“Well . . .” Logan began, thinking how best to answer the question. But before he had said another word, the innkeeper had shouldered his way into the group to pour refills, and the conversation was sidetracked, leaving Logan still thinking what might have been his reply. But he did not appear anxious to correct his friend’s miscalculation. And when the second round was finished, he took his leave, promising to return soon to try out his London luck on them. In high spirits the three sent him on his way, sure enough in their own minds that their former acquaintance of the streets had indeed made it into the big time in London.
A light rain, never far away even on the sunniest of days in Scotland, greeted him as he left the pub. He threw on his overcoat and pulled the checkered cap down over his unruly hair. He had thought about walking around the old neighborhood for a while, but the rain forced him to turn his steps directly toward his mother’s home.
Yet even as he did so, he realized for the first time that he was actually reluctant to face her. Well, who would blame me? he rationalized. After all, this was hardly the homecoming he had always fantasized for himself—penniless and practically running for his life. The picture his mind had usually conjured up of the event always included a Rolls Royce, a mink-clad lady on his arm, and an armload of gifts for his mother—in every way the epitome of the son who had made good. He thought fleetingly of the five thousand pounds he had handed over to Billy in London. Of course if his mother had known how he came by the money, all the outward show of success and sophistication in the world would not have impressed her. And besides, knowing the money was now in Molly’s hands was worth ten Rolls Royces.
Well, tomorrow his luck would change! It was bound to—because it could hardly get much worse.
In thirty minutes he had arrived. He came to the front of the old gray granite building (he avoided calling the place a tenement, which in fact it was) where his mother lived. The front door squeaked on its hinges as he opened it, and the fifth step still had a loose board. One’s old home should always appear changed after a long absence, he thought, but at first glance everything here was exactly as he remembered it. Everything was supposed to look different, because he had changed—hadn’t he?
He glanced quickly down at his fine clothing as if to reassure himself. He certainly hadn’t had apparel like this when he left seven years ago. Even the blokes at the pub hadn’t recognized him. For the moment he forgot, as he was prone to do, that he was nothing but a lad seven years ago.
One thing he knew for certain: the three flights up to his mother’s flat had never seemed this fatiguing. He was panting heavily when he reached the final landing, and had to pause a moment to catch his breath. He raised his hand to knock on the door. That seemed the strangest sensation of all.
Suddenly his mind flooded with visions of a dirty-faced, ragamuffin boy racing up and down the steps, bounding through the door. Or more often than not, when that same youngster reached the age of thirteen or fourteen, creeping up the steps in the middle of the night and sneaking through the door so that his mother would not hear.
The temptation seized him once more to try to sneak into the flat, but he gave a mature chuckle at the idea and rapped sharply on the door instead.
His mother opened the door.
A brief moment of utter stillness ensued, like some of the moving pictures Logan had been to in London when the film had jammed and the action momentarily had ceased. Then all at once the film began running again, and Frances Macintyre smiled and took her son’s hands in hers.
Logan mused that she was indeed another of the fixtures of his home that had not changed. She was nearly as tall as he, and still displayed a certain poise, though it was difficult to discern properly, covered as it was by a poorly fitting housedress of drab green.
For an instant Logan wanted to flee. Was it childlike embarrassment to once again stand in front of his mother? Or was it the manly disappointment of wanting to hang his head in shame for neglecting her all these years? How many times does a man possess five thousand pounds—right in his very hands! Yet he had not once thought to keep a little back for his mother. She had seemed so distant, almost a nonexistent memory out of his past, when he was back in London. Molly and Skittles had been everything then. But suddenly it was different. He had flown back in time and now here she was, part of his life once more. And how desperately he wished he had a few quid to buy her a new dress.
“Evening, Mum,” he said, kissing her lightly on the cheek, as if he hoped the gesture could substitute for all the other things he could not do.
“Ye sure know hoo t’ surprise a woman,” she replied in an even contralto voice he remembered always finding so soothing. She led him inside and he noted that most of the old furnishings were still in place.
“I guess I never was one for letter writing.”
“Two letters in seven years,” she said without reproach. “I’m thinkin’ it must be a record o’ some kind fer makin’ yer kin wonder whether ye be alive or dead.”
As they gravitated toward the kitchen, Mrs. Macintyre set a kettle of water on the stove.
“Ye haena had supper yet?” she asked. Logan shook his head. “Weel,” she said, “I got a bit left from my own. I always make more’n I need. Tomorrow I’ll go t’ the market an’ get some real man food fer ye.”
“I don’t want you to make a bother for me.”
“Seven years I hae been waitin’ fer jist sich trouble, son! Leave me t’ enjoy ye while I can.”
Logan sat back and studied her as she set about her tasks, and he realized he was seeing her in a completely different light than he had before. Perhaps the years apart and his own maturity helped him to view things more objectively. At any rate, he unexpectedly noticed that his mother was still an attractive woman. But then, she was only forty-one. And even after years of hard work and poverty, Frances Macintyre could still hold her own beside the women of the world he had seen daily in London. He wondered why she had never remarried. Somehow, he had been the reason. Maybe she hadn’t wanted him to turn up one day and find a new surrogate father in his home.
Before many minutes she set a dish of steaming potatoes on the table with a plate of brown bread and sliced cheese. He hadn’t eaten anything all day due to his lack of funds, and fell to it with a relish that warmed the mother’s heart. After he had finished everything in front of him and the second helpings that followed, she poured them both cups of hot, strong tea. It was then that he noticed her hands. They looked old. Like nothing else about her, they showed the life of toil. It seemed as if all the years of hardship and heartache had drained to those two appendages. Even old Molly’s hands had never seemed so worn and wrinkled. But perhaps they were noticeable because they contrasted so sharply with her attractive, almost youthful appearance otherwise. Something about that made it all the more pitiable.
Impulsively Logan reached out and touched one of the hands which had so attracted his gaze.
Puzzled, his mother stopped with the kettle in midair. He looked up at her, and smiled—a bit embarrassed.
“It’s good to be home,” he said, as if he felt some words were appropriate. But he wasn’t at all certain those were the exact words he wanted to say.
“’Tis good t’ hae ye home, Logan.”
“Don’t you wonder why I’ve come?”
“I figured ye’d tell me when an’ if ye had a mind fer it.”
“I wish I’d done more for you, Mum.”
“’Tweren’t yer responsibility, son,” she said gently, “so dinna get it int’ yer mind that it were.”
“I don’t have any money.”
Mrs. Macintyre’s lips curved up into a smile—a nice smile too, considering the few occasions in her life when she had been able to practice it. “Knowin’ ye as I do,” she said, “I doobt that’ll last fer lang.”
“That’s not why I’ve come back,” he said. “But I thought you should know.”
“’Tis fine wi’ me, fer whate’er reasons
ye came. An’ noo there’ll be not anither word aboot it. Ye can help oot when ye can.”
She set the kettle once again on the stove. When she turned back toward him, from her wan smile Logan thought she might be on the verge of tears. She quickly sat down and took a sip of her tea. “Mr. Runyard’ll be needin’ some help in his restaurant,” she suggested. And if her voice carried a note of hopefulness, she could perhaps be forgiven for wishing against hope that her son was at last home to stay.
“I don’t know how long I’ll be staying,” he answered evasively.
“Oh?”
“But I’ll bring some money in—”
“That weren’t my meanin’, son,” she added hastily. “I jist knew ye’d be wantin’ t’ keep busy.”
“I never had trouble keeping busy before.”
“I know. But ye was yoonger then. An’ perhaps what was keepin’ ye busy wasn’t the best o’ things fer a grown man t’ be doin’.”
Then came a long silence.
They each pretended that their tea was consuming their complete interest. But a half-empty teacup can serve that purpose only so long. At length Mrs. Macintyre rose and began to clear away the supper things.
Logan jumped up to help.
“Sit doon,” she said. “Ye must be tired after yer trip.”
“Not a bit,” he replied. “At least, not after that feast. I even thought I’d take a walk around the old neighborhood and reacquaint myself.”
“’Twill be late soon—” she began, but then stopped herself. “I’ll get ye a key t’ let yersel’ in.”
“Thanks, Mum. I won’t be too late. And thanks for the supper and tea.”
She merely smiled as he gathered up his coat and cap. Then she walked over to a ceramic jar by the sink and took out two one-pound notes. These she pressed into Logan’s hand. He began to protest, but she shook her head.
“Ye’re my son,” she insisted. “Let me do it fer ye.”
He took the money and left, knowing all the while that his whole reason for wanting to walk about the neighborhood was simply to escape the intimacy he was so unaccustomed to—and he hated himself for it. She wanted to make up for the years of his absence by giving to him of the little she had, yet he knew it was he who should be doing for her. But because he couldn’t, he found it difficult to look her in the face. At this moment he found it hard even to face himself honestly. How much easier it was to duck out into the familiar streets where every promise seemed available, especially to a man of his wit and skill.
He had little difficulty finding a back-room card game, and the cronies of his youth welcomed him with gusto, treating him with the eminence of a returning hero. Logan had no reason to doubt that tomorrow would bring changes, and there was no reason for those changes not to be for the better.
12
A New Scheme
Logan awoke the next morning some time after ten. He had been out much later the previous night than he had anticipated.
He ambled into the kitchen where he discovered oatcakes and cheese laid out on the table for him alongside a note from his mother telling him when she expected to be home from work. Munching one of the crunchy biscuits, he wandered back into his room and set about getting dressed, this time in the tweeds, not the cashmere.
Then he began to consider his prospects for the day.
Last night’s efforts had put ten pounds in his pocket, half of which he had deposited in his mother’s ceramic jar. He felt much better about himself now than when he had left the evening before. Things indeed had begun to look up, despite that the light mist had turned into a distinct downpour. The weather certainly didn’t beckon him to step out, though how long he could remain cooped up inside would be hard to tell. After thirty minutes he could stand it no longer. He grabbed an umbrella, not pausing to think that his mother had gone to work without hers just so that her son would have use of it, and decided to chance the storm.
The streets were nearly deserted, and his favorite pub was still empty. He bought a pint, but didn’t enjoy it much without company. Feeling rather dejected he picked up a copy of yesterday’s Daily Mail from the stand across from the pub, and returned home.
He sank down on the timeworn couch in his mother’s small sitting room, propped his feet up on a low table, and tried to interest himself in London’s happenings. Perhaps the paper might suggest something as to future possibilities. Dominating the front page was an account covering the opening of the trial of the Rector of Stiffkey, the clergyman whose lifestyle had lately scandalized Britain. Reading further, he learned that Britain had sent troops to Singapore to defend British interests there against the rising threat of the Japanese. On page two he read a brief account of the upcoming election in Germany and the fears of some that a former army corporal by the name of Hitler might soon take over the reins of power there. Logan recalled that Winston Churchill had once sung Hitler’s praises; now it seemed that English leaders were changing their tune.
So far nothing seemed either to concern or to interest Logan very much, though it would have been a lark to have been in London for the Rector’s trial. All the other news was too far removed. Singapore, Germany—even the accounts of the flagging economy failed to arouse him. His own personal financial depression seemed far more pressing, and neither the Conservatives nor the Laborites could offer him relief.
He tossed aside the paper and stood to stretch his legs. A small shelf of books caught his eye and he wandered listlessly over to it. His mother was not much of a reader, and these books had sat here untouched as long as he could remember, for he, too, had never read much. Today, however, almost without even thinking what he was doing, he found himself standing looking at the spines of the dozen or so volumes that sat here as a reminder of literacy in the midst of Glasgow’s working district.
Sheer boredom led Logan to reach toward a volume and take it down—Dickens’ Bleak House. After not much more than a moment, he replaced it with a bit of a smirk. No wonder I never read any of these, he thought with a droll smile. Still he removed another and then another, giving each a cursory perusal, until he came to an extremely aged black volume. The moment he took it in his hands, he could feel that this was an altogether different kind of book, bound as it was in dark, limp leather. It was a Bible, but try as he might Logan could not recall ever seeing the book on this shelf during his childhood. He was sure his mother had never mentioned it, and he certainly had never seen her read from it. If it was a recent acquisition, it was a curious one, for the book was clearly of great age. He had a friend who had dealt in old and rare books—or more precisely in bogus old and rare books. I wonder what it’s worth, he thought as he unconsciously flipped through the pages. I should probably show this to old Silky. It might be just the thing to—
“Hello!” he exclaimed aloud as a sheet of paper fell from between the pages, “what’s this?”
He stooped down, picked up the folded and yellowed paper, opened it, and saw that it was a letter, handwritten in a most illegible scrawl.
His interest piqued, he carried the Bible, along with the mysterious letter, over to the couch, where he sat down once more to attempt to decipher it. This proved to be no small task, for judging from the many misspellings and archaic expressions, the writing had obviously come from the hand of an uneducated man. The date on the letter, however, encouraged him to persevere. He was bored with nothing better to do, and one in Logan’s line of work tended to look for fortune to smile upon him at every turn; through the years Logan had grown accustomed never to look the other direction no matter how unpromising the opportunity may have appeared at first glance.
March 19, 1865, he read, then continued on, making his way through the body of the letter a single word at a time.
Dear little Maggie, it began, I dinna ken where to send this, but I pray daily that ye will write to them what love ye at Stonewycke. I write this noo because I must explain to ye what I hae doon and why. Ye see, the treasure has weighed heavily on my he
art . . .
Logan sat up right on the couch, suddenly coming fully awake.
Yer father almost stumbled upon it one day, before his illness, that is. Weel, it set me to pondering, and I couldna keep frae thinking as hoo much trouble that treasure has already brought to this world. I thought aboot tossing it into the sea, but always I was reminded that tisna mine to destroy. I didna want to be a thief, especially from yerself, Maggie. Yet I feared lest another discover it and begin again the chain of terrible greed and violence. So I hae moved it, Maggie, and hidden it where I pray none will discover that evil horde, unless ye come back yerself, and then I’ll tell ye where I had put it, ’cause ’tis yers to do with as ye see fit.
By now Logan was nearly perspiring, and reading as rapidly as the aged writing would allow.
But be assured, at this moment, Maggie, ’tis no treasure we lang fer—but ’tis only to hae ye back in oor midst once mair. To see ye with auld Raven riding upon lonely Braenock or the sandy beach would be worth all the gold in this world. But in yer memory I hae put it in a spot I thocht ye loved, hoping that’ll please ye. For ’tis the Lady of Stonewycke ye’ll be someday. And I’ll always think of myself as yer servant.
Do ye remember when ye were a wee lass with Cinder, and ye tried that cliff and ye both got stuck? Ye were always so free upon hill and sand that I didna miss ye too sore fer some time. But then when I did, I kenned just where to find ye in the other direction. Ye loved that path to the rock bearing yer name. And I hold sich memories of ye, dear. I pray one day ye will read this and return to us. But ’tis all in oor dear Lord’s hands, and his will be doon.
The letter was signed Yers very truly, yer servant, Digory MacNab.
Logan leaned back and let out a long, low whistle.
This was indeed a find! He might just have fallen on his feet at last! And without a hint of any illegalities connected with the case. Maybe he would make his fortune on the up-and-up after all!
Stranger at Stonewycke Page 11
