The Low Road

by A. D. Scott

  He was tempted to pour a whisky but put on the kettle instead. When the whistle rose to a piercing shriek, he poured the bubbling water first to warm the pot, then a second time to make the tea—even in a crisis he never cut the steps in making a good pot of tea. He didn’t hear Joanne come in but felt an arm sneak around his waist, her head nestle on his shoulder.

  “Granny Ross gone home?” she asked.

  “I told her to,” he said.

  “How’s the flooding?”

  “Flooding?” The morning’s summer storm had vanished as quickly as it arrived. Coming home, a blue summer’s day with the wind balmy, clouds nonexistent, and the smell of roses around the front porch overpowering had returned.

  “Coward. I knew it was an excuse to get out of coming to the hospital.” She was smiling. “But it was great to have Margaret McLean’s company. She insisted on seeing the doctor with me. And she badgered the consultant to explain all thon gobbledy-gook he spouts. The Big Panjandrum, Margaret called him.” She giggled.

  “What did he say?”

  “Oh you know—making progress, that kind of thing . . . That tea, it’s ready.” She poured the milk and he poured the tea.

  “My mother . . .”

  “She’s in her room. She’s tired, not used to change, she said, so let’s leave her for now.” Joanne had two mugs of tea and was leading the way out the kitchen door to the bench McAllister had had made by a local carpenter and placed next to the one apple tree that still produced fruit.

  “I heard about the burglary. You need to go to Glasgow to sort it out. Your mother is really upset, so I think she should stay here. Take a few days—but no more.” She said this as a statement. Then looked up into his eyes, making sure he understood.

  He looked back. He saw the old Joanne in there. Part of him was relieved, part of him disconcerted; this Joanne saw much, forgave much, but was seldom deceived.

  “Jimmy McPhee . . . I know you feel obliged, but it’s not your business.” She was taking her time. Choosing her sentences carefully. “You need to make a choice. If you’ve changed your mind about us, you need to tell me.”

  She shook her head when he attempted a protest, “I’d never—”

  “One week. Agreed?”

  It was the longest speech, and the most coherent, since the attack had left her with a possibility she would never recover from the damage to her brain. Not completely.

  All he could say was, “The consultant is right, you are recovering.”

  “Slowly. But I still have a problem with . . .” She didn’t finish the sentence. Mrs. McAllister was standing in the kitchen doorway, a hand to her brow, peering into the light. Her voice, distant, weak, calling, “John? Is that you?”

  He went to her, offering to make fresh tea.

  She said, “That’d be nice,” then handed him a letter. “This came this morning from Mrs. Crawford.”

  He read it while Joanne made a fresh pot of tea. “I’m so sorry, Mother.”

  “Aye, well, it’s never been a safe place, the East End.”

  He could not express his anger, could not tell her that her stoicism made it worse. She was the same when his father had been killed in the Clydeside Blitz, accepting that as he was a fireman, and it was wartime, death was to be accepted. When his brother died she had retreated into a private hell of emptiness. But looking at her as she looked away, he saw that she was protecting him, not wanting to lay the blame, which was surely his, on his already burdened shoulders.

  Although she didn’t know the how or the why of what had happened in Glasgow, Joanne wanted it all to end. “Don’t worry,” she told the older woman, all the while looking at McAllister. “John’s leaving for Glasgow first thing tomorrow, and he’ll have it all sorted out in no time.” She looked at him, challenging him, “Won’t you?”

  • • •

  Don called around mid-afternoon.

  He and McAllister were in the sitting room, the women in the garden, the girls out riding their bicycles.

  “I’ve never been so proud of my mother as now,” he was telling his deputy. “All she said was, Go back, Son, and sort it all out, I’ll stay here wi’ ma new daughter. “Two good women, Joanne and my mother.”

  “Glad to hear you appreciate them,” Don said. He was a great believer in the nothing-is-perfect philosophy. “It takes a whiley before we recognize the grass is always greener an’ all that, so enjoy what you have is my advice.”

  McAllister didn’t have time to respond.

  The front doorbell rang, the door opened, a voice called out, “McAllister, I know you’re here. No use avoiding me.” It was Margaret McLean.

  “I’ll come straight to the point, then I must dash.” She did not sit down or remove her hat, only took off the sunglasses. “Did Joanne tell you what the consultant said?” She didn’t wait for an answer. Joanne had asked her to explain it. For a reason that was beyond Margaret’s comprehension, Joanne was ashamed of her condition. “No? Well. The optic nerve is damaged. Joanne has difficulty seeing properly, and she has a problem reading.”

  “So that’s why—”

  “Yes, McAllister. That’s why she hasn’t read any of the books you so kindly bought her. That’s why she won’t look at you directly, in case the damage is visible, which it isn’t. But the good news is that an operation can probably fix it. It can’t be done up here, an eye specialist is needed, but he is reasonably optimistic . . .” She’d made that bit up; the man was unreasonably gloomy, in her estimation. When she pressed him, in private, on the chances of success, the specialist had said “fifty-fifty.” “In the meantime Joanne will have to wear glasses with one lens covered over and—”

  “Men seldom make passes at girls who wear glasses.” Joanne was standing in the doorway.

  “No man could not make a pass at you,” Don said, “unless he was half blind.”

  “Like me,” she answered.

  They laughed, and McAllister said, “You should have told me,” and smiled.

  She said, “I know, but I can play the piano without looking, and knit.”

  Don said, “And type.”

  Joanne said, “No, I’m not coming into work, not yet.”

  And both McAllister and Don said, “Quite right.”

  Margaret McLean said,“Well, my dears, I must be off, I’ve lots of shopping to do. I’m taking a camping holiday in Portmahomack.”

  McAllister took in her sin-red nail varnish, her white open high-heeled shoes, the cartwheel-size sunhat, and was unable to imagine her sleeping in a tent. “Don’t look at me like that, McAllister. I love an adventure. And Rob will be with me to pitch the tent, as Angus refuses point blank to join us.”

  McAllister was of the opinion that camping was for Boy Scouts only. And Girl Guides. So he had every sympathy with Angus McLean.

  “Can we come with you?” Joanne asked.

  McAllister looked at Joanne. “But . . .”

  “Wonderful.” Margaret clapped her hands, laughing. “You can squeeze the lemons for the gin.”

  “Are you sure?” McAllister was struggling as to how to mention medical considerations, doctors, emergencies, all the disasters that can happen when under canvas in remote villages.

  “I’m sure.” Joanne had the same look her daughters gave him when he asked if they were old enough to light fires, walk miles, stay up late.

  Annie had come in on the last part of the conversation. “Camping. Goodie. Jean, we’re going camping.”

  Her sister came running. “Camping? Really? Really, Mum?”

  “Uncle Rob is coming too,” Margaret told them.

  Annie was even more delighted. “We’ll have great fun. Uncle Rob can make a bonfire.”

  “And I shall cook marshmallows,” Margaret added.

  “You’re off to Glasgow to sort out your mother’s flat, aren’t you?” Joanne was looking at McAllister, daring him to object. “And last I heard, Ross-shire isn’t on the moon.”

  “All right”—
he threw up his arms—“I surrender.” And the girls laughed and Jean clapped her hands and they followed Margaret to her car asking questions about the holiday, the first coming from Jean, “Can I bring Snowy?”

  When Margaret and Don left, for the first time in a long time McAllister put his arms around his future wife and held her, tightly. He was distressed she hadn’t told him about her sight. Never once had she said anything other than “thank you” when he bought her books, magazines, new sheet music.

  “Joanne, I’m so sorry. I know I’ve been neglecting you—”

  “Shush,” she said, putting a finger to his lips.

  He was about to kiss her, when Annie came in. “Yuck, kissing,” she said.

  And they laughed, and all was lighter, and McAllister knew happiness could be his. If he could accept it.

  FIFTEEN

  McAllister had arranged to meet Sandy Marshall, and Mary, at the Herald. He told them of the visit from DI Willkie.

  “I wonder what he’s up to?” Sandy asked.

  “Knowing him, nothing good,” Mary replied. “We’ll just have to wait and see.”

  Waiting was not McAllister’s forte; the threat of further business with a detective of Willkie’s reputation perturbed him. When he said he had to leave to check up on his mother’s flat, Mary insisted on joining him.

  It was mid-evening by the time they arrived. The door was open a fraction. He pushed it. He froze. The devastation in the hallway made him cold with anger. “The bastards! Absolute and utter bastards!”

  A voice called down the stairwell, “Is that you, Mr. McAllister?”

  “Aye, Mrs. Crawford. I’m here with a friend to see what’s what, and get it sorted.”

  The sound of a door being double-locked, then footsteps and Mrs. Crawford came down the stairs. She was small, a fierce wee woman, as he remembered. She was wringing her hands, trying to wash away all the trouble that had visited their close, and so obviously scared that he was at a loss as to how to reassure her. He had brought the violence. He should banish it.

  But Mary knew; she was patting the neighbor’s arm, saying, “You put the kettle on. We’ll come up as soon as we’ve had a look at Mrs. McAllister’s place. We’ll be needing a cup of tea by then.” She was gesturing to the broken pictures, smashed mirror, and scattered clothing. The smell of urine was strong, but no one commented on that.

  The woman scuttled off like a sand crab to its hole.

  “The bastards,” McAllister muttered over and over as he opened each door in the flat, leaving the sitting room till last. In there it was worst. Not only were the photograph frames broken, but the photos themselves had been torn into bits. The silver trophy cups had been stomped on, the thin metal twisted out of shape. The glass in the china cabinet and all contents were scattered on the carpet like a damaged mosaic.

  Mary knelt, trying to piece together a photograph.

  “Leave it!” McAllister barked. It was a portrait of his brother he’d had a Herald photographer take on his fifteenth birthday, and had been his mother’s favorite.

  “If we take these to the boys in the photo lab they might be able to—”

  “Leave it. I need to do this on my own.” His voice was almost a sob; he wanted to be the one to gather the fragments of his mother and father’s marriage, his brother’s brief life, the mementos and the memories that made his family.

  “It’s late. Come back in the daylight. We’ll bring buckets and mops.” She knew the strong smell of urine was coming from the sofa. She saw that the carpets were thick with jam and treacle and a substance she dared not guess at. She took the front door keys from him and, taking his wrist, pulled him towards the door. In the dim of the close she tried to lock the door, but the lock was smashed.

  “A bit late for that,” he said, leaning again the wall, breathing the anger out in loud long sounds. At first she couldn’t quite decipher the words, only hearing the repeated cursing, and a name, Gerry. Then he whispered, like a vow made before the altar, “If this is you, Gerry Dochery, I’ll get you.”

  That Mary heard. And it scared her. She pushed him towards the stairs. On the first-floor landing, she knocked on Mrs. Crawford’s door. “It’s Mr. McAllister and me, Mary Ballantyne.”

  The kitchen—a mirror image of his mother’s, had almost the same teapot, tea cozy, and cups. From the washing on the pulley above there came a strong smell of carbolic soap.

  Mrs. Crawford glanced up. “I took in some o’ your mother’s things. Gave them a wash,” she explained.

  But McAllister wasn’t hearing her. How would he tell his mother? How would she cope? Her world was her photographs and silver trophies and tea service and ornaments. Even her statue of the Virgin, and the vial of holy water that McAllister had brought back from Lourdes when on an assignment there after the war, had been smashed.

  Mary said, “Mrs. McAllister’s lucky having a friend like you.”

  Mrs. Crawford sighed. “Aye, we’ve been through a lot together. The polis asked if I could say if anything was missing, but . . .” A tear plopped into the blue-and-white-striped milk jug. “The council, they sent a man to board up the windows . . .” Another tear, this time hitting the mock tartan oilcloth. “Ah always said to her I couldn’t be doing wi’ living on the ground floor. Much safer one floor up. Not that we’ve had trouble before now, no’ even in the war . . .” She dropped into her chair and picked up the edge of her pinny to wipe her eyes. “Poor Mrs. McAllister.”

  “Did you see or hear anyone?” Mary asked.

  “I’m no’ sure but . . .” Now her eyes were darting around, searching for some invisible assistance. She found it—the crucifix above the door.

  “If he finds out I’ve said anything . . .” she began again. “But the McAllisters were always right good to him when he was wee . . .”

  McAllister looked at Mary. She nodded.

  “Not that he went into the flat—that was two others. I never saw them, I only heard the crashing an’ . . . But him, he was knocking on doors, went to everyone in the close . . . and all that racket and everything going on—smashing glass and china . . . it was terrible.” She was trembling.

  “What did Wee Gerry say?” McAllister wanted her to know he already guessed.

  “Aye, Wee Gerry Dochery, he was asking about last Sunday night.” She was blowing her nose. “Something about an accident. I telt him I knew nothing. An’ I telt him I heard nothing because I sleep in here.” She pointed out a truckle bed with curtains across, the old-fashioned kind built into the wall for the many children of previous generations. But her face said different.

  She knows, Mary thought.

  McAllister remembered that after her sons had been killed in the war, Mrs. Crawford had taken to living in one room. “Did the police come around any time this week? I mean, before Mother’s place was . . .” He couldn’t find a word for the deliberate destruction of his mother’s life. Bombing, earthquakes, hurricanes people could eventually accept, but wanton vandalism brought an evil hard to eradicate.

  “No, there was no polis until after your mother’s place was . . .” She too was unable to find a word for the desecration. And it upset her that she had done nothing, too afraid to open her door until the next morning.

  “So no police came on Sunday night?” he persisted. “Or in the wee hours of Monday morning?”

  “I ken you and your mother left. I found your note saying you were takin’ a wee holiday, but I never heard you leave.”

  “So who called the police?”

  “No me,” she said apologetically.

  “Quite right,” he said, “no need for you to get involved.” He knew this was the way of it. No matter what happened, it was not the bystanders’ role to report to the police, not if they cared for their own and their family’s safety. “You say Gerry Dochery called on everyone in the close?”

  “Aye, I think so.” Her voice was weary, but McAllister wanted more.

  “And nothing was mentioned about . .
.” He had no idea how to ask without giving himself away. The less said about his fight with the man-boy the better. But if the police had not been there on Sunday night, only turning up for the vandalism? “Can you think of anything else?”

  “The only person I’ve spoken wi’ is the newsagent. He was right concerned about me, me being on ma’ own. No one else has said a word.”

  The neighbor upstairs, McAllister was thinking, could he be the informant?

  Mary stood. She leaned over and took the old woman’s hand. “Is there anyone you can go to for a wee break?”

  “Ma sister lives in Shawlands. She’s always on at me to go and bide wi’ her. Maybe I should . . .”

  “I’ll drive you there if you like,” Mary offered.

  “I’d like that.”

  As the women were making arrangements for the next day, McAllister remembered that Mrs. Crawford had never liked her sister. Seeing how miserable she looked, and vulnerable, and her agreeing to Mary’s suggestion without the usual polite protestations of I couldn’t put you to all that trouble, it sank in how frightened she must be.

  When they left for the Herald, Mary to work, McAllister to pick up the overnight bag he’d left there, Mary asked, “What is it you’re not telling me?”

  “Nothing.”

  The denial was so outright she knew she was right. “Where are you staying?”

  “I’ll find a B&B. There’s plenty of them in the squares off Bath Street,” he said.

  “Stay with me. I have a spare room. But you’ll have to share with Jimmy.”

  “Jimmy? He’s here again?” McAllister was not expecting that.

  “Aye. But he says it’s his business, nothing for you or me to be concerned about.”

  He was not fooled; there was nothing Mary would not be interested in when it came to Jimmy McPhee. Plus the chance of a good story.

  “I couldn’t possibly . . .”

  “Yes you can.” She was smiling. “It will give my mother something more to complain about.”

  He could see the offer meant nothing more to her than a practical solution to his need for accommodation. Through the shock, through the pain—and the guilt—he knew he wanted company. Yet he knew that staying with Mary Ballantyne was not a good idea. He said, “That would be great. But for one night only. Then I’ll find a boardinghouse.”