by A. D. Scott
He saw Mary emerge from one of the homes. As she was locking the large door behind her, he could see no sign of the numerous bells that would indicate multiple occupancy. She looked across, saw him, waved, and came towards him in her usual setting-out-on-an-adventure stride.
“I’m desperate for breakfast,” she said. “There’s a great hole-in-the-wall café near the taxi stand at the back of Queen Street station.
“I’ve just come from that direction.”
“Aye? I heard you’re a Dennistoun boy.”
He grinned. Before he had time to ask her whom she’d heard that from she was jumping off the pavement into the street shouting, “Taxi.”
He marveled as a taxi appeared from nowhere, thinking she was the kind of woman for whom taxis mysteriously materialized when no one else could find one.
The café was indeed a hole-in-the-wall, and showing signs it had been busy early in the morning and was now in the lull between trains. They ordered mugs of tea, bacon rolls—two for Mary—and ate in silence. When Mary ordered a second tea, they both lit up, Mary again filching one of McAllister’s Passing Clouds.
“You like those, do you?” he asked, indicating the pale pink packet. “An acquired taste, I’m told.”
“I’m trying not to smoke, but I take whatever is on offer.”
He laughed. It felt good to laugh. There had not been enough laughs recently.
“So,” she said, blowing smoke towards what he thought were dark patches on the ceiling, only to realize they were congregations of flies, lazing in the heat of the fumes from the chip fryer.
“So,” he started, “after mass . . .” He saw the arched eyebrows, the ones that looked as though they had been brushed on but weren’t, rise. “To please my mother,” he explained. “I lost all religion in Spain—somewhere between Madrid and Barcelona.” He flicked the ash off his cigarette into the tin lid that served as an ashtray. “Gerry Dochery paid me a visit. My mother . . .”
“What?”
He smiled at her reaction. He described for her in ample detail the embarrassment—for both him and Gerry—of his mother’s insisting Gerry come in for tea, of his mother’s reminding Gerry of the family connection, of his mother’s more than hinting that Gerry should visit his father. He finished by relaying Gerry’s warning, word for word, as it was imprinted on his brain; Gerry Dochery knew of Jimmy McPhee, of that he had no doubt, and Gerry Dochery, or whoever he was working for, wished Jimmy harm.
“So you think it’s Gerry Dochery out to get your friend Jimmy McPhee. Why?”
McAllister had no answer. “Search me.”
Mary was leaning back in the chair—a posture McAllister was prone to using—staring at the fly-clouded ceiling. “Gerry Dochery doesn’t do the dirty work, he has men for that, but I’ve heard he takes contracts. So maybe this is business, not personal.” She stubbed out a half-smoked cigarette and contorted her mouth as though disgusted with the taste. “Tell me about this McPhee fellow.”
He wasn’t sure where to begin. Travelers and middle-class, middle-aged men like himself seldom had close friendships with the likes of Jimmy McPhee. Professional relationships—yes. But his relationship with Jimmy? Good reporters had to have good sources. Mary obviously had. Was that what Jimmy McPhee was? He couldn’t answer his own questions. So he started by lighting another cigarette and telling her about Jenny McPhee, Jimmy’s mother, Traveler, singer, matriarch, a woman said to have the second sight, a woman feared, respected, and a woman never to be underestimated. He told her of the Travelers’ encampment, his respect for Jenny McPhee, his helping her in the past, and vice versa. “And Jimmy, her second son, is her right-hand man.”
Mary was listening intently, and from her face he could see she understood his fascination with Jenny McPhee. “Would all this”—she waved her hand in a circle encompassing not just the table, the café, but the whole of Glasgow—“would it be to do with the Highland tinkers? A clan dispute? A blood feud?”
“No. If that was it, Jenny would have sorted it out herself. I’ve been thinking, why ask me? And I feel it has to do with this city. Jimmy lived here once, occasionally on the wrong side of the law, but nothing serious. He was a boxer in his youth, going places, so I hear . . .”
“Jimmy McPhee! I knew I knew the name. I saw him once when he was one of the young hopefuls of that Gorbals boxing club.”
“How come you went to a boxing match? You couldn’t have been more than a bairn.” The surprise on McAllister’s face was evident.
“My father was a fan. But a Marquis of Queensberry rules boxing fan. He took me to a couple of matches at the Kelvin Hall. That was before the war. And you’re right, I was nine. When my mother found out she was furious.” She was grinning at the memory.
It was only when a gaggle of bus drivers came in together looking for a table that McAllister glanced at the clock. An hour had passed.
“Listen,” he said, “I’m catching the overnight train but have the afternoon free. Fancy a trip to the Art Gallery?”
“You sound like my dad. He thought every Sunday should be spent at a museum or the Art Gallery.” She saw him flinch but didn’t apologize. He was, after all, old enough to be her father.
“My mother is the same. I’m going anyhow. I have the afternoon free and I want to see the Salvador Dalí Christ of St. John of the Cross.”
“It’s a brilliant painting, McAllister, you don’t have to be religious to appreciate it.”
Her private-schoolgirl-prim-and-proper voice made him look at her to see if she was teasing. She wasn’t. The chasm between them in age, in education, in class, was clear. He almost changed his mind about the invitation. She sensed his hesitation.
“Tell you what, McAllister, it’s rare we have such days of sunshine. Let’s wander through Kelvingrove Park. We can decide about the Art Gallery after.”
So they did. They walked. They talked. They laughed. They shared Glasgow childhood stories until the sun was at three o’clock. They took a quick trip into the Art Gallery, admired the painting before being hustled out by the attendants a minute before closing time. They parted, him to have supper with his mother before the train, her to do the same.
“Yes,” she had said earlier, “still in my childhood home, still with my mother. We rub along no problem and it’s rent free—a real bonus on a cadet’s wages.”
“You’re still a cadet?” He was more than surprised.
“Aye, but finished this autumn.” She didn’t elaborate on her late start in journalism, her abandonment of her career in law, and the subsequent fights with her mother. “See you, McAllister,” Mary said in farewell.
“Mind how you go . . .” He stopped himself. No need to warn her of the big bad bogymen of the city; she already knew. And besides, he was not her father.
FOUR
As McAllister turned in to the street of his mother’s flat, he noticed that the hum of the city was lower than usual by a decibel or so; it acknowledged it was the Sabbath. However, he knew that the great cathedral would be awake; Sunday was when it came into its glory, accepting its rightful place as the center of Christian lives. To a heathen like McAllister, the quiet weekdays were preferable. Then the ancient building offered a refuge from the city, a place for contemplation and silence.
The train to the Highlands left in two hours. He knew he should call Joanne. I need to call now. She’s not at her best in the evenings. He knew darkness still scared her half to death; most afternoons she would sleep, but be up and bright for afternoon tea. It’s still light until eleven, even midnight, at this time of year, thank goodness. He knew he should be there, sleeping beside her, holding her when the nightmares left her shaking, sobbing, incoherent, but terrified her daughters would hear her cries, wake up, and be distressed by their mother’s horror of the dark. Yet something was stopping him. And he had no idea what.
“McLean household,” he heard Rob say as he was connected and the coins dropped into the box below with a thunk.
> “McAllister here.”
“You’re in a call box. Where?” Rob was concerned, knowing McAllister should be on a train somewhere on the Grampian plateau.
“I’m taking the sleeper. I’ll be in in the morning. Listen”—he cut across the sound of Rob starting to say something—“will you pop up to see Joanne? I spoke to her but . . . I’m sure she’s fine, it’s just . . .” Rob was not helping. McAllister felt the silence as a reprimand. “I missed the train. It couldn’t be helped. Could you make sure she’s doing all right?”
Rob said, “Why can’t you call her?”
“I will again before the train leaves. It’s just I’d like you to check up on her . . . you know, a friendly face . . .” He was blethering. And he sensed Rob thought so too.
“I’ll drive over now. By the way, you’re sounding very Glaswegian.”
That threw McAllister. He didn’t know what to make of the remark. “I’ll be back in the morning. But start the Monday news meeting without me.”
“Fine. See you in the morn—”
The pips went. His money had run out. Again. This time McAllister didn’t mind.
He and his mother had their usual taciturn farewell, she treating him as though he came by every other day, and would see him next day, next week, next year, time making no difference.
“No news of your friend?” was all she asked about the reason for his visit.
“None.” He was certain Jimmy could look after himself but was glad he had come to Glasgow. The thawing in his relationship with his mother was enough reason to be pleased; any other reasons to be cheerful he didn’t acknowledge.
“Aye, well, no news is good news. I made you some sandwiches.” She handed him an old tartan shortbread tin, her declaration of love. “And there’s a fresh gingerbread an’ all.”
He swallowed and nodded his head. This trip, they came as near to talking as they’d ever had. Perhaps it was his attending mass, perhaps the visit from Gerry Dochery; his mother had been livelier than in years.
“Next time I visit it’ll be to bring you up to the Highlands,” he told her as they stood in the doorway unsure whether to touch.
“We’ll see.”
This was a major concession. He put one arm around her, gave her a quick squeeze, and left before she could see his eyes filling.
At the station, he called his house. Annie answered. “Rob’s here. He told us you’ll be back in the morning. Mum’s fine with that. I’ll tell her you called.” She put the phone down.
Instead of being angry at the girl’s decision not to call her mother, he was relieved. He found conversations with the not-quite-finding-the-words Joanne hard but reminded himself, she’ll be fine soon, and there’s no need to leave her again. Jimmy McPhee can look after himself. He walked across the station concourse. From the loudspeaker came the announcement of his train, and under his breath, as though repeating a prayer, he muttered. “She’ll be fine.”
• • •
The morning air was Highland air, crisp and clear with an undercurrent of what felt like static electricity. McAllister hadn’t slept well; the sleeper beds were not built for a man over six feet tall.
He took a taxi. He would normally walk home, but the thought of the steep brae up to his home was daunting, as his back felt as though he was carrying a hundredweight sack of potatoes, not a small overnight bag. Plus the thought of bumping into people who recognized him—though he often had no idea who they were—and asking him questions about Joanne, the Gazette, and the price of coal, made a taxi the best, but more cowardly, option.
Arriving at his front gate, he saw the house and garden as a stranger might. Or a man returning from a long journey abroad, or a war. He saw the low wall where once there had been iron railings, handsome no doubt, now long gone, collected and melted to supply metal for armaments in that first war in 1914, the war to end all wars. He saw the nondescript shrubs, the funereal cypress, the front porch with the black-and-white checkerboard tiles and the solid dark green front door, painted to match the cypress, the stained glass windows shining, gleaming brass knocker and handle. The door was standing ajar.
He groaned. Visitors, just what I don’t need.
“Hello, I’m back,” he called out. “Home,” he added.
“Hello,” an unknown woman’s voice called out. “We’re in here.”
He turned in to the sitting room, leaving his bag in the hallway. A short woman in a nurse’s uniform was standing by the sofa. Joanne was sitting there, feet up, still in a dressing gown but, judging from the damp ends, her hair freshly washed.
“Nurse Davis helped me wash my hair.” She was beaming at the nurse, not at him.
“Och, well, I have to check on the wound, make sure there’s no swelling, so I might as well wash your hair while we’re at it.” The nurse was busy packing her Gladstone bag as she spoke. “Your fiancée is doing right well, sir.”
He didn’t reply, being too distracted, taking in the sight of his Joanne, who was smiling, pleased at the compliment, and looking like a wee girl who, after a long illness, was accustomed to others telling her what to do.
“Nurse Davis and the doctor say I’ll be right as rain in no time.” She smiled again. He thought she was waiting for his approval also.
“I’m sure Nurse is right.” He was forcing himself to sound cheerful, as he was not at all certain. She’s not herself.
“I’ll let maself out. Cheery-bye for now.” And the nurse was gone.
He sat on the sofa, pushing her legs gently to give himself more room. He took her hand. “I’ve missed you,” he told her. He meant it in so many more ways than he could express.
“I missed you.” She was truly herself as she said this. She took his hand in both of hers. “I’ve been lonely for you and . . .”
“Hello. Is that you, Mr. McAllister?” It was Joanne’s mother-in-law, Mrs. Ross. She came into the room in her hat and coat, but with the coat unbuttoned to expose the flowered overall cum pinny she habitually wore, except to go to church.
She looked over the tableau on the sofa—Joanne had dropped McAllister’s hand the moment she heard her ex-mother-in-law. Mrs. Ross examined them as though searching for signs that all was well, or not, then nodding, said, “I’ll put the kettle on. Bacon and eggs ready in five minutes, Mr. McAllister.”
When she was gone Joanne smiled and whispered, “That’s you told. I’m sure she thinks there’s no real food to be had in the city of sin.”
“Don’t worry, my mother saw to it I had a regular fry-up for breakfast yesterday.” He didn’t mention Gerry Dochery.
“A change from coffee and a cigarette then.”
He laughed. He felt better, felt he had been mistaken. She’s on the mend.
“The other night”—she was leaning back on the arm of the sofa, holding the dressing gown tightly to her—“my father came into my room asking why I hadn’t said my prayers.”
McAllister stiffened. Her father was dead. He had hoped his malign authority over his daughter had ended with six feet of earth shoveled over his coffin.
“I said, ‘Yes, Father, I have.’ ” Her voice was that of a child. “He said I hadn’t said them properly. I got out of bed and kneeled down and started to pray. I must have knocked the cord of the bedside light. It went out. It was pitch black and I panicked and was crying and my father said it was my punishment, said that I would always be in the dark because of my sins.”
She was crying. Silently. Tears washing her face, turning her nose pink. She seemed oblivious to the salty stream. But her hands, which had dropped to her lap, were still clasped in prayer, holding the memory of her father’s wrath.
McAllister leaned towards her, about to hold her when Granny Ross came in.
“What’s this all about?” She was across the room, taking a hankie from her cardigan pocket, a man-size white linen square he recognized as his own. She was wiping Joanne’s eyes as though she were her granddaughter, not an adult. “Blow your nose
. Then go and wash your face. Breakfast is on the table.”
“I’ve had mine,” Joanne said.
“Aye, a wee piece o’ toast. That’ll no’ put meat on your bones. You’ll have a boiled egg and this time you’ll finish it.” Mrs. Ross turned, gave a tight-lipped half smile at McAllister.
It came to him in a flash; Mrs. Ross was enjoying being in charge. Relishing the role of nurse and housekeeper to her former daughter-in-law and grandchildren.
No, he told himself, don’t be so uncharitable. She’s just pleased she can help the woman who was the daughter she never had, the woman whom her son had had the good fortune to marry and the misfortune to lose, he being one of those men who regarded a woman as a possession, enforcing her obedience with his fists.
“We’d better do as we’re told.” The old mischievous Joanne partially reappeared. “Off you go, McAllister. I know how much you hate cold eggs.”
When Joanne joined them in the kitchen, she was dressed, but her dress was hanging off a skeletal frame. Her hair, falling forward to hide the shaven part of her skull where the operation had been performed, was shiny and sweet-smelling but no longer the thick luxurious former “mane”—her word for her hair. Illness had made her head molt, the long hairs strewn across cushions and bedding and clothing.
“I have to go in to the office,” he told them when he finished his breakfast with the customary cigarette, “but I’ll be back at lunchtime. Then I thought we might go shopping.”
“Shopping?” Joanne looked at him in amazement. Then at Mrs. Ross, who shrugged. Neither had ever known McAllister to shop. He ordered his clothes from a tailor in Glasgow, which were delivered once a year in a large parcel, everything being exactly the same as the previous model.
“It’s summer,” he declared as though they hadn’t noticed the sun coming in through the open kitchen door, the violent blue heavens above the distant Ben Wyvis, and a nearer, but distant, outline of the Black Isle filling the kitchen windows. A scent of fresh-cut grass and a rare warm wind came up through the long garden that stretched down to a high stone wall and a drop over a cliff to the town and Eastgate below. It was soothing. Delightful. Even McAllister felt the spell.