Beneath the Abbey Wall

by A. D. Scott

  Neil looked at his watch. “I’m meeting the elder of the Old Parish Church at Inchnadamph at two, so we’d better get a move on. I hadn’t realized it would take so long to get here.”

  His impatience brought her down from the mountain to the reality of the car; taking time was what a journey was about for her. “That’s because we’ve been traveling Highland miles, not Canadian ones,” she joked.

  But still, she was curious; this should have been his Damascene revelation. The photograph, his native land, did he not feel the pull of the mountain?

  “I’d love to stop at the hotel for a beer and something to eat, but I’m not sure we have time.” Neil was already holding open the car door for her.

  “We can have tea and a sandwich at Inchnadamph. I’ve packed all we need, including gingerbread.”

  “You’re a marvel.”

  It was only three words; the only three words that had ever come near to him saying what she wanted to hear. She had to turn away to hide her blush and her joy and her shame at behaving like a schoolgirl with a first crush.

  Neil never noticed. He put the car into gear, and with Suilven still ahead of them, they continued westward, meeting the main road at a T-junction. Through a series of loops and twists the road descended rapidly. The parish church where Neil was to check the records was clear from some miles distant.

  They had fifteen minutes to spare. Joanne unwrapped the waxed paper and offered Neil ham or egg sandwiches, hoping they were adequate for a person from Canada. She unscrewed the flask, poured the tea; he didn’t say much but was quick enough to finish all the sandwiches plus two scones before a tap on the window broke the quiet of the picnic.

  “Mr. Stewart?”

  Neil got out but didn’t introduce Joanne, even though the elderly man was peering at her with undisguised curiosity. They nodded at each other, both aware of the breach of good manners.

  The two men left towards the small white church, and Joanne packed the remains of the picnic before heading out for a walk.

  The wind from straight up the loch where the kirk and graveyard stood at one end was fierce, cutting through her wool coat and jumper and blouse, chilling her to the bone. She decided to explore the churchyard, hoping to shelter behind the walls and a large rectangular stone erection that was surely a family vault.

  It was no good. Rain now accompanied the wind. Just as she was about to go back to the car, a flash of color made her look towards a freshly filled grave tucked away in a far corner, the corner nearest to the loch shore.

  She didn’t know, but intuition told her; this was the grave of Mrs. Smart. They were in the right area, probably in the right parish. How many churchyards can there be in this empty landscape, she thought as she walked over the slate slabs that led to the kirk door, which Neil or his contact had wisely closed against the day.

  The grassy path leading the rest of the way was sodden, and Joanne’s shoes were quickly wet through. Folly, she thought, walking in good shoes in this land of bog and rock.

  There was no headstone, nothing to mark the grave, only a solitary bunch of flowers, but not bought flowers, just a small gathering of gold chrysanthemums. At the foot of the grave, someone had planted heather. There were no flowers showing, but again instinct made Joanne guess, lucky white heather.

  “There’s not much in the way of flowers at this time o’ year.”

  The voice made Joanne start. She turned to look at an old woman, not much taller than her eight-year-old, dressed entirely in black except for a cream knitted scarf in a Shetland lace pattern—print o’ the waves, one of my favorites, Joanne thought.

  “Who is buried here?” Joanne asked.

  “A dear, dear lass,” came the reply, the voice so faint, it was carried away in the wind, and Joanne was not sure if the woman had said more than this.

  “I knew a lovely woman from around these parts,” Joanne started. “We worked together, and it was only after she died that I realized I was fond of her.” She was surprised at her words. “Her name was Mrs. Joyce Smart.”

  “No, lass, her name was Joyce Mackenzie.”

  Joanne knew how proud Highlanders were of their family names and, having heard much about Sergeant Major Smart from Rob, she too felt that her married name was not what Joyce Mackenzie would want to take to her grave. It was as though the murdered woman was a shape-shifter: Mrs. Smart, the epitome of an efficient, reticent, tasteful woman; Joyce Mackenzie, a Mackenzie of the wilds of the Northwest, only child, Gaelic speaker, friend to many, beloved by many, known by few.

  “Thon soldier she had the misfortune to marry didn’t even turn up to see her to her resting place. Nor did he inform anyone of the funeral arrangements. But she is a Mackenzie from this parish, a good woman, and she is honored as such.”

  “I know,” Joanne said. “Sorry I’ve forgotten my manners. I’m Joanne Ross. I worked on the Highland Gazette with Mrs. . . . with Joyce Mackenzie.”

  “Mrs. Mary Stewart—pleased to meet you.” She smiled up at Joanne, and it was as lovely as the sun coming out over Suilven, and her face just as craggy. “That your man over there?” She nodded towards the porch of the kirk, where Neil was shaking hands with the verger.

  “A friend,” Joanne said and, seeing the look on the woman’s face, added, “A colleague.”

  “Oh aye. Your friend, he’s from these parts?”

  “He was born here but brought up in Canada. His name is Stewart, the same as you. Neil Stewart.”

  “There’s that many Stewarts and Mackenzies around here, and we’re no’ all related.” She smiled a smile so sweet and so sad, and Joanne suddenly saw that the woman was not as old as she looked. It’s the harsh life up here in the wilds, she thought.

  “Sealbh math dhuibh, good luck to you.” The woman laid her hand lightly on Joanne’s arm as though offering a benediction, then walked off across the grass and up the slate slabs, opened the gate, and was up the hill at a surprising speed, off to what looked like nowhere.

  She looked right into me, Joanne thought later.

  Seeing that Neil and the kirk elder were shaking hands, finishing their meeting, Joanne walked towards them.

  “I’m right sorry you had a wasted journey,” the older man was saying.

  “Not at all. The parish registers are fascinating historical documents.” Neil was reassuring him. “Thank you again for allowing me to see them.”

  Neil walked over to join her, leaving the man to lock up. “Let’s find the nearest hotel, preferably with a bar and a fire.”

  She wanted to share her discovery; she didn’t see how distracted he was. “Look over there. That’s where Mrs. Smart—Joyce Mackenzie that was—is buried.” She pointed to the fresh grave.

  “Really?” He stared at the gravesite but made no move. “Now you can reassure everyone at the Gazette that she is resting in a ‘bonnie’ place. Or wouldn’t you use that word for a graveyard?”

  She knew he was teasing but felt a hurt nonetheless. “Yes, I’d use the word ‘bonnie.’” She looked around at the loch and the hills on three sides and another sharp mountain in the far western corner. “Especially when the sun comes out.”

  “If.”

  Just like all the men Joanne knew, he had to have the final word.

  Back in the car, Joanne looked at the map. “It’s about three-quarters of an hour to Ullapool and a much quicker road home. Why don’t we stop there for a meal? There’s bound to be a fish-and-chip shop.”

  “Or maybe even a proper hotel with proper food.”

  She felt vaguely put down by this remark. What’s wrong with fish-and-chips? And dinner at a hotel was not something she could afford.

  The hotel was a three-story building with small windows deep set into the whitewashed stone overlooking the pier. The fire in the bar big and bright, Joanne took a chair on one side of the hearth. Neil went to order drinks. The curious glances from the locals no longer bothered her. She knew she would be taken as a visitor, so the unwritten law o
f Scotland—no women in a public bar—would not apply.

  Neil is taking a long time, but as soon as she thought it, he turned from his conversation with the landlord and came over with a whisky for himself and a glass of port for her.

  “Sláinte mhath,” he toasted.

  “Yes.” She did not use the Gaelic, always slightly embarrassed when a non-native mispronounced the words, the same as she hated it when English people tried to speak with a Scottish accent and ended up sounding as though they were mocking the Scots.

  But then, he is from the Gaeltachd, so he has the right, she thought, as she held up her glass to see the fire dance through the ruby-red liquor. The first sip filled her mouth with warmth and sweetness and a sense of wonder. Here she was with the man who made her heart lurch. Here she was, in a place unknown, away from her children, away from her past. Her smile across her glass said it all, encouraging Neil that he had made the right decision.

  “It’s all been a bit overwhelming,” he started. “Really knocked me for six.”

  The hurt from the oh-so-small slights she had sensed ever since they set off on the trip vanished. “No wonder,” she agreed. “This place has haunted you for years.”

  “Even before she died, all she really talked about was the glens.” There was a wistfulness in his voice. Or perhaps disappointment. “My mother was not what you would call a conversationalist.” He raised his glass to contemplate the fire through the golden spirit.

  “Now you’ve seen the moors and the mountain, you know where your ancestors came from.”

  “Maybe.” He took a sip of the whisky, glanced out to the dark and the invisible loch across the street and sighed, then shivered so imperceptibly Joanne wondered if she’d imagined it.

  “Joanne, it’s late, it’s dark, and it’s raining again . . . and I’ve had one too many.” He held up his glass but he was far from drunk. Being drunk, loss of control, was not something he enjoyed. “How would you feel about staying here tonight?” He did not tell her he had already asked for a room.

  “I . . . ” She was blushing. As red as this ruby port, she feared. This is what she had dreamed of. But the reality was terrifying. And the small voice from the left, the Devil’s side, was urging her on, saying, This is what you do to keep a man. The voice on the right, the righteous voice, was saying, This is a sin. But it was faint, as far away and as faint as the Summer Isles on the far horizon at the far end of the sea loch, lost in dark and mist.

  “I want you.” He had considered saying how much he needed her after the day’s events, but instinct told him there was no need.

  “Yes. I want that too.” She couldn’t look at him, and the noise of conversation around them had grown in proportion to the drink consumed, but he caught her “Yes.”

  * * *

  It was the sound of barrels knocking together that awoke Joanne. She moved slowly, almost scared to open her eyes and see the sleeping head on the pillow next to her. The completely familiar hair, the dark shadow of beard, the unfamiliar body, and most of all the sense of wonder at them being together at last made her tremble.

  He’s mine, she said to herself. And I now know what it means to truly love a man, was her next thought.

  His breathing changed. He opened his eyes. Grinned. The rush of emotions, love, lust, danger overcame her. The awareness of her folly she dismissed but could never banish. She looked at him, in the white bed in the white room, the sounds of seagulls filling the Sunday morning, and this time, she reached for him.

  It was only on the journey home that the thought came to stick in her brain like a burr; I wish he would tell me he loves me.

  CHAPTER 11

  The same Saturday Joanne and Neil were wandering the glens of the west coast, Rob came into work and found the reporters’ room empty. Although it was a half day and slow, Joanne would normally be there at the typewriter banging away. He had a vague recollection of her saying she would not be in. “Chasing a story,” she’d said. Wonder what it is, he thought.

  Hector appeared from nowhere. Rob fancied that Hec knew the secrets of an H. G. Wells time machine and could transport himself from place to place by no visible means. But he knew Hec usually used the St. Valerie Avenue bus when he didn’t have his granny’s car.

  “What are you up to today?” Rob asked.

  “Since there’s no one to tell me what to do, I’m taking pictures of a Highland dancing competition, then off to the football as usual.”

  “Don’t tell me; your granny told you to photo your wee sister for the paper or else?”

  “How did you know?”

  “Because I’m a genius.” Then Rob remembered he wanted to ask Hec’s granny about Don McLeod, but Granny Bain was notorious for not coming forward, and when she did, she was as enigmatic as a soothsayer deciphering the entrails, so it was best to be in her good books. “Would you like me to come with you to the dancing? Maybe write a wee story to go with the picture?”

  “Really?” Hector stared at Rob. “Why would you do that?”

  “Slow news week. We need to fill the space.” He watched Hector’s face shine bright enough to mark a shipping channel in the thickest haar. “And Hector, you need to cover the Caledonian match today; you’ve featured Clach’s last three matches.”

  Hector was so chuffed his sister would get a mention in the paper, he agreed to cover a match featuring the archrivals of his beloved Clachnacuddin FC.

  The competition was being held in the Northern Meeting Rooms. Rob cheered to discover Mharie Bain was in the sword dancing section even though it was usually men and boys who did sword dancing. He had enjoyed watching one of his uncles dance—until Rob was forced to learn it to please his grandmother. Fortunately she died, so he gave it up.

  The panel of judges sat below the stage. Rob noticed one of them was the wife of the chief constable, so he would include her name in his article. It would be an all-round winner of a morning—if he managed to get something out of Granny Bain.

  Luckily Mharie Bain’s section came early. Luckily she won. When Hector disappeared with his sister to find better light for the photo, Rob had a chance to speak to Granny Bain. They went to the hallway, took a bench, and Rob told her what he wanted. There’ll be no fooling her, may as well come straight out with it.

  “Mrs. Bain, my father has asked me to try to find anything at all that might help his defense of Mr. McLeod.”

  “He didn’t do it.” She almost barked the reply.

  “I know, but the police have a good case.”

  She looked at him. He saw where Hector got his eye color, but there was something disturbingly knowing about the stare in Granny Bain’s eyes. “Does your father think Donal stuck the knife in her?”

  Rob’s pencil clattered to the floor. As he bent to pick it up he felt a wave of nausea. He tried to compose himself and straightened up. “No, he believes Mr. McLeod is innocent.”

  “Aye, and sorry, laddie, I can be a wee bit direct sometimes.”

  “Direct” was not the word Rob would have used, unless maybe “direct as a heart attack.”

  “So, how do you mean I can help Don McLeod? I don’t know nothing about what’s happened.”

  “Mrs. Jenny McPhee said it was all in the past, she said to start at the beginning. Only I don’t know where to find the beginning.”

  “Her mother had her here in town, that’s the beginning, then her mother, God rest her soul, died when Joyce was a bairn, that’s another beginning. The old colonel kept Joyce at home, sending her to the local school wi’ crofters and, aye, tinker bairns even, until she was eleven or thereabouts when she was off to school in Edinburgh and the colonel off to India. I never knew her then. Next thing, she appeared back in town when she was twenty or thereabouts, same time as Donal came back. They’d met somewhere when he was convalescing from his wounds, burns it was, in the Dardanelles he was when his ship sank. Of course I never knew her that time neither, just to say hello to, her being right friendly with Donal.”
r />   “And you knew Don, Mr. McLeod . . . ?”

  “His granny and my granny were cousins.”

  “And he and Mrs. Smart were . . . ”

  “None of your business.” She was thinking it over, trying to see how all this, from all that time ago, could be relevant now. “Aye, they were good friends. Not that their friendship could amount to anything, she being gentry, the only child of a well-to-do laird, him being a crofter’s son, never mind that he was a clever one, ending up at the Highland Gazette and doing well for himself. No, it would never do.”

  “Is that why she went to India?” Rob had a vision of thwarted love, broken hearts, and wretched farewells.

  “How should I know?” Granny Bain’s voice was sharp and scary.

  “Because it might help Mr. McLeod if you did know, and you told me.”

  “So you can make up a story for the newspaper?” She said this as she was standing, gathering her cardigans and coat around her, and what looked to be a baby’s lace shawl but was probably a scarf with many holes not in the right places, ready to do battle with the wind. He had already noticed a number of hatpins holding down a misshapen piece of felt to her grey-white hair and was suitably intimidated by their deadliness.

  “Sorry, lad, you’ve stirred up the memories. My man went down on that same ship.”

  He was looking down at her; so tiny she was, in a formidable kind of a way. He liked Granny Bain; he wished she were his granny.

  “Granny Bain, sorry, Mrs. Bain . . . ”

  “Granny Bain is fine.”

  “If you can help my father help Mr. McLeod . . . ”

  “I will.”

  * * *

  Walking into the empty reporters’ room to write up the story, Rob was glad to hear the radio on in McAllister’s office. Some sign of life, he thought, even if it is just the Third Programme. When he realized the music was Wagner, he began to worry again.

  “What?”

  Even across the landing, even above the radio, he heard McAllister roar like a wounded lion.