Bonnie Jack

by Ian Hamilton

  “No, I guess it isn’t. I retract.”

  “Jack, I don’t like it when you pretend to be a paragon of virtue. Don’t tell me that you grew Pilgrim without occasionally cutting some corners, without making a few enemies.”

  “I have been disciplined, determined, and tightly focused,” he said. “I don’t see those as virtues, just good business practices.”

  Anne sighed and looked out the car window at a lush green landscape. “I hate it when we argue.”

  Jack started to say something, but he was approaching a roundabout that needed his full attention.

  “We’ll make some phone calls as soon as we get back to the hotel,” Anne said, taking the opportunity to change the subject. “If we can reach either Harry or Georgina, there’s no reason we can’t go to Bearsden or Edinburgh today.”

  As they exited the roundabout, their hotel came into view. A few minutes later Jack parked the car and they walked to the hotel entrance, hand in hand.

  “Are you hungry? Do you want some lunch?” he asked.

  “No, I’m fine. I’d rather make those calls.”

  “Me too,” Jack said.

  They went directly to their suite. Jack sat at the desk while Anne sat across from him. He called the hotel operator and asked to be connected to information in Edinburgh. A moment later he had the number for Caledonia Insurance. He had never heard of the company, but that didn’t mean it was insignificant. Jack’s dealings were mainly in North America or with overseas industry goliaths. But instead of calling Caledonia, he phoned his assistant in Boston. It was seven a.m. there, but he knew Pam would be at her desk.

  “This is Mr. Anderson’s office,” she answered.

  “Pam, it’s me. I need you to get me some information,” he said. “There’s an insurance company in Edinburgh called Caledonia. Find out what you can about it, and especially one of their executives, named Harry or Henry Montgomery. I’m in the Marine Hotel. Call me back as soon as you can. This has priority.”

  When she hung up, Jack contacted the hotel operator again. “I need the phone number for a Mr. Atholl Malcolm who lives in Bearsden,” he said.

  As he waited, he looked at the map of Scotland on the desk. Bearsden was north of Glasgow, about two-thirds of the way to Stirling. From Troon he calculated it would be a drive of about an hour and a half.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Anderson, we can’t seem to find a listing for an Atholl Malcolm in Bearsden, or in any of the nearby towns and cities, including Glasgow,” the operator said.

  “Thank you for taking the time to look beyond Bearsden,” he said. “Could I trouble you to see if there’s a listing for a Georgina Malcolm in any of those locations?”

  “Of course, Mr. Anderson. Hold, please.”

  He looked at Anne. “No listing for Atholl Malcolm in Bearsden or environs.”

  “Mr. Anderson, I haven’t found a Georgina Malcolm, but there are several Georges and two G. Malcolms,” the operator said.

  “Where are the G. Malcolms?”

  “Both are in Glasgow.”

  “I’d like those numbers, please.”

  He wrote them on a sheet of hotel stationery, thanked the operator, and hung up. A few seconds later the phone rang. “Hello,” he said.

  “Hi, this is Pam. I have the information you requested.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Caledonia Life is a moderately sized, rather traditional insurance company. It was founded 110 years ago as a division of the Bank of Caledonia but split off as a completely separate business ten years ago. Its headquarters are on Lothian Road in Edinburgh. Harry Montgomery is vice-president of customer, shareholder, and government relations.”

  “So he’s essentially a PR man?”

  “Yes.”

  “Give me the company address and phone number, please.”

  “Yes, sir,” she said, and then recited them. “Is there anything else I can do with regard to Caledonia?”

  “No, I’ll handle it from here. I’ll talk to you tomorrow,” he said, putting down the phone. “Well, we’ve found Harry Montgomery, and I’m quite sure he’ll lead us to the sister.”

  “How are you going to approach him?” Anne asked.

  “I don’t know. It was easier with Moira because I had time and distance on my side. Until she wrote back to me she wasn’t real, and even after I knew she was alive, I had several months to prepare myself mentally before meeting her,” he said. “This is completely unexpected, so I’m not sure what to do. Do I phone? Do I drop in on him? How does one break this kind of news?”

  “I think it should be done in person,” she said. “And it would be silly of us to drive all the way to Edinburgh and discover that he’s not in the office or off on holiday somewhere. So my suggestion would be to call his office and make an appointment to see him there, or maybe outside the premises.”

  “I would prefer not to meet at his office, but I’ll need an excuse to meet with him in the first place,” he said.

  “Do you think it’s possible he’s heard of Pilgrim?”

  “Yes, it is possible, and maybe even likely.”

  “Then is there some business reason you could contrive?”

  “It couldn’t be anything corporate. He’s too junior for me to contact him directly about anything on that scale.”

  “Could you suggest that Pilgrim is thinking of expanding into the U.K. and talking to various local industry executives about their joining the company?”

  “We’d do that far more discreetly, and we’d use a headhunting outfit.”

  “Well, tell him you’re on holiday and would like to take advantage of being in Edinburgh by sitting down with him for a coffee. Tell him you’ve already met several local insurance executives on a personal and confidential basis.”

  “I’m not sure . . .”

  “Jack, you’re making me work very hard here,” she said. “If that won’t do, you’ll have to come up with an excuse on your own.”

  “It might work,” he mused.

  “Why don’t I make the call for you,” she said. “I’ll say I’m your personal assistant.”

  “Yes. It would make sense that I approach him that way.”

  “Then give me the phone number.” He passed the slip of paper to her.

  She noticed his discomfort. “Maybe you should leave the room while I do this. You’re making me nervous.”

  Please let Harry Montgomery be in his office, Anne thought as she dialled.

  A woman answered. “Caledonia Insurance. How may I direct your call?”

  “Mr. Harold Montgomery, please.”

  “Who should I say is calling?”

  “Anne Aring,” she said, using her maiden name. “I’m calling on behalf of Mr. Jack Anderson, CEO of Pilgrim Insurance in Boston, in the United States.”

  “One moment.” Anne waited, listening to an instrumental rendition of the “Skye Boat Song.”

  A moment later she heard a soft burr. “This is Harold Montgomery. How can I help you, Miss Aring?”

  “Mr. Montgomery, thank you for taking my call,” she said. “I am personal assistant to Mr. Jack Anderson, the CEO of Pilgrim Insurance in Boston.”

  “I certainly know who Mr. Anderson is, but I’m quite at sea as to why you would be calling me on his behalf.”

  “Before I go any further, Mr. Montgomery, I have to ask if you’re prepared to treat whatever I have to say in the greatest confidence,” she said. “I assure you that it would in no way compromise your obligations to Caledonia, but I have to ask you anyway.”

  “I can do that,” he said after a slight hesitation.

  “Excellent. In that case, let me be straightforward,” Anne said. “Mr. Anderson would like you to meet with him.”

  “Why?” Montgomery asked.

  It was Anne’s turn to pause. “I
think it best if he explains that to you himself,” she finally said. “All I’m allowed to say is that Pilgrim is exploring business opportunities in the U.K. and Mr. Anderson thinks you could be a valuable part of the process.”

  “Miss Aring, if Mr. Anderson is looking for information about Caledonia, I think a formal approach would be more appropriate. I would be reluctant to share that kind of information without the approval of my superiors.”

  Another one who’s making it difficult for me, Anne thought.“Mr. Anderson has no interest in Caledonia. His interest is in you, as part of his U.K. team.”

  “But how —” Montgomery began.

  “As I said, I think it’s best for him to explain the details to you himself,” she said. “Are you available later today?”

  “No, I’m afraid not. I have an executive meeting that will go on all afternoon.”

  “How about this evening or tomorrow morning? And, obviously, it might be best if you met with him outside the office. Is there a café near your building that you could recommend?”

  “This is most unconventional.”

  “I understand your reaction, but Mr. Anderson doesn’t place much value on convention,” Anne said. “Now, what shall I tell him — this evening or tomorrow morning?”

  “Tomorrow is better for me.”

  “And a place and time?”

  “There’s a Brava Coffee House on Drummond Street, northeast from our offices on Lothian. I could meet Mr. Anderson there at ten a.m.”

  “Consider it done. He’ll see you there,” she said, ending the conversation.

  She sat at the desk for a moment, quietly pleased with herself, and was getting up to tell Jack what had transpired when he walked into the room.

  “I didn’t know you could act so well,” he said.

  “You heard?”

  “I did. When do we meet him?”

  “Tomorrow morning at ten in a coffee shop near his office.”

  “Thank you, that’s terrific,” he said, and then looked at his watch. “That means we have the rest of this afternoon and evening free.”

  “Do you have something in mind?”

  “Glasgow is only thirty miles from here. I think I’d like to see my mother’s grave in Govan,” he said.

  “Really?”

  “Yes, if for no other reason than to confirm what Moira told us.”

  “Okay, let’s do that,” Anne said.

  “There’s one more thing,” he said awkwardly.

  “Yes?”

  “I want to go to the Regal Cinema, the movie house where my mother left me.”

  She stared at him. “How do you know the name?”

  “I can’t explain it, but I do. I remember it quite clearly.”

  Anne walked towards him and took his hands in hers. “Jack, that was more than fifty years ago. What makes you think the place is still there?”

  “I had Pam check.”

  “You didn’t tell me.”

  “I did it a month ago. I was curious — nothing more than that at the time — but now that we’re here and so close, I want to see it.”

  She wrapped her arms around his waist and pressed her head against his chest. “Then we’ll visit the Regal Cinema.”

  9

  It was raining when they left Troon, but the roads were well marked and Jack had no trouble following the directions they had been given by the hotel concierge. Both the Gorbals and Govan were in the southern part of Glasgow, and almost the same distance from Troon. Jack decided to go to Govan first. When they reached the city’s outskirts, Anne spread a map on her lap and guided him through the streets to St. Andrew’s Church and the cemetery.

  “Everything looks so sturdy,” Anne said as they passed row upon row of red, brown, and blond sandstone buildings topped with grey slate roofs.

  “They’re built to withstand the weather,” Jack said.

  “I wonder how many have central heating?”

  “I’m sure most of them have it by now.”

  “I was surprised that Moira didn’t, just as I was surprised by how few trees there are in Irvine — and here.”

  “You can’t compare Glasgow to Wellesley Hills, with its half-acre lots and stands of trees,” Jack said. “This is urban, more like Beacon Hill or Little Italy in Boston.”

  “I hope the graveyard has some greenery.”

  Fifteen minutes later Jack parked the car in front of St. Andrew’s Church. The rain had stopped but the sky was dark and the air was heavy. He reached for his Red Sox cap as he looked out the window at a squat red-brick building with a modest bell tower. “For some reason I thought the church would be older,” he said.

  “And it looks so gloomy. I can’t see a single tree or even a blade of grass.”

  The property was surrounded by a three-foot-high brick wall, its only visible entrance a wrought-iron gate. They got out of the car and went over to it. “The cemetery seems to be behind the church,” Jack said, pointing to a sign beside a gravel walkway.

  They opened the gate and walked along the side of the church towards the rear. Anne noticed that Jack was uneasy. “Are you sure you want to do this?” she asked.

  “How much more harm can it do?”

  “None.”

  “Besides, I want to stand on her grave.”

  Anne stopped. “Jack, that isn’t like you.”

  He looked past her. “Sorry. I’m feeling a lot of mixed emotions right now.”

  “I’m also not used to you talking about your emotions.”

  “Would you prefer I didn’t?”

  “Of course not. I’m glad you’re able to talk about how you’re feeling,” Anne said. “I just have to get used to it. And I will, so don’t stop.”

  They reached the rear of the church. Between its back wall and a row of houses in the distance were lines of headstones set in a gravel bed. “This is far larger than I thought it would be,” Anne said.

  “At least it’s orderly. It would be much more difficult to find her grave if people were buried haphazardly.”

  Anne did a quick count. There were twenty rows between them and the cemetery’s outer boundary, and each row had about thirty graves. “Let’s split up. I’ll head to the back, you start at the front.”

  “Remember, the name on her headstone will be Jessie Montgomery, not McPherson,” he said.

  Anne nodded and walked to the rear of the cemetery. She was a history buff and had visited graveyards in many countries, although her favourite was close to home — the Granary Burying Ground in Boston, where Samuel Adams, John Hancock, and Paul Revere were buried. As she started along the last row of headstones at St. Andrew’s, it soon became apparent there wasn’t much history to be found. The oldest headstone was dated 1928, none of the names of the buried meant the slightest thing to her, and the headstones made no claims of significance. She soon stopped reading everything but the engraved names.

  Jack was moving as quickly. They were separated by only two rows when he shouted, “Here it is.”

  Anne slipped between the headstones to reach Jack. He was staring down at a grey granite slab. It read:

  HERE LIES JESSIE MONTGOMERY

  MOTHER AND WIFE

  BORN GLASGOW, MARCH 1909

  DIED GLASGOW, JULY 1972

  “She was just a bit older than sixty when she died, almost the same age I am now,” Jack said.

  “And if my math is correct, she was sixteen when she had Moira. She was still a girl — a child.”

  “So she was nineteen when she had me and twenty-five when she abandoned me. At twenty-five you’re a woman, not a girl anymore. You’re supposed to act like an adult.”

  Anne heard the bitterness in his voice and put aside a thought that had come to her as she read the headstone. Moira had said that her mother was a hard woman who�
�d had a hard life. The inscription on the stone was a testament to that. It was completely lacking in sentiment. Not a word about being loved or having loved, and not the slightest hint that she’d be missed. But rather than saying something that Jack might misconstrue as sympathy for his mother, all Anne said was, “She was certainly old enough to know better.”

  He shook his head. “I wish I hadn’t come here.”

  “Then we should leave.”

  Jack turned abruptly from the grave and walked back towards the car. Anne hurried to catch up. When she did, she slipped her arm through his. “Perhaps we shouldn’t go to the movie house,” she said.

  “We’re in Glasgow. We might as well finish what we started.”

  “I’m not sure that’s such a good idea. I don’t like to see you upset.”

  “It was just the shock of seeing her name. It made her real,” he said.

  “How will the movie house be any different?”

  “Strange as it seems, I can remember it in my mind’s eye — or at least I think I can. It was a big, dark, gloomy place that rather haunts me.”

  “So why visit?”

  “Because it might not be as scary as I remember it, and then I can rid myself of that feeling. For sure it can’t be any worse than this.”

  “I still don’t like to see you upset.”

  “I guess I could pretend none of this affects me. If I was at home in Wellesley, surrounded by familiar things, that would be the natural thing for me to do,” Jack said. “But there are things going on inside me that I can’t control, and luckily I’m in a place where my loss of control doesn’t matter a damn to anyone except you and me.”

  They drove away from St. Andrew’s without a backward glance. Jack focused on the road ahead while Anne read the map and tried not to think about her husband’s disquieting behaviour. She had rarely seen Jack lose his composure — Thanksgiving dinner had been one of the few times — but it seemed to her that he was now on the verge of doing so again.

  Despite Pam’s information, Anne wasn’t completely convinced they’d find the Regal Cinema still intact, and as they drove past row after row of recently constructed apartment towers, her conviction grew. She knew from her reading that the Gorbals had been a famously dangerous slum until the 1960s, when the government razed large parts of it. The displaced residents were sent to towns like Irvine or put into new social housing in the Gorbals. Either way, the razing didn’t seem to have done much for people’s lives; the rates of poverty and violence in the Gorbals were still among the highest in the U.K.