Sewing the Shadows Together

by Alison Baillie

  Sarah felt confused by the levity in her daughter’s voice. Lottie leant over and kissed the top of her mother’s head. ‘And is it all right if I give it to Liam?’

  Sarah saw Lottie’s eyes were shining. She put her arms round her daughter. ‘Lottie, is there something I should know?’

  Lottie hugged her. ‘It’s all unofficial, but we do want to get married. Everything that’s happened has made me realise what’s important in life. And I’ve also realised that everything’s better, everything’s bearable when I’m with Liam.’

  Sarah felt a surge of emotion, a wave of love for Lottie, tempered by a tinge of sadness. Rory had never made her feel like that – not even at his most understanding – but Tom… How she wished he could be here with her now.

  She pushed Lottie’s beautiful curtain of hair back from her face and kissed her cheek. ‘You’re lucky to have found each other. I’m so happy for you.’

  Lottie’s face lit up into a smile and she kissed her mother. ‘Thanks, Mum. But it’s a secret mind, not a word to anyone at the moment – especially not Granny!’ Mother and daughter exchanged a look and Sarah laughed out loud, feeling better than she had all day.

  The sound of voices outside the bedroom grew louder and Lottie stood up. ‘We’d better go and see what’s going on out there.’

  They went out to where Liam was standing awkwardly in the hall. Lottie ran over to him and his face relaxed in relief as she whispered something to him. Sarah smiled as she left them kissing tenderly.

  She turned towards the kitchen and saw Miranda’s twins, slouched against the marble-topped work surface, drinking large tumblers of whisky and blowing smoke from their cigarettes towards the ceiling.

  ‘Excuse me,’ Sarah said, trying to keep her voice steady. ‘I’d prefer you not to smoke in my home.’ The boys turned their heads towards her like two meerkats, raised their eyebrows in unison and gave her a ‘what are you making such a fuss about?’ look.

  ‘No problem, we’ll blow the smoke out of the window,’ drawled Simon, or maybe Sean, while the other smirked.

  Sarah felt loathing swelling up in her. She looked at them closely – she had thought them good-looking but now she saw the weakness in their mouths, the arrogance in their eyes and saw that they were ugly. ‘I want you to leave now.’

  ‘Don’t worry, we’re going. Mum’s just seeing if there’s anything else worth taking.’

  Sarah stepped out of the kitchen, determined to see what Miranda was up to. A movement in Rory’s office caught her eye and she saw Miranda rifling through some files on his desk. Rory, who could be messy in other respects, was meticulously tidy in his office. Sarah knew the folders hadn’t been on the desk before. When she saw the papers in Miranda’s hands she felt anger exploding in her. The thought of that woman pawing through Rory’s things seemed the final indignity.

  ‘Get away from those papers.’

  Miranda looked up and sneered. ‘I was just checking that there was nothing of value here, and there isn’t. We’ll just stick with the paintings, the McTaggart and the Neil.’

  She swept out of the room and signalled to her sons, each of whom was carrying a large framed painting. They left the flat without saying goodbye, slamming the door behind them.

  A hush had descended over the flat and Sarah saw the rest of them standing at the door of the drawing room, watching in shocked embarrassment. Babs spoke first. ‘Appalling woman, and those boys are turning out to be just as bad.’ Sarah nodded in heartfelt agreement.

  Rosie stepped towards her and took her hand. ‘Thank you, Sarah. I know it’s been a very hard day for you.’ She paused and lowered her eyes. ‘And I’m so sorry for…’

  Her eyes moved to her son, who was holding a blue hard-back book of Scottish poetry. ‘Mummy said I should ask if I can have this book. Can I?’

  Sarah looked at it. She didn’t remember ever having seen it before. She opened it up and saw an engraved plate on the front page. Presented to Rory Dunbar. Dux of Towerbank Primary School. June 1971. So Rory won that prize at his primary school. He may have been boastful, but he’d kept that quiet.

  ‘What’s a Dux, Mummy?’ Jamie looked up at his mother, a questioning expression in his large dark eyes.

  ‘That means he was best pupil in his school. Your daddy was very clever.’ Rosie smiled down at her son and turned to Sarah. ‘He goes to the Rudolf Steiner School. Being Dux is a bit of a foreign concept to him.’

  Sarah smiled. ‘Of course, you can have it, Jamie. And I’m sure you’ll do just as well as your clever father.’

  Rosie looked at her gratefully and gave her a spontaneous hug. ‘I so admire your strength and dignity. I don’t think I could have faced a day like today.’ She lowered her eyes again and blushed slightly. ‘We’ll be going now, but I hope to see you again.’

  ‘You will,’ Sarah said grimly. ‘Remember we’ve still got the memorial service to get through!’

  Rosie took Jamie by the hand and they waved goodbye as they closed the door quietly behind them.

  Sarah caught sight of Daniel hovering awkwardly in a corner, his long limbs seeming even more uncoordinated than before. He blushed as he held out a box of cufflinks. ‘Is it all right if I take these?’

  ‘Of course. I’m sure your father would be pleased for you to have them.’ She smiled encouragingly as the blush deepened and spread over Daniel’s face and onto his neck.

  Sarah felt as if she was in the reception line at a gruesome wedding as Abigail stepped forward, holding a small framed photo in her hand. Sarah recognised it; it always stood on Rory’s desk, showing him aged about six, standing with his father and his grandfather in his grandfather’s allotment. Rory had never been family-minded, saying university had separated him from the rest of his family, made him ‘disenfranchised working class,’ so it was strange that he had always kept this photo by him. It was the only photo Sarah had seen of Rory’s grandfather, a small bent man with a flat cap and a large white moustache. Rory’s father also looked old and stooping, with his trousers pulled up under his armpits and elastic round his shirt sleeves to shorten them. Sarah remembered that Rory’s parents had already been well into their forties when he was born, the long-awaited menopausal miracle.

  Abigail glanced at the photo again, looking unexpectedly anxious. ‘I know that this means a lot to all of us and I’ll have copies made,’ she said her deep voice sounding even lower.

  Sarah was filled with a strange feeling of gratitude. ‘That’s really thoughtful of you, Abigail. But you can keep this one, in the original frame. It shows your grandfather and great-grandfather too.’

  Abigail looked up at her and Sarah saw that she had very beautiful eyes, Rory’s eyes.

  Sarah gave her a hug. ‘Thank you,’ she said, not quite sure what for. The emotion of the day was overwhelming her.

  Babs stepped forward and even she seemed to have mellowed. ‘Apart from that bitch I think it was all very satisfactory. Well done, Sarah.’

  Sarah felt oddly pleased by her praise as she watched Abigail and Babs strut down the stairs, followed by the ungainly Daniel.

  Nick put his arm round his mother. ‘God, that was awful. But at least that’s it over with now. Come and sit down, Mum. What can I get you?’

  Sarah shook her head. She felt numb with exhaustion and just wanted the day to be over. ‘Nothing thanks, Nick. Thank you. All of you. I couldn’t have got through this day without you, but now I just want to be alone.’ She paused as a thought struck her. ‘Where’s Granny?’

  Nick indicated his head towards the ‘snug’, the little room with the television where the twins had retreated when they were young. Sarah looked in and saw her mother in an armchair with her head on her chest, fast asleep, still clutching her sherry glass.

  ‘How did she manage to sleep through all that?’ The twins shrugged their shoulders and Sarah smiled. ‘Actually, I think I could too. I’m shattered.’

  ‘I’m not surprised,’ Lottie held her mothe
r tight. ‘We’ll just clear up and you can have a lie down.’

  Sarah nodded and hugged both of her children. She saw Liam hanging back a little self-consciously and beckoned him over. ‘Come on, group hug. Welcome to the family.’

  *

  Sarah woke up a few hours later on top of the covers with Sultan lying close to her. She stroked his silky black fur and felt comforted by his purr. She took off her funeral clothes and wandered through to the front room. Everything had been cleared away and there was a note on the table. ‘Didn’t want to disturb you. Just ring if there is ANYTHING we can do. Mum, you’re the best! Love you Nick, Lottie and Liam x x x P.S. We’ve taken Granny!’

  Her heart literally swelled with love. She was so lucky with her children. She picked up the note and held it close to her chest. Then she looked up and saw the pale rectangle above the fireplace where the William McTaggart landscape had hung. It had been a present to Rory from his first editor, the autocratic press baron who’d recognised his potential and taken him under his wing. Miranda was right. It was the most valuable thing in the house.

  Thinking of Miranda going through Rory’s papers, the anger rose in her chest again. It was suddenly very important for Sarah to leave Rory’s office in the state he liked. She went through to his study and began sorting through the folders on his desk.

  As she put the papers into piles one of Rory’s yellow post-its with his neat handwriting caught her eye. It seemed to be another of HJ’s poems. So they weren’t all in the folder he had collected. Then she saw what Rory had written. So he liked young girls! Link with family scandal? Find out more!

  Her eyes scanned quickly down the lines of poetry and then she began to read the words more carefully.

  Bright-eyed, they sit in rows,

  Sleek hair shining,

  Short blue skirts

  Slender brown legs

  In sparkling white ankle socks

  And well-brushed sandals.

  Minds like flowers

  Drinking in knowledge

  Like the morning dew.

  Heaven would be

  To be licked all over

  By their tiny pink tongues

  Sarah put the paper down. A shudder of revulsion passed through her. She remembered HJ coming round just after Rory died, searching in Rory’s office. She’d thought it so odd. Was this what he was looking for?

  She looked over the words again. HJ? A paedophile?

  She heard the ping from her phone and saw the light was flashing. A message. Her hand trembling, she picked it up and saw TM had sent two messages. How did it go? Thinking of you x sent in the afternoon. A more recent message read You OK? Want company? X

  Decisively she stabbed into the keyboard, Am alone. PLEASE come NOW x

  Part 10

  Through the fish-eye of memory the room comes slowly into focus. I sit squashed between two of my classmates on a long sofa, our legs stretched out, white ankle socks and shiny Clarks sandals, below blue school skirts, yellow and blue striped ties. About a dozen girls squeezed onto different pieces of furniture arranged in a circle. The heavy scent of roses from a large bowl on the polished mahogany table hangs in the air.

  On a high-backed chair at the side of the tiled Victorian fireplace sits HJ Kidd, his black hair curling over the collar of his green velvet jacket. The After-School Writing Club has been invited to his house.

  Through the high bay window the sun shafts into the room, and I catch a glimpse of the wide sky and the sparkling sea stretching towards Fife. HJ’s wife, shoulder-length brown hair pushed behind her ears, brings in a tray of orange squash and butterfly buns. She lays them on the table and goes out, her lips pursed in disapproval. Glasses and cakes are passed round but all eyes are on our teacher.

  ‘Your short stories were wonderful, all of them. I’m so proud of you and you should all be proud of yourselves. However, there was one that was especially good.’ HJ pauses, and twelve pairs of eyes look at him expectantly. I feel a surge of hope.

  ‘Shona, your story is exceptional. The imagery, the poetry of your words conjures up such a vivid picture. Come forward. I’d like to read it to our group.’

  Shona goes forward and I feel disappointment bitter in my mouth. With his arm round her waist, he holds up her jotter and reads the story. Shona looks proudly round the room. The envy hangs in the air heavy like the scent of roses. Every single girl wishes she could be in Shona’s place, standing close to Captain Kidd with his arm round our waist.

  He finishes the reading and the words fade. Shona stands up, eyes sparkling with delight. I see Kidd bend down and whisper something in her ear that makes her smile even wider.

  Chapter 22

  Sarah opened her eyes, for a moment not knowing where she was. The picture of her teacher’s room on the Portobello seafront, where they’d all been sitting just a few weeks before, remained imprinted on the darkness of the bedroom. The memory hung over her like a toxic cloud; her feeling of disappointment, jealousy of her friend, and a strange disquiet as she recalled the smug expression on HJ’s face as Shona had stood close to him. Shona’s face had been triumphant, loving the attention and the praise.

  Sarah sat up in bed, suddenly wide awake. Times were very different in the seventies but had none of them thought that a young teacher in his twenties being so close to a thirteen-year-old girl was inappropriate behaviour? They were so naïve. If a teacher had done that when Lottie was at school… Sarah shuddered.

  The After School Writing Club at Mr Kidd’s house. It all came back so clearly; that was the day Shona died. Like every Tuesday, they’d all gone down to Captain Kidd’s house after school and he’d talked about the stories they’d written.

  Afterwards Sarah had gone home for her tea before going round to Shona’s house, as she did every evening. Shona had been in a funny mood, restless, and said they should go out. They’d hung about the park, Shona making remarks to the boys as they had passed by, and then she’d run off, saying she had a secret. Once again the image of Shona looking back and laughing was imprinted on her eyes.

  She turned and saw Tom sleeping next to her, the cover thrown off, his long limbs spread over his side of the bed. His face looked beautiful, moulded in peaceful sleep.

  He’d come immediately last night, almost as if he’d been waiting. He was in a good mood, obviously wanting to tell her something, but he listened to her recounting all the day’s events, massaging her shoulders and easing the knots of tension away. It had all seemed unimportant as she spoke to him. She had felt safe, cocooned from the unpleasantness of the day.

  Only when she was calm had she asked him about his day. Tom’s face had lit up as he told her the good news, that he’d plucked up courage to go to see Chisholm and that his father was in the clear. His joy and relief were clear to see.

  Sarah wanted to share his happiness, but she felt perturbed. Tom’s father being out of the frame meant that they still had no idea who the murderer could be. A seed of suspicion started to grow in her mind: HJ Kidd had been acting very strangely and there was that poem.

  Sarah showed it to Tom. As he was reading it, he raised his eyebrows in surprise, but at the end he laughed. Sarah felt a surge of annoyance.

  ‘Don’t worry about it. It’s only a poem.’ Tom kissed the top of her head. She put her arms round him, and not wanting to break the moment, put her suspicions to the back of her mind.

  But in the night the memory of that day at Kidd’s house came back to her, as clear and sharp as a film. She got her housecoat and moved quietly into the kitchen, but as she was making the coffee the scene kept replaying in her mind.

  She poured the coffee and was just about to take Tom a cup when he came through from the bedroom in his boxers, stretching and yawning. ‘Good morning, beautiful.’ He bent over to kiss her. She looked up and smiled as their lips met.

  ‘I’m just going to have a quick shower and get round to the Cowgate. I’m meeting HJ.’

  As she heard Tom humming thro
ugh the splashing of the shower, memories started melding together with recent events: HJ holding her a bit too close at the poetry reading; the unease she’d felt when HJ had his arms round the young girl poet that evening – and worst of all, the poem. She couldn’t forget about the poem.

  Tom came through, his hair damp from his shower. As he sat down at the scrubbed wooden table and took the mug of coffee, Sarah knew she had to tell him all about it.

  He listened carefully as Sarah told him about what she’d remembered, looking thoughtful. ‘So you were all at HJ Kidd’s on that last afternoon. How was Shona after you left his place?’

  Sarah sat very still and looked up at Tom. ‘She was in a very strange mood. Said she had a secret. Could she…?’ A thought struck her, so vividly and clearly that she couldn’t believe that it hadn’t occurred to her before. ‘I know where she was going when she ran away. She was going to see Kidd.’

  Tom shook his head. ‘I can’t believe he could have anything to do with it. He’s a straight guy, he was a teacher for forty years and he’s married.’ He paused and added. ‘And he’s being so good to me, with the job and everything.’

  Sarah felt a surge of irritation. ‘Have you asked yourself why he’s being so good to you? Has it occurred to you that he might want you onside?’

  Tom reached out and pulled her closer. ‘Sarah, don’t begin to see evil everywhere. I wasted so much emotional energy suspecting my father and it was nothing.’

  Sarah smiled doubtfully. ‘It’s everything that’s happened, everything I’ve remembered. I’m beginning to get suspicious of everyone.’ She wanted to share Tom’s pleasure about the job, but couldn’t.

  Tom looked at his watch. ‘Anyway, I’d better get going. HJ said he’d be waiting at ten and no doubt you’ll have family coming round soon.’

  ‘Oh yes, Mum will be coming round ‘to help’, I expect.’ She sighed and cleared the coffee cups.

  Tom had his hand on the door handle when the bell rang. Sarah answered the intercom, puzzled. ‘It’s a bit early for Mum.’ She turned round and mouthed ‘Archie Kilbride’ to Tom as she pushed the buzzer to let him in.