North Sea Requiem

by A. D. Scott

  “Thank you. I will work on seeing it that way.”

  “And don’t let that McAllister escape or I might be tempted to snatch him up for myself.” Mae said this not because it was true—she was not ready for another man in her life—but because she saw Joanne’s hesitation, and McAllister’s need, and felt her new friend needed a push.

  “I really like him, he fascinating, he’s . . . I’m not sure I’m ready.”

  “He may not be the love of your life, Joanne Ross, but you need someone to care for you and your children, and good men are hard to find.” Mae Bell was nothing if not practical. “And love can grow.”

  “You really believe that?”

  “I do.”

  When they parted—Joanne back to work, Mae Bell back to planning her next move, Mae took her time walking along the river, watching the rush of water, watching the angler in high rubber leggings cast his rod, remembering her last visit to Findhorn, remembering another time, another walk, a sea, not a river.

  Watching the North Sea, where lay the bones of Robert Bell, horizon fused with sea, forming one vast, heaving expanse of grey, one limitless sense of melancholy, Mae Bell had turned away, pulling her coat tighter. Tasting the salt from the wind and the tears. Walked back along the shoreline. Sand in her shoes, she thought of calling into the local hotel for a drink and the warmth. Instead she walked on past the caravan park, on to where the river met the sea. Once more she looked out at the heaving pewter and gunmetal, shades of shining grey, now flecked with white, and said, “I’ll be back, honey.”

  Without a quiver of self-consciousness she waved to the sea, to her husband. She waved not farewell but au revoir. “Bye, Bobby, talk soon.”

  • • •

  Two days later and another deadline over, Joanne went back to McAllister’s for supper. We’re like an old married couple, she thought, as she served the shepherd’s pie she had made that morning at home and carried carefully in the basket of her bicycle.

  They were doing the dishes, she washing and he drying, when the doorbell rang. Someone opened it and came in.

  “Are you decent, you two?” Don McLeod’s voice echoed down the hallway.

  Joanne was giggling at his ridiculous insinuation when the look on his face stopped the smiles.

  “Someone held up the delivery van taking the papers down the Great Glen. They were wearing balaclavas, so the driver can’t identify them. He’s fine, but the papers were dumped in Loch Ness.”

  Don sat down at the kitchen table. “Any chance of a brew, lass?” Since he had cut back on drinking, he was an eight-or-ten-or-more cups a day man.

  McAllister sat down with him, and they both lit up.

  “There’s more.” Don said through a haze of Capstan Full Strength. “The Glen Achilty Clubhouse was burnt to the ground early this morning. No one phoned it in. It seems they want to extract revenge in their own way.”

  “Shinty clubhouse?” Joanne asked.

  “Aye. A shinty vendetta has begun, it seems like,” Don replied.

  McAllister ended the conversation saying, “I’ve heard of blood feuds. But a shinty vendetta is a new one on me.” He was shaking his head wondering what to do. “Do we print more papers? How about distribution?”

  “Nothing can be done until morning,” Don advised.

  But next morning the news was worse. Dozens of bundles of the newspaper were not delivered, or missing, or had been stolen from the doorsteps of local shops and newsagents. Some had been set alight; some were soaked in water, and, in one village, pig manure.

  The father of the chapel was livid. He was standing in McAllister’s office shouting.

  “You have to do something.”

  McAllister said, “The police . . .”

  “Forget the polis, Frank Urquhart’s team is behind this. Aye, the man has a right to be upset, but this is no fair.”

  “Do you know this for sure? The other teams could be responsible. Or are you accusing Coach Urquhart?”

  “No, I’m no’ accusing him directly, but the lads from his team . . . I knew running a shinty column would lead to trouble.”

  He welcomed the new column when it started, McAllister remembered.

  But there was no placating the man. He took the loss of the newspapers as sorely as if he had lost his own precious possessions.

  The police are investigating, a policeman said when McAllister phoned for information.

  Don McLeod had his network of moles, spies, and barroom pals looking.

  Rob McLean and Frankie Urquhart were asking around the billiard hall, the shinty teams, their old school pals, and their old school enemies.

  “No one knows nothing, that’s a quote,” Don said at the end of a long day when they were all gathered in McAllister’s office, Hector included. But not the father of the chapel; he had gone home, where his wife, who feared he might have a heart attack he was so angry, had the good sense to say nothing. For once. Nor was Mal Forbes there. He’s never here, Joanne thought. She knew he would be equally upset. No matter how much he condescended to her, Mal Forbes was a dedicated newspaperman.

  The loss of the newspapers, the letters, the death of Nurse Urquhart, the leg in the laundry hamper—round and around the conversation went. Getting nowhere.

  “I was wondering . . .” Joanne started, again with that hesitation that annoyed McAllister. Again he told himself, Bite your tongue.

  “The letters are hand delivered to the Gazette reception. But how?”

  “Good point,” McAllister said, but wanting to say, Listen to yourself, your ideas are good. “DI Dunne asked me that, and I can’t think how.”

  “Does Fiona have any suggestions?”

  “No. She was interviewed but said she saw no one suspicious.”

  Joanne accepted that, but decided to have a talk with Fiona, preferably outside the office. I want to know about persons above suspicion.

  It was Rob who remembered—but only because Frankie Urquhart had phoned to remind him. “This Saturday, we have an away game against Glen Achilty.”

  There was no need to say who “we” were, no need to say “shinty.” And no need to say that a game against Glen Achilty was played in Glen Achilty, on a field that no longer had a clubhouse, only a blacked wreck with one and a half walls standing, the roof a twisted torment of corrugated metal.

  “I’ll take extra film.” As ever, it was Hector who said the unsayable.

  “I’ll join you.” Don McLeod was upset that the shinty community was upset.

  “Might as well come too,” McAllister said. They all looked at him—his idea of sport was wrestling with a book in a language he barely knew with the aid of a dictionary. “It’s our town team, so our newspaper is involved; let’s show a united front.”

  “In that case, count me in,” Joanne added.

  • • •

  Frank Urquhart attended the game. Frankie stood at his side. Morag had the first aid kit. The teams’ supporters were out in force and lining along the pitch, the remnants of the Urquhart family in the center.

  Glen Achilty supporters faced them across the field. There seemed to be more female supporters than usual.

  On each side of the narrow glen, the hills stood sharp and clear, smelling of spring green and heather and emptiness. Inhabitants mostly clung to the narrow valley floor. Few wanted to live along the northern loch edge, fearful of the darkness of that body of water, the fault line of legends. And monsters.

  The game was started and was unusually subdued. The game finished with the score nil-all. As the opposition players were leaving the field, they formed a queue to shake Coach Urquhart’s hand. And Frankie’s.

  Joanne looked at Don for an explanation. Then she realized that many of the supporters from both teams were coming up to Don, shaking his hand, or glancing his way as though seeking approval. Not much was said beyond the occasional Aye or Fine day or Bad business this.

  Joanne also noticed glances and nods and nudges coming from the wives, the
mothers, the keepers of the first aid kits, the washers of shirts and shorts, the makers of tea and cakes and shortbread for the fund-raising sales. Some came up saying, “Thank you, Mr. McLeod.” Others just smiling or nodding. Don McLeod was emerging into the world again. His bereavement fresh, he knew the state Frank Urquhart was in.

  Joanne saw and understood and was moved. As was he. She tucked her arm into his. “Tell me, Don McLeod. Nil-nil. Is it always this boring?”

  McAllister laughed a loud hearty guffaw. It felt good to laugh. Joanne joined in. Don shook his head. But was smiling.

  “Aye,” he said, “we sore need a good laugh . . . and maybe a dram.” He had foresworn drinking, so he added, “My feet are frozen.”

  TWELVE

  The court case was simple. William Stanley Ross of Laurel Avenue admitted being resident at that address with Mrs. Elizabeth Mary Buchanan, widow. He further admitted being the father of Mrs. Buchanan’s child, delivery expected in four weeks’ time. No one attended the hearing except Bill Ross.

  There was a great deal of shuffling of papers and documents handed from one court official to the next to the magistrate, and time taken up with frowning and reading and more shuffling, all of which Bill assumed was meant to shame him. But he’d been through worse. He’d survived the battle for Monte Cassino.

  He had to endure a lecture from the magistrate about abandoning one family to make another. It almost made him speak out. But the pain of a too-tight collar stopped him; Betsy Buchanan fed him really well, never leaving him to make his own tea—one of his many complaints about Joanne.

  The divorce application was granted. When Bill told Betsy, she was delighted, but more than anything relieved.

  “We can’t get married until the decree is final,” Bill reminded her. He was surprised at himself; the thought of marrying Betsy pleased him.

  “It will say on the baby’s birth certificate we’re not married.” She knew it unlikely the divorce would come through before a marriage. “Unless . . .”

  Bill Ross was used to his future wife’s scheming.

  “All it takes is the right word in the right ear,” she told him. As she was usually right, and as she was the one who arranged everything in their lives—paid the bills, did the washing, the ironing, the shopping, the cooking, knew when it was a birthday, an anniversary, a wedding, a funeral—all as a good wife should, he thought no more about it.

  Bill Ross waited a week before telling his parents the news, adding that he and Betsy would marry as soon as possible. He said nothing of Australia; one scandal was enough. He had seen the sense of Betsy’s argument and wanted to leave, to “start over.” Leaving this wee place to be somebody—his words to Betsy—appealed to him.

  Next he visited Joanne’s prefab bungalow in Ballifeary Lane, one of many houses built for returning WWII heroes, constructed to last a few years, now feeling so permanent that it was hard for the planners to knock them down.

  She was not there. Not only was she not there, he knew the girls were not with his parents.

  The house looked empty. The curtains were drawn. The garden seemed neglected. Her bicycle was gone. Then he remembered. The girls now had bicycles. He had paid for them—at his father’s insistence. He didn’t see why he should, but as he had never been asked for money by Joanne, he decided, in front of his parents and children, to be magnanimous.

  Then he had an idea. He drove across the bridge and up the hill past the castle and around the terraces, reaching McAllister’s house just as it was turning dark. The lights were on, the curtains open. Annie was sitting on a sofa reading. Not a sight that surprised her father, as he had always thought his elder child preferred books to real life.

  There was no sign of Joanne.

  He caught a movement; a small figure crossed the room also holding a book. It was then he saw McAllister half hidden by the high back of the wing chair on one side of the fireplace, kneeling down, perhaps lighting the fire, where now a flicker of flame flared blue-red, as when newspapers were used for kindling.

  Bill Ross watched as his younger daughter, the one he liked, handed the book to McAllister. He saw the man, Joanne’s fancy man, take his daughter’s hand, squeeze her into his wide armchair beside him, and open the book.

  Still no sign of Joanne.

  I bet she’s in the kitchen cooking. That thought, and the substantial house he’d heard McAllister had paid for in cash, enraged Bill Ross even further.

  • • •

  When she heard the back door slam enough to rattle a windowpane, Betsy went for the whisky, poured him a dram, and put the water on the side in a small jug in the shape of a West Highland terrier.

  She heard Bill out. She didn’t question what he was doing keeking through McAllister’s window. She could make no sense of his rage, only calm him the only other way she knew, her being eight and a bit months pregnant—whisky.

  In the morning she considered Joanne and McAllister and Bill and herself and the baby, who, she was sure, would be good at any sport involving kicking. No clear thought emerged, only a conviction that she had to talk to Joanne.

  She called the Gazette office. Fiona surprised her.

  “Mrs. Buchanan, it’s good to hear from you. We all miss you, especially the clients.” Fiona was certain it was mostly the male clients who missed Betsy, or Busty Betsy, as the men in the print room had christened her. But Betsy was kind in a ruthless, used-to-getting-her-own-way way. Fiona appreciated that.

  “You too—I really miss all of you.” She meant it. “Fiona, can I speak to Joanne?”

  “I’m putting you through to Mrs. Ross now.”

  • • •

  Betsy Buchanan barely made the last few yards of the climb up Castle Wynd.

  “Mind you don’t drop it here and now,” a woman coming down from the library said to a heavily peching Betsy.

  They smiled at each other, as Betsy didn’t have the breath to reply. Once inside the office, Fiona made her sit down in her old chair in her former office and made her a cup of tea.

  “Is Mrs. Ross expecting you?” Fiona asked as she handed the tea to Betsy in her same old cup, the one with painted primroses she had donated to Fiona when she left.

  “It’s you I wanted a word with.”

  Now Fiona was wary. No one ever wanted just “a word.”

  “How’s the new man, Mr. Forbes?” Betsy asked.

  That was enough to set Fiona off.

  “He’s nice enough in his own way. But he’s never here. Has his own home office, he calls it. Leaving me to do all the boring stuff . . .” She talked, saying all the things she had been keeping in, and it came out in a tidal wave, a flotsam and jetsam of complaints, observations, worries, and comments, even on his wife delivering the man’s sandwiches to the office.

  “Why can’t you bring them in with you in the morning?” Fiona had asked.

  “Oh no,” Fiona was repeating Mal Forbes’s words, “ ‘I need fresh bread from the baker on Eastgate,’ he said, ‘not day-old bread for sandwiches.’ ”

  Fiona’s mum worked in the bakery and said Mrs. Forbes was there most mornings at ten to eight, before the bakery shop even opened properly.

  “You’ll no’ catch me running around after a man like that,” Fiona told her mother, and her mother had laughed. Fiona couldn’t be too harsh on Mal Forbes, though; she had seen, almost every time she came to the office, that Mr. Forbes had kissed his wife on the cheek, his eyes bright, her eyes adoring. They’re in love so they are, she told her mum, who laughed, saying Fi-o-naa in that long-drawn-out way she had when dismissing her daughter’s opinions.

  When Fiona had wound down, and when they were on their second cup of tea, Betsy said between the pauses as Fiona darted in and out to answer the phone, “I’m meeting Joanne later—just like old times. She’s not at all bothered about me anymore. Especially since Bill is now her ex-husband.”

  Although Betsy said this, she was never sure if her new relationship with Joanne was genui
ne. She couldn’t see why Joanne didn’t care about her and Bill. As for the stories of Bill hitting Joanne, she chose to ignore that. He would never hit me.

  Fiona nodded. She knew as much as everyone about the Rosses’ divorce and Betsy’s pregnancy, and although it was interesting, she wasn’t really interested. But Betsy knew Fiona would tell her mother and her mother would tell everyone and Betsy would once more be a respectable woman of the town. Almost respectable, Betsy hoped.

  “I admire Joanne for moving in with McAllister before they’re married. Goodness knows I realize what courage that takes.” Betsy was moving her head in that budgerigar-preening-itself-in-a-mirror habit of hers.

  “I don’t know about that.” Fiona stood, trying to invent a reason to be at the front desk, remembering what a gossip Mrs. Buchanan was, and fearing for her own secret, not Joanne’s. “If you’ll excuse me, Mrs. Buchanan . . .” She lifted an accounts book.

  “Of course,” Betsy had accomplished what she came for. Fiona might not gossip, but her mother certainly did. Time was short. Maybe the baby would be late. Three weeks, the hospital said. Four weeks, four weeks, Betsy kept repeating to her unborn baby.

  • • •

  Betsy Buchanan waited three days before continuing with her plan.

  “Joanne, nice to see you.” Betsy was waiting for Joanne in the tearooms on Church Street.

  “You’re looking really well, Betsy.” It was true. Busty Betsy, the Gazette’s very own pinup girl, had that flush, that bloom that expectant mothers or those in love have: a pinkness to the skin, shining eyes, a tiredness—yes, and a smugness. And in spite of past enmities, Joanne was happy that Betsy Buchanan had taken over her ex-husband. Gonna wash that man right out of my hair. Joanne wanted to hum the song in triumph.

  “We can’t wait for the birth; Bill is convinced it’s a boy.”

  Betsy was blethering away. Joanne knew it was from nervousness. She had been unable to give Bill Ross a son, one of the many faults he had flung at her, and Joanne wished, with fingers crossed and touching wood, that Betsy would have a son and they would migrate to Australia. It was through this fog of wishful wishing, inventing a future yet to happen, that she heard Betsy say, “So we thought McAllister might have a word.”