The Day She Died: A Novel

by Catriona McPherson

  “I don’t do nice wee pictures of the seaside,” he said.

  “I didn’t mean to insult you,” I said, feeling myself colouring. How many times had I blushed since I’d met him yesterday? And how long had it been before that? I’m not a blusher. He was standing with his eyes closed and his face turned up as if the sun would warm it, but the sun was behind him.

  “Becky wanted me to churn stuff out and tout it round the craft shops,” he said, eventually, still with his eyes closed. “Present from Galloway. Said what was the point of living out here if I didn’t paint it. Boats in the harbour, roses round the door.” At last, he opened his eyes. “Jesus, I’m the biggest bastard that ever lived to be moaning about her.” He threw the dregs of his coffee away, making a dark splash that spoiled the green and orange on the nearest rock. None of it splashed on me, though.

  Then he cupped his hand to his mouth. “Roobs, come on, darling! And Dillyboy, get out of the water with your socks on, you numpty. Come on.”

  “Yeah, you’re a total bastard, right enough,” I said. “I’ll pick her up at four then. Steve won’t mind if I leave early. See you getting on for five. Text me a shopping list if you need anything.”

  “You’re saving my life, Jess,” he said.

  “Jessie,” I told him. He blinked. “Now, that’s a bastard,” I said. “Picking nits at a time like this.”

  “Jessie,” he said. “A time like this, yeah.” He gave me a look. If he had just been a guy, and we’d just been standing on a beach somewhere, I’d have known what kind of look it was, no question. But with his kids there, not to mention his wife in the morgue, it couldn’t have been. Sick of me even to think so.

  I dropped Ruby off at the nursery wing of Townhead Primary and stopped at the door to have a word with the famous Miss Colquhoun, a nice girl with a worried face and holes all over her lips and nose where she must wear rings when she wasn’t working.

  “I’m picking Ruby up this afternoon,” I told her. “Her dad told me the password. And I think I should give you my number in case she needs to leave early.”

  “Trouble?” she asked.

  “He hasn’t called you yet?” I turned and watched Ruby in the playground. She had put her backpack down and was tearing in to some game with three other girls who all looked like they knew what they were doing.

  “Big trouble,” I said. “Becky—Mrs. King—was in a car crash yesterday.” Miss Colquhoun’s hands flew up to her face. I could see the very edges of her full-sleeve tattoos peeking out from her cuffs.

  “Is she okay?” she said. “Is she in the hospital?”

  “She’s not okay,” I told her. “She didn’t survive.” I watched her chew on that and translate it into the bald fact I didn’t want to say.

  “She died?”

  I nodded. “She died.”

  Miss Colquhoun swung round to look at the girls playing. “Does Ruby know?”

  “Well,” I said, “Gus told her.”

  “Gus?” said Miss Colquhoun. “That’s her dad? We do Mister and Missus here with the parents.”

  “But I’m not sure it went in,” I added.

  She nodded, but she looked pained. “I’ll need to tell the head teacher,” she said. “I’m not sure Ruby should be here.”

  “There’s going to be cops and all that today,” I said. “Gus reckoned Ruby’d be better off not at the house.”

  “Police?” said Miss Colquhoun. “Like, was it a hit-and-run? Drunk driver? Why police?”

  “I … no. Just—She drove off that bad road to Wanlockhead. It was an accident. Tragedy, really.” I wasn’t going to say the word.

  “Oh my God,” said Miss Colquhoun. There were tears shining in her eyes. “I heard that on West Sound last night. That was Becky King? They said it might have been suicide, though. Two in one day, they said. Made a big special feature of it.”

  “Two? Oh yeah, those divers.”

  “Evil bastards, making up stories. Oh my God!”

  The bell rang, blocking out all sounds, sending the kids wheeling back to their schoolbags and then jostling to the door.

  “She was so happy!” said Miss Colquhoun, over the rabble. “Out at that cottage, by the sea. Making her garden, fixing the place up. She was a really lovely person, you know. So much to live for and such a great mum.”

  I nodded, turning my lips down at the corners, mirroring her look, agreeing. Of course Becky King would suddenly be a wonderful mum, devoted and blissfully happy, so much to live for. Or maybe she had talked a good game while she was alive and had the teachers fooled. It wouldn’t be the first time.

  “What time d’you call this?” said Dot, “as my friend Irene would say.” She always does that. If she gets nippy, it’s in Irene’s name. Dot herself—this is the idea—wouldn’t say boo.

  “I know, I know,” I said. I dumped my bag and started up the computer before I even took my coat off or went through to the scullery to check the scone situation. “But I’ve had a very unusual time since I left here yesterday.” And it seemed more unusual than ever now that I was back in my real life again. Like a dream. I jumped at a sound coming from the back room. The bosses—Father Tommy and Sister Avril: they who can sign cheques—usually stayed in the office up at St. Vince’s and left us alone as long as we filled in our sheets on time.

  “Is Monsignature here?” I asked.

  Monsignature was one of Dot’s best near-misses, and a better name for a priest with a chequebook I couldn’t imagine.

  “Steve’s doing the bags,” said Dot and fluttered a hand at her neck. “We got a wee bit muddled.” In other words, Dot turned up for Steve’s shift. “I’m meeting my friend Irene for lunch, so there was no point me traipsing home and back. I’ll just stay. How d’you mean, unusual?”

  “Did you hear on the radio that a car went off the road at Wanlockhead?” I asked her, deleting all the junk mail from the inbox.

  “I did,” said Dot. “That’s a terrible road. Makes me as carsick as anything.”

  “Well, it was a friend of mine,” I said. “Or the wife of a friend of mine anyway. I was with him.”

  “You were in the car?” said Dot on a rising shriek. “Oh dear. Oh Jessie pet. Steve! Jessie’s been in a car crash.”

  “Dot, no!” I said. “You’ve picked up the wrong—”

  “What’s up?” said Steve, coming through from the back with the water cup for our iron in his hand.

  “Did they keep you in? You shouldn’t be at work straight out of the hospital, Jessie.”

  “I was with my friend Gus when he heard that his wife had been killed,” I said, very slowly and loudly, the way you need to when Dot’s really birling.

  “Is that who the police were fishing out the Nith at the Whitesands?” she said, clutching me.

  “Why were you in the hospital?” said Steve.

  “I wasn’t. I had to babysit their kids while he went to identify the body, and then I stayed the night in case … ”

  “Oh dear goodness me,” said Dot, which was quite strong language for her. “A local lass was this? What was the name?”

  “King,” I said. “Local, I think. Gus King. Don’t know her own name.” Although Gus had said it, hadn’t he? She’d wanted to give it to Dillon. I tried to remember, and Dot started clacking through her mental rolodex for Kings, but it was Steve who came through.

  “Gus King?” he said. “Our age?” I nodded. “Big guy with red hair? Artist.”

  “That’s him,” I said.

  “I didn’t know you knew him,” said Steve.

  Until that moment, I hadn’t realised I’d lied. I’d said “a friend” because … because over the course of the night and morning it had started to seem that way.

  Many times since, I’ve thought back to that moment. That fork in the road. If I had put that lie back in my mouth right t
hen, if I’d said: Hang on. Rewind. I didn’t actually know him this time yesterday. If I’d tried to explain it to Dot and Steve, I’d have failed. And failing to get them to understand, I’d have started to question it myself. And then I’d have climbed back up the cliff I was falling down, stepped away from the edge, and got clear. And what would have happened then? Who would have lived, and who’d have died? I’ve wondered many times and I’ll never know.

  “So you know him too?” was what I said.

  “I know his brother,” said Steve.

  “Is he another artist?” said Dot. “Talented family.”

  “No, the other one’s a headcase,” Steve said. “Or he was when he was wee.” That explained the language, then. It was a throwback to Steve’s childhood, when people were headcases instead of Mental Health Service users.

  “Were you at school with him?” I said. “Gus doesn’t say much—makes you wonder.”

  “Cubs,” said Steve. “And the less said, the better.”

  “Whae’s this?” We hadn’t noticed a client coming in. It was one of our repeat customers—Buckfast Eric. He was a harmless alcoholic who could always rely on Father Tommy when his overcoat got the usual “organic stains.”

  “Honest to God, Eric,” I said. “If you’d have a bag of chips and a pint of milk before you started, you’d keep it down.”

  “It’s not that this time, ye cheeky besom,” Eric said. “I fell over in the park and sat in dog’s dirt.”

  Dot shuddered.

  “Nice,” I said. “Just gets us in the mood for our coffee.”

  “You’re very kind,” said Eric, settling himself down on the shoe-trying-on chair. “And who are we bitching up today, pardon my French, ladies.”

  “Gavin King,” said Steve. “Jessie knows his brother. Stayed out Heathall way. His dad worked at Hunter’s.”

  “Oh, I know who you mean now,” said Dot. “But they moved years ago. I think it was”—she lowered her voice—“divorce. Very sad. And he got a transfer, and she wasn’t far at his back and went to Lancashire. Somewhere on the coast. And so this is her daughter-in-law, is it? And children too?” She went clucking off to make the coffee.

  “But Gus isn’t like the rest of them,” I said. “He’s a sculptor.”

  “A sculptor,” said Eric. “A right sculptor—marble and a chisel—or does he put stale bread in a old toilet and sell it for millions?”

  “You’re a Philistine, Eric,” I said. Going by what had been said about seaside scenes, though, I reckoned he’d got Gus’s number.

  “I might well be, but I’d rather be a Philistine with no shite on me. So if you can show me what you have in a 40/32 trouser, I’d be very grateful.”

  Steve and I both recoiled.

  “Are you telling me you’ve got kak on those breeks you’re wearing now?” I said. “Get up off our chair then, you manky old toe rag. God almighty!”

  “Jessie!” said Steve. “Your tone is completely inappropriate and unprofessional.”

  “Our Lord himself washed the feet of the poor,” said Dot, coming back with the coffee tray.

  “He wouldn’t have touched Eric’s,” I said.

  Steve glared, but Eric only said, “You’re not wrong, Jessie hen. I’ve an infected toenail that would turn the milk.”

  In other words, it was a pretty typical morning. Dot with her shift wrong, Steve bugging me, Eric being Eric. And the comfort of it all stopped me thinking. I nicked some undies from stock and changed in the toilets, and only for a little sliver of a second did I look at myself in the mirror and ask the questions that were rumbling away deep down inside. How did I get so far into something that was nothing to do with me? Why did I lie to Dot and Steve? How would I phrase it when I went back tonight, my kind but firm good-bye? Then the phone rang and I went to answer it, expecting Father Tommy or a donor or the usual. But it was Miss Colquhoun from Townhead Primary telling me to come right away.

  Ruby had lasted through the morning song and chosen a jigsaw for her quiet time, but then she’d had a pretty nuclear meltdown, going by Miss Colquhoun’s account, when one of the other kids said her mummy was dead like a ghost and the worms would eat her.

  “I never dreamed any of them would know!” Miss Colquhoun said to me when I got there. “Think I’d have wised up by now, eh? They’re four, for f—”

  “—uck’s sake,” I filled in, since she was a primary school teacher and she was at work and couldn’t.

  “What the hell are the parents thinking?”

  “Who’ll win Strictly this go-round?” I said. “It never occurred to me either, and my bar’s set pretty low.”

  “Oh God no!” said Miss Colquhoun. “Look, here’s the secretary coming with Ruby now. She’s wet her pants and she’s quite upset about it, just so’s you know. But it was one of our Guardian Angels that said it—all muesli and first names, ken the type? Mummy treats them like they’re forty-five.”

  “Oh, them!” I said. Ruby was plodding along beside the secretary, still in her velvet dress and shrug, but with bare legs now. “Hello, Rubylicious,” I called out to her. “I missed you. I’m glad I didn’t need to wait till four to see you again. And I bet Daddy’s missing you too.”

  “Bye-bye, special sweetheart!” said Miss Colquhoun, giving Ruby a huge hug that would get her sacked if you believed the Daily Mail. “I’ll see you very soon. I’ll maybe come and see you at home at the weekend, eh? Bring you a present.” I caught her eye, pretty sure this wasn’t in the guidelines. “Couldn’t care less,” she said quietly to me. “Couldn’t give a stuff.”

  “What are you talking about?” said Ruby, grizzling.

  “Boring grown-up stuff,” I said. “No need for you to worry, hunny-bunny. Let’s go and get some nice treats to take home for Dillon.”

  “And me,” Ruby said. “Can I get a comic?”

  “Only if you let me buy you some sweeties too.”

  I pretended not to hear as I walked away, but I knew the secretary and the teacher were asking each other who I was and saying Gus was lucky I was around. I took Ruby’s sticky little hand in mine and tried to think what I could get Gus in Tesco that would feel as good as a comic and sweeties but wasn’t drink and that I could afford and wouldn’t seem weird when I’d only known him a day.

  And maybe that explains why I got sucked back in again and totally forgot my plan to say take care, all the best, and good-bye.

  Maybe.

  Nine

  The farmyard wasn’t deserted this time. Two quad bikes sat there with their motors going, a collie on the back of each, plunging about and barking their heads off but so well-trained they wouldn’t shift off the bikes until somebody told them. There was a car, a big muddy 4x4, pulled off the track with its back doors open. In the yard itself, three men were strong-arming pallets into place to funnel sheep from one shed to another. One of them, in a waxed jacket, ignored me, but the two in Gore-Tex trousers and padded tartan shirts stopped what they were doing and turned to stare. A vet and two workers, I thought. None too friendly. One of them strolled over and stood in front of my car, making me stop whether I liked it or not.

  I rolled down the window, working the handle round.

  He frowned at me. “Is this the car fae the cattleman’s hoose?” he said. “Who’re you?”

  “I’m a friend of the family,” I said. “Have you heard?”

  “Heard whit?” he said. “Was that you yesterday an’ all? This is no’ the way.”

  “Mrs. King has been”—I checked Ruby out of the corner of my eye; she wasn’t listening—“killed in a car accident.”

  He was the type of guy that would rather die himself than show surprise, a real hard man (and to think he helped lambs into the world), but he started back a bit at that. “Aye, well,” he said, not exactly overflowing with sympathy. “If there’s gonny be loads of folk
comin’ you’ll have tae get them tellt. Girthon turn.” He jerked his head. “Through the site.”

  I had no idea what that meant, but I’d ask Gus. No point trying to get this one’s knuckles off the ground to give proper directions. I just wound the window back up again and went on my way.

  At the cottage, Gus was sitting on a bench under the front bedroom window with Dillon on his knee, both of them staring at the sea. The baby was wrapped in a blanket—one of those old army-issue things, scratchy as hell, but he looked happy enough, sucking on some toy. Gus was wearing a suit that could have given the army blanket a good run. It was green with a kind of orange fuzz about it, brown leather buttons. I know clothes, and this suit was prewar. He had on a shirt with no collar, but when I took a close look at what Dillon was sucking, there was the collar there. Gus shuffled along the bench, gouging out pits in the gravel with his work boots.

  “I’m going to have to buy a suit,” he said. “This was Dave’s.”

  “It’s … ” I said.

  “It fits okay,” he said, “but it’s like fancy dress. Hi Ruby-two-shoes,” he went on. “Miss Colquhoun phoned and told me you were coming.”

  Ruby said nothing. She sidled up to him, wriggled between his knees, and put her head down on Dillon’s blanket. He patted her hair with the collar and then went back to sucking it again.

  “Okay, then … ” I said.

  Gus looked up at me. “Can you just sit here beside us for a wee bit?” he said.

  “Of course.” I dropped down beside him and looked out at the sea, looking for whatever he was finding there. It was hard to stay quiet. I wanted to ask about Becky, about the police, the Girthon turn and the site. I wanted to get dry knickers for Ruby, thinking she must be cold. I wanted to help. Instead, I counted the rocks between us and the tide. Tried to name the flowers in the two beds along the fence. Red-hot pokers. Daisies. Although they might just as easily be chrysanthemums or dahlias or even asters. And an edging of those red, white, and blue things. Lobelia, salvia, and … the white ones.