfast was chaotic with two grandmothers vying for the cooker and the frying pan, two children arguing over whose turn it was to set the table, and Joanne in the sitting room, practicing scales on the piano.

  “I have some work to catch up on,” McAllister said and left for the peace and quiet at the Gazette.

  On the staircase to his office he smelled carbolic soap. It must have been strong, as his sense of smell was not the best, being a smoker of long standing. As he opened the door he was greeted with a curt “I haven’t finished here” from the cleaner whom he had inherited when he became the first outsider appointed as editor. He didn’t know her name; he seldom arrived in the office at the ungodly hour—for a journalist—of eight o’clock in the morning.

  He walked back down to the High Street. He stood at the top of Bridge Street, looking down towards the stone arches of the bridge.

  Soon to be demolished, he remembered. Although he knew how inconvenient the old bridge was, the newfangled plans to demolish the bridge and replace it with another of no architectural merit whatsoever pained him, as did the plans to destroy the lovely but inconvenient rows of eighteenth- and nineteenth-century houses and offices and shops, and replace them with hideous, to his mind, boxes.

  It will soon be the nineteen-sixties, the planners were quoted as saying, we have to move with the times.

  Aye, McAllister thought, but at what cost to our heritage, our history?

  He turned back once more, making for the office. Once more he climbed the stairs and went into the reporters’ room. The smell here was of stale tobacco, but that he didn’t notice.

  He sat. He rolled a sheet of paper into a typewriter and stared at it for minutes. He was lost. He felt he was neither here nor in Glasgow, not at the Gazette or the Herald. His home was no longer the refuge he looked forward to at the end of a day, where excitement was a book and music. He was not sleeping well, not even sure which bed was his. And he dared not think about Joanne. The thought he couldn’t rid himself of—she’s not herself—was even stronger after a trip away.

  Thoughts of Mary Ballantyne made his stomach curdle. “For God’s sakes, McAllister, grow up,” he muttered to himself.

  “Talking to yourself, first sign of madness, you know.” Rob McLean was also in early.

  McAllister looked at him. The cheery, handsome former boy-reporter was now a fully qualified journalist. And a man. And he is no longer the old Rob either. McAllister saw how thin he was, how his cheekbones had hollowed out, how his eyes seemed less blue, his hair less yellow, and, most of all, he was smoking.

  “It’s early for you,” was all McAllister said.

  “We weren’t expecting you back so soon, so lots to do.”

  Don McLeod ambled in. “McAllister,” he said. Now three cigarettes were contaminating the air of the narrow high-ceilinged room. “You heard about Jimmy McPhee?”

  “I heard he’s safe.”

  “Aye, he was telling us a wee bit about his adventures,” Don said.

  “Jimmy’s here?” McAllister was astounded. “I thought he was in Perthshire.”

  “He was. Now he’s here. I saw him last night—down the pub with Jenny. Said you an’ thon lass Mary saved his life—”

  “Where is he? I want a word with him.” McAllister was not happy. He’d sacrificed a lot to help Jimmy McPhee and felt he was owed at least an explanation.

  “They’ll be long gone by now.” Don was looking at the big clock high on the wall, the clock they lived by on deadline day. “Off to the wilds before daybreak, so they said.”

  “You’ll have to talk to me instead.” Mary Ballantyne stood in the doorway, grinning. In wine-colored corduroy trousers and Aertex sports top with a faded school emblem embroidered on the pocket, she looked like a heroine from the Chalet School books.

  “Take a seat, lass,” Don said.

  McAllister was nonplussed at seeing Mary Ballantyne in the Gazette office. “I wasn’t expecting you here.” It sounded begrudging. And it was. She was his Glasgow friend. She had no place in the Highlands.

  Rob was captivated. Mary Ballantyne, legendary crime reporter on the Herald, was here, in their office, and much younger than he’d expected from her reputation. He recovered enough to say, “Hello, I’m Rob McLean,” and hold out his hand.

  She took it. “I enjoyed the articles you’ve been sending the Herald,” she said. “I was sorry to hear about you a
nd Joanne Ross. It must have been traumatic.”

  “It was,” Rob said as he fell in love.

  “So,” Don interrupted—he had a newspaper to assemble. “How much of Jimmy’s story can we publish?”

  “None of it,” Mary answered.

  “How no?” Don asked.

  A long conversation began, with interruptions—from Fiona on reception putting through essential phone inquiries; from Frankie Urquhart, the advertising manager, about the layout; from Hector Bain, delivering photographs; and from Rob or Don breaking off to attend to an article that needed correcting.

  When the numerous clocks around town rang out twelve o’clock, Mary announced, “I’m starving.”

  “Me too,” Rob said. “I’ll take you to my favorite café.” He meant the one with the new jukebox. “We can have a sandwich there.”

  “Brilliant.”

  “Before you young things escape, let’s sum this up,” Don said. He nodded toward McAllister, knowing that with his sense of drama, and knack for summary, the editor was best at this.

  McAllister held up his left hand. Pointing upwards with his pinkie finger, he said, “Jimmy is safe—”

  “For now,” Mary interrupted.

  McAllister nodded. “Maybe. But he’s a hard man to track down on his home turf.”

  Next he held up his ring finger. “We still don’t know who is after him . . .” He watched Mary shrug her shoulders in a “search-me” gesture. He raised his middle finger. “Or why.” He missed the glance between Don and Mary, as neither of them moved their heads, only their eyes meeting across the table.

  “As well as being a Queensberry boxer, Jimmy McPhee was once reputed to be a bare-knuckle fighter. When I asked him, he didn’t answer.” Mary seemed hesitant and, seeing McAllister’s eyebrows shoot heavenwards, laughed. “Actually, he did answer. He told me to mind my own business—or words to that effect.”

  She would never admit it to anyone, but Jimmy McPhee intimidated her. In their time together she’d been uncomfortable, not with the long silences but by the way, when she asked what she thought were legitimate questions, he would turn with his whole body, stare at her, say nothing, then turn away again. Once—and that was enough to silence her—he’d said, “Ask no questions, Miss Ballantyne, an’ you’ll never be disappointed.”

  “It’s my job,” she’d replied.

  “Aye, but me an’ ma family, don’t you be using us to make a name for yersel’.”

  Don broke into her recollections. “There was big money in bare-knuckle boxing, but to my knowledge, it’s rare now.”

  “Do you know if Gerry Dochery is involved in those fights?” Mary asked McAllister.

  “No idea.” She gave him a look that he took to mean, Haven’t you asked? He felt completely out of touch. Which he was.

  “I’d no idea those fights were still being staged.” Using his forefinger he continued, “So, point four. Jimmy is safe, so is it still our business?”

  “You mean, is there still a story in it?” As ever, Mary went straight to the point.

  “I’m glad I’m not involved,” Rob said. “I don’t think I can cope with any more drama. His voice was low. They all heard.

  “You’re right, it is not your business,” Mary told them. “But it is mine. I have a job to do, and this story is too good to drop.”

  The phone rang. Don answered. He handed the receiver to McAllister. It was Joanne.

  “Will you be home soon?” she asked. “Granny Ross wants to know how many to cook for.”

  “I’m really sorry, I’ve too much to do,” he said, hating himself for being so cowardly. “But I’ll be home by five. Let’s go for a walk before supper, just you and me.”

  “I’d like that.” Her breathing was distinct, as though she was making the call at the end of a march across moorland. “See you later then.”

  “That was Joanne,” he said to an almost empty office. Rob and Mary’s chatter was echoing up the stone staircase. He felt excluded. He wanted to hear about the escape with Jimmy, the boat ride, Perthshire. He wanted the companionship of Mary, the excitement. He tipped back on the stool, holding onto the table. No fool like an auld fool. He was furious with himself. He considered changing his mind and going home. Then he remembered the grannies. “Let’s you and me get a beer,” he said to Don.

  “My kind of lunch,” Don replied.

  • • •

  Later in the bright afternoon, and after rewriting the editorial twice, McAllister finished off the mundane stories that made up that week’s newspaper. His thoughts were constantly wandering; trying to find an explanation as to who was so desperate to find Jimmy. And why.

  Mary appeared.

  “So how’s the Highlands?” Don asked.

  “A foreign country,” Mary answered.

  “Aye, we are that.” He was not in the least offended; indeed, was proud of the schism between Highlanders and Lowlanders. “Different race, too.”

  “Stubborn Celts!” Mary laughed. “I’ve been to the Highlands as a child, staying with friends near Beauly.” She didn’t elaborate, In a castle. “I love it. Here it’s not pretty like Perthshire. There is grandeur in the glens. I love the emptiness, but it feels forbidding the way the mountains rear up like monsters in nightmares. I remember one holiday, our family friends took us out on a picnic. It was a glorious morning and terrifying by mid-afternoon. I’ve never seen such rain and mist, everything dripping, trees, rocks, and rushing burns turned into waterfalls. We could barely get across and back to the Land Rover. As for these Highland sheep standing, staring, giving you the evil eye, I was terrified of them. Still don’t like them, nasty beasts.”

  “Great Sunday roast, though, specially with mint sauce.” Rob was grinning. He was smitten with Mary and didn’t mind who knew it. “And your escapade with the infamous Jimmy McPhee?” he asked. “What happened?”

  “Now, that is a long story.” She suddenly looked tired. Younger.

  McAllister was glad Rob had asked, as he had been working out how to broach the subject himself.

  “Let’s go to your place, McAllister,” Rob said. Turning to Mary, he explained, “That’s where we usually convene when we need to—”

  “Plot?” She grinned.

  “Be off with you, young Mary, I need these two to concentrate for one more hour,” Don told her. “We can hear of your adventures later.” It was not that Don took the threats to Jimmy’s life lightly, more that he wanted McAllister back in the Highlands, safe, and married. He was unable to say why, but he sensed an undercurrent between Miss Mary Ballantyne and the editor. He did not blame Mary. Nor McAllister. But he thought there was nothing more foolish than a middle-aged man enthralled with a young woman.

  “See you back here later,” Mary said and left them to put the finishing touches to a newspaper that, although she could see was above the ordinary, held no interest for her.

  McAllister was home by five o’clock as promised. The girls were surprised. Annie looked at him, saying, “What are you doing home so early?” She sounded so much like a mother-in-law, he nearly laughed out loud.

  “I’m going for a walk with your mother.”

  “Can I come too?”

  “Not this time, we—”

  He was saved by his mother. “I thought we were going to make a rhubarb crumble together.”

  “Goodie!” Jean said, and the girls followed their new granny to the kitchen.

  Joanne suggested to her mother-in-law that she go home early. “Thanks, Granny Ross, we’ll manage to get supper tonight.” She smiled.

  The reply was a harrumph and a muttered, “I can see when I’m not wanted.”

  Again McAllister felt like laughing, but the frown from Joanne made him behave himself.

  At the garden gate, they instinctively turned to the street that led to the river. He offered her his arm. She accepted. Keeping close, they walked slowly, taking in the smell of gardens—roses, wallflowers, annual flowers McAllister could not i
dentify but, he was certain, Joanne would know the names of.

  “Did you find Jimmy?” Joanne asked.

  “He’s back here, so I heard, but I haven’t seen him.”

  “Jenny will be pleased.”

  They came to the steep street leading to the steps that would take them down the side of St. Columba’s church to the river, and the gentle stroll along the banks to the Islands.

  They chatted about the girls, the grannies, and all the small events that made up ordinary safe lives. No mention was made of Joanne’s trauma. When asked, all she said was, “The doctors say I’m doing fine.”

  McAllister kept to himself his brush with the darkness of the city and the gangs. Then Joanne reminded him of the one event he hadn’t forgotten about, yet hadn’t remembered—the wedding.

  “It’s only six weeks away,” she said. “And thank goodness we’re having a quiet wedding. I couldn’t cope with too many people. Granny Ross was insisting on having a party at your house. I told her thanks, but Chiara has already offered and I’ve accepted. She was not best pleased.” Joanne was frowning. She hadn’t meant to offend, but she was finding the busyness and the fussing wearisome.

  “Then, as it was a wee white lie saying she’d offered, I had to telephone Chiara and tell her she was doing the catering. She was delighted. ‘That’s what best friends are for,’ Chiara said. Think of it, McAllister, wonderful Italian food—and wine. And our closest friends and your mother, it will be lovely.” She was smiling, eyes bright. He could feel her happiness coming through her hand, which was holding on lightly to his, could feel the heat, her flesh on his flesh.

  He was stunned. Six weeks? He struggled for words. “Marvelous.” He’d known the date of the wedding—the thirty-first of July. If he’d thought about it he’d have known that was six weeks away—dates were hard to avoid when you were a newspaper editor. But only six weeks away? “Weddings can be stressful. Are you sure you’re well enough?” he asked.

  “Getting cold feet?” she teased.

  “Never,” he answered.