A Kind of Grief
Page 32
Don couldn’t let it go. “Who was spying on McAllister and Joanne?”
“I didn’t ask,” Westland said. As they wouldn’t tell me, he didn’t say.
“I’ve had enough of it all,” Joanne declared. “The subject is now closed.”
“Aye, lass, but what about—”
“Don McLeod, when I say the subject is closed . . .”
“It’s closed.” He sighed and looked towards the bottle of Jameson. “Is it too early for a wee drop of the Irish?”
“Never,” McAllister said, and fetched the glasses.
“This stuff any good?” She took a mouthful from McAllister’s glass, swallowed, coughed, coughed some more, and said, “Jings, this’ll put hair on yer chest.”
EPILOGUE
It should have been her. Still, if I can’t have him, neither can she.
Who does she think she is? All that carry-on at the funeral. Me, I’m his wife, it says so on the gravestone I had done for him.
I told her she was no welcome in the church or the graveside, but Calum insisted she come. Got quite shirty when I said she was nothing but a whore.
At the graveside she wasn’t crying, but she was shaking worse than a sparrow in a storm. Calum was holding her arm. I soon put a stop to that.
Mind you, I narrowly missed falling into the grave wi’ ma pretend fainting fit. I was moaning an’ crying an’ that, and Elaine comes over an’ slaps me. Much harder than necessary, I might add. Then she’s telling Calum that’s what you do for hysteria, and he does nothing. Just like his dad, that son o’ mine. I’ll deal wi’ Nurse Elaine soon enough. Can’t have history repeating itself.
Then, after the graveside bit, Calum tells me the funeral tea is to be at the hotel. I refused to go, saying everyone was coming to ours, as I was his wife and I had everything prepared.
But they all went back to her place like it was her that was the widow, no me.
Even Calum went. But he did say he was coming back to his old job. And he’s promised he’ll always look after me. He’s a good boy, is my son.
Four weeks later and three weeks short of Christmas, Joanne was staring into Simpson’s shoe-shop when the woman next to her said, “I’d love those fur-lined boots, but they’re much too dear on a nurse’s salary.”
“Elaine!”
“Hiya, Joanne.” They grinned at each other.
“Do you have time for coffee?”
Elaine turned to look at the clock on the Church Street spire. “I’m meeting a friend at the Ness Café in half an hour, so let’s go there.”
Elaine told Joanne about the funeral. “It seemed like the whole county was there.” Then she told Joanne about the will. “He left her the house. But Muriel, Mrs. Galloway, gets the business—the garage, the shop, the lot.”
“Good.”
“Aye. Everyone’s relieved they’ll no have her poking into their affairs when all they want is a gallon of petrol.”
Joanne could sense there was more. “How’s Calum?”
“He’s back at the local paper. I broke off our engagement.”
Joanne wasn’t surprised.
“I feel really bad about it, but . . .” Elaine looked out the window. Remembering the last talk with Calum still upset her. It had been worse than painful for him; he’d been completely shocked. All she had felt was relief that a decision was finally made. He was convinced she would come back to him. Give it time, he’d told her. When you come back, when everything’s settled down . . .
“Calum said he has to live with his mum because she’s got no one and no money coming in. He said when we’re married, we could share her house, because there was plenty of room for us and her. I said, ‘No, I’m never going to live with your mother.’ ”
She’d said worse than that. She could still feel the words that had escaped, the sentences there was no turning back from.
“It was awful, Joanne. I told Calum his mother’s gossiping and lies as good as killed Miss Ramsay.” She would never confess that she’d added, And killed your dad. “He said she’s had to put up with years and years of people laughing at her, gossiping how her husband was living with another woman.”
“I know how that feels.” Joanne didn’t mean to say it, but it popped out.
“Aye, a divorce is still a huge disgrace,” Elaine agreed. “What Calum finally said, and what makes me feel guilty every time I think about it, was ‘Elaine, I know what she’s like, but she’s my mother.’ ” She sighed. “Calum’s a saint. He is a good, kind man, and his mum’s hysterics pass him by, like words lost in a wind. I feel dreadful about breaking off the engagement. But I can’t. I just can’t.” She felt the heat in her cheeks and changed the subject. “I’ve signed up to be here for a year, so I moved into Calum’s lodgings. It’ll do fine until me and some nurse friends find a house to share.”
“I’m glad for you, Elaine.” Joanne was about to say, Don’t carry the corrosive burden of guilt, it is too destructive. But a belief in Elaine’s good sense stopped her. She wanted to tell Elaine that Alice was well, except she knew that after the last time, she would never betray Alice Ramsay.
A car drew up and beeped the horn.
Elaine jumped up. “Sorry, my friend is here. I have to run.” She opened a purse to leave money for the coffee.
Joanne refused. “My treat.”
Elaine hugged her and ran to the car. Frankie Urquhart got out and opened the passenger door for her.
Joanne smiled. “Good luck, Elaine, you deserve it.”
Sutherland Courier, 15 December: “Rowan House, part of the estate of the late Miss Alice Ramsay, has been gifted to the Scottish Society of Watercolorists for use as a residential retreat. Those wishing to apply for a residency can do so at the following address. . . .”
31 December 1959. I can’t quite believe it—Hogmanay and the end of a decade, the beginning of . . . of what?
McAllister is in the sitting room with Don McLeod waiting for the bells to ring in 1960. The girls are in bed, but we promised we’d wake them to see in the New Year with us. McAllister has made his special mulled wine. Annie will want some, but it is really alcoholic—as I found out last Hogmanay.
Here I am, in the kitchen as usual, trying to compose a list of my New Year’s resolutions, only I don’t know what to write. All I can think of is the last months, the last year. Best summed up by: “I married him.”
Alice Ramsay is no longer haunting me, especially not here in my spicy warm kitchen. My obsession has evaporated. Yet I will always remember her. Always remember how I learned what I already knew.
It will be my New Year’s resolution: Do as you would be done by.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
A huge thank you to Anna Moi and Laurent Schwab for lending me their delightful home in Correze in South West France as a writing place. Anna, I miss our conversations.
To Susan and Paul, strangers who became friends and who made me so welcome in their adopted home village in South West France.
To Randy of Randy’s Books, Hoi An, Vietnam—thank you for the excellent feedback on this manuscript and unending willingness to talk books.
Elka Ray—once again an astute reader, and wonderful friend.
MangoMango Duc and Ly—the food, the coffee, the love—couldn’t do this without you guys.
Sarah Durand McGuigan—I miss you.
Sarah Cantin—my oh my, what a fresh outlook on life you have—and a deeply caring and intelligent editor you are.
Judith Curr—thank you for the faith, the support, and the wonderful Atria team you have gathered around you. Truly appreciated.
And lastly to the people of Dornoch and Golspie: I have played fast and loose with geography and was, and am, overwhelmed by the kindness and warmth of the people in Sutherland. If there is any resemblance to anyone (alive or dead), in this novel, or if I have offended anyone, please remember this is fiction. I made it all up. Except for the witch.
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© ETIENNE BOSSOT
A. D. Scott was born in the Highlands of Scotland and educated at Inverness Royal Academy and the Royal Scottish Academy of Music and Drama. She has worked in theater, in magazines, and as a knitwear designer, and currently lives in Vietnam and north of Sydney, Australia.
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This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
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ISBN 978-1-4767-5618-9
ISBN 978-1-4767-5619-6 (ebook)