Cold in the Earth

by Aline Templeton

  17

  ‘Scott, where are you? You’ll need to get down to open the bar.’

  Lisa Thomson opened the bedroom door. The curtains were drawn and the room was fetid with stale whisky fumes. Her husband was lying, fully clothed, flat on his back, deep in sottish sleep, his mouth hanging open, and he was snoring loudly. On the bedside table there was a glass with a splash of whisky in the bottom and on the floor a bottle of fifteen-year-old Glenmorangie, three-quarters empty and lying on its side.

  At the sight of the bottle her lips tightened. If he was going to get drunk he could at least have chosen a cheap blend – he wasn’t even going to taste it after the first couple of glasses. But oh no, Scott had to take the best, as if that proved something.

  She’d tried to be a loyal wife, tried to be understanding about the problems: his bad arm, always having business worries, being scared they’d lose everything. But she hadn’t had it easy either, and now, when at last they were seeing a good profit . . .

  The foot-and-mouth at Chapelton and that poor lassie they’d found had been an awful business right enough, but it had been a blessing for the hotel. With full-board guests and the police camped on the premises, not to mention the bar packed out with folk trying to find out what was going on, they’d got the bank off their backs for a few months at least. She wasn’t kidding herself they were out of the woods but at least they weren’t finished. You’d have thought Scott could have cheered up a bit.

  But he hadn’t. He’d been even worse. From the day Laura and the Masons had arrived he’d hardly been sober and she’d had it up to here with his black moods. OK, so he hated the Masons. She didn’t take to them herself and the more you saw of them the less you liked them, but acting like a spoiled bairn when you were in business was just daft.

  So what was it all about? She’d managed to put it out of her mind – well, she’d had enough to do with making the beds and the meals and the endless cups of coffee and keeping the weans clean and fed until she could crawl thankfully into her bed at night. But it was quieter now . . .

  She knew the police had been questioning Scott. She didn’t know what they’d asked him, or what he’d said; she knew fine the only answer she’d get if she asked was the back of his hand. She didn’t even know how Laura’s sister had died, had deliberately not listened to gossip because even thinking about it scared her. It was like looking over the edge of a cliff when everything seemed to tilt and swing away from her. If he’d hit the girl, maybe just that bit too hard . . . It wasn’t much of a step from that to wondering if she’d been sharing a bed with a murderer all her married life.

  She shuddered, then scolded herself. What on earth was the point of all this daft stuff? What she needed to think about wasn’t the past, it was the future for herself and the bairns, for the hotel that could be a really nice wee business.

  What would she have done this past week without Dawn to help her? Having another pair of willing hands had made her realise how little Scott had done about the place, even before all this. Dawn was someone she could talk to as well; Lisa had been on her own with Scott and the kids for so long she’d forgotten what it was like to chatter and have a bit of a laugh. There hadn’t been a lot of laughter in her life these last few years. Dawn couldn’t understand why she put up with him. She’d have put him out long ago, she said, if he went on like that all the time.

  Lisa looked down at the figure on the bed. He was unwashed, unshaven, and dribbling from the corner of his mouth. She felt scunnered, almost sick with disgust. His red hair was showing grey at the sides and with the puffy face and sagging chins it was hard to believe he was only nine years older than she was.

  The age difference had seemed glamorous when she first met him; he’d been a man, not like the boys her own age. He’d taken advantage of that, she could see now, to bully her, being so possessive and demanding that it was easier just to give up her friendships and stay at home. The only time she’d defied him, to go to a girlfriend’s hen-night, he’d slapped her about when she came in – not enough to bruise her but just, as he said, to show her who was boss.

  He had been. But now, with all this, she began to think, Supposing he wasn’t here, supposing she had Dawn full-time instead, Dawn being nice and cheery in the bar so people would like coming and stay on for a meal after, instead of Scott drinking all the best whisky and putting them off with glaring at them like it was an insult to be asked to serve them a drink? It was a dangerous, exciting thought.

  There wasn’t any point in waking him now anyway. He’d only give her a swearing and in any case from the look of him he’d barely be fit to stand. Anyway, given the weather, there probably wouldn’t be anyone venturing out tonight and if there was she could cope herself.

  The Masons had checked out, gone back to Chapelton together in the big Range Rover, but not without a lot of shouting and carrying-on. She’d had to listen to them while she made up their bills – discreetly padding them here and there – and Conrad and Mrs Mason had wanted to go off themselves and leave Max behind. But he told them what they could do, said the Range Rover belonged to the farm and he was going to sell up anyway whenever the lawyers allowed him. That got them all going again; they paid their bills without even checking them and she wished she’d slipped in a wee bit more.

  The best bit had come when Max had pushed in front of his aunt to go up the stairs and she’d given him his character for having no manners. She tried to remember exactly what Max said: it was really cheeky and funny and she and Dawn could have a good laugh about it later. There was something about it being difficult to know how women wanted to be treated nowadays, but looking at her he could see she must have burned her bra long ago, and then he’d said, ‘Not the smartest move, frankly, but I honour your principles and I wouldn’t insult you with a patronising, chauvinist gesture.’ That was the bit she liked, and Dawn would like that too because they’d giggled about Mrs Mason’s saggy boobs before.

  So with Laura and the Masons gone there was no dinner to do tonight and with any luck she’d get an evening off with the bairns for once. Just as long as Scott didn’t wake up with the hangover he deserved they could have a nice peaceful evening at the telly.

  He must have heard the car, heard her coming in. He must certainly have heard her call, ‘Bill! Bill, where are you? I’m home!’

  Marjory stood in the mud-room and kicked off her snow-caked boots. It was looking unnaturally tidy: the children’s boots and shoes were neatly lined up and their coats and jackets still on their pegs, just as she had left them. There was mud all over the red quarry tiles, though; they certainly hadn’t been washed recently.

  There was no response to her call, no sound of footsteps coming to meet her. It wasn’t logical but she had kept a tiny flicker of hope that she had read the signs wrongly, that Bill wasn’t angry and would, after all, be happy to see her back. In the continued silence, the flicker died.

  It felt strange to be back after all this time, strange to feel the familiar loose handle with the screw that somehow never got tightened on the kitchen door. She opened it and went in.

  The man was sitting in the battered armchair beside the Aga, his head back as if he were asleep, but she could see that his eyes were open. The dog at his feet lay, nose on its paws, ears flat, in an attitude of utter dejection. Her ears pricked as her mistress came in and the plumy tail gave a token twitch, then she sighed deeply and the ears flattened again.

  They both looked so – so defeated. And Bill – she would hardly have recognised the young-looking, vigorous man she had left in this hollow-cheeked shadow with sunken eyes. He looked old.

  Marjory swallowed hard. ‘Hello, Bill.’

  He sat up and turned his head, as if only now aware of her presence. ‘Marjory.’

  It was easier to greet the dog. ‘Meg!’ she called, bending down and patting her knee. ‘Come on, Meggie, what sort of welcome is that? Come and say hello to your mistress!’

  At the brightness of her ton
e, the dog’s ears pricked and she jumped up, running across the kitchen with her tail flailing in greeting. Marjory fussed her, pulling the silky ears, patting the smooth head, dodging the ecstatic licks. ‘Yes, yes, good girl! That’s a good dog. Poor Meggie – did you miss me?’

  The dog gave a volley of little, excited barks, then rushed to fetch a half-bald tennis ball and dropped it at Marjory’s feet. She laughed, throwing it across the kitchen floor; Meg was off after it at once, her feet skittering on the tiles. Just as they always had, when things were normal.

  Bill was leaning forward in the chair now, his elbows on his knees, staring straight ahead. What was he thinking? In the same tone of voice as she had used to the dog, Marjory said lightly, ‘And have you missed me too?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ He spoke flatly, as if the words he had said and their meaning had no connection.

  She bit her lip. The dog came back with the ball and Marjory threw it again, looking round meanwhile at the state of her kitchen. There was a film of dust over all the surfaces but there was no pile of dishes in the sink, as she had thought there might be; indeed, there was no evidence that the kitchen had recently been used at all. On the scrubbed pine table three bags of groceries hadn’t been unpacked, though someone must have picked them up from the bottom of the road. Had he been eating at all, these last few days?

  At least the Aga ran on oil and was still putting out its comforting heat. She went over to it, lifted one of the shiny lids and pulled across the big aluminium kettle. ‘What I need is a cup of tea. Is there anything left from the Tin?’

  ‘Yes – somewhere.’ Bill gestured vaguely towards the table; a Dundee cake, lovingly baked by Janet, stood on a plate with a wedge taken out of it, but judging from the staleness of the exposed crumb, a couple of days earlier. Marjory turned it round and cut into the other side, then brought over the fresh slices, setting one on a plate beside Bill. He looked at it but made no move to pick it up.

  Meg had returned to the rug in front of the Aga and lay down with her head on her master’s foot. Marjory glanced down. ‘Poor Meg! She gets so depressed when she isn’t working.’

  ‘Yes. Well . . .’ He left the obvious response unstated, his voice trailing away as if speaking was a pointless activity.

  The kettle was boiling. Marjory brewed tea, trying not to show her alarm. She fetched the mug that said ‘World’s Best Dad’, a Father’s Day present, filled it then handed it to him so that he had no option but to take it. He had a sip, then another, then said, ‘That’s good.’

  ‘Have some cake. If I tell my mother you haven’t finished it she’ll be convinced she’s lost her touch and go into a decline.’

  He picked it up and bit into it obediently as if he had needed to be told to do it, then finished it hungrily.

  ‘I’ll get you another slice.’ Marjory tried to sound casual. How long was it since he’d eaten? And Meg – Meg, who wasn’t usually a cadger, was showing an unusual interest in the crumbs. Had he been forgetting to feed her, too?

  She picked up the empty dog-bowl from the floor and filled it from a packet of dry dog food.

  When she put down the bowl the dog, normally a delicate feeder, ate ravenously. Marjory had to turn away; as nothing else had, this brought the tears to her eyes. That Bill – Bill! – should neglect his dog!

  The only way to stifle her rising horror was to be very, very practical. Talking to him, trying to get him to tell her what he had been through to reduce him to this state, wasn’t going to work. He had responded to her instructions to eat; perhaps what was best now was to find him things to do, normal, everyday things.

  ‘Bill, I’ve left my cases and things in the car. Be a dear and bring them in for me, will you? Take them up to the bedroom and I’ll sort things out later.’

  ‘Yes.’ He got up, moving like an old man, almost shuffling in his slippers. He was on the point of going out into the snow still wearing them; Marjory hurried after him. ‘Don’t forget to change into your boots!’

  She watched him from the kitchen window while he took out the cases with painstaking slowness – her energetic, impatient husband! – then carry them in and on upstairs. He hadn’t changed back to his slippers but she’d rather clean up afterwards than say anything about it now.

  Firm ground seemed to be rocking under her feet. She’d been prepared for arguments, recriminations, had come ready to defend herself and hopeful that once they had talked through the difficulties face to face they would weld themselves into a unit again, ready to take whatever the fates had in store together. She couldn’t have imagined any other outcome.

  She had found instead a monosyllabic stranger, incapable of looking after himself or his dog. What, she wondered, stricken, would have happened if she hadn’t come home for another few days?

  He was depressed, obviously. It was the most natural thing in the world to be depressed about something so terrible, but – this! Marjory didn’t know much about the psychological side of depression, didn’t really know much about the psychological side of anything. In fact, she’d always been distinctly scornful of therapies and ‘isms’ – after all, before Freud people had managed to muddle along talking over their problems with friends and family, then just pulling themselves together and getting on with life. Now, confronted with this, she wasn’t so sure. She certainly felt out of her depth.

  Bill returned and took his seat again beside the Aga. He’d forgotten to finish his tea; it was cold now with a pale, filmy skin on top. She took it over to the sink and emptied it out.

  ‘You’ve let that get cold,’ she scolded gently, refilled it and once more put it into his hand and stood there till he started to drink. ‘Now, what is there for supper?’ She didn’t expect a response and didn’t get one.

  In the larder she found some vegetables for soup, and there was a stew in the deep freeze which could come to gently in the Aga. Bill had always liked stew. And baked potatoes; she scrubbed them and popped them in too. As she bustled round him he sat silent, unnoticing, totally withdrawn.

  The comparison struck her suddenly. Here, too, was a victim of locked-in syndrome; though his disability was mental not physical he was at the moment as surely locked in by his total despair.

  She had no idea what to do about it. The only consolation was that the murder case was, rightly or wrongly, all but over. Tomorrow night Donald Bailey would declare that Jake Mason was the sole suspect and at that point she could tell him about Bill and ask for – no, demand – compassionate leave. With the case wound up, he couldn’t refuse.

  Laura wasn’t sure what had wakened her. It was cold, certainly, and she had a feeling that she had half-wakened several times to pull the covers more closely about her, but it was the noise outside that made her open her eyes.

  She had heard it before, her first night at the Glen Inn – the repeated bellowing of a cow or a bull which sounded in distress or angry, even, though she was no expert. It seemed very loud and quite close at hand, distinct above the noise of the wind which was blowing hard now.

  Frowning, she sat up to listen. Surely all the cattle around here had been culled? Conrad had said there wasn’t one left, the length and breadth of the Glen. Only a couple of flocks of sheep had been spared, but a sheep would never make a noise like that. It made her uneasy, somehow, though she knew that was foolish. What harm could a suffering animal outside possibly do to her?

  Then her brow cleared. She really was a townie! It would be a stag, of course. She’d seen a documentary about it, stags bellowing challenges at one another during the rutting season. But even so, it was strange, surely. It certainly wasn’t the rutting season now and she remembered quite clearly that the programme had shown deer feeding in the daytime; why would one be wandering round issuing challenges in the middle of a wild, snowy night? She was cosy in bed and the room was chilly but at last curiosity got the better of her. Without switching on the light, she padded across to the window and lifted the curtain to peer out.

 
; It was pitch dark outside. There was snow being blown against the window, piling up in the corners of the panes, and beyond it she could see nothing at all. She heard the sound again; it seemed to be moving away from her and perhaps it was only her fancy that made her think it had a despairing tone. She waited, but after that there was silence and she was beginning to shiver.

  Bending to turn up the radiator below the window, she hopped back into bed to warm up. Foolishly she had left the covers back and the snug nest she had left had cooled down. The hot-water bottle she had taken to bed had fallen out on to the floor; it was stone cold now too and despite some energetic frottage her feet obstinately refused to warm up.

  She’d never get back to sleep like this! She might just as well resign herself to getting up and refilling her hottie. She could make a cup of tea at the same time. This was where curiosity got you! Heaving herself up with a sigh, she switched on the light – well, pressed the switch, anyway, but nothing happened. She sighed again. Did light bulbs have a special in-built programme that ensured they always went at the most inconvenient possible time?

  This time she was wise enough to grope for her dressing-gown and slippers before she embarked on the adventure of finding the light-switch by the door so that at least her toes were protected when she blundered into the chest-of-drawers.

  It was only when this switch, too, didn’t respond that she understood. Snow, high winds – there must be a power-line down somewhere. Stories appeared every year in the papers about the snowbound countryside and people without electricity for days on end. You shook your head sympathetically when you read them but it didn’t prepare you for the reality of being alone in a snowbound cottage without light or heat.

  No cup of tea, then, and no comforting hot-water bottle either. But no light! All at once the darkness seemed so thick as to be positively oppressive. She couldn’t even see what time it was, to know how long it would be before daylight came.