Dust to Dust

by Lillian Stewart Carl

  Michael leaned back and stretched. “I’m no makin’ much of these records the night.”

  “Elaine really ought to be doing them. That’s her job, isn’t it?”

  “Even wi’ the artifact sheets filled in properly she’s made more than one mistake enterin’ the data. Even wi’ Dennis helpin’. Or maybe because of Dennis helpin’—I dinna ken. She’s a nervy one. Did you see her shy that thermos the other day?”

  “Yeah. Ten minutes later she was crying like a baby behind the chapter house. I can’t remember now what she was mad about—Jerry putting her down, probably. I was rooting for her to throw the thermos at him. Sheila almost hit him when he yelled at her for stepping on the edge of the trench.”

  “Sheila has a temper, right enough.” Michael grimaced. “And she’ll no be wastin’ her time throwing dishes or cryin’ aboot it. She took the back of her hand to me once—just once, mind you.”

  “Did you hit her back?” Rebecca asked in morbid fascination.

  “It was temptin’. But pointless.” He started stacking the printouts into their box, declaring the subject closed.

  Rebecca packed the pottery. “I think Elaine is reliable—if we double check her entries. She’s just accustomed to crunching numbers at that insurance company. Can’t really blame her for running off with Jerry.”

  “I canna fault her for runnin’ off wi’ someone, but why Jerry?”

  “He probably seems masterful and exotic.”

  “Eh?” said Michael sarcastically.

  Rebecca went into the bathroom. So she wasn’t ready to meet Andrew and Caroline Campbell. There was time for that when the dust—or the mud, to be accurate—settled. No need to be irritated at poor Michael.

  Last weekend Jerry and Elaine had headed northwest for Glasgow, and Dennis had taken a bus in the same direction. Tony and Sheila had taken off south, Tony saying something about a film processing plant in Newcastle. Mark went exploring along Hadrian’s Wall, Adele joined the contemplative community on Iona, and Rebecca and Michael had given Hilary a ride into Edinburgh.

  Michael’s tiny apartment had been what Rebecca had expected; clean but untidy, books piled on every surface, dishes stacked in the drainer, the double bed unmade. She’d been sharply reminded of her own meager belongings—her grandmother’s china, cartons of books, some early Salvation Army furniture—in a storage cubicle in Missouri, financially out of reach.

  They’d played house in the blessed privacy of his flat, eaten in his favorite Indian restaurant, walked hand in hand through the Princes Street gardens below the stern face of the castle. It was a dream come true, the place and the man together at last.

  He’d taken her through the back rooms of the Museum, and she’d seen the Dun Iain artifacts, achingly out of context. “The Forbes Collection”, the posters and brochures read; the exhibition would open in October. Michael had proudly shown her her own name listed as visiting lecturer. “You should be the one tellin’ aboot Mary Stuart’s things, lass, that’s your field.”

  Her return ticket to the United States was for September. Rebecca leaned over the bathroom sink, splashed cold water onto her cheeks and said, “Thanks, I needed that”.

  She collected the brooch and went into the vestibule to get her jacket. Michael came out of the bedroom with the tartan case of his bagpipes. Hilary stood by the door waiting for them. Despite whatever had ruffled her earlier, her face was now smoothed into its usual quiet if wary expression. Like a fawn, Rebecca thought. Behind Hilary’s back, she and Michael exchanged a shrug.

  The honeyed light of the evening was turgid beneath lowering cloud. The houses of Rudesburn seemed to lean toward each other, eyeing the gathering storm. “Speakin’ of profanity,” Michael said to Rebecca from the corner of his mouth, “look who’s snoggin’ doon by the burn.”

  Rebecca looked. Two people stood on the footbridge, a guitar case and a canvas bag beside them. Sheila’s blond hair looked appropriately brassy in the oddly filtered light. Mark’s attitude was more defensive than eager, his back braced against the railing. Rebecca could’ve sworn that the woman had more than one pair of arms around him, like an octopus engulfing its prey. But he wasn’t struggling.

  Hilary sped on into the hotel, her expression that of a child opening a Christmas present and finding nothing inside but a pair of socks.

  “Bluidy cheek,” said Michael, “corruptin’ a braw American lad.”

  “He was hardly fighting her off,” Rebecca returned.

  From the hotel lobby they could hear Jerry’s voice, apparently lecturing Grant about forensics techniques. Rebecca took the gold brooch into Laurence’s office and locked it away in the safe. Michael opened his case and removed his pipes. Tenderly he polished the chanter and the drones, then with little puffs began to inflate the bag. The instrument squealed, rather like the obligatory protest of a camel being loaded.

  Mark came into the lobby, his guitar case in one hand, wiping his mouth with the other. Sheila’s lipstick was a distinctive scarlet; Rebecca had started calling it “Two to Tango.” On Mark’s face it looked like blood.

  He cast a sharp shamefaced glance toward her. She looked away. He went on down the hall. The door of the men’s toilet swung shut. Rebecca walked toward the bar, shaking her head. She liked Mark because he reminded her of Michael. It would be no more worthwhile to be angry with her compatriot than with Michael. At least Michael had been vaccinated against Sheila’s charms.

  With its beamed ceiling, wainscoting, and shine of brass and glass, the pub was a tourist’s dream. It was also authentic, Laurence had said; some of the prints of caber-tossing and salmon-fishing had hung on the sprigged wallpaper for fifty years. Rebecca particularly liked the vast stone fireplace, its mantel lined with amiable junk ranging from a model trolley car to some fishing lures to a ceramic Paddington Bear. Tonight the cats were doing their bit to provide atmosphere, stretched out like miniature heraldic panthers on the hearth. The scent of pine from the fire helped to dispel the faint odor of wet sheep that clung even to polyester in this climate. Several local people were scattered around the room, their own muddy wellies and lint-balled sweaters no different from the archeological squad’s.

  Elaine sat at her usual table, at Jerry’s knee as he leaned on the bar pontificating on fingerprints and bloodstains. Grant was dressed in civilian garb—flannels and an Aran sweater. He reached his empty mug across the bar for Laurence to replace with a full one, never taking his slightly stunned eyes off Jerry. Perhaps he was too well lubricated to blink.

  Dennis contemplated his own mug across the table from Elaine. Every now and then she’d drop her adoring look at Jerry and shoot a glare at Dennis, shuffling expressions as quickly as a deck of cards. For a business major, Dennis was certainly intent on gathering every gem of wisdom Jerry let fall. He was like a friendly St. Bernard, constantly at the man’s heels.

  Nora sat with Tony discussing a pile of photographs. Tony had a large nose and protuberant front teeth; when it occurred to his placid nature to smile, he looked like a puppet gone AWOL from a Punch and Judy show. Yes, he and Sheila were sharing a room, but judging from Sheila’s indecent assault on Mark, it was more an affair of convenience than of lust.

  Bridget and Hilary, bent over a book of knitting patterns, caught Rebecca’s eye and beckoned. Rebecca took off her coat—the room was actually warm—ordered a Glenfiddich, and sat down. Bridget pushed a skein of off-white yarn across the table. “Is this what you’re needin’, then?”

  “Oh, thank you. This should work nicely. Michael’s really missing his sweater, but I’m afraid if he unravels any more of it, I’ll never be able to repeat the pattern.” Rebecca stowed the yarn in her pocket.

  Hilary’s eyes darted to the door, registering Mark’s entrance with dull resignation.

  Mark ordered a beer. “You brought your guitar!” Laurence exclaimed. “I thought I heard Michael tuning up out in the lobby.”

  The locals looked up. Laurence and Nora rushed to pull
up a stool for Mark. Little had they realized what a bargain they were getting, not only a scientific expedition, but entertainment as well. Grant evaded Jerry’s attempt to sketch something on a napkin and said, “I’ll go fetch Winnie and the weans, it’s seldom they get tae hear the pipes.”

  Michael passed Grant in the doorway, the bag of his pipes fat and sassy under his arm. “You’ve heard,” said Jerry, ostensibly to Elaine, “Noel Coward’s definition of a gentleman: a man who knows how to play the bagpipes but doesn’t.” He grinned, virtually twirling his moustache. Elaine and Dennis laughed. Everyone else regarded him with polite but blank stares.

  Mark sipped from his drink and strummed his guitar. He segued through “Dixie”, “The Yellow Rose of Texas”, and “Greensleeves”, and ended up on “The Streets of Laredo”.

  Michael accepted an ale from Laurence, swigged, and left the mug on the bar. The pipes squawked, and he reprimanded them with a firm prod. He put the mouthpiece between his lips and began to play “The Flowers o’ the Forest.”

  The high clear notes of the lament filled the room, the low moan of the drones enriching the melody like gold threads stitched on silk. Mark complimented the tune with soft chords. The Johnstons tiptoed into a corner booth, even the smallest child listening enthralled.

  “I’ve heard the liltin’ at our yowe-milkin’,” sang Bridget, “Lassies a liltin’ before the dawn o’ day. But now they are moanin’ in ilka green loanin’, the flowers o’ the forest are a’ wede away.”

  Michael’s fingers caressed the chanter, his eyes closed, making love to the music. Rebecca’s heart twinged with an oddly pleasant pang of love and sorrow—for him, for the song, for the history, she wasn’t sure. When Hilary whispered, “What’s it about?” she jumped.

  “A lament for the battle of Flodden Field,” she murmured. “1513. James IV and half the noblemen of Scotland died, not to mention a good chunk of the peasantry. The country was filled with widows.”

  Winnie sang, “Dule and wae for the order sent our lads to the border! The English, for ance, by guile wan the day; the flowers o’ the forest, that focht aye the foremaist, the prime o’ our land, are cauld in the clay.”

  “That’s why Anne Douglas came to Rudesburn,” Rebecca went on. “Her father was killed at Flodden, and she and her dowry were sent to the convent—there was no one else to take care of her. She was five years old.”

  “And bided here a’ her life,” said Bridget.

  “The flowers o’ the forest are a’ wede away,” cried the pipes. The melody faded and died into a resonant silence. A log popped in the fire, but no one spoke.

  Jerry lit a cigar, the smoke billowing demonically across his face. “Actually,” he said, “the English didn’t win Flodden by guile. As usual, the Scots were stupid enough to charge. No wonder they were annihilated.”

  Frost formed on the silence. At last Michael said with exaggerated courtesy, “Thank you, Dr. Kleinfelter.”

  Jerry’s expression asked, “What did I say?” Rebecca thought wistfully of the scene in “Monty Python and the Holy Grail” where the pompous lecturer was cut down by a charging knight.

  “One, two, three, four,” counted Mark, and he and Michael launched into a rafter-rattling rendition of “Johnnie Cope”.

  Jerry would enjoy the derision in that song. He was the type who thought derision was wit. Rebecca explained to Hilary, “Prestonpans. The Scots won that one. Cope, the English general, outran his retreating army.” She sang, “When Johnnie Cope to Dunbar came, they said to him, where are your men? Why, confound me, I dinna ken, I left them there in the mornin’!”

  Sheila appeared in the door of the bar, carrying her canvas bag. She said, as she’d said every night, “How quaint.” She strolled over to the table where Tony now sat alone, opened the bag, and pulled out what at first Rebecca thought was a sheet.

  Good grief. She hurriedly took a drink of her whisky. What Sheila had was a nun’s habit. “I finished sewin’ that the day,” said Bridget, suppressing a giggle. “Special order. She’ll be wearin’ it aboot the ruins for the telly program. Did you see her this evenin’, posin’ by the yew tree for Tony tae—what did he say, test the light? Ah, that’ll come a trick for the tourist trade!” Bridget’s eyes danced. The giggle escaped, infecting Hilary, and her delightful laugh blended with the music.

  Rebecca admitted that the best response to Sheila’s excesses was laughter. Even so she felt cheated that the ghost she’d seen had been her. Fortunately Adele wasn’t here for that revelation.

  Mark, frowning in concentration, began to play “Foggy Mountain Breakdown”. Michael retired to the bar and refilled his ale.

  Rebecca joined him. She must be more stressed out than she’d thought; the tangy Glenfiddich had gone straight to her head. The room wasn’t fuzzy but supernaturally clear, each object a source of enchantment. One of the cats yawned, its pink tongue curled. The bubbles in Michael’s ale were prisms suspended in dark amber. His eyes over the rim of the glass were as deep and blue as the Scottish sky—when it wasn’t raining.

  Sheila’s voice said sharply, “You pillock, whatever possessed you to use that setting? Now you’ll have to take them again.”

  “Why am I surrounded by such fools?” said Michael under his breath, satirizing Sheila’s tone.

  Tony murmured equably, “Get stuffed, Sheila,” and stacked the photographs into their envelope.

  As though considering his directive, Sheila leaned back, her elbows hooked around the chair so that her breasts strained against her khaki blouse. Impressive, Rebecca meowed to herself, and wondered how much was nature, now much chemical artifice.

  On Rebecca’s other side, Jerry rose to the bait. Rebecca knew that look of Jerry’s, it was palpable as a probing hand. He applied it without discrimination to all the women except Adele. Sheila’s red mouth turned up, and her tongue licked between her lips just like a cat.

  Michael joined in the applause for Mark, who was flushed and smiling, working off his frustrations, no doubt. He waved Michael back to join him. They began tossing songs back and forth, “Seventeen Come Sunday”, “Silver Darlin’s”, “Bonnie Blue Flag”, and “St. Kilda Wedding”.

  Rebecca tapped her foot, her thoughts bouncing merrily to the music. Sheila got up and patted Dennis on the head, throwing the young man into confusion. She leaned against the bar. The rich scent of her perfume mingled uneasily with the miasma of Jerry’s cigar. “Scots and Americans are all barbarians,” her voice cooed in Rebecca’s ear. “No wonder Michael fancies you.”

  “Jealous?” Rebecca inquired sweetly. She turned her back, not at all contrite, and felt rather than heard Sheila flounce closer to Jeremy.

  “What?” he asked.

  “Nothing,” she answered. “How’re you keeping?”

  Elaine spun toward Dennis and plunged into an animated conversation. Dennis, now doubly bewildered, responded in monosyllables. Laurence left Nora behind the bar and joined Tony. “Do you remember,” he said, “when you were here signing the contracts, we saw that owl’s nest in the church tower? Well, now it has three eggs.”

  Tony nodded. “What did I hear about ospreys returning to the Highlands?” He glanced toward Jerry and Sheila and smiled in wry amusement. Rebecca blinked. She felt as if she were watching an animated gossip column—with a superior soundtrack.

  Tony went on, with a dubious glance at the cats, “I saw in the papers that domestic cats account for half the songbird deaths in the United Kingdom.”

  “You don’t say?” asked Laurence politely.

  Michael played “The Cowal Gathering”. The Johnstons began clapping their hands. Bridget tapped the tabletop with a spoon.

  Mark challenged Michael with “When the Saints Come Marching In”. Dennis forgot his confusion and sang. By now everyone in the room was stamping or clapping or pounding on a table. The cats roused themselves and sat sharing glances that required only the shaking of heads and pointing of paws to be outright mockery.

&nbs
p; “… Douglas,” said a voice somewhere near Rebecca. Oh when the saints, she hummed, oh when the saints. The voice went on. “The heart of Robert the Bruce—we’d have to call a press conference to announce that.”

  How I want to be in their number… . What? Rebecca forced herself not to turn around. She and Michael had never told Jerry about the Bruce’s heart, deciding that if they found it, great, if they didn’t, why inflate his expectations? But—her mind raced—but if he already knew, and found out that they’d known and hadn’t told him, he could justifiably call them troublemakers like Laurel Matheny… . Ah, hell, the country was teeming with medieval records. He found out about it in London just as they’d suspected.

  Rebecca shook her head. Her glass was empty. She’d probably hallucinated those words.

  Michael pulled Mark smoothly into “Highland Laddie”. The walls of the hotel rattled, the windows bowed outward in the blast.

  Then, suddenly, it was over. The pipes exhaled a long sigh of satiation, and a guitar string twanged. The fire died down to embers, Nora collected the dirty glasses, the local people put on their coats, pronounced the ceilidh a roaring success, and went home.

  The air outside was a cold, wet slap against Rebecca’s warm face. Away from the lights of Jedburgh Street the evening was very dark. She felt as if she were squinting through a piece of smoky quartz. The Priory and Battle Law were dim shapes across the burn. A full moon was a dim orange glow behind the clouds. “Did you have a wee drop too much, then?” asked Michael. An arm, she assumed his, buoyed her toward the cottage.

  “I must have. I thought I heard Jerry talking to Sheila about Robert the Bruce’s heart.”

  The arm stiffened. “Your guilty conscience, lass?”

  “My guilty conscience?” she retorted. “You haven’t told him either.”

  “And he’s no told us, has he? So he is after it.”

  “Don’t jump to conclusions.”

  “I’m no jumpin’. He’s pushin’ me.”

  The footsteps of the students on the gravel driveway sounded like an avalanche. The cottage was dark except for a light in Adele’s upstairs bedroom. “It’s really sad,” said Hilary’s voice through the gloom.