by Neil M. Gunn
As Aunt Phemie was setting down the tray on the bedside table it quivered, slopping a little tea into the saucers. She stood looking at Nan, listening for her breathing. She couldn’t hear it. For a moment she stood very still, then she bent over the bed and was putting a hand out when she saw the faint rise and fall of the bedclothes which Nan had pulled over her shoulder. Aunt Phemie withdrew her hand and sat down on the chair. She felt very tired. She wanted to go to sleep. Several minutes passed and her head drooped.
But at Nan’s first movement Aunt Phemie’s eyes were waiting. Nan stirred slowly, then with a small start, for she could see no-one standing in the room. So clearly she must have heard Aunt Phemie come in. When she saw Aunt Phemie in the chair by the head of the bed, her head dropped back.
“I have brought you a cup of tea, Nan,” said Aunt Phemie in kindly tones. She got up and drained the saucers into the cups. “I’m afraid it’s getting cold. Wouldn’t you like a cup?”
“No, thanks,” said Nan in a remote voice.
“Won’t you let me coax you? Do,” pleaded Aunt Phemie.
Nan shook her head once.
“Nan,” said Aunt Phemie, “I have got some news for you. I have heard from Ranald.”
Nan’s head turned slowly and her wide-open eyes settled on Aunt Phemie.
Aunt Phemie nodded, a restrained gladness infusing her manner. “He’s coming to see you,” she said with some of the archness of a mysterious conjurer.
Nan began to breathe slow heavy breaths, her eyes on Aunt Phemie’s face but not penetrating the face.
Aunt Phemie nodded again and smiled into Nan’s eyes. “He’s coming soon.”
“What?” said Nan, her breathing deepening. “When?” Her arms jerked out from under the bedclothes and she glanced away from Aunt Phemie in a wild bewildered way. But in an instant her eyes were back.
“Now don’t grow excited,” said Aunt Phemie like a wise schoolmistress. “You’ve got to be good and sensible. I wrote him and whenever he got my letter he set out. Wasn’t that noble of him?”
Nan’s breathing, still deep, was quickening as though she couldn’t get enough air. Her hands were knotting in the quilt, the scraping of her fingernails harsh on the satin.
“He’s here!” she said suddenly, not to Aunt Phemie but to herself. Now her breathing became tumultuous, gulping fierce and fast; her body thrust and heaved, while her hands clawed like a dog’s paws tearing at a hole; her eyes grew feverishly bright and terrified.
“Nan! Nan!” said Aunt Phemie, “control yourself now, take a hold!” She caught Nan’s hands, which instantly gripped hers with remarkable strength. Then the hands were away, were wildly up at the chestnut hair, pushing it back, in a half-demented gesture of dressing, of preparing; but in an instant they were gone; she did not know what she was doing; she was half-rising in the bed, pushing herself up.
After a little, Aunt Phemie got her settled back, and the tumultuous breathing slackened, grew longer between breaths. “Where is he?” she asked little above a whisper.
“He’s in the kitchen,” answered Aunt Phemie. “What a surprise I got! He started to come up the drive—then thought he had better come in quietly at the back door. He did not know how ill you might be.”
The breathing began to increase again, to quicken.
“He wants to see you, of course. But I just told him he wasn’t going to be allowed up until you were quite ready for him! So there’s no hurry.” Aunt Phemie had the cool cheerfulness of a nurse, giving out strength, with her subtle sympathy watching.
Nan’s second bout was not so bad as the first, but it left her more exhausted. The great gulps of breath made her shiver from cold; her jaw continuously quivered. Aunt Phemie saw the internal fight reach its climax in a tremoring and writhing that for one awful moment seemed about to break body and mind into bits. She continued her small movements and gestures about the bed, capably, preparing for Ranald as a nurse might prepare for the operation that would presently put everything right. The internal fight broke—and Nan was not defeated, had not screamed out the final negation in flight and collapse. Aunt Phemie smiled at her as she lay panting and with a cold damp sponge wiped her forehead and cheeks. “Yes, yes,” she said, “you can,” though Nan had not spoken. She sponged the corners of the mouth. “You are a very good-looking girl, my dear.” She stood back regarding the face with satisfaction. “Now, I’ll call Ranald, will I?” Nan’s hands began to work, her head gave an indecisive nod, her breathing quickened again. Aunt Phemie went to the door and called in a loud cheerful voice, “Ranald!” Behind her there was a small suppressed cry, but she did not turn round. Ranald came up quickly. “Here he is!” said Aunt Phemie, taking him into the room.
Nan had pulled the clothes right up to her neck. She looked at Ranald, large-eyed with a strange wary brightness.
“Hallo, Nan!” said Ranald quietly, smiling from the end of the bed. “Not feeling too fit?” He might have been there yesterday and the day before.
Nan’s eyes glanced away. She did not speak.
“Look now,” said Aunt Phemie, “I’ll leave you for a minute. He’s starving, Nan; hasn’t had anything to eat since yesterday. So you’re not going to keep him. There will be plenty of time for talking.” She went out.
Ranald sat on the bottom of the bed. “I’m sorry you’ve had another bout. Bad luck. But you’re feeling all right again?”
She nodded.
“That’s good. Though you will go on giving me frights!” His eyes warmed. “It’s nice to see you again.”
“Thank you,” she said, with a breath of spirit.
“That’s more like the old noise! I was beginning to miss it. Quite a few were, in fact. The idea has gone about that you were the life and soul of things.”
“How’s Julie?”
“Julie? Oh—she’s all right.”
Her eyes flashed upon his momentary hesitation, searched his face.
“Still worrying about Julie?” His mouth twisted in humour. “You did reform her—for a bit. But what could you expect?” He was teasing her. “I would much rather hear about yourself. Aren’t you glad to see me, for example?”
Her eyes flashed upon each side. “You know I am.” Her breathing began to quicken.
“You’re tired,” he said, observing the signs of distress.
She shook her head, but not at his remark.
“What’s bothering you, Nan?” There was strong sympathy in his voice. “Something nasty happened?”
She could not look at him. Her distress mounted rapidly. The end of her endurance had at last been reached. Then an extraordinary thing happened. She suddenly looked at him and her features collapsed in a piteous way; she seemed to sink deeper into the bed while still looking at him; then in a wild, deathly withdrawal she brought the sheet up over her face.
He stood quite still. Aunt Phemie came in. The covered body heaved with sobs.
“It’s all right, Nan,” said Aunt Phemie. “I’ll be back in a minute.” Turning, she ushered Ranald quietly out of the room. At the foot of the stairs she paused, listening. “Why didn’t you reassure her better about Julie?” she asked in a strong almost angry whisper.
“Julie is dead,” he said indifferently and, in the grip of his own thought, he walked away from her out of the house.
8
Ranald got off the bus opposite the town hall and, after looking about him, continued along the main street, a tall slim figure, easy-moving as an athlete, in dark flannel trousers, a grey tweed jacket, hatless, with black hair which waved just perceptibly. His manner was unselfconscious, his eyes curious for the appearance of the buildings, the cars drawn up on one side of the street, the shops, and the people who moved about. Having bought cigarettes and chatted to the girl behind the counter for a minute, he continued his stroll, blowing smoke from his lungs. Near the railway station the main street widened and ended in a region of hotels, banks and other respectable business premises. He had so far seen only one
policeman but now as he was passing a short thick queue of people at a main bus-stop he saw a constable at some little distance coming towards him. He continued on his way until they met, when he asked, “Could you tell me, please, where the police station is?”
The constable was even taller than Ranald and as straight, but much more heavily built, with a disconcertingly direct look from light-grey eyes. “The police station? … Yes.” He pointed. “Down there on the right, just round the corner.” Then he considered Ranald again.
“Thanks.” But Ranald hesitated. He looked at the policeman with an easy civilian frankness. “You are stationed here?”
“Why do you ask?”
“I am staying at Greenbank, with Mrs. Robertson. Arrived the other night.” He hesitated again.
“I know Mrs. Robertson,” said the policeman.
“Oh, do you?” Ranald regarded him with interest. “You’re not, by any chance, the constable who called there about—Miss Gordon?”
“I am.”
“Are you?” Ranald was pleasantly astonished at the odd coincidence. “You may think it strange of me to speak to you. But—it’s more than just curiosity. Miss Gordon is not too fit.” His eyebrows gathered in real concern. “You can’t ask questions yet.”
“Do you know Miss Gordon well?” The policeman’s interest was aroused. He was a country policeman.
“Very well,” answered Ranald. “I knew her in London.”
“Are you a relation of Mrs. Robertson’s?”
“No. I just know her through Miss Gordon.”
“I see… What do you want to know?”
“I was wondering just what did happen when Adam—uh—what’s his name?—discovered the body.”
“Adam McAlpine. Do you know him?” The policeman’s interest quickened.
“No, I haven’t met him. But I know of him. I understand his home is here somewhere? I thought I might have a word with him. Where does he stay?”
“At a house on the south road: Beechpark.”
“Thanks. If I could help in any way—I am anxious—and Mrs. Robertson has her hands full. Not having a man about the house makes a difference. As far as you are concerned, the whole affair is cleared up now?”
“I am not saying that. Miss Gordon is not yet fit for an interview?”
“No. Heavens, no,” answered Ranald. “But if you cared to tell me—any difficult point—I would pass on to you personally any information I got.” He spoke confidently, his manner that of an educated man who knew the world and a policeman’s job.
“The doctor will let us know when she’s well enough.” But the policeman was now hesitating. He would clearly, country fashion, like to find out a lot on his own. He looked at Ranald. “Do you think she was with Mr. McAlpine when he found the body?”
“That’s one of the things I should like to know,” replied Ranald, showing no flicker of surprise.
“Why?”
“Because it would help us to understand her condition. But surely Adam McAlpine told you?”
“It’s not for me to say what he told—or what information we have got since. But if you find out anything I’ll be glad to hear it from you.”
“Certainly,” said Ranald. “You can understand that we are more anxious than you.” He looked thoughtfully across the square. “I’ll do what I can and let you know.” He took out a packet of cigarettes. After a few more remarks he was able to ask in the light tone of one stating an accepted fact, “You are quite satisfied that Gordie was your man?”
“Satisfied enough—though the absence of money on the body is a difficulty.” He was beginning to accept Ranald, from whom some new clue might come.
Ranald nodded, taking a moment. “That would confuse you on the question of motive.”
“Yes. And everyone knows about the missing deposit receipt in particular. But apart from that, what could anyone know, as I said?” He regarded Ranald.
“And what use would a deposit receipt be to anyone anyhow?”
“Precisely.” The policeman nodded thoughtfully. A bus drew up by the queue. “I’m stationed up at Elver village. You’ll find me there.” Now he looked as if he might say more, but he had to catch his bus.
Ranald walked out to the south road. He had just come from Elver where a casual enquiry had drawn the information that the policeman had left on the last bus for the town. Whenever he had seen the thistledown-grey eyes, he had known his man.
The houses grew fewer, and presently he saw the name BEECHPARK painted on the stone pillar of a main gate. As he walked on, the upper parts of a large house came into view. Shrubs and trees were everywhere, but through a narrow gap he caught a glimpse of the front of the house. He went on for some distance and came back, but still there was no-one to be seen about the house. By the main gate he paused and lit a cigarette, his features drawing together sharply in thought, but he continued on his way back into town. Near the goods section of the railway station he saw the name McALPINE in great white letters spread across the roof of a large shed or warehouse. So Adam was the son of big business as a county town knows it? The notion seemed about right! Only, it was necessary to meet him alone.
Ranald looked into two hotel lounges, went and had a beer in a pub, and continued his walk through the town. He was seeking a man with a green tie. But whether the man was wearing the green tie or not, he reckoned he would know him. You cannot be anything so odd as a poet or an artist, particularly if you have lived in London and abroad, without its being immediately apparent to a discerning eye. Ranald’s thought was of that sharp laconic kind. He was even aware of the glances cast on himself. But though there were some visitors about the streets, in odd enough garments, he was never for a moment uncertain. It takes the young female of the species in her most unconventional or daring holiday get-up to proclaim the real bourgeois or subbourgeois origin; the touch of perversion that reveals; she was being “free”. Ranald didn’t smile at his thought.
Now he was walking along a main thoroughfare with the mountains rising in the distance; but presently his eye was caught by what looked like wooden sheep pens on his right, against the back of the town. As he went along the lane towards them they grew in extent in an astonishing way. A wooden gate was open and he went through it and along a passage between the pens towards a man who was sweeping up trodden manure, his broom noisy on the concrete.
“This is a big place,” said Ranald.
“Ay, it’s the auction mart,” replied the man, pausing to lean on his broom, his knuckles under his chin.
“And how often do you have sales here?”
“Every Thursday.”
“As often as that?” Ranald took out his packet of cigarettes; the man said “Thank you, sir,” and they lit up.
“Big sales?” asked Ranald.
“Oh yes; big sales: too big for me sometimes!” His slow smile brought a humoured glint to his eye.
“Sheep and cattle from all round?”
“Ay, and from more than all round at the big sales.”
“Really? And how many then would you handle in a day?”
“Well now, that’s a teaser!” The man straightened himself slowly and scratched below his ear. Ranald leaned back, stretching his arms along a wooden rail. He looked genuinely interested. Within five minutes he had a fairly accurate picture of the auction mart as the centre of live-stock transactions over a wide area. From large low-ground agricultural farms like Greenbank, from crofts up on the “marginal” lands, from distant hill sheep grazings, innumerable droves of living beasts came to this great junction, to be sold and bought, to be despatched by rail great distances, for fattening, for further breeding, for the slaughter-house. He found out who owned the auction mart, how it was run, what commission the auctioneers got, and nearly—but not quite—what the man himself earned. When the man told a story about how a bull the other day helped a loudvoiced “county” woman with buck teeth over a wooden rail, Ranald tilted his head back and laughed. On his part, he descr
ibed what happened in Smithfield, London, the early-morning scenes in that immense meat market, who ran it, what wages were paid, and other detail that greatly interested his listener, who took another cigarette and asked a few questions on his own, until Ranald had to tell him that he wasn’t in the meat trade.
“Not exactly,” said Ranald, “though I am interested.”
“Ah, you have an interest in it?”
“No, not that kind of interest, not financial.”
The man looked at him shrewdly. “Now if it is not a rude question, what will you be interested in yourself?” Their talk had become very friendly.
“Well,” said Ranald, “by your age I should judge that you were in the first war.”
“I was, in the Camerons.”
“And I was in this one, in the Air Force.”
“Are you telling me that? … I had a son in the Air Force. He was a gunner.”
Ranald knew by the way the man’s eyes steadied and stared that his son had been killed. But the man said no more. Automatically he gave a small sweep with his broom.
“It’s tough,” said Ranald calmly. “I crashed myself—but I got through.”
“Ay. That’s the way it goes.” He made small sweepings, then paused and took the cigarette from his mouth.
“Some of us,” said Ranald, “are getting a bit fed up with wars. We are beginning to think that unless the way in which things are run is changed we’ll have wars until nobody is left at all.
“I have heard that too. I have a nephew who is a socialist. He has great talk on him whiles. But I don’t know.”
“What don’t you know?”
“Ah well, I wonder——”
But what exactly was the profound nature of this countryman’s wonder, Ranald did not find out, for just as the man was gathering his thoughts, his eyes hazing slightly as they looked into distance, his expression swiftly changed. “Here’s McAlpine,” he muttered more to himself than to Ranald and started sweeping.
Ranald looked up the lane and saw a dark stout figure of middle height coming towards them. He was wearing a bowler hat, and something purposeful and solid about him as he advanced through the grey wooden maze of the empty pens held for the moment a startling significance. Ranald had an impulse to move away but suppressed it. The sweeper was now paying no attention to him.
