The Low Road

by A. D. Scott

  “I’ll get the tea,” Granny Ross replied.

  “Don’t go to any trouble on my behalf.”

  And I thought the McPhee situation was fraught, McAllister was thinking as he took his mother’s suitcase up to the spare bedroom. He was about to remove his own clothes and books from the room but saw it had already been done. He knew Mrs. Ross had been told of his homecoming by Don. Via Sandy, no doubt, he thought, but somehow tidying up of his personal items felt intrusive.

  “Joanne cleared out your books and things,” Mrs. Ross told him when he came downstairs. “Annie is sharing with Joanne, so you are in her room.”

  Again he felt a frisson of disapproval. As his relationship with Joanne was yet unblessed by a legal, or religious, ceremony, they could not possibly be in a shared room. Not with Granny Ross there to safeguard their morals.

  He heard the front door open. Jean arrived first. She ran up to him. Then stopped. Mrs. McAllister was struggling to rise from the armchair.

  “Hello, dear. What’s your name?”

  “Jean.” She was blushing. “My name is Jean Ross. I’m pleased to meet you.” She gave a little bob of a curtsy.

  Joanne came in, brushing past McAllister, her hair and skin smelling of fresh air. She went straight to his mother, took both her hands in hers and said, “Mrs. McAllister. How lovely to meet you at long last. John’s told me so much about you.”

  Annie Ross had sidled up behind him. Though no one else heard her, he did. “John. Doesn’t suit you, McAllister.”

  Joanne turned. “McAllister.” She smiled. Then looked around, aware everyone was being formal. Suddenly, as often happened since her release from hospital, she looked ill at ease, shifting from one foot to the other. “Isn’t this nice?” Her hand strayed to her hair. She pulled down a lock over her forehead, as though this would hide the scar from the wound, and the thin spot where her head had been shaved.

  McAllister moved beside her and squeezed her hand. She squeezed back. Briefly. Then she went to the sideboard. “I picked some roses from the garden for your room.” She brought over a vase with seven roses of mixed colors and presented them to Mrs. McAllister. “Some people don’t like flowers in a bedroom, so I thought I’d ask you first.”

  She’s thinking of her own mother. McAllister knew this because on the long drive back to the Highlands after her father’s funeral, Joanne had listed the many offenses she had committed as a child.

  “Once, on my mother’s birthday, I put flowers in their room. My father made me throw them out. He said everyone knew flowers in your bedroom stopped you sleeping properly.”

  It had broken his heart then, as it did now, to hear her talk like that. He hated that shame was an emotion she accepted as her due: shame her marriage had failed through no fault of hers; shame that she was weak and ill and suffering after a vicious attack that had left her barely alive; shame that she was the person she was—never quite good enough.

  “They’re lovely, dear,” his mother said. “And what a lovely thought.” She smiled up at her future daughter-in-law. “I’m ever so pleased to be here.”

  And Joanne smiled back. And McAllister was glad.

  Over the next half hour, over tea and a chat, they relaxed. Annie spoke to his mother, told her she loved reading more than anything, and was going to be a writer.

  “Like my son,” Mrs. McAllister said.

  “And my mum,” Annie added.

  “And I’m going to be a nurse,” Jean told her.

  They had supper in the dining room. Granny Ross had cleared away the girls’ toys and drawing materials and set the table. Her glare at her eldest granddaughter stopped Annie from protesting at a peremptory clearing up of the room that had become a de facto study for her and an art studio for her sister. Annie was as fussy as McAllister when it came to her papers and books.

  McAllister was wondering when he could have his first whisky of the day when two incidents further inflamed what he later thought of as the guerrilla battle of the grannies.

  “That was delicious, Mrs. Ross,” he said as he finished the last spoonful of an elaborate trifle, normally served on Sundays.

  “Thank you, Mr. McAllister.” Granny Ross stood. “Annie, Jean, help me with the dishes.”

  “Let me help.” His mother stood also.

  “Not at all, you’re our guest.” Mrs. Ross senior instantly realized her mistake. As did Mrs. McAllister; in the status stakes, this was her son’s house. Granny Ross busied herself stacking plates. “It’s a long journey you’ve had . . .”

  Then Jean, all of nine and a few months old, and with a sweetness that would serve her well should she become a nurse, said, “Granny McAllister, you have a rest. Then maybe later we could read a story together.”

  “A good idea. Mrs. McAllister must be tired.” Granny Ross put full emphasis on the Mrs.

  “I’m fine,” Mrs. McAllister replied. “But thank you, Mrs. Ross. If we can have tea in the sitting room, Joanne and I can talk. We should get to know each other better, me and my soon-to-be daughter-in-law.”

  And I will definitely have that whisky, McAllister didn’t say.

  When Granny Ross had gone home for the night, when his mother and the girls were in bed, and with a whisky in one hand, a cigarette in the other, McAllister looked across at Joanne and said, “It’s good to be home.”

  “Is it?”

  Her reply was said lightly, with no malice, no agenda, but it pained him. It was as though she sensed his restlessness, his almost disloyalty. The excitement of the pursuit of a story was one thing, his questioning of a future life at a small newspaper in a small town another. His fascination with Mary Ballantyne he knew was bordering on improper.

  “I’m glad you’re back, McAllister.” Joanne patted the space on the sofa beside her. “Come and sit here. Tell me about your adventures.”

  So he did. He told her of the ferry crossing to Millport, the fight on the beach, and the front-page headlines. He made it all fun. He had her laughing, marveling, at hearing it all firsthand.

  “So Jimmy is fine?” she asked.

  “Last I heard,” he answered. He had left out the fire in the gym, the man’s death. He did not tell her about the bare-knuckle fight he’d witnessed, the brutality of the scene. There was no mention of the attack in the close outside his mother’s flat and their flight, just the evening before, on the milk train. No need to worry her, he decided.

  “I’d liked to have had a career like this Mary,” she said, “but . . .” She shrugged.

  “Aye, she has a future ahead of her,” he agreed.

  “My future is here.” She looked around as though puzzled as to how she’d arrived at this place.

  “Mine too.”

  He hadn’t meant to convey any doubt, but she intuited his hesitancy and shivered slightly. It was not a conversation she wanted, not now. “Sorry. It’s past my bedtime.” She leaned over and kissed him lightly. “Night-night, sleep tight.”

  “You too.”

  He was hoping she hadn’t sensed the tremor her parting words sent though his conscience. Night-night, sleep tight—Mary’s words, Mary’s benediction.

  As he heard her close the bedroom door, the clock in the hallway chimed. Ten. They’ll be putting the finishing touches to the first edition of the Herald. I wonder if Sandy has anything fresh on this story.

  He wanted to phone him. He wanted to talk to Mary. He needed to be there, on the newsroom floor, hearing the constant tap of typewriter keys, the ping of the return carriage, the shouts of “copy” and the copyboys darting between desks, fetching the articles, dropping them into the sub-editor’s tray, running for tea, for cigarettes, back-chatting with the reporters, laughing as they learned their trade, relishing the fast and furious chase towards another deadline on the best newspaper in the country.

  • • •

  Next morning on the walk to the Gazette office, McAllister was looking forward to talking to someone, anyone, about his adventures—for that
is how they seemed in retrospect. In the city, he and his colleagues would have finished the shift, gone to the pub, where he would retell the story, in language that would have been ripe, in a dialect incomprehensible to outsiders. They would share details and opinions that the libel laws would never allow them to publish. Much laughter and mocking later, he would sleep deeply, ready to chase the excitement of the next breaking story. And in that city there were many.

  “Morning, all,” he said as he walked into the reporters’ room.

  “Just in time.” Don McLeod squinted up at him. “I need you to finish this report on the redevelopment of Bridge Street.” He shoved some typed pages at the editor.

  Rob McLean laughed. “Serves you right for coming back early, McAllister.”

  “I didn’t notice you were away until yesterday,” Hector Bain, the photographer, said.

  McAllister grinned at Hector, who was not known for noticing much, unless it was through a lens. “Glad to hear I’ve been missed,” he replied.

  “So did you find what you were looking for?” Rob asked.

  “Later,” Don told them. “Let’s get some work done, and we can talk later.”

  “You could come over to my house . . .” McAllister thought of the two grannies, the two girls, and Joanne, and wasn’t sure their usual gathering place was such a good idea.

  “We will, but tonight,” Don told him. “How about nine?” He had a shrewd idea what was happening in McAllister’s life.

  “Nine it is,” he replied, knowing most of his household would be off to bed.

  It was mid-afternoon when the call came through. McAllister was alone in his office, staring out the window, unable to concentrate on the editorial, thinking of Mary, Jimmy, their escapade in Millport, wondering if they were safe, wondering if . . . The telephone bell startled him.

  “There’s a lady on the line for you,” came Fiona’s voice, with the emphasis on lady. “Putting you through.”

  It was only a moment before he heard the click on the line as the trunk call was connected. And he was unaware of his mouth stretching into a grin. “Mary, where . . .”

  “Mr. McAllister. This is Jane Ballantyne. Mary’s mother.” The cool tone, the way her words sounded—a micropause between every syllable—conveyed her disapproval. “I have a message from my daughter . . .”

  “Where is she? Is she okay?”

  “Mr. McAllister. Even if I knew exactly where Mary is, I would not tell you—a man who put my daughter’s life in danger . . .”

  One of those women whose every wish is a command, he surmised.

  “As for the company to whom you have introduced her . . .”

  So Jimmy was with Mary. “I’m sorry you feel that way, but it is Mary’s job to associate with—” He was no match for Jane Ballantyne. She cut off his sentence with as much emotion as one of the High Court judges in her family sentencing a man to the scaffold.

  “Mary has asked me to tell you that they are well. She has borrowed my car and has taken Mr. McPhee”—she managed to imbue the name McPhee with all the distaste and venom of a woman mentioning the serial killer Peter Manuel—“to a place of safety. She strongly advised that you return home, but I surmise you have already done so.”

  “So where are—”

  “I have no wish to engage in a conversation. Goodbye, Mr. McAllister.”

  He was left holding the receiver, listening to the dial tone, and feeling like cursing the woman. “Where are you, Mary Ballantyne? And why couldn’t you call me yourself?” But no one answered.

  • • •

  McAllister was not looking forward to the evening.

  After Don McLeod arrived—his mother had stayed up long enough to be introduced before excusing herself, saying it was past her bedtime—and after Rob arrived on his motorbike, making enough noise to alert the neighborhood, and after Annie came downstairs in her pajamas to inspect everyone, say hello, then go back upstairs satisfied she knew what was happening, they settled down to talk.

  McAllister and Don attacked the whisky decanter. Rob had wine, Joanne a cup of tea. And the conversation began.

  “There will be a major story in tomorrow’s Herald. No names mentioned—this time—but I was there on the Isle of Cumbrae and have written an article about the fracas.”

  Joanne had been listening to the first part of McAllister’s tale, then decided it was not a conversation she wanted to hear more of. “My bedtime,” she said, and came across, laid a hand on McAllister’s sleeve, smiling at Rob and Don and saying, “It’s lovely to have the old crew together again.”

  “Aye, it is,” Don replied.

  Rob stood. Hugged her. “Sleep tight,” he said.

  She smiled. “With these pills the doctor gave me, I’m out like a light.”

  It was a reminder to them all of her condition. And Rob’s. When he and McAllister had gone to Joanne’s rescue, he had inadvertently killed a woman. That memory was not gone, though it was well buried.

  Hearing the sound of the bedroom door shutting, McAllister relaxed. He refilled Don’s glass and his own. Rob helped himself to more wine. The alcohol worked its magic.

  “There might also be a small piece on an attack on me outside my mother’s flat,” McAllister added.

  “Jings,” Rob said, “you’ve been busy.”

  “You’d better fill us in,” Don told him.

  McAllister gave a quick description of the crime scene in Glasgow, the turf wars over protection rackets, loan-sharking, illegal bookmaking, and illegal boxing matches.

  “I thought thon fights had died out long since,” Don said. “Except in Ireland.”

  Giving Don and Rob the details about the boxing club fire and about the retired boxer who hid Jimmy McPhee and paid with his life, he then told them of the ex-boxer Jock McBride on the island.

  “I remember reading about him,” Don commented. “He was good.”

  “Jimmy’s old friends are doing their best to help Jimmy. Whether all this ties in with the bare-knuckle matches or not, we don’t know.”

  Don noted the “we” but said nothing.

  McAllister then described the fight in Millport, and Jimmy’s escape on the fishing coble with Mary Ballantyne.

  Rob was enjoying the tale. “It’s like the plot of Kidnapped!”

  McAllister left out the part about the donkey. It all seemed surreal enough without the donkey, and that was a story he wanted to laugh about with Glasgow friends, friends who knew and understood the city. And Mary.

  To outsiders, it would sound bizarre: a fight with cutthroat razors, in front of at least seventy witnesses and a Salvation Army band, and no one intervening. In the city, in the impoverished, overcrowded, insanitary streets and alleyways and closes, when fights broke out—even fights to the death—if they took place in public in the daylight, everyone would look the other way, and say nothing. Everyone, the police included, accepted this as the code of the streets.

  No wonder the city fathers want to clear the slums and move people out to the new high-rise schemes on the fringes of the city, McAllister had heard more than once from nice respectable middle-class professionals in their nice respectable tree-filled suburbs.

  “As to who is after Jimmy,” McAllister continued, “no one knows—”

  “Except your old pal Gerry Dochery—” Don said.

  “And he’s not likely to tell, is he?” Rob asked.

  “I know.” McAllister sighed. He didn’t want to think about Gerry Dochery. The trip to Millport had reminded him of the good times. After winning his scholarship to Glasgow High School he had seen Gerry only twice—at his father’s funeral, and at the funeral of his younger brother. Nothing of that funeral had registered, so even if he had talked to Gerry, he would not remember. But he was glad Gerry had come—for his mother’s sake.

  “Although it seems to connect with boxing, and it’s most likely about money, I can’t find any reason for someone wanting to kill—harm—Jimmy.” He changed the word wh
en he registered the shock on Rob’s face.

  “Not a good idea if you’re wanting your money,” Don said, staring at his hands, which seemed to be moving with a life of their own. Something was bothering him and he couldn’t fathom what.

  “Kill him?” Rob asked, his voice low, flat, his stare somewhere beyond the cypress tree outside the bay window.

  “I’m sure it’s only threats.” McAllister saw that Rob was not reassured.

  By now the light had dimmed, and the first stars were beginning to pop up in the washed-out navy-blue sky. Don sighed and stretched his shoulders. “Time to be off to ma bed. You’ll speak to Jenny McPhee, will you?”

  “Tomorrow,” McAllister promised.

  He saw them out. He watched them walk out into the street, Rob to his motorbike, Don towards the hill and his house in Church Street.

  He went back to the sitting room to clear up the glasses. But once again he was waylaid by a final dram, a book, and a record. With the volume low, the piano player reached him in a way nothing else could. Thelonious Monk, “ ’Round Midnight.” It was a tune of loneliness, of aloneness, a tune that, on first hearing, had become McAllister’s theme song.

  Past three o’clock, nearer to four, he awoke. His back and neck were stiff from sleeping in the armchair. The book had fallen to the floor and the bookmark had fallen out—something he hated—the whisky decanter was empty, and dawn was sending out the hesitant glow over the northern hills enveloping the town.

  He stood, then changed his mind; instead of heading upstairs, he made for the sofa, pulled down the multicolored blanket Granny Ross had crocheted, and went back to sleep.

  • • •

  Next evening, after supper, he excused himself, telling his mother and Joanne and the girls that he had to meet with Jenny McPhee.

  “Can I come?” Annie asked.

  McAllister looked surprised.

  “I heard she’s a witch and I want to talk to her because I’m writing a composition about witches for history,” Annie explained.

  His mother’s eyebrows were raised. Joanne was trying not to laugh. And seeing that Annie was completely earnest, he said, “Maybe another time.” He saw she was about to argue and held up his hand. “Not tonight, Annie. But I will mention it. Promise.”