by A. D. Scott
“Oh, him . . .” Aggie smiled. “He was a nice man, really tall. I didn’t really know him, just to smile to . . .”
“Those Americans, they have nice manners,” her sister interrupted, and Aggie went quiet.
Joanne knew that lassies who went out with foreign airmen risked their reputations for “a bit of fun.” “My friend put the same ad in your local newspaper but didn’t get a response; that’s why I’m here,” she explained.
“Really? I never saw it an’ I read the paper cover to cover,” Effie Forbes said.
“So do I,” Joanne said, “I even read all the classifieds . . .”
“Best bit,” Effie was now looking at the ad again. “I’d have seen this if it was in our paper, I’m sure o’ it.” She handed the ad back to Joanne.” You can check in the library; they keep back copies.”
“I was there earlier. The lady recommended your café.”
“Aye, she’s ma sister an’ all.”
Joanne paid for the tea, told them their scones were delicious, which they were, and walked back to the library. It took an hour, but after searching through all the classifieds for a six-month period, there was nothing. Even with the help of Jessie, the sister, there was nothing, no advertisement seeking information on Robert John Bell.
Maybe we have it wrong, Joanne was thinking as she went towards the car, maybe Mae Bell meant another newspaper. She saw McAllister leaning on the bonnet, long legs stretched out to the pavement, hat on the back of his head and in profile; she saw what a good-looking, interesting man he was.
He’s mine, she wanted to say. Then told herself, Don’t. Not yet. Too soon. Wait a bit. Don’t take risks. Don’t get trapped again.
“Hello, lady.” He stood, taking her hand. “Come into my shiny car so I can have my wicked way with you.” He loved the way she would drift off into a dwam, her eyes unfocused, so obviously thinking over whatever it was she was thinking over.
“Let’s go somewhere out of town, somewhere we can talk,” she said, smiling at him.
“Findhorn. I was told there’s a small . . .”
“Pub.”
“Hostelry.”
“Same thing.”
The turnoff for Findhorn was also the turning for RAF Kinloss. They passed the base, but there was not much to see, just flat land, runways, windsocks horizontal in the North Sea wind.
But on the north side, the estuary was spectacular—wide, flat calm, and protected by sand dunes at the river mouth; every cloud, every tree shimmered in mirror image.
She was still oohing and aahing at the scenery when they arrived at the small hotel bar. After a beer for him and a shandy for her, they went for a walk. In early-afternoon sun they headed along the foreshore towards the rolling dunes that protected the land from the often fierce winds that cut through clothing, forming dancing white foam horses on the choppy water. The sandbar across the river mouth set up a string of breaking waves, making the passage from river to sea an exacting and sometimes dangerous undertaking for the small inshore fishing boats.
“So, what did you discover?” she asked.
“Later.” He took her hand. “We’ll talk in the car on the journey home. For now, let’s enjoy this.” He gestured around to the sea, the estuary, the woodlands reaching the edges of the dunes, and the afternoon sun.
• • •
“What was the editor like?” Joanne asked as they drove home following the curve of the river back to the main road.
“He’s nearly bald and he can’t be over fifty . . .” McAllister’s single point of vanity was his thick, black Celtic hair, greying at the temples but plentiful and shiny in an almost Oriental way. “Like all newspaper editors—smokes too much, likes a dram, calm under pressure.”
“How do you know that?”
“I’m guessing he’s like me and every other editor I’ve known.” He signaled right. Northwards. “I liked him. He said he’s missing Mal Forbes, as the newspaper’s revenue is down since Mal moved north to join the Gazette.”
Joanne had wondered how Mal Forbes could be so successful, until she overheard him on the telephone.
“I know everyone knows your bakery,” Mal was saying, “but you have rivals—Morrison’s, for example. So what an advertisement does is show the others how well you’re doing, showing you can afford a weekly space in the newspaper.”
She could see him even now, licking his lips in that strange gesture he had, writing it down, talking all the while. “A quarter page? I could do a discount for three months. That’s right kind o’ you, the bairns really likes the jam donuts. I’ll get ma wife to collect some.”
It took Joanne a moment to realize they were no longer on the subject of Mal Forbes.
“Mr. Murray, the editor, knew nothing of the advertisement. He asked everyone in the office; no one knew anything about it. They all knew about the aircraft going missing in the North Sea. It was a big story. Most remembered Robert Bell’s name. Mr. Murray then telephoned around the most likely hotels and B&Bs. No one has seen or heard of Mae Bell. My feeling is that if she had been in town, someone would have noticed her.”
“Is there another local newspaper?”
“No. The Northern Scot covers the whole area.”
They were silent for a mile, thinking over the implications of the information.
“I spoke to sisters who run a tea shop in town,” Joanne told him. “The towns in Morayshire are dependent on the bases, and would be much the poorer without RAF Kinloss. I got the feeling the airmen are also a source of potential husbands. The plane going missing was a major catastrophe, everyone would remember it.”
“According to the editor, there were not many Americans stationed at RAF Kinloss.”
“So, what does this all tell us?” Joanne was speaking more to herself than him. She was upset. Mae Bell was her heroine, a role model of a self-sufficient woman, and she was fun.
“We’ll ask her when we get home.”
They passed through Nairn. Joanne saw a white milestone marking seventeen miles to town and home.
As they were approaching the town McAllister made a left turn towards his house. The girls are with Chiara and Mae is at McAllister’s. She suddenly didn’t feel like talking to Mae Bell just yet, so she asked, “Could you drop me off at Chiara and Peter’s house?”
If he was disappointed, he didn’t show it.
She leaned over and gave him a peck on the cheek. “I’ll see you in the morning. We can talk then.”
Half an hour later, there was a ring on the Kowalskis’ doorbell.
“Aunty Chiara, can I get it?” Annie, ever the curious, loved answering the door.
“Your uncle Peter would be delighted.”
Peter had baby Andrew in the crook of his arm, a glass of wine in the other hand, and was leaning over a picture book Jean had on the table explaining to her what glaciers were.
“McAllister is here,” Annie announced as she came back into the kitchen, the editor in tow.
“Mr. McAllister to you,” Joanne told her and stood. “What are you doing here? I thought . . .”
“Mae Bell has gone. Left town. There was a letter for me, and one for you.” He handed it to her. Then, without being invited, he took a chair—not that anyone was standing on manners. Peter and Chiara could see how shocked McAllister was looking, how fearful Joanne seemed as she stared at the letter in front of her. Plain envelope. Familiar ink. Familiar block capital letters. JOANNE ROSS—no “Mrs.”
Without asking, Chiara poured a glass of wine and put it in front of McAllister. She then reached over to her husband and took baby Andrew. “Who wants to help me give Andrew his bath?”
“Me. Me,” both girls shouted, startling the baby, who gave a cry then quieted as his mother put him over her shoulder, patting his back and whispering in his ear. The girls followed mother and baby, making funny faces at the wee boy as he watched them follow behind, up the stairs to the nursery.
“Peter knows all about it.” Joanne
still didn’t touch the envelope.
Peter got up, took the bottle of burgundy, and even though she’d refused earlier, poured Joanne a glass.
“McAllister . . .” Joanne started.
He produced his envelope, took out the note, laid it on the table. This time no capital letters, only a scrawl, elegant as Mae herself, as enigmatic.
I love Paris in the springtime.
Joanne opened hers. The note was equally brief, equally mystifying.
Paris is perfect for a honeymoon.
She pushed the letter over to McAllister. He looked at it. He smiled. Joanne was furious. “What are you smiling at? That woman deceived us—the newspaper, friendship . . . Maybe she even . . .” She stopped herself. That was unthinkable.
“I think Mae might be saying we should come and find her in Paris.”
“Then why doesn’t she say so? And why these envelopes, this paper?” She was furious at his calm.
“Every stationery place in town sells this brand.”
“Aye. But the printing on the envelope is the same as on the others. I can’t believe . . .”
“You two should go home. Talk.” Peter’s words were gentle. Wise. “The girls are happy here.”
McAllister nodded, picked up the notes, took Joanne’s arm, and waited in the hallway as she put on her coat and hat. She was in the car when she remembered she hadn’t said good night to the girls. Then she remembered the sound of their laughter coming down the staircase. I’ll telephone from McAllister’s, she thought.
When they arrived there, the house felt emptier than usual, the sitting room colder. McAllister put a match to the fire he had laid before leaving—a habit from his childhood when it was his job to set the fire before going to school.
“A glass of wine?”
“A cup of tea. I’m not used to your sophisticated habits.” She said this without bitterness, only as a matter of fact.
When he came back with the tray, she noticed the teapot in a cozy she’d knitted and left for him, and was pleased.
“I can’t think straight.” She was exhausted.
He poured tea for her, a whisky for himself. “Tomorrow is soon enough.”
As he raised his glass, she suddenly said, “Can you take me home?” She didn’t give him an explanation because she didn’t have one. All she knew was that everything was going too fast.
I’m not even properly divorced, and now it’s as though we’re man and wife. I haven’t even thought about my father—not properly.
He said nothing. Just put down his glass. She was grateful he didn’t drink it.
When they arrived outside her prefab, he leaned towards her, brushed her hair behind her ear, then touched her arm. “I’ll see you in the morning. And Joanne . . .”
She looked at him, waiting for disapproval, displeasure, perhaps resentment at her capriciousness.
“I had a great day. We should do that more often. But next time, let’s leave all discussions about work behind.”
She almost changed her mind. But didn’t, grateful he didn’t try to kiss her, and grateful he didn’t try to change her mind. If he’s disappointed, he’s not showing it, she thought, not knowing how much it hurt him, not knowing it took all his patience not to shout, For heaven’s sakes, make up your mind!
In her solitary bed, if she dreamed, she was not aware of it. If Mae Bell was to disenchant her, it would not be tonight. If her father was to haunt her, it did not happen. Yet. Her fear, her nightmares were of burning, dissolving flesh.
What did stay with her, in that stage between waking and finally sleeping, was McAllister. A rare man—a good man, so why do I push him away? She was asleep before she could answer her own question.
EIGHTEEN
The same morning McAllister and Joanne were in Elgin, Mae met Frankie in Arnotts’ tearooms. It was early, not yet ten o’clock, and the usual array of women and parcels had not arrived for the tea and scones or buttered gingerbread the only department store in the Highlands was famous for.
Frankie had five minutes at most. Even that was risking another row with his manager.
She said what she came to say.
“How soon?” was his immediate question when she said she was going back to Paris.
“Oh, another week or so,” she answered, “I have to get back to work. It’s expensive here and I have to earn my living.”
Frankie did not notice the shadows under her eyes. Only a woman would see the pallor of her skin under the makeup that was now a shade too dark, stopping in a faint but discernible line around the jaw. He did not see the constant cigarette smoke, the way she played with her spoon, unable to drink the coffee, made from a glutinous mixture out of a bottle, more spiced treacle than coffee.
He tried not to beg—Marry me; I’ll look after you. He did not understand, so besotted he was with Mae Bell, so lost in his fantasies, that he ignored her age, her profession, and the impossibility of her becoming a housewife of the Highlands. He was also unaware that he had yet to properly mourn his mother’s death.
“I can save up, come to Paris to visit you, maybe work in a bar . . .”
“That would be wonderful, Frankie. But right now, your father and sister need you.” She thought him sweet in a kid-brother way, but Mae was used to men fantasizing over her and never took them seriously. Even after six years, Robert was her man.
A waitress who looked as though she should be in a school, not working, paused at their table and muttered at Frankie, “Your manager’s looking for you. You’d better not let him catch you with a customer.” She sniffed at Mae Bell and, holding a laden tray as steadily as she could, she hurried off in case her manager caught her talking to her secret crush—Frankie Urquhart—something she had been warned about before Mae came on the scene.
Frankie stood, and could feel all the eyes on them, so he didn’t touch her; he didn’t shake her hand, put a hand on her arm, touch her hair, anything, and he regretted it ever after.
“I’ll see you soon.”
“Bye, Frankie.”
He left.
She stayed. For a moment, staring at the white tablecloth, not moving, ignoring the glare from the waitress, who started to clear the table, she felt immensely sad and knew that what she was about to do was difficult, illegal, and she was terrified she would fail. Only one chance, so it had better succeed.
“I’ll get you the bill,” the waitress said.
Mae stood, leaving far too much money on the table.
She walked to the station, once more hating the cobbles on the street, which caught her high heels if she was not careful. She bought a train ticket, making a fuss about the price of a day trip to Elgin. Next she left the station and went to the ladies’ room in the hotel.
Ten minutes later the doorman was put out when he saw a decidedly unsuitable person leaving by the main doors. He thought, from her coat and sand shoes, that she must be a cleaner. He did not tip his hat to her. As his wife had left him years since for a neighbor, he had no one to share with; the oddity of such a person being in a smart hotel and then climbing into a taxi was puzzling. How can the likes o’ her afford a taxi, he was thinking, and he did not go to open the taxi door.
• • •
Saturday mornings at the Gazette were a time for filing reports and expenses and catching up on the boring tasks, with the phone mercifully quiet.
Don didn’t always appear on a Saturday, so this morning McAllister drove to Don’s to pick him up from the tiny terraced house where he lived and which he hated, it being in sight of the scene of his late wife’s murder.
When Rob wandered in to the reporters’ room, trying to remember where he had put his petrol receipts so he could write up his expenses claim, the editor was there with Joanne and Don and Hec. When McAllister announced he wanted to talk about the anonymous letters again, Hector surprised them by insisting Fiona join in the discussion.
No one expected Hector to be part of the discussion, far less Fiona but, as he poin
ted out, she had been the one to receive the letters, the first one to talk to Mae Bell, albeit on the telephone.
“The lad’s right,” Don said.
Silently thrilled to be asked to join in the discussion, Fiona came upstairs to the reporters’ room.
“Is Mr. Forbes in?” McAllister asked her.
“He said he’s away to Beauly.” Fiona doubted it was true; there was always somewhere Mal Forbes was “away to” on Saturday mornings.
“The anonymous letters. Mae Bell,” McAllister began.
“Nurse Urquhart,” Joanne added.
The leg. Hector hoped no one would mention the leg.
McAllister laid the notes he and Joanne received on the table.
Fiona noticed immediately. “That’s the same paper and envelopes as the others. The printing on the envelopes is the same an’ all.” She blushed as soon as she said it, not sure she should have spoken up.
“Thanks, Fiona, you’ve confirmed what Joanne and I thought.”
She blushed again. Hector nudged her with his elbow.
“Does that mean . . .” Fiona couldn’t finish.
“So you’ve no’ mentioned these to the polis.” Don stated the obvious.
Like Fiona, Rob saw the similarity. “Mae Bell has written these”—he was tapping the notes with a forefinger—“but I’m certain she didn’t write the anonymous letters.” He stopped. Looked around at the silent faces. “Did she?”
Joanne and McAllister had had time to digest the idea. Neither of them could quite bring themselves to believe it. Not the writing of the letters, there could be an explanation for that, but the next step, that the letter writer threw the acid, that they could not countenance.
It took Don to sum it up. “The envelopes and notepaper are the same brand as the anonymous letters. Maybe Mae Bell wrote the letters. But why would she?”
“Why was she here in the Highlands for so long?” Joanne was puzzled as to why Mae should stay when the advertisements were bringing no results. “But the main mystery is Mae saying she’d placed an advertisement in the local Elgin newspaper. There was no advertisement. No sign of Mae Bell. Nothing.”