The Low Road

by A. D. Scott

  She pulled her shawl tight around her even though up here in the clear summer’s air, it was a bumblebee-humming, bird-singing warm. Her journey back to the caravan seemed to take a long time.

  The man in the white shirt was watching everything. At the caravan steps he helped her up, and went in after her. And with no eye contact, no acknowledgment, never a word said, he shut the door.

  McAllister followed Don back to the car. Don made a three-point turn, and they were back on the road to town not fifteen minutes after arriving. They said nothing on the journey, both contemplating funerals.

  McAllister speculated on who would attend the death ceremony for Wee Gerry Dochery, a man mostly feared in his lifetime.

  Don McLeod was thinking that when Jimmy was returned to his homeland, the funeral for the son of the matriarch of the McPhees was certain to be conducted in the old way. A wake would be held with drinking, stories, reminiscences, the body never left alone. They would walk to the burying place, the family carrying the coffin. And in that coffin would be placed a candle and matches to light his way, a silver sixpence to pay the ferryman, and a hammer to knock on the door. There would be no music, no singing, and the death of Jimmy McPhee would hit them all hard—especially his mother, Jenny. That Don did not want to see. But knew he must.

  Only on reaching Clachnaharry, the strip of a fishing village between the shore and the railway line, did McAllister break the silence.

  “What did Jenny say to you?”

  “She asked that I come to the funeral, but that you and your kind stay away.”

  “Right.” He eyes smarted. His jaw was tight. “Right.”

  When Don stopped outside McAllister’s house and they got out of the car, he said, “Jenny meant what she said about you and Joanne. Marry the lass. Put everything you have into it, and it will work.”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  Don nodded, knowing this was as much as he could expect. But still it pained him. He wanted more for Joanne. “I have things to do, I’ll see you at the wedding.” He walked away, hands deep in his pockets, head down, completely drained.

  “See you at the wedding.” McAllister watched, but felt unable to help Don, or himself. He walked up the path, and when he heard the piano being played, badly, and as he listened to Joanne laugh and one of the girls join in, he knew Jenny was right. He knew Don was right. He would marry Joanne.

  But first he had a funeral to attend.

  • • •

  Once again McAllister made the long drive to the city. With his wedding date nine days away, he was anxious to spend as little time as possible in the Lowlands. He left before dawn, drove seven hours without stopping.

  McAllister was meeting his mother in Strathblane, and planned to return to the Highlands that same day, driving through the night again, if necessary. He hoped, almost prayed, that it would be the last visit for a long time to come.

  The funeral was at two o’clock and Mrs. McAllister was coming with old Mr. Dochery, to be with him as his only child was interred next to his mother and grandmother. Mrs. McAllister had buried a son. Mr. Dochery had been at the graveside. The old acquaintances were aware their connection was now only in times of sorrow and that one or other might not be able to meet again in this life, but would attend the survivor’s funeral.

  At the service McAllister was struck by what a good person Sheena seemed. And by what a waste it all was. With her at his side it might have been different for Gerry, he thought. Then rejected the idea. His father was right; he was too deep into that life. He watched his mother comfort Mr. Dochery. He watched the neighbors gather around the old man and take time shaking his hand, offering condolences.

  Turning away from the graveside, refusing the request to come to Sheena’s mother’s house for the funeral high tea, saying he had a long drive ahead, McAllister had the notion that with Gerry’s death, Sheena would not have to endure years of anxiety for herself and her daughter. She would not have to fear every stranger in the village, every knock at her door. Nor would she watch the man she loved become harder and more violent, simply to stay alive. Her daughter would not grow up with an absent dad who dared only visit at night, never coming to her school events or visiting on her birthday, for fear of who might recognize him, who or what he might bring in his wake. And he was guiltily glad for her.

  Gerry Dochery had chosen his life and had left it the only way possible; he had been too deeply entangled in the evil of the gangs and the killers and the robbers ever to escape. And he’d known it.

  Mary Ballantyne came to the funeral service but left shortly after the burial was over. She and McAllister noted the presence of two plainclothes policemen, one of them DI Willkie, whom they chose to ignore. She shook the old man’s hand. She looked curiously at Sheena and her mother, who were introduced as neighbors.

  She greeted McAllister, saying, “This is a depressing sight,” gesturing at the open grave with the coffin out of sight and the sound of earth upon wood accompanying their brief conversation.

  They looked at each other, neither wanting to be the first to say his name.

  “I’m sorry about Jimmy,” she got in first and he was grateful.

  “Aye.” Raw, simple, a word that contained everything Scottish: acceptance, agreement, doubt, inability to express emotions, said in differing inflections, all, and more, could be contained in that one word—aye.

  “I have to get back,” she said. “The lawyers are meeting, and once we get the go-ahead, we’ll publish what we can. Is it enough to destroy Councilor Gordon?” It was a rhetorical question. “We can only hope.”

  He gestured around the kirkyard. “I’ve been following the news. You’ve done well out of all this.”

  “I have. Thanks again for passing on the documents.” He shrugged. “McAllister, don’t tell me you’ve lost your journalistic instincts? Don’t you want to know the details of what we found?”

  “Company accounts.”

  “Aye, a double set of accounts—one clean, the other jiggered with to hide Councilor Gordon’s direct involvement in Gordon & Sons, building and supply company.”

  He was longing to know if he meant anything to her. He knew it was stupid. No, worse than that, it was disloyal. “So how did Gerry come by those company documents?” he asked.

  She wanted, needed, to be away from this kirkyard, this death, from DI Willkie, who was hovering in a far corner watching them. And she wanted to be away from McAllister. Being with him, standing so close, she wanted his arms around her, holding her close. She needed him to say her name. Over and over. Instead, speaking quickly, she asked, “Remember there were four brothers?”

  “Aye.”

  “Councilor James Gordon, the twins, Alasdair and Alexander, the fourth one, the youngest . . .”

  “The accountant?”

  “The accountant . . .” She glanced towards Willkie and his colleague, a policeman with an overcoat to hide his uniform, and failing. They were walking towards the arched gate leading out of the cemetery, unacknowledged by Mr. Dochery, the minister, and the mourners. “A falling-out amongst thieves best expresses it.”

  “It was him who—”

  “Gave the company accounts to Gerry? Aye, seems so.”

  McAllister tried to interrupt but Mary held up a hand. “I have no idea of the exact charges as yet, corruption, falsifying tenders and bids, all that sort of thing, and the tax inspector is involved. The accountant brother is pleading complete innocence and had provided my . . . someone I know . . . with everything to convict his oldest brother. Councilor Gordon won’t escape this time.” She laughed. It was a strange grim sound.

  It was then he saw, in her eyes, in her movements, her grief. “Jimmy, he always makes me think of the old Scottish saying, ‘We’ll never see his likes again.’ ”

  She turned away to leave.

  But he couldn’t let her go, certain this was the last time he would see her. “And the list of corrupt officials?”

 
; “I’ve handed that to the police. And I forgot to keep a copy.”

  “Not like you, Mary.” It came out more bitter than he intended.

  “Our esteemed editor said the exact same thing.” That she did have a copy she would never disclose; three names on the list were relatives. Another was a former colleague of her late father, a gentleman she’d always called Uncle, and still a regular dinner guest at her mother’s table. He was also her source within the Lanarkshire police force. The revelation had saddened her, and reinforced her decision that it was time to move out into the big wide world.

  “I have to go.” She didn’t know how to say goodbye. “Thanks, McAllister.”

  He looked up at the escarpment, seeing the clouds scudding over, but no sign of rain. He could see she wanted to flee. He was suddenly angry; a mere thanks demeaned what he felt they’d meant to each other. “Don’t thank me, thank Gerry. Without him you wouldn’t have Councilor Gordon as your front-page scoop.”

  “A wee bit late to thank him, don’t you think?” She jerked her head in the direction of the grave. She wasn’t being cruel; gallows humor was what saw a journalist through the worst of times. “Give my best to Joanne.”

  She stepped forward. She reached up. She pulled his head down. She kissed him on the cheek. “Have a good life, yeah?”

  He wanted to reply, to say something, anything, but she was striding away in her private-schoolgirl-hockey-playing lope.

  All he could mutter was, “Bloody Jimmy McPhee, why did you have to die on me?” Then he shuddered. “Someone stepping on ma grave,” his mother would say. Sorry, Jimmy, Joanne would never be safe if it wasn’t for you. He looked heavenwards at the clouds building up above the ridge of the Campsies and spoke out loud, “And I’m bloody furious you won’t be at my wedding.”

  His mother stayed to keep old Mr. Dochery company. As he said goodbye, Mr. Dochery told him, “I’m sorry about your pal Jimmy. He was a good man.”

  McAllister could only say, “He was.”

  His mother squeezed his hand. “It’s none o’ it your fault, Son.”

  She knows me too well, he thought as he said goodbye. “I’ll be seeing you in the Highlands.”

  “Aye, I’ll be there for your wedding.” Her voice, and eyes, daring to hope, was saying “your wedding” as though it were a miracle on a par with the visions in Lourdes.

  • • •

  On the now familiar drive home, he drove fast. But not dangerously so.

  Along the shores of Loch Lomond, through the twists in the road, through the tunnels of the dense summer foliage, and flickering light, and in the reflections in the loch, and on the slopes of Ben Lomond, the song seemed to hover, crying the tune and the words, “Oh ye’ll take the high road and I’ll take the low road . . .”

  He started to speak. Alone in the car he said all he needed to say.

  “You were my friend. We never said it, but I knew. You were my friend.”

  He made the last ferry across the loch at Ballahulish. He reached the top of the pass of Glencoe. The piper was there as always in the same lay-by.

  McAllister stopped the car. The Traveler, renowned for his piping skills, was in full dress kilt. In a kilt sock, a sgian-dubh with an amber Cairngorm stone set into the hilt was winking in the last of the evening light as the man paced, piping the haunting laments for the dead of the glens.

  And for Jimmy, McAllister thought.

  A wee boy collecting the donations in an empty tin ran up to him. He stared at the ten-shilling note and said, “Thanks mister, thank you very much,” and gave McAllister a sprig of lucky white heather in return.

  On the downward drive past the series of lochs, McAllister nodded. Only the home straight now. On the outskirts of the town, passing over the canal bridge, he told himself, home to be married.

  It came over like a freezing tsunami. He watched for a lay-by. When he found one, sheltering under a rock face with ferns stuck in crevices all the way up to an overhang with tree roots dangling in the air, and a trickle of an almost waterfall that would be a torrent in the rain, he stopped, got out of the car, and breathed deeply. He breathed in the water and earth and air—the scent of his homeland. Lungs full of oxygen, the tension, the worry, the pain began to dissolve. His skin and his hair and the saliva in his mouth felt fresh. New.

  Without Joanne he knew he could have a fulfilling life—a middle-aged eccentric bachelor, alone with his books, his music, and an occasional game of chess. He would be invited to all the social occasions that befitted the editor of the local newspaper. There would be flirtations with the widows, the lonely, and the daughters of the impoverished gentry of the county would be pushed at him by their desperate mothers.

  And he could see that over time, he would dry up and become not so much a man, more a character.

  Even in illness, Joanne radiated a life force, making everything brighter, lighter. He was never certain what she thought, what she wanted, and was often surprised by the little things—like birdsong, or a well-shaped seashell—that made her exclaim in delight.

  He looked at the loch, a dark deep stain in a crevasse created millennia ago in an ice age beyond time beyond the Highlands and the Highlanders. Beneath the neat chaos of the dry-stane dyke he read the marker stone. Twenty-seven miles. He was light-headed. Exhausted. He needed food. He needed coffee. He needed his own bed.

  As he looked around one last time before continuing onwards, he smiled. Saint Paul on the road to Damascus—I know how he felt.

  At the next stone, marking fifteen miles to town, he started to hum. He was unable to hold a tune. He knew this, and sang only in the solitude of his car. Stuck in his head was the tune the piper had begun to play as he had driven off.

  He began to hum. Then sing in his fledgling-crow bass.

  Step we gaily on we go,

  Heel for heel and toe for toe,

  Arm in arm and row on row,

  All for Mairi’s wedding.

  Only he changed it to “Joanne’s wedding.”

  EPILOGUE

  Glasgow Herald

  12 September 1959

  On the 9th of September the body of a man was recovered from the River Clyde. It was found trapped in the pilings of a dock outside a warehouse in Whiteinch.

  The man has been identified as Alexander Malcolm Gordon. His brother James Gordon, a former Glasgow city councilor, was unavailable for comment as he is currently on remand in Barlinnie Prison awaiting trial on corruption charges. No one else in the family could be contacted to comment on the death.

  Sergeant John Dick, 47, of Partick Cross police station, said in a statement to the Herald reporter, “The body was spotted by a passing tugboat crew member. The deceased had been in the water some time. The report to the procurator fiscal’s office stated that the throat had been cut and the city police have set up a murder inquiry. Any witnesses are asked to contact this station or their local police.”

  CALUM SINCLAIR

  McAllister read the article and was uncertain whether to make the call. In the end, curiosity overcame doubt.

  “Glasgow Herald.”

  “Can you put me through to Sandy Marshall?”

  “Sorry, Mr. Marshall is out of the office this week.”

  He had forgotten the dates but remembered Sandy saying that he would be playing in a golf tournament on Turnberry Links. He hesitated. “Put me through to Mary Ballantyne, please.”

  “Miss Ballantyne no longer works at the Herald,” the voice, a woman’s, said. “Shall I put you through to Calum Sinclair on the crime desk?”

  “No. Thanks.”

  He hung up. He lit a cigarette. He called Mary’s home telephone. It rang out. His phone book still open on his desk, he saw Mary’s mother’s number scribbled in pencil under her number. He remembered Mary had put it there when they were on the island, in Millport. “Emergencies only, McAllister,” she’d said.

  He dialed.

  “Ballantyne residence.” In her tone, and in her a
ccent of privilege and wealth, Mrs. Ballantyne’s voice conveyed a disappointment with life as obvious as her status.

  “Mrs. Ballantyne, this is John McAllister, a former colleague of your daughter.”

  “I remember who you are, Mr. McAllister, and I cannot believe you have the audacity to telephone. What you have done to my daughter is unforgivable. And you a married man. You are beyond despicable.”

  He thought she might be crying but dismissed the notion as ridiculous. Can’t cry if you’re made of stone.

  “Would you ask Mary to call?”

  “Mary is no longer in the country. When she left, she gave me specific instructions to tell no one of her whereabouts. Please do not call again.” She hung up.

  “Nasty auld bag,” he muttered.

  “Who?” Don asked as he came in with the dummy for the next edition.

  “Mary Ballantyne’s mother. I wanted to ask about this.” He pushed the article towards Don.

  “Aye, I saw that. Justice, if you ask me.”

  McAllister was staring at the dummy for the next edition. What had her mother said? What I have done? Unforgivable? Married?

  Don didn’t notice. He was in a hurry to finish then get to the pub for a beer with an old friend from Fort William.

  “Don, do you know where Mary—”

  “McAllister.” Joanne was standing in the doorway wearing the white summer frock printed with poppies that he loved. “Ta-raa!” She was waving a small piece of paper. “Look, a check for twelve guineas.” She was laughing. “Don, congratulate me, I’ve sold my very first story.”

  “Congratulations, lass. Well done.” He took her hand and was pumping it up and down. “Your first story—must be a great feeling.”

  “It is.”

  McAllister took the check his wife offered and saw it was from a well-known publisher of women’s magazines. “This is marvelous. Absolutely wonderful. I had no idea. Why didn’t you tell me you were writing stories?” He was grinning, thrilled at her laugh, her smile, her pleasure.