Good News, Bad News

by WHS McIntyre

  He walked past me and stopped, his hand on the door knob. ‘Thanks to you my granddaughter will go on to be a fine lawyer and, thanks to me, in due course Eleanor will enjoy a well-deserved retirement.’

  ‘So you are quite happy that both have broken the law without penalty?’

  ‘Not happy, Mr Munro, but content that each has learned a very valuable lesson.’

  ‘Have it your way,’ I said. ‘I might call what’s happened a great result, but I never thought I’d hear you call it justice.’

  Brechin threw the door wide open for me. ‘Pass on my best wishes to Miss Somerville,’ he said, as I walked by. ‘Tell her you were right. Sometimes a good slap is justice enough.’

  56

  I had the brown envelope ripped open before I’d taken more than three paces down the corridor. From it I pulled a single sheet of paper, not the six or seven page stated case that had been adjusted two weeks before. ‘Erred’ is a small word, but it leapt off the page and hit me in the face like a frying pan in a Warner Bros. animation.

  Erred? I could sense the sheer, excruciating pain that emanated from each of those five letters. Sheriff Albert Brechin had erred in law?

  In hindsight and having reflected upon the highly persuasive closing submissions of the Appellant’s learned solicitor . . .’

  Learned? He meant me. It was no good, I was going to have to find a seat before reading on. In a daze, I found my way out of the court building, down the stairs to the atrium where I sat down hard on one of the benches.

  ‘ . . . I have come to the conclusion that the case as led before me by the Prosecution was driven not due to the serious nature of the alleged conduct, but by a pedantic and, in this instance, oppressive policy of zero-tolerance. It should not have been required of this court to adjudicate on such a trifling affair. The time and money already spent by the Crown in bringing this case amounts to a waste of resources. I would not expect your Lordships to be part of further squandering, and ask that the matter be deemed de minimis and the appeal upheld. To answer the question put by the Appellant for a finding: I concede that in convicting her I erred and reached a verdict that should not have been returned by a reasonable sheriff.’

  Both the signature and date looked genuine enough. I folded the paper and replaced it in the brown envelope as carefully as though it were a winning lottery ticket. Brechin had really done a number on himself. The only things missing were sackcloth, ashes and a spot of self-flagellation.

  I couldn’t wait to pass on the good news to Heather Somerville. What better wedding present could there be?

  And then I had a thought. If Bert Brechin was able to reconsider his opinion, why not certain others? The Civic Centre not only housed the Sheriff Court, it was home to West Lothian’s planning department and the people who’d rejected the original proposals for Joanna and my cottage. Perhaps they could be persuaded otherwise. It was Friday, after all.

  After a short wait while they dug out my papers I was taken to a desk in an open plan office where I was introduced to a middle-aged man with a bushy, grey beard and dressed in a checked suit, stripy shirt, spotted tie combo that was painful to the eye.

  ‘Good old dress-down-Friday,’ I said, as an opening pleasantry.

  ‘We don’t do that here,’ he replied. ‘The boss doesn’t like it.’

  I cleared my throat. ‘So . . . Anyway . . . About my planning application. The proposed changes . . .’ I laughed lightly. ‘A bit drastic, aren’t they?’

  No, apparently they weren’t, and it took him ten minutes to explain why they weren’t.

  ‘Is there anybody else around I might have a word with, do you think?’ I asked, as he reached the end of his sermon on sewer systems, safe vehicular access and environmental impact assessments.

  ‘Like who?’

  ‘Like your boss.’

  ‘I am the boss. When I said the boss didn’t like dress-down-Friday, I was talking about myself. It was a joke.’

  ‘Is that a joke beard too?’ I asked, ‘because you seem very hairy for a woman.’

  ‘Mr Munro, we usually try to finish up at four on a Friday. Feel free to have your architect amend anything he thinks appropriate and re-submit. Not that it will—’

  ‘Your boss . . . ?’ I reminded him.

  ‘I’ve told you that’s me.’

  ‘You’re the boss? As in you’re the head of planning?’

  He swivelled in his chair, pulled open a drawer and pretended to rummage about inside it. ‘I’ve got a badge somewhere. I can put it on if you like.’

  ‘But I thought . . . Isn’t the head of planning a woman?’ That was what my conversations with both Jake and Freddy had led me to believe.

  He stood up, the better to stare down at me. ‘No Mr Munro, I’ve been called a lot of things in my time, but never a woman. Like you say, I think it may have something to do with the beard. Now is there anything else you’d like to know?’ he enquired, in a there-had-better-not-be kind of a way.

  I thanked him for his time. There was plenty more I’d like to have known but, I was equally sure, it was nothing he could have helped me with.

  I really needed to find Ellen Fletcher.

  57

  ‘The good news is that it’s within our budget,’ Joanna said, as the three of us and dog, piled into the car and headed for the High Street. ‘But I’ve got to warn you, it is quite small.’ I’d been kidding myself. There was no danger of me getting away with not viewing the flat Joanna had chosen for us. ‘And the other thing is the garden. It’s tiny. Practically non-existent.’

  Now I knew why my fiancée had never become an estate agent; however, I had the feeling that the garden could have been alligator-infested and she wouldn’t have minded so long as it meant we were at last going to have a place of our own. The fact that my attendance at the Scottish Junior Cup final on Sunday was now assured, was also a nice little bonus.

  ‘One other slight problem . . .’ Joanna leaned closer and whispered. ‘There are no dogs allowed in the block.’

  That was more than a slight problem. My dad had already rejected the suggestion that he look after Bouncer and I couldn’t blame him. He was spending enough of his retirement child-minding, without a dog to add to the mix. Malky? He didn’t have a garden either. No, finding Bouncer a good home wouldn’t be easy. It wasn’t like the pound wasn’t already full of dogs, most of which, I was sure, could boast at least some resemblance to a recognised breed, unlike Bouncer’s distinctly cosmopolitan appearance.

  ‘Who’s going to tell . . .’ I jerked my head backwards to where Tina was sitting on a booster-seat with Bouncer beside her.

  It was at times like these that Joanna liked to remind me who Tina’s father was.

  ‘But it’s you who wants us to move into this new flat,’ I said.

  ‘Don’t get me started, Robbie. You brought the you-know-what into our lives. You never consulted me, you just arrived with it in the dead of night. Well, you caused the problem and now you’re going to have to solve it.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘No buts. It’s got to go. Take it back where it came from.’

  Return Bouncer to Jake Turpie? What chance would the animal have if I did? Assuming Jake did take it back, unless the dog bucked up its ideas and endeared itself to Jake by tearing the leg off some scrapyard intruder, it would likely face euthanasia by torque wrench.

  Joanna twisted in her seat and looked over her shoulder at Tina. ‘This place we’re going to see is nice and handy for your new school.’

  ‘I don’t like it.’ Tina said.

  ‘You’ve not seen it yet,’ I said. ‘It’ll be great. You’ll have a nice room all to yourself, much bigger than your wee box room at Gramps’.’

  ‘Not all that much bigger,’ Joanna said, ‘but it’ll be lovely and new and you’ll be able to get all your toys in it.’

  Tina wasn’t falling for the sales pitch. ‘Bouncer won’t like it if the garden is wee and he can’t play in it prope
rly.’

  The girl had inherited her grandfather’s gift for eavesdropping.

  ‘Never mind that just now,’ I said, bumping the car over the kerb and into my usual space outside Sandy’s café. ‘First of all we’re going to St Michael’s.’

  ‘Are you sure you want to go through with this?’ Joanna asked. ‘It’s the girl’s wedding. She’s not going to want you barging into the church on the happiest day of her life with news from the courts.’

  I’d tried to get hold of Heather Somerville on Friday night with no success. Earlier that morning I’d phoned again to be told that she was at the hairdresser’s and could be some time. Later attempts had gone onto an answering service. I could have left a message or sent a text, but preferred the personal touch. I also wanted to see her face when she heard what I had to say.

  ‘It’s bound to be hanging over her head. Think how even happier she’ll be when she finds out the good news,’ I said.

  ‘Why can’t it wait until Monday?’ Joanna said. ‘Why do you have to go charging in like the pony express? Look at you. You’re not exactly dressed for the occasion.’

  ‘All I’m doing is handing over a letter and then leaving.’

  Tina was becoming impatient, struggling against her safety straps. ‘Are we going to the wedding or not?’

  ‘See?’ I said. ‘Tina’s dying to go.’

  ‘Okay, Robbie,’ Joanna relented. ‘Have it your way. Just so long as you know what you’re dealing with here. Heather Somerville will have been planning this day for months, years, possibly since she was a little girl. She might look all calm and sedate in her wedding dress, but she’ll be a cauldron of emotions, a mixture of excitement and worry, there will be a thousand things going through her head—’

  ‘Well this will only be one more,’ I said, as we all climbed out of the car. ‘And it’s a nice thing.’

  I rolled down a window to let some air in for Bouncer, then unstrapped Tina, took her hand and us humans set off in the direction of the Cross Well.

  ‘And there will be tears.’ Joanna was not willing to let up.

  ‘Not necessarily.’

  When we came to the foot of Kirkgate, the cobbled brae leading to St Michael’s Church, Joanna stopped. ‘Imagine it. Heather comes out of the Church, a newlywed, there’s organ music, cameras going off, people cheering, confetti being thrown. You suddenly appear in jeans and T-shirt. She’s confused and upset, the happy moment is gone. What’s my lawyer doing here? He must be bringing bad news. That’s what lawyers do isn’t it? You give her the letter. She rips it open, no, it’s not bad news, it’s good news, it’s great news, it’s all too much. She’s just married and now her career has been saved.’ Joanna put a hand firmly on each of my shoulders and looked me straight in the eye. ‘Trust me, Robbie. There will be an ocean of tears.’

  ‘D’you think?’

  Joanna nodded. ‘And hugging.’

  ‘Well, if you put it like that . . .’

  ‘Lots and lots of hugging. At first people gathering around, wondering why the bride is crying. What has the man in the T-shirt and jeans said to her? They all want to know what’s going on. They’re angry at first and then they find out, and everyone wants to hug and kiss you: the bride’s mother, the bride’s father, then there’s the groom and the rest of the in-laws and friends, all wanting a piece of you, all—’

  ‘Take this.’ I gave the envelope to Tina. ‘Go with Joanna up to the church and give it to the lady in the big white dress—’

  ‘You mean the bride, Dad?’

  ‘Give the letter to her and I’ll meet you back at Sandy’s later for ice cream and then we’ll go see the new house. How’s that sound?’

  The ice cream part sounded fine to Tina. She started to trot up the brae, clutching the letter and dragging Joanna along.

  I walked back to the car. Bouncer stared excitedly through the window at me as though I’d been gone for a fortnight. What was I to do? Give the dog back to Jake and tell Tina Bouncer had been missing his old master? Missed being kicked about the place? With just a little more time I was sure I could persuade my dad to take him. The problem was I didn’t have time. Which was perhaps why I thought of Ellen Fletcher, someone else with very little time, but right now she didn’t have Freddy, and Jake’s business dealings meant that he wouldn’t be around all that much either. Maybe, living out in the wilds, she’d appreciate some canine company, and by the time she’d reached the stage she could no longer cope, I was sure I’d have my dad talked into appreciating the benefits of dog ownership. I tapped the glass. Bouncer barked, jumping about on the back seat, wagging his tail. That was it settled. I’d break the news to Tina over ice cream that Bouncer had gone on holiday for a couple of months. Worst case, to tide us over, I’d buy another grey bunny and tell her that Rosie had come back.

  I was opening the front door when Sammy Veitch approached, munching a roll on square sausage.

  ‘Have you been where I think you’ve been?’ I asked him.

  ‘The deed is done,’ he confirmed, patting a sporran that hung a little lower than normal. ‘All signed, sealed and very much delivered. Now I’m off to the sun with the missus for a few weeks.’

  There was still one thing bothering me.

  Sammy read my mind. ‘No need to speak to Ellen,’ he said. ‘I asked her about the nurse, the redhead. It was just a temporary agency job. She never asked about Ellen’s condition.’ He bit off a hunk of roll and began to chew.

  ‘That’s good,’ I said. ‘You think the whole scheme will actually work then?’

  ‘Why wouldn’t it?’ He chewed some more and swallowed. ‘They’re working like a real team those three. Building work underway to the cottage, applications made to the banks for loan funds they’ll never need. It would fool me if I didn’t know the real story.’ He took another bite. ‘Freddy even brought along the head of the planning department to go over the plans.’

  ‘Oh, him,’ I said. ‘I thought the fashion police might have a warrant out on him by now.’

  ‘Him? No, she’s a woman. Tall girl, red hair, great legs.’ He winked. ‘Seems to be a lot of them about these days.’

  ‘No, Sammy,’ I said, wrenching the car keys from my pocket. ‘I think there may only be one.’

  ‘Where you going?’ he called after me, as I hurried off.

  ‘Business,’ I yelled back at him. ‘I’ve got to go and see a woman about a dog.’

  58

  There were two vehicles parked outside Jake’s cottage; a grubby, white Ford Transit van and a small hatchback that I recognised as Freddy’s hire car.

  With Bouncer following, I walked around the side of the house, dodging in and out through a forest of shoogly-looking scaffolding poles, to the rear. When I took the time to step back and look, it was actually a nice, solid, sandstone building. The previously sagging roof had been worked on over the past few days and was now partially stripped with a pallet laden with new slates waiting, precariously balanced on a makeshift wooden platform above the kitchen door. Jake, Freddy and Ellen were certainly giving the impression of a redevelopment exercise to cover any later questions about an insurance claim. It was a fine example of the unifying power of greed in action.

  I knocked and walked through the back door to find Jake and Freddy sitting at opposite ends of the big kitchen table, separated by a half-eaten packet of chocolate digestives, each with a steaming mug in front of them.

  Freddy was casually dressed for him, and Jake had for once discarded his oil-stained boiler suit and was clad in clean jeans and a new, bright red shirt that I guessed someone not a million miles away had bought for him.

  It was a homely scene, Freddy and Jake sitting at the table waiting to be fed, Ellen standing by the cooker in a floral apron. There was a carton of eggs to her left and a chopping board to her right on which was stacked slices of haggis, black pudding, a saucer of button mushrooms and some tomatoes.

  ‘What do you want?’ Jake asked me.

&n
bsp; ‘I need to ask Ellen something,’ I said.

  ‘She’s busy and I’m hungry. Come back after I’ve eaten, if you’ve got to.’ Now that the transaction was complete and Jake’s money safe, I was surplus to requirements and a mere annoyance.

  ‘That’s no way to speak to Robbie,’ Ellen said, draping rashers of bacon into a large cast iron frying pan. ‘You want something to eat, Robbie?’ Breakfast seemed a long time ago. It had been porridge. Fry-ups weren’t quite a thing of the past in the Munro household, but Joanna had introduced a certain degree of rationing. ‘Go on, there’s plenty.’

  ‘Maybe a bit of bacon, then,’ I said. ‘Perhaps a sausage. Or two.’

  ‘Black pudding and haggis?’

  ‘Twist my arm.’

  ‘Fried egg?’

  ‘Just give him the works,’ Freddy said. ‘Someone’s going to have to eat the stuff. I can’t. Not with my IBS. I’ll be lucky to keep an omelette inside me for five minutes. I’ve had the lavvy door swinging like the Count Basie Orchestra all morning.’

  ‘What is it you want to talk to me about?’ Ellen said, poking some link sausages with a fork. ‘You can speak here. We’re all friends now.’

  The looks Freddy and Jake gave each other made a lie of her words.

  ‘Aye, just tell her here or wait until after I’ve eaten,’ Jake said.

  Should I just come out with it and say I thought it strange how Ellen’s former nurse fitted the description of the non-existent female head of West Lothian’s planning department? Surely Jake wasn’t being conned again. Not over the same piece of land. And, yet, without a great deal of effort, or parting with any money, the husband and wife team were now partners with Jake and had a legally binding agreement to prove it. Fictitious though those development proposals were supposed to be – what if the land wasn’t green belt? What if it was suitable for development? If the whole thing was a triple bluff by Freddy, he and Ellen now owned a one-third share in a million-pound development site.