Sewing the Shadows Together
Alison Baillie
Copyright © 2015 Alison Baillie
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study,
or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents
Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in
any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the
publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with
the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries
concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
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This book is dedicated to my lovely sons and granddaughter
– Alec, John and Akira
Contents
Cover
Bat
Part 1
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Part 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Part 3
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Part 4
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Part 5
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Part 6
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Part 7
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Part 8
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Part 9
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Part 10
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Part 11
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
PART 12
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Bat
By DH Lawrence
At evening, sitting on this terrace,
When the sun from the west, beyond Pisa, beyond the mountains of Carrara
Departs, and the world is taken by surprise…
When the tired flower of Florence is in gloom beneath the glowing
Brown hills surrounding…
When under the arches of the Ponte Vecchio
A green light enters against stream, flush from the west,
Against the current of obscure Arno…
Look up, and you see things flying
Between the day and the night;
Swallows with spools of dark thread sewing the shadows together.
A circle swoop, and a quick parabola under the bridge arches
Where light pushes through;
A sudden turning upon itself of a thing in the air.
A dip to the water.
And you think:
“The swallows are flying so late!”
Swallows?
Dark air-life looping
Yet missing the pure loop…
A twitch, a twitter, an elastic shudder in flight
And serrated wings against the sky,
Like a glove, a black glove thrown up at the light,
And falling back.
Never swallows!
Bats!
The swallows are gone.
At a wavering instant the swallows gave way to bats
By the Ponte Vecchio…
Changing guard.
Bats, and an uneasy creeping in one’s scalp
As the bats swoop overhead!
Flying madly.
Pipistrello!
Black piper on an infinitesimal pipe.
Little lumps that fly in air and have voices indefinite, wildly vindictive;
Wings like bits of umbrella.
Bats!
Creatures that hang themselves up like an old rag, to sleep;
And disgustingly upside down.
Hanging upside down like rows of disgusting old rags
And grinning in their sleep
Bats!
In China the bat is symbol for happiness
Not for me!
‘Bat’ from Birds, Beasts and Flowers by DH Lawrence reprinted by permission of Pollinger Limited (www.pollingerltd.com) on behalf of the Estate
of Frieda Lawrence Ravagi.
Part 1
I’m alone in the park. The September moon rises over the Forth and a chill breeze rustles through the branches of the old trees. I pull my cardigan round my shoulders and feel the rough wood of the bench through my thin skirt. In the stillness, the water of the burn gurgles through the bushes. Shona hasn’t come back. I’m late, I’ll be in trouble. I feel a mixture of betrayal and anxiety. My best friend told me to wait and didn’t come back.
Behind me, a crackle of leaves. A movement in the shadows, a long black coat, the blur of a white face shining pale in the moonlight. Logan Baird. I am breathless with panic. I try to run but my legs won’t move.
*
Sarah lay in her bed shaking, her skin clammy. The duvet had slipped off and Rory’s side of the bed lay empty. It was more than thirty years since Logan Baird had murdered Shona, but in that grey void between sleep and consciousness the memories still haunted her.
Chapter 1
Tom McIver walked along the empty promenade. Portobello had not changed much in the last thirty-seven years: the same wide sweep of the bay, the faint distant coastline of Fife and the huge pale sky. Although it was nearly ten o’clock at night, the daylight was still dissolving slowly into darkness.
He’d forgotten how long the summer evenings were in Scotland; so different from South Africa, where the evening sun sank quickly, the southern hemisphere darkness dropping like a cloak. He thought briefly of drinking sundowners, watching the sky change colour over Plettenberg Bay, but the image melted and the fishy Scottish air brought him back to the present.
He never thought he’d come back to this place where he’d spent the first sixteen years of his life. But when his mother clutched his hand and begged him to scatter her ashes on Eriskay, the island of her birth, he’d made the promise to come back to Scotland. He’d planned to go straight to the Western Isles, but the nearer the trip came, the more he realised he couldn’t avoid Portobello. He had to come back to confront the memories he’d tried to bury for the whole of his adult life.
The buildings that edged the wide pedestrian walkway were still distinguishable in the grainy evening light: the grim bulk of the Free Presbyterian Church, the red stone of the municipal baths where he’d learnt to swim, the run-down row of cafés and shops. Then he saw the looming shadow of Brunstane High, his old school, the playground walls topped with broken glass shards. He shuddered; he was glad the
school reunion he’d impulsively signed up for was not being held in this building.
Sooner than he expected, he found himself at the more residential end of the prom. Abercorn Park stretched back from the shore into the darkness, fringed by a row of large, late Victorian villas. A group of teenagers lounged on the roundabout in the children’s playground. Behind them, the stark silhouette of the slide stretched up in front of a cluster of old trees and in front of him the waters of the burn disappeared into the dark hole of the culvert which ran under the prom. He felt a shudder run through him; it was where Shona’s body had been found.
He forced himself to go further and after only a few yards saw the red-stone tenement where his family had lived. The door at Number 28 was newly-painted, with entry phones replacing the brass bell pulls, but otherwise it seemed almost unchanged.
Looking up to the third floor, he saw the window of his old room and memories of those nightmare days came flooding back: Shona’s empty bedroom, the police questions, the journalists on the doorstep. His chest tightened. He couldn’t stand and look any longer. In the gathering darkness he hurried back to his small room in the Regent Guesthouse and lay down on the floral bedspread. He’d known it would be hard to come back, but it was even worse than he’d imagined.
He reached for the remote control and pinged on the television, not caring what was on, just wanting to blank out his thoughts. It was some kind of chat show, where the guest, an attractive red-head, was wiping tears from her cheeks and smiling bravely for the camera.
The shot cut to the interviewer. The voice attracted Tom’s attention first and when he looked more carefully there was something familiar about him. The well-cut suit and the perfectly-groomed grey hair threw him off track at first, but then he was certain. The smile, the smooth sympathetic tones, the angle of the head as he leant towards his guest took him back to his school days.
The host turned towards the camera and gave an intimate smile. ‘So that’s all for tonight. I’d like to thank my guest, Mara O’Callaghan, for speaking to us so openly, and to you all for watching. It’s good night from me, Rory Dunbar, and keep safe until we meet again next week.’ With a final dazzling smile the interviewer turned towards Mara as the picture faded.
Rory Dunbar! He’d been in his class at school, lived in the next stair and they’d mucked about together. Tom had been glad to be part of Rory’s golden circle, because even back then Rory had been the one all the girls fancied and all the boys wanted to emulate. Tom wasn’t surprised he’d been the one to succeed.
Rory would probably be at the school reunion tomorrow. Tom wondered, not for the first time, if it had really been such a great idea to sign up for it. When he’d looked at the school Facebook page and seen it was on this weekend it had seemed like fate, but now he wasn’t so sure.
*
Sarah clicked off the TV as her husband gave his trademark sign-off and felt the intense quiet in the high-ceilinged Georgian drawing room. She looked at the school photos of the twins on the tall mahogany chest. She’d been so happy when they were growing up; her life was full and she’d almost forgotten what had happened when she was young, but now they’d moved out into their own flats, the house was so empty and there was no escape from her memories.
As she walked into the darkness of her bedroom, she wondered if Rory would be back tonight. No doubt he would have to comfort Mara in her distress.
The phone rang. Sarah wondered whether to answer it. It wouldn’t be Rory, he never phoned but perhaps it was her mother, or one of the twins. After hesitating over the handset, she picked it up and instantly regretted it, hearing the chirpy tones of Patsy Mills.
‘Oh hi, how are you? All ready for tomorrow?’
Her heart sank. The school reunion. She didn’t want to go and, as Patsy kept reminding her, it wasn’t even for her year – just the four classes that had started Brunstane High in 1971. She was only being allowed to attend because she was married to Rory.
‘Oh, Patsy, I’m fine. Just going to bed, actually. How are you?’
‘Is Rory there? I just wanted to check that he’ll be at the Craigie Arms at six for the pre-dinner drinks.’
‘He’s not back yet – but I’m sure we’ll be there on time. I’ll remind him as soon as he gets in. But Patsy I’m going to have to go now because… ’ she hesitated as she searched around for an excuse, ‘I’ve got something on the stove. See you, sleep well.’ She put the phone down, still hearing Patsy squawking until the final click cut her off.
Chapter 2
Tom hesitated at the wide front door of the Craigie Arms Hotel. It was in Joppa, the more upmarket end of Portobello, one of a row of residential buildings in Scottish baronial style with turrets and towers and a long garden leading down to the seafront. It seemed familiar; he had a vague memory of being there once, perhaps at a wedding or an eighteenth birthday party.
Inside, the decor showed it had fallen on hard times. The function room was set up with five round tables, each seating eight, but the white tablecloths didn’t distract from the drab wallpaper and the stained carpet. On the left there was a small bar with a group of men holding pints and laughing. Small clusters of women were scattered about the room, talking earnestly, heads close together.
He thought back to the class photo he’d found among his mother’s things. Strange that she’d packed that last frozen image of him in his school uniform, blond hair down to his shoulders, surrounded by other sixteen-year-olds with seventies glam rock hairstyles. Looking towards the bar, he hoped that some of the faces would seem familiar, but he didn’t recognise anyone.
‘Tom.’ A very small woman in high-heels and a low-cut dress tottered towards him. She flung her arms round his neck and pulled his head down to kiss him. ‘Lovely you could make it. You look just like your Facebook photo.’
This had to be Patsy Mills, organiser of the event. She bore only a passing resemblance to her youthful photo on Facebook and he couldn’t remember her from school at all.
‘We have a reunion every year, but this one’s special because of the school’s centenary, so it’s great you could come.’
Taking his hand, Patsy led him towards the group at the bar and introduced him. There were a few muttered greetings, and one of the group stepped forward and offered Tom a drink before melting back into the comfort zone of his friends. Nobody else spoke to him. Tom stood on the edge of the laughing crowd, sipping his pint and trying to look as though he belonged.
Patsy, who’d been keeping an anxious eye on the entrance, ran towards the door, squealing ‘Rory!’ A hush fell over the room and all eyes turned towards the door as Rory Dunbar strode in. He bent to kiss Patsy on the cheek and then flashed a dazzling smile round the room, joining the group at the bar with much back-slapping and laughter. A woman – who Tom guessed was his wife – tall and graceful with shoulder-length dark hair, stood a few paces behind him.
Patsy stood on tiptoes and whispered in Rory’s ear. He looked round and nodded to her before coming over to Tom. Pumping Tom’s right hand with his left arm round his shoulder, Rory greeted him effusively. ‘Tom! Tom McIver. How great to see you! When did you get back?’ Without waiting for an answer he turned to the others. ‘Remember Tom? He was in our class, great footballer! Do you still play football, Tom?’
‘Not any more. I do a bit of running though.’
‘Still support the Hibees, I hope. You’d better – they need all the support they can get. Tragic how bad they’ve been this season.’ Rory turned to the group who started talking about scores and disappointments and how they ‘were robbed’; Tom felt the conversation drift away and fall into the void of the years separating them.
Patsy clapped her hands, her voice rising above the hubbub. ‘Now it’s time to eat. We want everyone to talk to each other so you’ll all have to move around. You’ve got a card with the four courses you chose, the table number and the seat number. Now don’t sit in the wrong seat or I’ll get very cross. Might have to spank
you!’ There was a loud whooo from the bar.
Patsy giggled. ‘You know, we’ve got people jetting in from all over to come to this reunion. Jennie’s come from Singapore,’ a thin, short-haired woman with an expensive-looking dress and a lot of gold jewellery waved both arms, ‘and Tom’s come all the way from South Africa. The first time he’s come back and just for our reunion.’ Someone started clapping and others joined in raggedly. Tom gave an embarrassed smile.
‘And, of course, as always, we’re fortunate to have our very own Rory Dunbar here today.’ She broke off for a few appreciative cheers from the crowd and Rory gave a practised wave. ‘So find your places and, if you’re very good, there’s a special after-dinner treat for you.’
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