“What are they staring at?” David asked as they walked upward. “I’ve never known them to be so quiet.”
“They’re wondering what we’re planning to talk about,” replied Murdoc in a soft voice. “I’ve tried to keep it from them. A few have figured out that something’s amiss. Word spreads, you know.”
The moment they were inside the office with the door closed behind them, David turned to his cousin.
“Figured out what, Murdoc?” he asked. “What do you mean, something’s amiss? Is someone hurt? Has there been an accident?”
“Nothing like that, David. It’s about money.” He sat down behind his desk and motioned David to a nearby chair.
“What about it?” asked David.
“The operating account—at the bank, you know. According to our bookkeeper, it’s dwindling. I didn’t want to worry you about it. I kept thinking it would take care of itself.”
“What did the bookkeeper tell you?” asked David with a puzzled expression.
“When I went into Lerwick two months ago to sign checks, she said that since the laird’s death, no money had been deposited into the account. She said there was enough of a cushion to cover expenses for a while. She seemed confident the problem wouldn’t last much longer. I didn’t think much more about it. But about a week ago she telephoned to let me know that still nothing has been deposited. This time I heard urgency in her tone. Obviously she doesn’t want us to face a situation a few months from now where our working capital runs dry.”
“I’m not sure I understand, Murdoc,” said David. “I thought . . . I mean, everybody looks busy, you’re still selling goods. Orders haven’t stopped—”
“That’s just it, you see, David,” he put in quickly. “The thing is so bewildering because actually orders are up. We’re even running behind in production. We just received a sizable order from Edinburgh Woolen Mills yesterday. I’m sending out invoices every day. I assume they’re being paid. Our sales ledger has never looked better.”
“What’s the problem then?”
“It’s just as our bookkeeper said. Since old Macgregor’s death there have been no deposits into the account.”
“Why is that?”
“She doesn’t know. It’s like the checks that should be coming in are being lost. Yet that can’t be since everything is handled by direct deposit.”
“Might that have changed since Uncle Macgregor’s death? Maybe the payment checks have been lost.”
“I can’t imagine why. Orders from our customers come to me. I prepare invoices when the orders are filled, then send copies to the MacNaughton firm in Lerwick. They should be receiving the payments as usual.”
“Right, that makes sense. As our family’s solicitors, MacNaughton administers the parent company for the estate’s affairs and handles all accounting and tax reporting.”
“The bookkeeper told me there’s always been an ACH deposit to the account at the beginning of each month.”
“What’s an ACH?”
“A new term bookkeepers are using for automatic debits and credits into bank accounts. In this case it simply notes the money that comes in automatically from our accounts receivable.”
“I see, passed on from the estate’s parent account handled by the MacNaughton people. They are in charge of my parents’ trust as well as Uncle Macgregor’s finances.”
“But no money has been going in. I’ve been sending out invoices as usual and as I said passing on copies to the MacNaughton firm for collection. But no deposits have gone into the operating account.”
“Have you called the bank?”
Murdoc nodded. “They know nothing more than what I’ve told you. They said that the deposits stopped after the laird’s death. They couldn’t tell me more than that.”
“To be honest, I never thought much about the Mill’s cash flow,” said David slowly. “My family’s financial affairs have been overseen by the MacNaughton firm for years. I suppose I should have paid more attention. I’ve been so busy these past months . . . ah, well, we’ll get on it now. I’m sure there’s a glitch in the system. I’ll give my uncle’s solicitor a ring tomorrow.”
“Thank you, David. That’s a big relief.” Murdoc let out a sigh. “It’s been weighing on me.”
23
Reminiscences
ABOVE THE ATLANTIC
Loni turned back several pages and read over bits and pieces of what she had written over the last two hours.
Planes make me pensive.
As I gaze out the window, endless billows of clouds stretch to the horizon. It is as if I am peering toward my own invisible past. I find myself squinting, almost as if hoping to catch a glimpse of something I have never seen before, some fragment of memory that will shed light on the mystery of belonging . . . the mystery of where I came from. But nothing is out there. At least that I’ve found yet.
No revelation . . . no visions. Only clouds.
I never travel without packing my journal in my carry-on, with its special pen tucked inside. You, dear journal, have come to symbolize my pensive side, that part of me that wonders who I am.
When I flip through the pages and read something I’ve written, or when I jot down a new memory, it feels like I am touching one of several “me’s” competing for center stage of my life. Certainly the “journal me” is different from the person I left behind in Scotland. Although sometimes this past week I didn’t know who I was in Scotland either—don’t get me started on that place! Let’s just say I don’t plan on a return engagement anytime soon.
Loni turned and stared out the window across the empty seat next to her. She hadn’t touched her journal on the flight over. With most of the trip behind her, all at once the memories were coming so rapidly she could hardly keep up with them.
Again she took pen in hand and began to write.
My most distant recollections are as hazy as the view from a 747’s window. And tinged with vague sensations of sorrow.
My grandmother was always there—kind, gentle, consoling. Yet somehow I felt alone. I know she cared. More than cared—she loved me. But there was distance between us. Maybe it was only in my imagination. I know how much she loved me. Yet it could never be the same as snuggling into a mother’s arms to hide from the world’s hurts.
The earliest years of school were a blur. If she had friends, she no longer remembered them. Try as she might, she could not call up the face of a single playmate.
When she began to grow taller than her classmates, Loni couldn’t remember exactly. By nine or ten it was obvious that she was different from the others. Everyone said girls grew more rapidly than boys. But she became too tall, taller than was natural. They’d called her names before. But when she was a head taller than anyone else in her class, the cruelty became worse than ever. Now they had something other than her unknown parentage to make fun of.
One horrible day stood out in Loni’s memory.
———
The boys and girls were playing soccer on the school field. One of the girls stood out among the rest for she was as tall as her teacher. When she was able to keep her legs beneath her, even in a dress she could run like the wind. And she loved nothing more than showing up the boys at one of their own games.
Suddenly the ball flew out into the middle of the field. The gangly eleven-year-old dashed for it! Two boys were after it too, but she was determined to beat them. Her little bonnet flew off, but this was her chance and so she didn’t stop. She reached the ball and kicked it hard, shooting it straight toward the net. But she never saw the goal. Feet and knees tangled amongst themselves as she sprawled in a clumsy heap onto the grass, all skinny arms and spindly legs like an awkward newborn colt.
The whole field erupted in laughter. The two boys she had outrun to the ball now took their revenge, standing over her laughing and jeering.
“Look at the clumsy ninny!” taunted the boy named James. He was always the worst, a huge bully several years older. “Did you see her?�
�� he laughed. “Like a giraffe trying to play soccer!”
Mrs. Schrock hurried over. “Get up! Get up, Alonnah!” she shouted. “Go get your bonnet this instant. This is disgraceful. You are not a boy. Now act like a girl.”
She couldn’t wait for school to get over. It was the first goal she had ever scored. But she hadn’t been able to enjoy it. Under her dress her knee was skinned and bleeding. She knew Mrs. Schrock wouldn’t care so she said nothing. Later, walking home alone, she couldn’t help crying. Why were the others so mean? Was it because she was tall or because she had no parents? None of the others dared use the word orphan around Mrs. Schrock. She would have reprimanded anyone who said it openly. But they giggled and whispered the word when they could get by with it. And she knew that Mrs. Schrock, like the rest of the teachers, considered her too tall for a girl and a charity case. No matter how good her schoolwork, she never smiled at her. It was a terrible thing to know she wasn’t liked.
Her grandmother came into her room that night and found her in tears. She sat down on the bed and took her thin granddaughter in her arms.
“What is it, dear?” asked the older woman in a comforting tone.
“Nothing, Grandma,” she said, wiping her eyes. “They just made fun of me again today.”
“I’m sorry,” she said, stroking the long blond hair. “Was it that James McLeod again?”
“I’m afraid of him, Grandma,” she whimpered. “I’m afraid he’ll hurt me when Mrs. Schrock isn’t looking.”
Her grandma drew her arms more tightly around her. “He’s a bad one, I’m afraid. But try not to worry, dear. Bullies like him aren’t as tough as they think they are. It’s because he was held back a grade. He’s got a chip on his shoulder like his father. There’s a rumor that the family might be leaving the Fellowship.”
“Why do they make fun of me, Grandma? Am I really so different?”
“You’re tall, dear. Children make fun of anyone who’s not the same as everyone else. But they will grow too and catch up with you.”
“They’ll never get as tall as me!” she said, starting to cry again. “And why does Mrs. Schrock look at me like I have some disease? I know she’s thinking horrible thoughts. Where did I come from, Grandma?”
“Never mind about that, or about Mrs. Schrock,” soothed the grandmother. “She never smiles at anyone. She is a lonely lady and needs our prayers.”
“But she is sometimes meaner even than the other children.”
“She doesn’t like your grandfather.”
“Why, Grandma?”
“It’s not important, Alonnah. You are with us because God is taking special care of you. You are tall because that is how God made you—as a special person like no one else.”
“Was my mother tall?” the girl asked.
Her grandmother did not reply. She looked away, an odd expression on her face.
“I don’t know, Alonnah,” she answered after a moment. Her voice was soft. “I did not know your mother.”
The girl was so full of self-doubt and uncertainty that the significance of her grandmother’s statement did not register immediately. Almost the moment the words were out of her mouth, the older woman regretted having said them.
She quickly went on. “Do you know what your grandfather told me today,” she said enthusiastically. “He said he wants to start training you to work in the showroom. He said you are growing into such a smart young lady that this summer he wants you to greet the tourists who come in and show them about the store.”
The girl stared. “He said that about me?”
“Yes, he did. He said it is time you learned the family business. He would rather have you in the showroom than in the workshop. He will keep making the furniture, he said, and you will sell it.”
“Oh, I will!” the girl exclaimed. “Ask him when I can start, Grandma. Maybe I could work after school!”
Her grandma laughed. “We shall see, dear. You must keep up with your studies too.”
“I will, Grandma! I can do both!”
“Then we will see what your grandfather says.”
———
Loni smiled pensively. Thankfully her school experience grew less painful as the years went by.
Not everything in her journal was so serious and introspective. She started to close it, then could not help chuckling as her eyes fell on a penciled note she had taped to one of the back pages.
What had begun as a teenage whim had gained import in the years since. The original note in her youthful cursive read Alonnah’s Husband List.
With several cross-outs it had been retitled several times. The entries on the list—with many additions, erasures, and new additions—had changed through the years too, from such expected characteristics as Kind, Treats women with respect, Good-looking, Likes children and animals, to more subtle qualities of character that her developing maturity had grown capable of recognizing as important.
What would her Potential Husband Character Qualification List—as it was currently labeled—look like if she were starting it fresh today, without the notations from when she was fifteen? Was good-looking really important in knowing whether you could enjoy a lifetime with a man?
Hugh was good-looking. He could be a little taller. But he was only half an inch shorter than she was. As long as she didn’t wear heels when they were together, no one noticed. And they did make a striking couple. But did good-looking define his character? Of course not. It may have been his appearance that drew her attention a year ago. But since then, as she now rated Hugh against her list, she had to admit that he scored far beyond “acceptable” and well into the “high” range. Not off the charts, perhaps, but certainly suitable husband material. No woman could expect to find a perfect husband after all.
Maddy had laughed so hard she couldn’t stop when Loni let slip about her list. To Maddy, of course, the whole thing was absurd. She had no intention of marrying anyone!
Loni closed the book and leaned back with a dreamy smile.
Within minutes her thoughts of childhood traumas and husband lists faded. Loni began to doze.
24
A Chief’s Concern
WHALES REEF, SHETLAND ISLANDS
The two men walked down the stairs and out to David Tulloch’s car.
Though he himself took little notice, every eye rested on Murdoc MacBean as he returned inside the Mill a moment later and made his way back upstairs to his office. The private and obviously serious conference between their chief and the factory manager seemed all but to confirm the rumor that something was very wrong.
How and with whom it began no one knew. But by the time the thing had multiplied and spread, there wasn’t a single one of the Mill’s workers who wasn’t afraid for his or her job.
Why their beloved chief—maybe even laird by now—would shut down the Mill was a question fraught with even more surmises. But the longer the buzz persisted, the more characteristics of fact it took on. Before the week was out, not one of them doubted it was true.
But Shetlanders can be tight-lipped when they need to be. Not so much as a hint leaked out beyond the immediate factory-family. Thus two of the busiest tongues of the island—those of Coira MacNeill and Rinda Gunn—caught no wind of it.
David drove to the house he affectionately referred to as his “wee cottage” to distinguish it from the Cottage of the laird.
Notwithstanding what he had said to his aunt on the day of the funeral, David had not expected the legalities and protocols to take quite this long. He had continued advances to Saxe and his sister Isobel, as well as Dougal Erskine, from what he could afford out of his own pocket for their living expenses until the estate was settled. As much as possible the two Mathesons carried out their former duties, keeping up with their own and Dougal’s meals, the upkeep of the house, and helping Dougal with the animals. In one sense, not a great deal had changed except that there was one less mouth to feed, and less laundry for Isobel. Saxe’s so-called butlering had been
so inconsequential as to make him less valet and more handyman, which might include everything from horse grooming and stall mucking to mending fences. But he always carried himself with the dignity of his position and continued to do so now. The needs of the three were so minimal that the strain on David’s bank account had been negligible.
Keeping the Cottage and Auld Hoose functioning somewhat normally, however, was a far different matter than a factory of three dozen employees.
This news from Murdoc was troublesome. Obviously the missing funds from the accounts receivable must be due to the delay in resolving his uncle’s estate. Like the rest of the island, the Mill property was owned by the laird. But why income from sales of the Mill’s woolen products had stopped flowing was of serious concern.
David had always assumed the regular monthly stipend he received had been provided him in his parents’ wills. Along with the grants he occasionally received for his work and research, and the income from lectures, tours, and conferences, he had never wanted for anything.
However, his stipend had also ceased with his uncle’s death.
Curious indeed!
He had been so busy he had put off investigating it. He had enough income from other sources at this time of the year to hardly notice. Yet a disruption in both his and the Mill’s bank accounts at exactly the same time could hardly be coincidental.
With winter coming, and no more lectures or tours on the horizon, and his present grant reaching the end of its funding, if the income from his parents’ estate continued unpaid, his own cash flow would diminish sharply. He would not have enough cash coming in to supplement the Mill’s expenses out of his own pocket, if it came to that. The Mill’s expenses were far beyond his own personal means.
When he walked into his cold house, the skies over Shetland were dark, the thin line of pink at the horizon but a memory of the brief sunset. By then David had reached a decision. He would go into Lerwick tomorrow and see what he could learn.
Within the hour the Auld Hoose was warming under the influence of a blazing fire. David sat in his easy chair in front of it, boots off and stocking feet stretched toward the hearth atop a worn leather footstool. A favorite old book lay in his lap. In his hand he held a cup of tea. A plate of Coira’s oatcakes sat on the low occasional table beside him.
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