by A. D. Scott
“Finished.” Chiara looked critically at her work, then enveloped them both in a choking mist of hair spray. “You’ll be the belle of the Highland Ball.” Joanne picked up the dress, held it against her, caressing the deep forest-green silk taffeta.
“I love this. Thank you, Chiara. I’d never have chosen the design myself. Far too daring.” A moment of panic seized her. “I hope Bill approves. This evening means a lot to him.”
“You look gorgeous. Like Ava Gardner but far prettier—and not nearly so much showing.” They laughed. “Your pearls, they’re perfect with the dress.”
“My grandmother left them to me.” The memory of her cherished grandparent, the only one to keep in touch with Joanne after her disgrace, saddened her.
The doorbell rang. Bill had arrived to collect her for the ball. He waited in the doorway looking equally splendid in his regimental Fraser tartan dress kilt. Joanne felt a lurch of animal attraction when she saw her handsome charmer of a husband, grinning at the two women like a fox at the henhouse door. Chiara gave a wolf whistle.
“You’re almost a married woman. What would your fiancé say?” Bill teased Chiara and smiled at Gino but wouldn’t come in.
“I’m not his possession, I think what I like.” Chiara was quick.
Joanne walked toward him, a mohair stole draped over her shoulders, and did a quick birl for his benefit. Bill was delighted.
“You look beautiful.”
“Don’t sound so surprised.”
“It’s a bit revealing.”
“She looks like a film star.” Chiara turned to her father. “Sí, Papa?”
“More beautiful than any fil’im star.” He kissed Joanne’s hand and escorted her to the car. There was not much Bill could say after that, but when they reached the entrance of the Caledonian Ballroom he reached for the stole, pulling it over her cleavage.
Just like his mother, she thought, and sighed to herself.
The drinking, the heat, the volume of talk increased steadily. The men had regrouped around the bar; their wives stayed at the tables to embark on the character assassinations that passed for conversation among the “ladies.” Joanne sat watching the band, half listening to the conversations around her, and did not catch the opening salvo.
“Sorry, I was miles away.”
“We were just saying, dear, how unusual your dress is.” The woman across the table smirked at her. As the wife of the town clerk she assumed the right to be first with the velvet dagger.
“It’s the latest fashion from Paris.” Joanne smiled. “Well, at least the pattern is. The fabric is Italian. A present from my friend Chiara Corelli.”
Another of the tightly permed and tightly corseted brigade around the table got in the next barb—“Ah yes, the chip shop people”—and duly received appreciative sniggers.
The next harpy took her turn. “You must be a very busy person, dear. A successful husband, two young children, a job on the Gazette, I hear, and you make your own clothes too! Still, I’m sure it saves money.”
“The silk wasn’t cheap,” Joanne started. “It was a Vogue pattern, and . . . I enjoy sewing.” She was floundering.
“Mrs. Ross, may I have this dance?” McAllister appeared behind Joanne’s chair. He nodded around the table. “Ladies.”
The chorus returned his greeting, disappointed at having their prey snatched from them. But Joanne clearly heard the final judgment as they headed for the dance floor. “Just who does she think she is?” Enshrined in the well-worn phrase were all the petty jealousies and small-minded prejudices of a small town.
“Knitting before the guillotine, I presume?” McAllister held the tall slim figure lightly as they swung around the floor, Joanne’s fury vibrating through his hands.
“Something like that.”
“Jealousy, my dear, plain and simple.”
“In my homemade dress and my granny’s pearls, I hardly think so.”
“In your elegant creation and heirloom pearls, with your chic hairstyle and natural beauty, not forgetting your obvious intelligence, they have everything to be jealous of, Mrs. Ross.”
“Why, thank you, kind sir. Now you’re making me blush. But thanks for rescuing me. I never saw you as a knight in shining armor.”
“I will endeavor to keep up the illusion.”
They stood at the edge of the crowd waiting out the next dance.
“You know, no matter what I do, I never seem to get it right.”
“They’re like hens at a pecking party. Anyone different, anyone who stands out, gets the full treatment. Just be yourself and never mind what anyone thinks.”
Joanne caught sight of her husband across the room.
“It’s not my feelings that matter.”
Standing at the bar with his cronies, he was watching her. Another whisky was shoved into his hand and Bill Ross turned back to his new friends. Joanne shivered; an autumnal gust of fear ran through her. She tightened the stole in an attempt to ward off the goose bumps.
The next day being the Sabbath, the band had to pack up at eleven. Tables were cleared, the bar shuttered, and the last of the drinkers went dribbling down the stairs. Joanne was waiting for Bill by the revolving doors. McAllister waved good-bye across the foyer, then disappeared from the pool of light out into the dark street, a cold wind with the promise of rain his companion on the short walk home. He was nearing the corner when a sharp cry cut through the quiet. He turned. Under a streetlight a woman was sprawled backward across a car bonnet.
“Joanne.” McAllister was startled by the intimacy of the scene. He went to intervene, saw she was with her husband, Bill Ross. It was none of his business. He ducked quickly around the corner. He stopped. Coward, he told himself. Went back. By now they were in the car, drawing away from the pavement. He hurried home, cheeks burning in the raw cold night. Aye, he thought, she was right; I’m certainly no knight in shining armor.
The attack had started on the walk to the car when Joanne had instinctively made for the driver’s side.
“I’m driving.” Jingling the keys in her face, Bill then shoved her, sending her flying backward onto the car bonnet.
She stifled any protests. Arguing only made it worse. He drove fast, took corners fast, fairly flying across the bridge. Few cars, no cyclists and no police were out this late. They made it home—a miracle. She slunk through the back door, shrinking herself into as small a target as possible. He tackled her from behind. One arm around her throat, the other hand pulled her round by the hair. Hairpins scattered to the floor. A gargoyle face, a few inches away, spat at her.
“You’re no better than a hoor. Showing me up like that.” An overpowering blast of whisky and malice made her try to turn away.
“We had a nice time.” She hated herself for pleading. “It was a lovely dance. You enjoyed it too.”
“You have to show me up, don’t you? You just have to be different. Everyone was staring at you. And telling them you made your frock yourself. That la-di-da latest-from-Paris shite.”
The punch caught her square in the middle. She doubled over, gagging, bitter bile filling her mouth. The kick caught her full on the hip, flinging her across the room. She landed awkwardly, one leg buckling under her. Bill had never touched her face nor anywhere that bruises might show. Curled up, she kept muttering, “Sorry, sorry.” He always stopped when she capitulated.
“Here. Have it. Have the lot.” He threw a flurry of banknotes, followed by a painful shower of coins. “Go on. Get a fur coat, the best you can find. I’ll no have a wife o’ mine show me up.”
She didn’t move until she heard the car leave. Every breath was painful. She gathered the banknotes, put them in the tea caddy, glad that there was enough to buy the girls new winter boots. She clutched the banisters, hauling herself up the stairs, her hip stiff with pain where the kick had landed.
In Annie’s bedroom, the chest of drawers dragged across the door, spoiled dress abandoned like a discarded dishrag on the floor, in th
e too small bed, she lay there, silent, sore, all crying done, smelling the comforting fragrance of child, drifting down into sleep, her last thought: Thank goodness my pearls didn’t break.
THREE
All that Rob knew about war came from watching Pathé newsreels in the cinema. In front of him, the desolate scene of the tinkers’ camp emerging from the haar reminded him of images of displaced peoples in makeshift encampments strewn all over Europe. Caravans, lorries, vans formed a semicircle. Picked-over carcasses of skeletal vehicles hovered around the outside, ghosts at the feast. Traditional dwellings, “benders,” made from birch saplings and tarpaulins sealed with tar, huddled near the mounds of scrap metal, rubbish, smoldering fires and washing lines. Children, chickens and mangy dogs roamed, hungry scavengers picking through the bones of the camp. The northern boundary, the municipal dump, was alive with a coronet of circling seagulls. The railway line marked the southern boundary. Westward, multiplying industrial warehouses were creeping over the remaining fertile land. Eastward, coastal mudflats and salt marshes seethed with wintering birds, greylag geese competing for the lush grass with forty or so horses. This was the winter quarters of the travelers, the Summer Walkers, as they called themselves; the tinkers, tinks as the townsfolk called them when they wanted to perpetuate the myth of a child-stealing, curse-laying, thieving, outcast, scourge-of-Scotland race of outsiders. Fear, that’s what his father had told Rob. In the past the Traveling people were respected for their skills, their music; they were, are, a vital part of agricultural life in the Highlands, he told his son.
Rob stood beside his bike in the gusting breeze, coming all the way from the Atlantic and the Isles, blowing down the faultline of the Great Glen to meet the North Sea.
“Hiya, is your dad here?” A girl, seven or eight, appeared, stared at the stranger, mouth open, a clot of yellow snot hovering above her top lip. A boy, twelve or thirteen, materialized and stood staring, mesmerized by the shiny red motorbike.
“Can I have a shot on yer bike?”
“Hop on. Then I’d like to speak to your father.”
Once around the fields, with a spurt of speed on the last hundred yards, they skidded to a stop. The boy jumped off and ran.
“Hey, we had a deal,” Rob shouted.
“On your own heid be it then.” The lad disappeared into one of the larger caravans. A man emerged from the doorway.
“Away with ye! Get the hell out o’ here.”
Dogs circled, barking, snapping at Rob’s boots, peeing their territory on a wheel as he sat astride the bike. Children joined in with whooping war cries. A stone flew past; another landed close by. Rob’s new friend watched, laughing. A shout from the man in what Rob took to be Gaelic and the boy took off across the fields toward the ponies. Looking back, he gave Rob a cheery wave, his red hair a beacon in all the surrounding shades of gray.
On the Monday, Joanne took the bus to work, too sore to cycle. Her hip ached and she prayed she wouldn’t cough; the bruising around her ribs and solar plexus made even breathing painful enough.
“Good night on Saturday?” McAllister smiled across at her as she joined the others for the news meeting.
“Great, thanks. Yourself?”
“Bored out of my mind.” He sensed her deflation. “Apart from the dance with you, of course.” The attempt at gallantry failed. Sitting hunched in the chair, she seemed somehow diminished. He tried putting it down to Monday morning, but the echo of that cry, the flicker of stills from the night street scene had flooded his long Sunday.
Mrs. Smart, the Gazette secretary, sat poised, ready to take notes; Rob fiddled with his notebook; Don waved a fistful of copy paper to start the meeting, summarizing the next issue’s content: road widening for the main A9 south, ferry changes for the crossing to Skye, prices fetched for this year’s potato harvest, petty theft from a council house building site, golden wedding celebrations, plans to convert the Victorian poorhouse to an old folks’ home, all the usual.
“The fatal accident inquiry on the child’s death—”
“Aye, accident,” Don muttered.
“—will report back after the usual inquiries, but a postmortem has been ordered, just to be certain.” McAllister glared at Don. “Anything else, anyone?” Silence. He asked again. “Is there nothing new for this week or shall we just change the date and run last year’s pages?”
“I doubt anyone would notice the difference,” Rob said cheerfully.
“You’re employed here to make a difference, laddie.”
The editor’s ferocious tone made Rob jump. He quickly explained his search for the “Slippery Pole,” as he had dubbed the missing sailor.
“Why didn’t you ask me?” Don grumbled. “I’d have got you an in wi’ the tinkers.”
“Thanks, I might take you up on that. A foreign tribe down there. I know they know something. But no one gets past those bairns—nor the dogs.”
“If you ask me, it’s a job for the police to find him, not for some boy who fancies himself as a Scottish version of Scoop to chase after.” Don glared at McAllister as he lit a new cigarette from the previous one.
“Joanne, how about a wee piece on the Highland Ball?”
“You were there”—Joanne didn’t even look at McAllister as she spoke—“you do it. I’m only the typist, I’ve not got an in with anyone.”
Everyone stared. This was not the Joanne they knew.
“The committee secretary will send notes as usual.” Don made a peace offering.
“That’s what I’m trying to get away from.” McAllister, still digesting the sharp reply, reminded them of the new policy. “We’ll get who made a speech, who made a toast, who sucked up to whom, a list of the prominent guests. Riveting stuff. Something fresh and lively, a bit of gossip, that’s what we need. It’s right up your street, Joanne.”
“Depends on who the gossip is about,” she muttered.
“Like that, eh?” Don gallantly intervened. “I can just imagine it. You turn up looking smashing, the belle o’ the ball, you get dumped at a table of council wives wrapped up in their superiority and their fox furs wi’ claws still attached; you’ve been given orders to suck up to them whilst your man goes off drinking wi’ the big boys to also suck up to them, then, when you step out onto the dance floor—”
“With me as her Prince Charming,” McAllister contributed.
“—you show them a thing or two. I bet every man there was wishing you were his wife instead of the battle-axe he came with. Grace Kelly of the Highlands, you are.”
“But you weren’t there.”
“Aye, but I know what it’s like.”
“I’m in agreement with Don, for once—belle of the Highland Ball.” They applauded. Joanne turned crimson. The atmosphere went back to normal.
“Why don’t you give it a try.” McAllister spoke through a shroud of cigarette smoke. “Don’t forget revenge is one of the perks of a journalist’s job. Get a dig in, but keep it legal. Don’ll sub it and if it’s too close to the bone I’ll take the blame—as usual.”
Somewhat flustered, decidedly more cheerful, she nodded. “I’ll give it a try.”
Peter Kowalski had asked Mr. Silverstein to have the tray of wedding rings ready. He enjoyed talking to the old man from one of the few Jewish families in the Highlands.
“Don’t worry. Only the best quality, like we agreed.”
“The matching ring for me?”
“My workmen will think you’re a big girl, having a ring made.” He laughed, knowing this would make one more story around the town about the weird ways of foreigners. The jeweler’s shop was in the Victorian covered market where many small family businesses congregated in long arcades. A large covered produce section had fruit and vegetable stalls, fishmongers and butchers, and at the northern side was the furniture auction room.
Chiara was meeting Peter at the jeweler’s. Pleased, relieved, at last she had her explanation for all the whispering and secrecy between her fiancé and her fat
her.
The bell on the door pinged, and in bounced a flushed and happy Chiara, her aunt Lita trotting behind. They exchanged greetings in a mixture of languages before settling down to the serious business of choosing the rings.
“Choose for me too,” Peter said. “Mr. Silverstein will make them up for us.”
Chiara took a long time, trying on this style and that, most of which looked identical to Peter, then after a debate in Italian with her aunt, who was more impressed by weight than design, she said, “This one. Matching rings, please.”
“A good choice.” Peter squeezed Chiara’s hand.
A handshake for Peter, a kiss on the hand for Chiara, a bow to her aunt, a promise to find suitable gifts for the bridesmaids, and Mr. Silverstein saw them to the door.
Chiara and Aunt Lita lingered in front of the gleaming window display, discussing gifts for the bridesmaids. Peter peered over their shoulders. Then his world fell apart.
In the soft full lights, nestled in blood-red velvet, amongst antique rings and brooches, was his mother’s diamond and ruby crucifix. That it was his mother’s he had no doubt. His grandmother had worn it before her, and her mother before that. It was a family tradition that the cross was passed down to the first daughter of each generation. His mother had never been without it. In spite of its value, she had worn it every day concealed under her clothing.
Peter felt faint. “A moment, my love.” He went back inside and hurriedly asked Mr. Silverstein to put the cross aside for him.
“You all right, my boy?”
“Maybe a touch of fever or something.”
The old man accepted the lie.
Peter walked the short distance from the jeweler’s to the Station Hotel in a complete daze. Chiara, holding his arm, chattered away like an excited sparrow. Business acquaintances and friends smiled as the couple made their way through to the dining room.
“Almost a ritual, this, eh? We seem to see you every week.”
“It is,” Peter replied. His engineering company relied on contacts and, more important, council contracts. The man speaking to him, Mr. Grieg from the town council, was just such a person to cultivate. Peter had to swallow his dislike of Grieg’s self-important, hail-fellow-well-met handshake.