by A. D. Scott
Mrs. Munro read the whole article, twice over, fearing, not for the first time, what her dear lass Patricia had got herself into.
Joanne too had been thinking about the Gazette. She was desperate to see a copy. But that would have meant asking Patricia for a lift into the village. She would have to wait until Tuesday. Don often quipped that today’s newspaper is tomorrow’s fish and chip wrapping. He was right, there was something very sad about old newspapers.
The distant chattering from the girls as they helped Patricia sort through her childhood collection of books, ready for the move to the farmhouse, made her smile. Annie would choose so many of Patricia’s discards it would be hard carrying them home. Wee Jean was thrilled when Patricia gave her five dolls.
“No,” she assured them, patting her tummy, “I won’t be needing them. This is a boy.”
Joanne walked through the house into the kitchen.
“Can I help with anything, Mrs. Munro?”
Mrs. Munro gave a start. She was so completely engrossed in the newspaper, she didn’t have time to hide it.
“Is that the Gazette? I was so rushed on Thursday morning I didn’t pick up a copy. May I see?”
Joanne took the paper, stared at the front page and understood only too well why Mrs. Munro looked nervous. The picture of Sandy Skinner, although in profile, was clear and distinct. In the background, the image of his boat, flames shooting skyward, looked spectacular. But the visceral pleasure in seeing her first assignment as a journalist, there, on the front page, overwhelmed her.
“This looks great!” Joanne exclaimed. “I wrote this, you know. It’s my first real story.” She looked at Mrs. Munro. Mrs. Munro was looking over Joanne’s shoulder.
“Let me have a look.” Patricia was by her side in a flash. “You clever thing. You, a journalist, who’d have thought it? Goodness, is that my Sandy? It is. Goodness! What’s this?” Patricia skimmed the story. “Joanne! Why didn’t you tell me?”
Why didn’t Sandy tell you, more’s the point? But Joanne didn’t say that. Instead, she muttered, “I’ll explain all I know—which is only what is in here,” she tapped the newspaper and thought, why couldn’t I get to read this on my own and enjoy my wee moment of glory?
Sunday morning was taken up with church. Joanne and the girls joined the Ord Mackenzie family, neighbors, and tenants in the Easter service. Afterwards, the congregation milled around on the church steps, on the path through the graveyard, murmuring greetings, shaking hands, catching up with the news, the gossip, women examining one another’s new Easter bonnets, men predicting the weather.
Another walk after lunch, this time along the ridge of the Black Isle, with views across the firths on both sides and the looming Ben Wyvis shadowing their every step.
“When is the baby due?” Joanne asked.
“Six months from now.” Patricia smiled. “I want you to be godmother to my son.” They began the descent down past the overgrown garden of an estate, the grand house in ruins.
“Tomorrow Sandy will be at the Easter picnic. Perhaps you can stop him and Mummy coming to blows? You can borrow my old hockey stick,” Patricia teased.
Joanne could take no more evasions and bright, false smiles. “Is that why you invited me? So you could confront your parents with me there, thinking there would be less of a scene?”
“Joanne.”
There was that too-wide smile again. That patronizing way Patricia had of saying “Joaaanne.”
“Don’t be silly. You’re my best friend. I wanted you at my wedding. I thought you could help me be brave. You must have gone through a similar scene with your parents.” She turned to Joanne, shaking her head at her lack of understanding. “If anyone has a right to be cross, it’s me. You really should have told me about that article in the Gazette.”
“What did Sandy say?”
“I haven’t had a chance to talk to him.” Patricia went slightly ahead as the path narrowed. The downward path was as taxing as the climb. “A fine honeymoon this is. No husband and my parents, at least my mother, outraged. Next week Sandy and I will be in the farmhouse and out of my mother’s way, but Joanne, please, help me through the rest of the weekend.”
“Of course I’ll help.” Joanne felt a pang of guilt that she doubted her friend. “I’d love to be godmother to the baby. But you should have told me, not just dropped me in it.”
“I could say the same.”
Patricia had the last word, as always.
Easter Monday, the children awoke late to the sun shining through a delicate lace of ice on the inside corners of the windowpanes. They ran down to the kitchen, still in their pajamas, where Patricia and Joanne and Mrs. Munro were having tea and preparing the picnic hamper.
A distant bell rang and rang, giving every indication of not letting up until answered.
“Now who could it be that uses the front door?” Mrs. Munro wiped her hands on her apron before taking it off. It was two minutes before she came back with Sandy Skinner.
He edged Mrs. Munro aside, grabbed Patricia, and was kissing her just as her mother came in to ask who the visitor was. Mrs. Ord Mackenzie stared. No one else knew where to look. Except Annie—she too stared. The dogs were more than staring—the two older spaniels were standing, pointing, hackles raised, barking furiously at Sandy. No one could quiet them. The third dog, not much more than a puppy, was cowering in her basket under the kitchen table. Wee Jean crept into the basket, put her arms around the dog, and stayed there, safe.
The picnic was absolutely awful, Joanne told Rob a few days later.
Joanne, the children, Mr. and Mrs. Ord Mackenzie, Patricia and Sandy Skinner, and the dogs, had walked through the woods to the boathouse that belonged to the demolished mansion. The jetty, sitting out over a dried-up, reed-strewn lakebed, was a well-loved family picnic spot. The sun came out in fits and starts, and it stayed cold. Joanne and Patricia opened the hamper, laid out a gingham tablecloth, and arranged the plates and cutlery and food and the painted boiled Easter eggs ready for the girls to roll down the banks.
No one ate much. The farce of a family outing was held together by dint of good manners, and the presence of guests and children. Sandy was included in the former category; to Joanne, the idea of him being family seemed absurd.
Sandy teased Patricia, making her blush, making pointed remarks about the boathouse. It was where they used to meet, he announced with a wink at Joanne.
“You told them, have you?” he asked, nodding towards Mr. and Mrs. Ord Mackenzie. He was aggressive when he spoke, his local accent hard to understand.
“Told us what, my dear?” her father asked.
Patricia took too long to answer. Her mother got in first, almost shouting.
“That she’s pregnant, married, and moving into the farmhouse,” she pointed a long, bony finger. Wee Jean mistook it for the pointed finger of the witch in Sleeping Beauty and burst into tears.
“With him,” Mrs. Ord Mackenzie finished.
Joanne stared off into the distance, wondering how she could get to the ferry without transport of her own. Buses . . . probably only twice a day at the end of the half-mile driveway, and then maybe none on a public holiday. Maybe I could find Mr. Beauchamp Carlyle, he lives not far away. Or Mr. Munro might take me to the ferry. Or call McAllister, he’d come over. . . .
No, she decided, enduring was the only option.
Mrs. Ord Mackenzie had not finished. “It’s all too ridiculous, Patricia. Look at him.”
They all did. There was Sandy Skinner, skipper of the fishing boat—now no more than wreckage at the bottom of the canal. He was cocky, defiant, full of himself in his shiny suit and his white socks and his slicked back Brylcremed hair. Star of the front page of the Gazette, leaning back on one elbow, smoking and grinning, he was the picture of a man who knew he had come up in the world.
He lazily blew out a breath of cigarette, completely aware of all the consternation he was causing. In that moment, Joanne caught a glimpse of
the animal attraction, the bad-boy film star brooding sexuality of the man. “Not sure about the farmhouse.” Everyone turned and stared at Mr. Ord Mackenzie.
“Allie Munro and the wife and kiddies needn’t be put out of their home. Why don’t you two young things move into the east wing? Plenty of room there.”
The star of Joanne’s first feature article burst out laughing.
“Great idea! Don’t you think, mother-in-law?” He put an arm around Patricia, staking claim. “Who’d have thought it? Me in the laird’s big house wi’ the laird’s daughter. Grand that, eh Pat?”
Joanne saw Patricia flinch, but whether it was from being called Pat or from the thought of still living in the realm of her mother or from a glimpse into a future with Sandy Skinner, Joanne couldn’t decide.
All she could think was—thank goodness Mr. and Mrs. Ord Mackenzie read the Ross-shire Journal and not the Highland Gazette. I couldn’t take any more scenes.
FIVE
Easter or not, Don McLeod didn’t believe in holidays; he was away to the west coast to follow up on the story of Alexander Skinner and the fishing boast. He could have done this by phone, but he fancied the trip and the company of an old friend.
A copy of the new Gazette lay on the passenger seat. He would glance at it from time to time and grin. Not that he would ever let anyone know, but he thought it was “grand”—his word, the Highland word of highest praise.
The road through the Great Glen Don knew “like the back of ma hand.” But familiarity did not lead to any degree of contempt. Every twist, every turn, every view over loch and hill and distant mountain, he relished. The easy run out of town; the first glimpse of Loch Ness; the haunting remains of Castle Urquhart, halfway down the chain of lochs; the former army fort built to house soldiers, there to quell the Highland clans; Ben Nevis snow deep on its slopes and folds and crevices, were familiar sights, yet still sights that made his heart glad.
When he arrived in the town on the sea loch at the end of the glen, Don made straight for his friend Graham Nicolson’s shop. The building was long and low and whitewashed and consisted of a general grocery; a newsagent; an attached cottage; and a shed out the back for the hardware, timber, animal feedstuff, and coal.
The Highland Gazette covered a huge geographical area and stringers like Graham Nicolson were invaluable. He was proud to be an occasional correspondent for the newspaper. His appearance helped—friendly eyes, ginger beard and hair that always needed cutting, he looked like a shaggy highland cow, minus the horns—and people talked to him.
“I have to congratulate you,” he said to Don as they shook hands. “The new Gazette is a fine job.” They spoke in Gaelic, being men from the Isles. “We sold out by ten in the morning.”
“No, it’s us has to thank you,” Don replied. “Your stories from the west coast are much appreciated. Sorry we don’t pay much.”
“I’m paid enough for the occasional dram. Not too early for you?”
They grinned at each other, the question only a matter of form—it was never too early for a dram.
They settled in round the kitchen table to talk. On the second dram, they got on to the mystery of the firebombed fishing boat. Graham Nicolson’s information was interesting, but made little sense.
“So,” he started, “this Alexander Skinner, Sandy he’s called, all I know for sure is he is not well liked. And everyone I spoke to is curious as to why he’s selling his catch here instead of on the Black Isle. When you consider the cost of sailing down the Great Glen, through all the canal locks, it must add a fair bit to his fuel bill, not to mention an extra day’s wages to the crew. I heard he owes the two lads money; I haven’t been able to track them down yet, but I will.”
“I’ve no doubt about that,” Don laughed.
After they had finished the stories and the reminiscing and the bottle, Don realized it was fortuitous he had been invited to stay for the night. He wouldn’t have far to stagger to bed.
Mortimer Beauchamp Carlyle spent most of the Easter weekend perched on a shooting stick, binoculars at the ready, gazing down to the mudflats of Munlochy Bay, watching the birdlife. It was a crossing point of the seasons, the migratory species only just beginning to reach northern parts for their summer holidays. Waders and seashore birds were what Beech most enjoyed. Elegant, long-legged, ballerina-stepping, clumsy in take-off, delightful of flight birds—Beech seldom tired of watching them.
A blast of cold wind as the sun hid behind an ominous cloud decided him—a pint of beer, then home.
As he was passing the sweet clearwater spring known as the Fairy Well, he stooped, cupped his hands, scooped up water, slurped at it, drips falling from his chin, down his jumper, onto his jacket.
“Magic,” he pronounced. “Never had water like this in the Sudan.”
He strode up the steep farm track, where his shooting brake awaited on the other side of a locked, five-bar gate. At the top of the track, there was a three-hundred-and-sixty-degree view. The southern aspect, framed by the headlands of the bay, was of the firth and the distant southern shore. To the west, the bright-yellow, gorse-clad cliffs were dotted with sheep. To the east another view of the firth, farmland, and the main road, the northern view too was of fields and farms and woods. A stately house dominated the rise to the northeast, Achnafern Grange. Haven’t been there in a long while, Beech thought.
He drove into the village, parked by the harbor wall, glanced at the fishing boats neatly moored in the small refuge, and made his way to the pub. The locals noted him as he came in. He was not of this village, but his family bones were Black Isle. They nodded in greeting. He nodded back and the landlord poured him a pint.
“A fine day,” Beech said.
“Aye, it is that.”
That was all that was said, but that constituted a conversation in these parts.
Beech settled by the window, enjoying his beer, the quiet broken only by the slap of dominoes on a table in the far corner. He closed his eyes, listening to the hush of men busy doing very little.
A commotion from the snug bar startled him.
“Out!”
The landlord opened the serving hatch to see what was happening. Beech and the others listened in. It was like a scene from the Saturday night play on the Home Service.
“But I am old enough, I’m twenty.”
“You’re never!”
“I have a driving license, but it’s at home.”
“Without proof of age, I can’t be serving you.”
“I only want a half of shandy.” There was a pause. “Look, here’s ma card.” He handed it to the barman. “See. I work for the Highland Gazette. I’m the photographer.”
The barman studied the card and the realization crossed his face as obviously as a thundercloud obscuring the sun. “So you’re the one responsible for that photo on the front page of the Gazette? The one wi’ Sandy’s boat on fire?”
“Aye, that was me.”
Hector had barely finished the sentence when the landlord was through the door to join the barman, and the sound of Hector’s protests were loud and clear and enjoyed by all.
“Out! Now!” Two younger men went through to join in the fun. Beech saw he would have to intervene.
“Hector,” he called out, “can I give you a lift?”
“I have ma car.”
“Hector!” Beech commanded.
The landlord dropped Hec’s arm. The others stopped and stared. Beech had Hector out the door and across the road and down to the harbor before anyone could think.
“This your car?”
“Aye. Not really. It’s ma granny’s.”
“Follow me to my house. We’ll sort all this out there.”
Hector looked back, saw a gathering of young men, one of them pointing at him, and decided to do as he was told. For once.
Rob’s Easter week had started with a phone call. The news editor at the Aberdeen daily newspaper had rung him. “Robert McLean, please,” he had asked. “The
very one,” Rob had replied. “There’s a position open on the paper, would you be interested?” the editor had offered.
“Yes, of course.”
A well-known, well-respected, big-circulation Scottish daily paper phoning me, asking me if I want a job, Rob was so flattered he didn’t stop to think.
“Can you come for an interview on Easter Saturday?”
“No problem.”
It had taken a whole day for him to come down to earth. That he might not be offered the job never entered his mind. But every time the future of the Gazette was discussed, which was almost constantly, a dirty puddle of guilt, viscous like nasty, well-used sump oil, sloshed around the pit of his stomach. To make it worse, the fire on the boat was shaping up to be a great story.
It’s only an interview, I don’t have to make a decision immediately, he told himself, besides, nothing may come of the Sandy Skinner story. Aberdeen—the city held no attractions for him, as he did not know it well. His girlfriend, Bianca, was at the Glasgow School of Art. It was when he thought of her, which was often, that he faced the reality of how far everywhere was from the Highlands—how big the mass of the Grampians, how long and occasionally dangerous the main road south, how expensive the trains, how exorbitant an aeroplane flight.
But Aberdeen? It’s a city. It’s cold. The newspaper is good; the people there may not speak English, but they can read it.
Easter Monday being a holiday, the Gazette news meeting was postponed till Tuesday morning. With only two days to produce an expanded edition, Joanne was trying to type up her notes as fast as possible, wrestling with her conscience almost as much as she wrestled with the typewriter.
How much can I write about the weekend without being disloyal to Patricia? The phone interrupted her struggles with her sense of loyalty.
“Gazette.”
“Good morning.”
“Patricia.” Joanne laughed to cover her guilty conscience. “I was just this minute thinking about you. How are you feeling?”