Does Your Mother Know?

by Maureen Jennings

  I suddenly realized I was talking like somebody who cared. I reined in those particular feelings.

  “Not that I truly believe my mother has come to harm, but I sure would like to know where she is.”

  His cell phone buzzed. “Gillies here!... Yes, Rosie.... Okay?... Nobody, huh? Thanks a lot.”

  “Rosie was able to contact the captain, and he says he has a sparse load and there isn’t anybody that he can see who fits the description.”

  “Which means either the man is taking a different ferry or has stayed on Skye.”

  “I suppose so.”

  “And you can’t get an officer down to the dock to check the passengers? No, don’t answer. You already said you couldn’t.”

  We made the turn onto the moor, which was now starting to seem like home. The rain and grey changed the look of it once again, and it didn’t appear like a Rembrandt painting at all. It looked more like an etching by Gustave Doré. I sank down in the seat. Gillies turned on the car heater, but I felt as if I’d never get warm.

  By the time we were on the fringes of Stornoway, I had got a good grip on my feelings and stuffed them down where they belonged. If she was really dead this time, so be it.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  “I’ll go and make a report to Jock concerning these two calls. Do you want to come in?”

  “No, I’ll just head back to the hotel. It’s your bailiwick and I know you’ll let me know.” We got out of the car and he came around to my side. For the first time since I’d met him, he looked unsure of himself.

  “Can I buy you dinner tonight?” he asked.

  “I’d love that, thanks.”

  He smiled with such undisguised pleasure that my stomach gave a lurch. The smallest of lurches. After all, I’m not a teenager who’s going to fall for a guy she met a day ago. Right?

  We agreed he’d come to the hotel about seven o’clock, but we’d try out a different restaurant. Wonderful man that he was, he had an umbrella in the car, which he insisted I borrow. I left him and walked off in the direction of the hotel. Then on the next block I spotted Lisa MacKenzie going into one of the stores along the harbourfront. An opportunity not to be missed.

  I quickened my pace. The store was called Salman’s Ladies Wear, and Lisa was still inside. She was standing in front of a mirror and studying the effect of a long black skirt and matching black-velvet jacket. She was wearing a shocking pink, fluorescent T-shirt, so the total effect was interestingly funky. I pushed open the door and went in, shaking off the water from the umbrella. A young woman wearing a hijab came from behind the counter.

  “Feasgar math, good afternoon. May I help you?” Her skin was dark, her accent pure Scots.

  “I’m just looking, thanks.”

  Lisa turned around when she heard my voice. “Hello.... Sorry, I don’t remember your name.”

  “That’s understandable. You were in a state of shock. I’m Christine Morris.”

  She grimaced at my comment, then faced the mirror again. “What do you think? I need to be respectable for the funeral. Will I do?”

  “The skirt and jacket are very respectable.”

  She laughed. “Are you saying you don’t like my T-shirt?” She held it away from her chest so I could read the printed slogan. “Gaels never do it on the Sabbath.”

  “Are you coming to Tormod’s funeral?” she asked.

  “Well, I’m not sure about Mr. MacAulay’s, but I was planning to attend the one for Mrs. MacDonald.”

  “Then you will need a hat. You kenna go to church without a hat and expect not to be noticed. Sairi, show her some Sunday bonnets.”

  “Over here, Miss.”

  Sairi indicated the corner of the shop, where there were several shelves piled with women’s hats.

  “Try this one.”

  She handed me a brown felt cloche with a wisp of veiling. I put it on and immediately my face gained ten years.

  “Ugh.”

  Lisa grinned. “I don’t think so. Your hair is too dark for a brown hat. What about that one on the top shelf, the blue straw with the wider brim.”

  Sairi took it down and I put it on. They both stood back and studied me critically.

  “Much better. That brings out the blue of your eyes.”

  “You don’t think it’s too colourful for a funeral?”

  “No, you’re not kin. And your raincoat is suitably sober. Do you have a skirt?”

  “No.”

  “Never mind then. You’re from away. They’ll forgive you.” She addressed the clerk. “Sairi, I’m going to take these clothes.” She slipped off the jacket. “And I’ll wear my white blouse,” she said to me. “I’ll look like an off-duty waitress, but I won’t offend anybody.”

  I smiled at her. “I have the impression it wouldn’t bother you too much if you did. Offend somebody, I mean.”

  “That’s not really true. I’m always on probation in this town, and I’ll no give the old ladies, of both sexes, the satisfaction of having me to tear apart with their finger sandwiches.” She adopted a high-pitched, squeaky voice. “And did you see her hair, Mary? It’s against Nature. The Lord niver made anybody with that unnatural a tint, as I live and breathe.”

  Sairi returned. “Will ye be buying the bonnet then, Miss?” she asked me.

  “Yes, I will, thank you.”

  She beamed at me and went off to make up the sale slip.

  “Are you free to go for a coffee or tea?” I asked Lisa.

  “As long as we can go to the hotel. My sister is likely to drop her pup any minute and I’d like to check in on her.”

  “Perfect.”

  I’d actually hoped for somewhere more private, but I’d take what I was given. Lisa had the same skittish air I’d been aware of yesterday, as if she’d run off at any minute. She also had the shiny eyes of somebody who’d been recently toking up.

  We got our purchases. My hat seemed scandalously expensive, as I didn’t expect to wear it again.

  “What did you get up to today?” Lisa asked me when we were outside. We huddled together under the umbrella.

  “Gill took me to see the Callanish Stones. We were going to visit the Blackhouse Village but we... ran out of time.”

  She flashed me an angry look. “Of course, it’s completely ridiculous that those old houses are now set up as a tourist site. Not that long ago, the villagers were despised by the rest of the world. The trouble is most of you people don’t look past the smoke. You cluck your teeth with delicious sympathy, ‘poor things,’ but you don’t understand that lack of material goods isn’t what counts. Those villagers had a strong community, which is far more valuable than hot and cold running water and showers.”

  Miss MacKenzie was certainly mercurial in her moods. The chatty, friendly woman in the store had suddenly changed face. She had a good point, of course, but I’m not fond of being lectured at, and every hair on the back of my neck stands up if I hear the words, “you people.” Two more steps and you’re saying “racist pig.”

  I bit back my own angry retort. “Museums keep us enlightened, though. I believe in knowing our history.”

  “‘Our’ in the universal sense, I presume? You’re no a Scot.”

  “Hey, that’s no fault of mine, is it? And you know what? I’m fed up with people who exclude anybody else who didn’t happen to be born in a certain place on the globe, or isn’t a certain skin colour, or gender. As if we have any say in the matter.”

  Lisa glanced at me, took in my irritation, and her own expression changed.

  “I’m sorry. You’re quite right. I’m being a total bitch. It’s a sore point with me — tourism and the culture.”

  At that moment we were about to cross the road. There were more cars on the street than yesterday, but it was not what I’d call busy. However, a familiar, maroon-coloured mini drove through the amber light and turned the corner so quickly that we were both forced to jump back. The car stopped beside us and the driver rolled down the window, letting out
a blast of Gospel music playing at top volume. Coral-Lyn Pitchers was giving us a white-toothed smile. Andy MacAulay was in the passenger seat, looking, if possible, even more woebegone than he had yesterday.

  “Good afternoon, Miss Morris. What a nice surprise. And you’re with Lisa too. Mr. MacAulay’s funeral is tomorrow, and I would like to invite you both to the service.”

  I could hardly hear what she was saying above the rocking rendition of “We Will Gather at the River.” She turned down the volume.

  “It will be at the Carloway church, and Andy will be the presenter. Won’t you, Honey?”

  Andy nodded on cue.

  “It’s at two o’clock,” she continued. “Lisa can tell you how to get there, can’t you, Lisa?”

  I don’t think I’d ever been exactly invited like that to a funeral. Lisa bent over to look into the car. “How are you doing, Andy?”

  “He’s bearing up,” answered Coral-Lyn. “Aren’t you, Honey?”

  “I’m sorry you’ve lost your voice,” said Lisa without changing her tone. “The shock I suppose.”

  I rather admired Lisa’s nerve, but her comment was cruel. Andy tried to act as if she’d made a joke, but he looked ashamed.

  “No, I’m all right, thanks.”

  “I should offer you my congratulations, Lisa,” said Coral-Lyn.

  “For what?”

  Their car was blocking the turn, and the driver of a van that had come up tooted his horn impatiently. Coral-Lyn waved at him, pleasantly. Then she turned back to Lisa.

  “You haven’t talked to Douglas yet? I thought you would have by now.”

  “No.”

  “Let me be the first to tell you the good news then. Grandfather MacAulay has made you his sole beneficiary.”

  “What! That’s not true.”

  “Oh it is. It means you inherit the entire property. Isn’t that splendid? I know how hard you worked on it.”

  Her tone too was sweet as maple syrup, but Lisa flinched. Andy laced his fingers together in a praying gesture. There was another, louder, toot from the van behind them, but Coral-Lyn wasn’t fazed.

  “As you know, Granddad Tormod had already agreed to sell the land to my father so we can build a place to celebrate the workings of the church. I hope that you will honour his wishes. Our offer, which is a generous one, still stands.”

  This time the van driver leaned on his horn. He couldn’t be denied and Coral-Lyn shifted into drive gear.

  “We’ll be in touch with you as soon as the funeral duties are completed.”

  “LADY, WILL YOU MOVE THAT EFFING CAR OUT OF THE WAY!!”

  Another wave. “People have no patience these days, do they?” she said to me. “I’ll see you tomorrow then?”

  “Yes... thank you.”

  I couldn’t help the “thank you.” She leaned over and upped the volume on the tape player, then drove off slowly, the van right on her rear bumper.

  Lisa was pale with anger and, ignoring me and the umbrella, she practically dived across the road, not looking, and barely missed being hit by a lean bicyclist. Gaelic swear words on both sides, delivered on the move. Lisa seemed to have completely forgotten my invitation to coffee, and she was hustling off along the street as fast as she could manage on the awkward platform shoes she was wearing. It was easy for me with my sensible Nike running shoes to catch up with her.

  “Lisa! Wait up.”

  She waved angrily in the direction of the road. “Did you see that bloody bike almost run me down?”

  This wasn’t a time to debate the responsibility of jaywalkers versus Lance Armstrong look-alikes.

  I just kept beside her, trying to shield her from the rain, although she was impervious to it.

  “That’s quite a bit of news you just received.”

  “Aye. And you heard the Madonna. She had to get the needle in, didn’t she? Oh, as if I give a shit what she thinks. What they all think. Tormod and I were good chums most of the time. Silly fool would try to get in bit of tickle now and then, but it wasn’t serious. More of a joke between us.”

  She seemed to have overlooked the cleavage photos. We were at another stoplight, and I placed my hand on her arm until the light turned green.

  “I assume being made a sole beneficiary was a surprise to you.”

  “Of course it was. Tormod kept saying he’d leave me a bequest, but I didn’t expect the whole kit and caboodle. Bloody fool. He wouldn’t accept that he was dying. He probably thought I’d get what was left after he’d sold the property and squandered the profits living the good life until a ripe old age.”

  Suddenly, she stopped and stared ahead. “I will sell the effing house and the land, you can bet on it, but I’ll no sell to that woman. I’m going to see if some dirty old Norwegian wants it for a snog shop. She wouldn’t like that one bit. Poor bloody Andy. Did you see him? He’s finally given her both his balls. She’s had one of them for a long time, but now she’s got two. Oh god. Oh god.”

  We were at the hotel now, and she shoved open the front door and went in. I followed.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Lisa headed across the deserted foyer to the dining room and bar. The door was locked, and she impatiently rattled the door knob and rapped on the glass pane. Mairi appeared on the other side and unlocked the door.

  It didn’t matter that they spoke to each other in Gaelic. The ageold conflict that resurrected itself before my eyes didn’t need translating. Mairi, the older sister, the sensible one; Lisa, the wild one, who didn’t have the right social graces and always got her way. The German couple I’d seen the night before appeared at the top of the stairs on their way out for a spot of sightseeing. Mairi stepped back.

  “Come in here.”

  We went in and Lisa immediately headed for the bar, saying over her shoulder. “I need a whisky. D’you want one, Chris?”

  I didn’t have a chance to answer, because Mairi set off after her sister.

  “You are not going to drink at this time of day.”

  Lisa took down a bottle of Scotch whisky from the shelf behind the counter, but Mairi was right behind her and she snatched at it. Lisa held on and they both released a torrent of Gaelic words. I was still at the door, pinned down by social niceties. However, in a physical struggle between a nine-months-pregnant woman and a younger, stronger gardener, there was no contest. They had got themselves ludicrously wedged in the narrow space behind the counter. I went over to help.

  “Let go, Lisa, this isn’t safe. Your sister is pregnant.”

  “In case you hadn’t noticed,” said Mairi.

  Lisa’s eyes met mine. Her pupils were dilated and there was a fleck of spit at the corner of her mouth. Abruptly, she released her hold on the neck of the bottle, but the movement caught Mairi off-balance and the bottle slipped out of her hand and smashed on the floor. The sweet, sharp smell of whisky stung my nostrils. Mairi yelped and bent over to see what was happening to her shin. A sliver of glass had bounced up and cut her. Nothing serious, but there was trickle of blood. She snapped at her sister, and I knew she’d said the time-honoured, “Now look what you’ve done.”

  “Oh shit,” said Lisa.

  Mairi straightened up and gasped. “Ow!” She pressed her hands against her stomach. There was real pain in her voice.

  “It’s nothing. I’ll get you a plaster,” said Lisa, still in angry-little-sister mode.

  “Ow!” Mairi glared back. “That was a contraction, idiot. My labour’s started,” This was in English. She needed a witness.

  She moved out from behind the counter and, suddenly, water gushed from between her legs, as if she had lost control of her bladder.

  “What the... ” She stared down at the puddle of fluid that had formed at her feet. “Oh no!

  Seeing what was happening brought Lisa back into adulthood.

  “Oh God. Mairs, your water’s broke.”

  Mairi rolled her eyes impatiently. “Brilliant. Good observation.”

  “Where’s Colin?”<
br />
  “I don’t know, he went out a couple of hours ago.”

  “And he didn’t think to mention where he was going, of course.”

  This wasn’t the time to be sidetracked about the ongoing delinquency of Mr. MacLeod.

  “We’d better get you some help right away,” I said. “Do you want me to call an ambulance?”

  “She’s planned to have a home birth,” said Lisa.

  “Let’s get hold of your midwife, then. Can you make it upstairs?”

  Mairi shook her head. “I think I’m going to be sick.” And she was, heaving convulsively all over the floor.

  “I’ll get a cloth,” said Lisa as she rushed back to the bar for a dishcloth.

  “Soak it in cold water,” I told her, and I grabbed a couple of table napkins from a nearby table and held them to Mairi’s mouth. I got her into a chair.

  Lisa raced back with the cold cloth.

  “Put it on the back of her neck.”

  Mairi was alternately leaning forward to spit out bile and straining back in the chair for relief from her labour cramps.

  “Lisa, go and phone the midwife! Tell her to get here right away!”

  Lisa bolted.

  “You might be more comfortable walking,” I said to Mairi and, when she nodded, I helped her to her feet. She clutched my arm and we began a decidedly un-Austen-like walk around the room.

  “Are you sure you don’t want to go to the hospital?”

  “No. I’ll hang in. We’ve planned for a home birth. I was looking forward to it.” She gave a wry smile. “Please God, though, I don’t want to deliver in the bloody bar.” Another contraction seized her and she bent over, pulling me with her. “Ow, ow.”

  Lisa came flying back into the room. “Gillian’s on her way. I phoned Norman to see if Colin was there, but he hasn’t seen him. He said he’ll call around.”

  Mairi started into another “Ow” that transmuted into a long drawn-out howl. She was gripping my hand so hard it hurt.

  “Let’s get her jeans off,” I said to Lisa. “The baby might come soon. Can you get a clean tablecloth we can put on the floor?”