Beneath the Abbey Wall

by A. D. Scott

  Don heard the pain. He reached for a Capstan Full Strength. He offered one to McAllister, who took it and produced a lighter, then choked on a cigarette that, even to him, was one stop short of old rope.

  “You know, I have one huge regret that will never go away.” Don was speaking to the wall. “I sent her away. I let my stupid pride . . . ” He turned. “Listen to me, McAllister. Don’t make the mistake I made. Don’t be so bloody Scottish. Tell her how you feel.”

  “It’s too late for that.” McAllister radiated defeat. His shrug, his wave of the cigarette, his stretching his legs out and exhaling through his mouth as he said It’s too late . . . made Don furious.

  “Do something. Tell her. Never ever leave it unsaid until it really is too late.”

  The heartbreak and the sheer frustration coming from Don penetrated McAllister’s despair. And even though he had no intention of confronting Joanne, he had heard Don’s cry of pain.

  Rob was sitting at the table with a cup of tea, hearing McAllister’s spoken and unspoken recount of the visit with Don. When McAllister finished, he sensed something important had been left out, but didn’t ask.

  “Well,” Rob said, “at least Don is communicating.” He started fiddling with his pencil, beating out a drum solo on the table. “I have some information—though how it helps I don’t know.”

  McAllister raised his eyebrows. Rob stopped drumming.

  “Sergeant Major Archibald Smart is from Sutherland. His father was a gillie on the late Colonel Ian Mackenzie’s estate before moving to Perthshire.”

  “So Archibald Smart would have known Joyce Mackenzie when they were children?”

  “More than likely. She went to the local school until she was eleven.”

  “How does that fit in?” McAllister asked.

  “No idea, but Mr. Brodie wants any and every . . . ”

  “Mr. Brodie, QC.” McAllister grinned as he reminded Rob, making Rob grin back at him.

  “I’ll keep digging,” Rob continued. “Neil is familiar with researching parish registers, he’s promised to look for anything relating to the Smarts and Mackenzies of Assynt.”

  “Neil seems to be fitting in well.”

  Rob was putting on his jacket and did not catch the sarcasm. “Yes, he’s really fast at subbing, and not as pedantic as Don. Good at research too. It was him discovered the sergeant major was from the Mackenzie estate. Plus he’s a pretty good musician. I’m impressed. Come and hear the band play, a week today.” Rob picked his keys up from the table. “See you in the office.”

  “You’re not the only one impressed by Neil Stewart,” McAllister muttered when Rob was gone. He tried not to be bitter—Joanne has a right to see whoever she wants. He reached for his cigarettes, decided to wait—his lungs were feeling like the inside of a kipper factory. He knew he needed to force himself back to the Gazette, to check on work, to be in the same room as Joanne, to see her face as she tried to avoid looking at him.

  What had Don said? Don’t be like me?

  “You had your time of happiness.” McAllister said this aloud. The words echoed in the almost empty house that was three bedrooms and a sitting and dining room too big for one man. “At least you had that.”

  * * *

  “Glad you’ve decided to grace us with your company, Mrs. Ross,” McAllister said when he walked into the reporters’ room, and immediately wanted to cut his tongue out when he saw the hurt in her eyes.

  “I phoned in to say I would be out at the hospital looking at the plans for a new wing.”

  “Sorry.” He was standing close to her. He wanted to reach out, to touch her. To say he was sorry. Sorry about so much. But he didn’t know how to begin. He tried to catch Joanne’s eye, but she was hitting the keys of the typewriter as fast and hard as a boxer on a punching bag.

  He left to hide in his office. He could not bear to be home in a house that was too big. He did not want to be in the office. He had no idea where he wanted to be. So he left. Again.

  He walked up past the castle, down towards the river. He walked along the riverbank, past the mansions of Archibald Smart and the Beauchamp Carlyles. He crossed the swaying suspension bridge onto the first island. He tried sitting on a bench, but watching the river flow brought no comfort. He walked through the islands, crossed another suspension bridge, turned left, walked the northern riverbank path under a canopy of the bare creaking fingers and limbs of beech and oak and elm and sycamore. He reached the canal, turned left onto the towpath. And he walked and he walked, mile upon mile, until it was quite dark and he had no idea how far he had come, although he knew it was well beyond the town.

  Below, he could hear a faint murmur. The river, he guessed. The silence of the canal did not fool him. There was life there too. And death. He looked heavenward. The sky was clear except for the multitude of stars as cold and as silent as himself. He began to pick out the constellations. The tidal pull of the almost full moon began to tug at him.

  For the length of one cigarette he stood and watched the reflection of the stars barely moving in the soft undercurrent of the canal.

  What had Don said? Pride—that was it.

  What had Rob said? A haircut.

  He had the beginnings of an idea, so he turned back and walked out the remains of the evening, and that night, slept soundly.

  * * *

  Rehearsal was over. Rob and Neil looked at each other. The adrenaline of the music still ran, and they needed to be anywhere but back in their respective rooms, alone on a Saturday night.

  “Still looking for the McPhees?” Rob asked.

  “Very much so.”

  “The Ferry Inn then.”

  Neil had no problem being a passenger on Rob’s bike. He envied the younger reporter his freedom.

  “It’s early, but Jenny is usually in by seven,” Rob said as they settled down in the saloon bar to wait.

  Deep in a conversation about blues musicians, Rob didn’t notice Jenny come in, but Neil did. He stood.

  “Mrs. McPhee.”

  “Mr. Stewart.”

  Jimmy came in behind his mother. He did not look pleased to find company. “Is this aw’right wi’ you?” he asked his mother.

  “Fine.” She sat down, nodded to Neil. “I’ll have a double Glenfarclas.”

  There was something in the way she settled down, arms folded, face set, that made Rob think of a statue of Queen Victoria, and made Jimmy think the visitors should leave. Now. But Jenny said nothing except Sláinte, when Neil put the glass in front of her. Then she waited.

  Neil felt like a student sitting final exams. “I was in Sutherland recently. I saw Suilven from the same spot the picture of my mother was taken.”

  “Aye, it’s right bonnie up there.”

  Neil smiled. It was almost the same words Joanne had used. “A friend of mine said the same.” He had a quick flash of her at home, and tried to remember if he had promised to see her tonight.

  “How is Mrs. Ross?”

  Neil was startled. “She’s well.” He sensed an accusation in Jenny McPhee’s voice.

  “You’re here for a reason, Mr. Stewart?” Jenny wanted the conversation at an end. The past was the past. Nothing could be changed. Neil Stewart—she knew who he was, he was doing fine; healthy, educated, prosperous, that was more than enough. It was all such a long time ago, I don’t need ma heart broken all over again.

  “I’m curious about my mother.” He produced the photograph, careful not to let the beer stain the cardboard frame. “Did you know her?”

  “Chrissie Stewart. Yes, I knew her. She went into service in a big house in the town.”

  “Were you related?”

  “You mean was she a tinker?” Jenny smiled. “Well, lad, that would be telling, and there’s not many folk who would want to know a tinker was their mother.”

  “I was adopted.”

  “Were you now?” Jenny’s voice sounded surprised. Her eyes opened wide. She had on a small smile. But Jimmy wasn’t fool
ed.

  Neil was uncertain. Rob looked closely at Jenny as she downed the last of her dram, so he couldn’t see her face clearly. Something was not being said, that he knew.

  “Chrissie was a nice wee soul. I’m sorry to hear she’s no longer with us.”

  “Thank you.”

  Jenny gestured to her son. “Jimmy, we need to be getting back.”

  “I found out recently that Sergeant Major Smart was born and raised on the Mackenzie estate.”

  Jenny took her time looking him over. “Ma eldest, Keith, he’s like you—always burrowing in the past. And like you, he sometimes doesn’t have the sense to leave the past alone.”

  “My PhD depends on this—that means a professor’s job.”

  “I ken what a doctorate is,” she snapped, “my Keith is going for one.”

  Neil was reminded this was not an ordinary woman, this was Jenny McPhee. She might not have gone to school, but she knew much.

  “Did you know the sergeant major as a boy?”

  “Now what would the son of a gamekeeper be doing wi’ tinkers?”

  “Joyce Mackenzie had no problems with tinkers, nor her father from what I hear.”

  “Jimmy.” Her son jumped. Rob jumped too; the voice was like the crack of a whip, the meaning as clear.

  “Well, Mr. Stewart, I’m glad to have met you. Glad to see you’re well. Though I doubt we’ll meet again.” She nodded slowly at him and he gave an almost imperceptible nod back, which only Jenny saw. “Thank you for the dram.”

  Rob saw a frailty in her that hadn’t been there when she came in. He saw a sadness in her eyes, a momentary tremor in her chin, which she too noticed. And, matriarch of the McPhees she was, she stretched her neck, held her head high and, shoulders back, dismissed the passing weakness, waved a queenly wave. The audience was over.

  Rob saw that Jimmy was looking as though he wanted to hit someone, and when the McPhees were gone, he realized he had been holding his breath. “That was a bit of a disaster.” He laughed.

  Neil wasn’t laughing. He was playing with his glass, turning it round and around, looking into the remains of the golden spirit.

  Rob, leaning back again the wall, was doing all he could not to shiver. “Time I was off too.” His voice sounded unnatural even to himself. “Can I give you a lift?”

  “Hey, that would be great.” Neil grinned. “As I’m not too popular here, I may as well go where I am wanted.” He downed the last drops of his whisky. “Can you drop me off at Joanne’s?”

  When Joanne heard the motorbike she thought it was Rob. But the sound of two voices, then Neil saying Thanks for the lift, came clearly through the still night.

  She tried not to panic. At least the girls are here, she thought, so nothing can happen—a good thing or a bad thing, she couldn’t decide.

  Annie answered the door. “It’s Uncle Neil,” she said. She was still up. Eight o’clock is for babies, she told her mother every night, so, on Saturdays, bedtime was nine. And every Saturday night, her sister Jean tried to keep awake until big girl’s bedtime. So far, she hadn’t made it.

  And every Saturday Joanne said to Jean, “You’re getting too big for me to carry,” but knew she would be sad when her youngest no longer wanted her mother to pick her up, tuck her in, and whisper silly seashell sounds in her ear.

  “Is Uncle Rob not coming in?” She peered into the dark, but the noise of the engine and a flash of red taillight was her answer.

  “He has to rush home to listen to his music on the radio,” Neil told her.

  “We say wireless.”

  “So you do. But I’m not from here.”

  “Annie, bed.” Joanne smiled at Neil and smiled at her daughter, and for once, Annie did as she was told without arguing. Joanne knew Annie would read in bed with her secret torch, bought with her pocket money, but said nothing. She had done the same at boarding school.

  “I’ll put the kettle on.” Joanne needed to be in the kitchen. She needed to recover from the hours she had spent waiting, listening, alternatively hoping for and dreading his visit. “So, what did you get up to today?” she asked when she brought in a tray with tea and shortbread, biting back Where were you? I was waiting . . .

  “Working in the morning, band practice in the afternoon . . . ”

  Why didn’t you ask me? I love being at band practice. She was remembering her miserable hours glancing at the clock every five minutes, wondering whether to look for him at the library, or at the boardinghouse, to accidentally on purpose bump into him, so she missed the beginning of his account of the meeting at the Ferry Inn.

  “So Jenny took offense at my questions and left in a huff.”

  “She can be thrawn when she wants to be.”

  “My favorite word. Thrawn. My mother called me that. She said I was as stubborn as a Shetland pony.”

  “As thrawn as . . . ” Joanne corrected him.

  And in their laughter, in his reminiscing, they were comfortable again. They did not see the crack in the girl’s bedroom door where Annie, sitting up in bed in the almost dark, was listening to every word. And when the laughter ended, when the voices sank to a murmur, she knew for certain that her mother was in love, like Anne of Green Gables. But how can she love another man when she is still married to Dad? She fell asleep to the idea of Canada, specifically Prince Edward Island.

  It could have been the warmth of the room, or the sound of rain, or the three whiskies or Joanne sitting on the leather pouffe, listening in that way his mother had when, after his regiment had returned from Italy, he had told her about his friend being shot and his being unable to save him because he was dead before he fell. So Neil found himself saying all that he had bottled up, since my mothers’ death, he thought, or a lifetime.

  “I believed that coming back here, I would find answers,” he started. “I had my lists, what I need to complete my thesis and hopefully a book. The work is almost finished, needs a good edit . . . ” He paused. He did not know how far he could go. “But I will be leaving with so many personal questions unanswered, questions I thought were of no importance until I came here.”

  Joanne felt sick at the word. Leaving. Is there no place for me in your life? she wanted to ask.

  “You’d love Canada.” The change in his voice startled her.

  “I’m sure I would.” Her clouds were turning into rainbows.

  “I thought when I came here, it would be different; the whispers about women alone, about a child with no visible father, the poverty, the narrow-mindedness, the sheer hard work to just stay alive. I didn’t expect here to be the same. I believed all those tales about Highland hospitality, about everyone looking out for everyone, about the mountains and glens being so bonnie they broke your heart . . . ” He laughed. “That’s why I live in a city now.”

  Joanne was lost. What was he trying to say?

  “My mother was a completely selfless woman. She ruined her hands, her health, gutting fish to make sure I had all the books I wanted, all the things a normal boy with two parents had.”

  He remembered the new bicycle, the trip to Ottawa, the fountain pen when he was accepted at the academy.

  I promised I’d look after you, she told him as she was dying.

  “She didn’t need to sacrifice herself.” He was not looking at Joanne as he was speaking. His legs stretched out straight, and he was leaning back in the only armchair in the room, his eyes closed.

  “When she died, a solicitor contacted me. There was money. Every year since she arrived in Canada, a deposit went into an account labeled Education Fund.” He didn’t tell her the deposit arrived on his birthday. “Mum had taken out sums here and there, always coinciding with the start of a new term. She had barely touched the capital and told me the extra came from overtime . . . Then the solicitor, a decent man who’d known me all my life, saw how much I blamed myself, believing that to pay for my education my mother had worked herself to death. He went against her wishes and revealed that the money came fr
om a mysterious benefactor, in Edinburgh, Scotland.”

  Joanne reached over and put her hand on his knee.

  He opened his eyes and smiled. “So . . . this is quite some journey for me.”

  “I’m glad you told me.” Joanne hesitated, then asked, “Have you been looking for your . . . family?” It was the only word she could think of.

  “No, not looking . . . ” His lips tightened. “But it’s strange what you come across when you’re not looking.” He looked as though he was about to say more, when Jean came into the room.

  Joanne felt he was about to say more, when Jean interrupted him. Three-quarters asleep, she said, “I need a wee-wee.” The child didn’t see Neil. She went to the bathroom with her mother. When she was finished, she went back to bed, without completely waking. Joanne was glad her daughter no longer wet her bed.

  Maybe it was the reality that Joanne was a mother that did it, maybe the remembering that she was still married, but when she came back to Neil, the connection had been broken.

  “It’s late,” was all he said.

  No it’s not, she wanted to reply, but that sounded so childish.

  He stood. “I’ll see you soon.”

  When? She wanted to ask.

  He went for his coat and scarf.

  “Much as I’d like to, I obviously can’t stay in your narrow bed tonight, Mrs. Ross.” He pulled her to him, put his chin on her head. “But I’m really looking forward to next deadline night.”

  She kissed him inside the house but had to break off the kiss, as she was in danger of begging him to stay and she still had enough pride to know that begging was not somewhere she wanted to be.

  When she was closing the front door after watching until he was out of her garden and down the lane, she heard him start to whistle. It was not a song, more a walking, or marching, or mending a broken machine or car or bicycle tuneless whistle, beloved of workmen and soldiers and those who had not a care in the world. And it broke her heart.

  She went to bed quickly and quietly. She pulled the eiderdown over her head. It would muffle the sound of her sobbing.