A Kind of Grief

by A. D. Scott

  Elaine saw how her less-than-full-sized fiancée was trying to disappear into the leather of the driver’s seat. She saw how he couldn’t look at her and how white his knuckles were as he held on to the steering wheel. Poor Calum. She refrained from making a sarcastic remark and resisted the urge to reach across and shake the woman. His new job is step one in the escape plan, she told herself, so be nice.

  Approaching the outskirts of the town after a mostly silent journey, Elaine said to Calum, “May as well open the present I got you.”

  He glanced in the driving mirror.

  She held up an envelope, with red ribbon around it and kisses and “S.W.A.L.K.” across the back. “It’s a book of maps of the town and county.”

  “I could have got you that,” Mrs. Mackenzie said.

  “That’s brilliant. Thanks, Elaine.” He was smiling that silly smile she loved. “Open it.”

  Elaine blew him a kiss, opened the book, and found the map of the town. Using her forefinger, she traced the route to the boardinghouse. “Keep on the main road down Kenneth Street. Left at the T junction.” She continued, “Go straight ahead, and after crossing the river take a hard right.”

  Mrs. Mackenzie was silent. From the set of her shoulders, Elaine could see she was in a huff and ignored her. Even Calum wasn’t his usual “Are you all right, Mum? What’s the matter, Mum?” Maybe he does see her tricks, her constant need for attention, Elaine thought.

  “Now, follow the river, then turn left at the War Memorial, and left again. Then it’s the third street on the right.” Before they stopped, she added, “Good location. Only a short walk to your new job.”

  “If he lasts,” his mother muttered.

  They heard. But didn’t comment.

  “I don’t usually take young men,” the landlady told Calum. Examining Elaine—as though she was something the cat brought in, Elaine later joked—the landlady added, “And no female visitors allowed.”

  “Don’t worry, I live in Sutherland. I’m only helping my fiancé move in.”

  “My Calum is a well-brought-up boy. He’d never dream of . . .” For once, Mrs. Mackenzie couldn’t find a suitable word.

  When the landlady showed him the cupboard containing the vacuum cleaner and the ironing board, Calum knew not to ask, in front of Elaine, how you worked an iron. The gas cooker, as ferocious a nightmare as a fire-breathing dragon, he instantly decided was not for him. As for the twin-tub washing machine, Mrs. Addison’s instructions on its use were more complicated than a service manual for a Spitfire.

  “Post your washing home,” his mother told him.

  When he replied, “Thanks, Mum,” he caught the glance between landlady and fiancée and didn’t care.

  Lodging arrangements finalized and three suitcases lugged up three flights of stairs to the attic room, they went back to the car. Calum driving, Elaine navigating, Mrs. Mackenzie criticizing, the trio arrived at the McAllister residence, where they were expected for afternoon tea.

  Joanne had invited Calum Mackenzie for a welcome tea, as she would any newcomer to the Gazette. When Calum asked, she said she would be delighted if Elaine joined them.

  Annie answered the door. “Hello. Hiya, Calum. Come into the sitting room.”

  “It’s Mr. Mackenzie,” Mrs. Mackenzie said.

  Annie pretended not to hear. She looked at Elaine saying, “Calum told us you’re a nurse. My wee sister wants to be a nurse.”

  Joanne had come into the hallway and watched as her daughter seized Elaine’s hand and dragged her towards the dining room cum television room cum girl’s den.

  “Annie . . .” Joanne began.

  “It’s fine,” Elaine replied.

  “I’ll serve tea in a minute, so don’t be long.”

  A few minutes later, Joanne called out, “Elaine, can you give me a hand with the tea?”

  “Your girls are lovely,” Elaine said as she helped butter the scones. “And so bright. All those questions took my mind off . . . family stuff.”

  Joanne put her hand on Elaine’s arm. “Poor you, is it really that bad?”

  “Och, not really. I’m used to it. With Calum down here, well, I’m hoping we can escape her clutches.” Elaine looked around to see if any more help was needed. Spying the Dundee cake, she said, “Shall I cut it?”

  “Please.”

  “Aye, and what Mrs. Mackenzie doesn’t know is that I’ve put in for a transfer to the hospital here.”

  “It’s your life.” Joanne did not want to become involved. Her own experience of families was mixed. Luckily, she adored McAllister’s mother. “Elaine, I heard Miss Ramsay was cremated here in town. Did you know?”

  “Never! I heard nothing about that.” She looked close to tears. “Cremated, you say? That’s terrible. We were waiting for news of the arrangements. Me and Nurse Ogilvie were going to go. And a few of the residents wanted to pay their respects. What will I tell them?”

  “I was shocked too.”

  Elaine thought about it. “I can’t believe that happened without Mrs. Mackenzie knowing—and if she did know, it would’ve been all over the town by midday and the county by evening.”

  “See what you can find out.”

  Elaine spotted two of Alice Ramsay’s watercolors that Joanne had propped up on top of the kitchen dresser.

  “That’s the nursing-home garden. Miss Ramsay was right fond of the trees there, and she loved that old monkey puzzle, always drawing it. On sunny days, she’d sit with the old folk, them blethering away, her sketching and listening . . .” She looked away. “We miss her. The nurses always say good night, but we’ve no got the same charm. No, that’s no right, it was more than charm. Miss Ramsay cared.”

  “It’s such a loss,” was all Joanne could say.

  “This wee one.” Elaine was staring at a watercolor where bright new-wound blood-red geraniums made a splash against whitewashed walls, and a small fountain stood in the center, no water falling and dried leaves in the bowl. “That’s never Scotland,” she said. “England, maybe?”

  Joanne glanced at it. “Somewhere warm, certainly.” She lifted the tea tray. “My husband thinks somewhere in the Middle East, Mediterranean. Talking of McAllister, we’d better rescue him.”

  “And my fiancé.”

  When they came in with the tea tray, Joanne could see McAllister had that glazed-over gaze that descended whenever he attended Town Council meetings.

  Mrs. Mackenzie had the officious look of a welfare officer who knew an unsatisfactory household when she saw one. It was taking her every ounce of self-control not to swipe a finger along a chair back checking for dust—of which there would be plenty, she’d already decided.

  Calum looked lost; between his boss and his mother, he could find no topic of common interest, so he’d given up. At one point, McAllister caught Calum looking at the door, much like a dog longing to be let out for a walk.

  When Calum caught the editor’s frown, his unsaid Don’t you dare, he made some attempts to interrupt his mother. “But Mum” or “Mum, Mr. McAllister was telling me,” or “Isn’t it interesting that.”

  Nothing stopped her.

  Mrs. Mackenzie had been boasting about their garage, their house, her father, her grandfather, her uncles, her charitable works, her prizes from the Women’s Guild for her cakes. “I use four eggs in ma Victoria sponge.”

  She detailed the traffic on the A9 trunk road, the road works, the accidents, the speeding lorries, how sheep were still herded on the main road, often blocking the traffic. “No many vehicles passes by that I don’t know about,” she told them. “As for thon convoys of carts and caravans when the tinkers take to the road, an absolute disgrace. There should be a law against them!”

  She has enough breath to climb Everest without oxygen, he was thinking when Joanne came in.

  “McAllister,” Joanne said, “I didn’t make tea for you, as I thought you’d have it when you come back.” She was enjoying his discomfort. And he knew it.

  �
�Come back?”

  “Aren’t you taking the girls to the Islands for an ice cream?” She turned to Calum. “Why don’t you and Elaine go too? The Islands is a favorite spot for courting couples.”

  Thank you thank you my dear dear wife. McAllister grinned at Joanne. And stopped himself whistling. “Annie. Jean. We’re off out for a walk.”

  “Maybe we can wait until after we’ve had our tea?” Mrs. Mackenzie suggested.

  “Och, no, you and I can have tea now,” Joanne said. “The young ones need time to themselves, don’t you think?” McAllister was already in the hallway putting on his coat and hat. “I remember when McAllister and I were courting, you couldn’t keep us away from the Islands.” Thank goodness Annie didn’t hear that, Joanne was thinking.

  “Calum and Elaine will enjoy a walk there. It’s really bonnie,” she said, seeing McAllister and her daughters and the courting couple walk down the path to freedom—and envying them.

  Her husband, as though sensing her gaze, turned around at the gate and tipped his hat at her. The rush of joy at the sight of her man made Joanne decide that an hour or so with Mrs. Mackenzie was worth that grin of complicity that had radiated across the garden, through the sitting-room window, straight to her heart.

  But soon they had run out of conversation. Or, rather, Joanne had. After a second slice of cake and a third cup of tea, leaning back, tiny in the armchair, her thin wrists and skinny ankles reminding Joanne of the bird skeleton drawings, Calum’s mother simply began repeating herself.

  Whether this was because she had forgotten what she’d said earlier or whether she could not stop the flow of sentences describing the minutiae of a life where little happened, a life only lived through discussing others, Joanne couldn’t say. But what she did recognize was the loneliness leaching out from the woman, as palpable as a haar on the firth, and as clammy. Joanne found herself pitying Mrs. Mackenzie. And counting her own blessings—until one phrase struck her. Then all sympathy vanished.

  When the clock chimed five and still no sign of the wanderers, Mrs. Mackenzie began to be anxious. “I knew I couldn’t trust that Elaine.” Her scorn, as she said her future daughter-in-law’s name, would wither roses off the bush. “She’ll make me miss my train.”

  Joanne said, “I’ll drive you to the station.”

  “And miss my boy?” She continued, “Of course, she thought herself too good for the likes o’ us. After the trial, when thon eejit o’ a sheriff let her off, that was when she realized few o’ us had the time o’ day for her. So what else could she do but kill herself?”

  It had taken a moment for Joanne to grasp the change of subject, to understand who was the subject of the woman’s venom. “Are you saying that animosity from the community drove Alice Ramsay to kill herself?” Joanne kept her voice flat. Low. She was holding on to the arms of her chair to stop herself trembling.

  “Anim—what? You’re like our Calum, full o’ big words.” A hint of censure was there, but her snobbishness won out. She relished the chance to show off to neighbors and customers, whether they wanted to hear or not, that her boy was coming up in the world, promoted to a bigger newspaper, and keeping company with people who owned a big house and drove a smart car.

  “Anyhow, no matter what the Sheriff Court decided, thon Ramsay woman did what they said. That poor woman lost her baby because of her wickedness. Aye, there’s no many mourns her passing. And I did hear someone is claiming her estate. I have an idea who it is. Hopefully someone decent. Not like her.”

  Joanne wanted to know the identity of the claimant. But wouldn’t ask. As Mrs. Mackenzie offered no more information, she guessed the woman didn’t know. Or was making it all up.

  It was a long hour and ten minutes before the front door opened and Jean came running in.

  “We had a brilliant time, Mum. McAllister let us have a double cone with a chocolate flake. And a chocolate frog.”

  “Where’s Mr. Mackenzie?” Mrs. Mackenzie asked.

  “You mean Calum?” It was Annie who answered. She had flung herself onto the sofa, kicking off her shoes without undoing the laces, and was busy licking the last of the melted chocolate off her fingers.

  “Mr. Mackenzie to you. It’s bad manners to call a grown-up by their first name.” Mrs. Mackenzie’s eyes narrowed, her lips disappeared, and her hand was straying outwards as though it had a mind of its own, a mind wanting to slap the girl.

  Annie saw. Or guessed. And said, “Calum told us to call him Calum.” Then added, “He said to tell you they’d meet you at the station.”

  Normally, Joanne would reprimand her daughter for her lack of respect and manners. But the words, the tone, the sheer lack of compassion from Mrs. Mackenzie over the death of Alice Ramsay, had horrified her. She wanted the woman out of her house. Immediately.

  She met her husband in the hall. “I’m taking Mrs. Mackenzie to the train,” she explained.

  “Make sure she catches it,” he murmured.

  On the short drive to the station, and to stop Mrs. Mackenzie’s relentless muttering about children and manners, Joanne said, “I thought Miss Ramsay had no living relatives.”

  “There’s a lot about Miss Ramsay you don’t know. When the truth comes out, I promise you’ll be shocked.” Mrs. Mackenzie was clutching her handbag close, as though guarding the family secrets.

  From her voice, Joanne didn’t need to see her face to know it would show a smug expression saying, I know everything. And you know nothing.”

  Joanne could not bear another minute with the woman. “I’ll drop you off here,” she said, pulling into Station Square.

  “Shameless!” The word exploded, ringing around the car.

  Joanne followed the pointed finger. Elaine and Calum were in a corner, arms around each other, kissing—not long deep passionate kisses, more sweet-friendly kisses. The height difference caused Elaine to bend down towards her fiancé, giving the impression that she was the instigator of their passion.

  Joanne knew kissing in public was disapproved of, but she smiled, glad the young couple had had time to say good-bye in private. “Young love,” she said.

  “But it’s Sunday!” Mrs. Mackenzie spat out the words as though she were a sheriff handing out a sentence for immorality. Or witchcraft, for that surely was what she believed: Elaine had bewitched her innocent boy.

  Mrs. Mackenzie got out of the car, slamming the door without saying good-bye. Or thank you.

  “Manners,” Joanne muttered.

  She watched the woman try to reclaim her son.

  But Elaine deliberately let go of Calum’s hand slowly, smiling, and blowing kisses in a gesture that said she had won. After a final wave good-bye to her fiancé, who was now buying a platform ticket so he could see his mother safely onto the train, she walked to the Mackenzie family car parked nearby.

  Joanne wanted to wind down the window and shout out to the nurse, Well done, Elaine!

  She didn’t. She didn’t wait to offer Calum a lift to the boardinghouse either. On the drive home, up the hill, past the castle, along Crown Drive, Joanne kept bursting into giggles. She couldn’t stop grinning when she told the story and the comment to McAllister: “But it’s Sunday!”

  “Sunday, Monday, any day, if that woman is in town again, warn me, and I shall take a long, long walk.”

  Annie looked at her stepfather and said, “Or we could drive to Nairn.”

  Joanne agreed. “We’ll all go.”

  CHAPTER 12

  Alice is at the window, her hands wrapped around a mug of tea.

  I can’t believe I thought asking Dougie to be a witness was a good idea. We had some good laughs when we were students together, but he’s turned into such a pompous ass. Dougald indeed! And an added “e” at the end of Forsythe. He comes from some mining community in Ayrshire, and was proud of being born in Burns country. Now he’s less Rabbie Burns and more Oscar Wilde, but without the wit of either.

  As for the drawing, it didn’t occur to me until too late
that the procurator fiscal would use it as evidence. “Evidence of what?” I asked the sergeant. He didn’t reply, but my solicitor said, “Evidence of bad character.”

  The policeman had the grace to smile when I burst out laughing. “So collecting skull and skeleton drawings is the mark of a bad person?” I asked. Only later, at the trial, did I understand it was more than that; it implied witchcraft.

  Now I have Dougie back in my life. The man won’t give up until he gets hold of that drawing.

  “McAllister household.”

  “Morning. How’s my pal treating his bride? Lavishing you with sweet words? Showering you with exotic presents?”

  Joanne laughed. “I’m fine, Sandy. And McAllister is the same as ever.”

  “You should have run away with an Onion Johnnie—the French are good at romance.” Sandy Marshall knew his friend well. “Anyhow, what I’m phoning about might give your man a heart attack. So . . .”

  She was thinking no editor of a national newspaper rang to waste time, so why was he blethering away like this?

  “Mr. Dougald Forsythe . . .”

  “No, Sandy. I will never work with the man ever again.”

  Sandy continued, “Don’t blame you for being upset—he’s an infuriating wee nyaff. No, it’s this latest piece Forsythe has written for the Herald. He’s claiming he discovered a Leonardo da Vinci drawing.”

  “What?” Joanne knew immediately which drawing but could hardly speak, she was so flabbergasted.

  “It was the drawing used as evidence in the trial against Miss Alice Ramsay. Forsythe had it authenticated in London. Seems to be the real McCoy, so he intends to sell it at auction down there.”

  “At the sale of Miss Ramsay’s possessions, he outbid McAllister for that drawing.”

  “Aye, I know—though in my hearing, Forsythe had the good sense not to crow about that. He also writes that he would have donated the sketch to the city of Glasgow, but because of the ‘reactionary attitude towards art from the worthies of Glasgow,’ he’s keeping it. As it’s been declared genuine, he’ll make a very tidy profit and stir up the art world. Though I suspect what he really wants is to stick it to all those who don’t listen to him or value his judgment.”