Wrong Turnings

by John Burke

  Beside the narrow counter with its till were shelves tightly packed with canned beer, a few wines, and spirits.

  Ronnie reached for a bottle of Bell’s.

  The middle-aged, woman behind the counter tugged her blue overall straight as if to turn it into an official uniform, and said: ‘I’m sorry, sir, but we can no’ sell spirits on the Sabbath before twelve o’clock.’

  ‘What time d’you close?’

  ‘One o’clock. Open till six, weekdays.’

  ‘And I suppose the pub’s closed all day?’

  ‘Och, no. Opens at twelve today. Eleven, weekdays.’ Ronnie tried not to flinch as she peered at them. ‘Ye’d no’ be from these parts?’ It was hardly a question.

  ‘We’re on holiday,’ said Martine. ‘Staying at one of the cottages down the road.’

  ‘Och, that’d be Mrs Chisholm’s wee place?’

  ‘I suppose you see quite a lot of her.’

  ‘She’s often in the craft shop over yon. Got some interest in it, and in the workshop. Does come shopping here. But not always.’ A note of accusation whined into the woman’s voice. ‘A lot of things she’d be getting from the supermarket in town. Just like them up at the Lodge.’

  Ronnie drew a sharp breath, but let Martine do the talking. ‘That’d be the big house, above the cottages?’

  ‘Aye. Some of the parties they have there . . . too grand for us to do the supplying, ye ken. Gey queer goings-on there sometimes.’

  ‘Queer?’

  ‘Stupid treasure hunts, or something. Trampling all over the place. Playing hide and seek like a lot of squalling weans.’

  An elderly man hobbled in, picked up a copy of The Mail on Sunday, and muttered, ‘An’ the usual, Vera.’ She reached under the counter and produced a small twist of plastic round a knob of tobacco. ‘There’s a fine day it is.’

  ‘It is that, Jamie.’

  The ritual was quiet and obviously much practised.

  The three mothers all decided at the same moment to head for the counter with their wire baskets. Each child made a grab for the bars of chocolate in a rack beside the till, and each was automatically slapped by the mother.

  When they had racketed out into the Sunday somnolence of the street, Martine bought a loaf, a packet of crackers, a tinned steak-and-kidney pudding, and a jar of honey. As she was paying, Ronnie edged himself into a position from which he could see the main headlines and front-page stories of the newspapers spread out on their shelf. Any temptation to buy several and frisk through them to see if there was anything about a convict on the run was checked by the fear that gathering up a whole wad would somehow focus attention on him and lead to suspicious examination of those inner pages.

  Martine was saying: ‘In a place like this, the big house must be very important. The centre of local activity?’

  ‘Och, no. Not the way it used to be when the Pitcairns had it. Then there was work at the Mains for a lot of the locals —’

  ‘The Mains?’

  ‘The home farm. Of course, that’s still providing work, but only for the Chisholms. No more sheep or cattle on the estate any more.’ There was nobody else in the shop. The woman seemed glad to talk to outsiders. Her locals would be as taciturn as the old man buying his paper and tobacco, or would simply swap local chat whose every syllable they knew by heart anyway. ‘And that Mr Brunner, who took Balmuir Lodge over, he’s a great one for inviting folk down for weekends and driving around too fast, but he takes no part in the village, the way the old colonel used to.’

  Ronnie could restrain himself no longer. ‘You don’t see much of him, then? He doesn’t have much of a . . . well, a sort of routine?’

  ‘That he doesnae.’

  The rattle of the door opening cut the talk short. A woman and a younger man came in. Martine took a quick glance, and just as quickly turned away, scanning the shelves as if for something she had forgotten. Then she jerked her head towards the door, urging Ronnie to leave with her — and quickly. But the church clock struck noon, and his eyes turned towards the whisky on the shelf.

  ‘Morning, Queenie,’ the woman at the till was saying. ‘Morning, Mr Morgan.’

  ‘We’re under orders,’ said Queenie. ‘Last minute flaps, as usual. His lordship wants a photograph of one of his bimbos framed and ready by this afternoon. Dragging poor Stuart out yet again.’ She glanced at the young man with a malicious pretence of sympathy. Then she looked puzzled. ‘Oh, dear. But what did we come in here for? I’ve forgotten.’

  ‘He wants two Sunday Telegraphs.’

  ‘Of course. Two Sunday Telegraphs, if you please, Vera.’

  ‘We delivered him three not an hour ago.’

  ‘And he moaned about them being late.’

  ‘Late? And why d’ye think they were late? The wholesalers don’t give a damn about us, way out here. Well, I know he got his Telegraphs and all of them wi’ their supplements, because I folded them myself and our Andy delivered them along wi’ the rest.’

  ‘I know. But he wants two more.’

  ‘Well, I’m sorry, dear, but we’ve no’ got two more.’

  Queenie Chisholm fussed down the narrow aisle with her head bobbing forward like an agitated hen. ‘There’s one here, anyway.’

  ‘That’s for Mr Greig. He’ll be in for it any minute.’

  ‘I could take it, and you could tell him you’d had a short delivery.’

  ‘No, dear, I couldn’t.’

  ‘Queenie,’ said her companion, ‘let’s forget it. I’ll tell Chet he can have mine. We’ll pick it up on the way. And that’ll have to do him.’

  ‘Always crawl to him, won’t you?’ Emerging from the parallel aisle, she came face to face with Martine, who hastily pretended to be reading the label on a pot of pickles. ‘Oh . . . aren’t you from one of my daughter-in-law’s cottages? I didn’t actually see you moving in, but when I was helping her move a few things I . . . er . . . no, I don’t think we met.’

  Ronnie said: ‘Spot on. Maxwells, that’s us. Robert and Mary Maxwell.’

  ‘I’m sure we’ll bump into one another while you’re here. I’m often down there, helping poor dear Anna.’ Abruptly, triggered by some random thought, she said: ‘Really, you know, Mr Brunner’s been good to all of us. I shouldn’t really say what . . . I mean, I do owe him a lot. Wouldn’t want anyone to think otherwise.’

  Then she and her companion were gone.

  The shopkeeper crumpled up a few receipts discarded on the counter. ‘Puir thing. The way she gets pushed about. Anything that man wants from us — and that’s rare enough, and never anything but trifles — he sends poor Mr Chisholm or his wife. As if they were servants. Can be difficult, sometimes, when she’s in one of her scatty moods. You have to feel sorry for the twa o’ them. Treats them shamefully. If it weren’t for their daughter and her cottages, I wouldn’t be surprised if they . . .’ She broke off as a young man came in and picked up a Sunday Herald.

  Ronnie took a bottle of Bell’s from the shelf and set it down on the counter. She swiftly wrapped it into a plastic bag as if to make sure it didn’t flaunt itself in the street, and said: ‘If you’re here for the week, mind how you drive. That Mr Brunner doesnae give a thought for anybody else on the road. Especially when he’s coming back from fishing the Grey Loch. One day . . .’ She was interrupted by another customer, but smiled as the new visitors turned towards the door. ‘Enjoy your wee holiday, then. If there’s anything ye need, ye ken where to come.’

  They crossed the street to look idly in the craft shop window. Martine said: ‘Christ. I hadn’t thought about Queenie.’

  ‘What about her?’

  ‘I knew her, of course. From when I was married to bloody Chet. She and Alec being shoved around then, and it doesn’t sound as if much has altered.’

  ‘She didn’t recognize you?’

  ‘I don’t think so. She’d have said something. The way I look now’ — she tried to catch her reflection in the shop window — ‘no, I’m sure she di
dn’t.’

  Ronnie was glad to shrug it off. ‘The pub’ll be open.’

  ‘You don’t want to risk going in there, do you?’

  ‘Like you said, if we’re going to get anywhere, we have to get out and about. Find out that bastard’s movements. And what people think of him. And there’s no place like a pub.’

  She took his arm. As they strolled along the narrow pavement, stumbling over a few cracked flags and gaps unevenly stuffed with gravel and tarmac, they could have been any affectionate middle-aged couple heading for their regular Sunday lunchtime glass.

  At the door of The Carrick Arms Martine laughed. ‘You never could stay out of a pub, could you?’

  ‘I’ve done more useful business in pubs than . . .’ He led the way into the public bar.

  They were followed almost immediately by the young man who had accompanied Queenie into the shop. The landlord greeted him with a ‘Morning, Stuart’ while at the same time lifting a pint tankard from under the counter and beginning to pour.

  ‘That bloody man.’ Stuart reached gratefully for the beer. ‘Anna, poor girl, mucked up one of his games last night, and now he’s going to insist on rejigging it today. Wants me to frame a picture in ten minutes flat and cart up some extra props for this afternoon.’

  ‘So they’ll be wandering about the countryside again? A treasure hunt in their BMWs, this time?’

  ‘God knows.’

  Cautiously Ronnie leaned on the counter and tried to present himself as a flippant incomer. It might be riskier to attract attention by staying silent and unfriendly than to join in pub conversation the way he’d always done. ‘Does that mean we’d better not go out for a quiet drive this afternoon?’

  The landlord grinned. ‘If you don’t know the roads round here and take a wrong turning, you won’t know just where and when he’s likely to come bombing round a corner on the wrong side of the road.’

  ‘Save excursions till the end of the week, then?’

  ‘Maybe not that long,’ said Stuart. ‘This little lot’s supposed to wrap up on Wednesday.’

  ‘Beating the bounds to impress his cronies?’ The landlord was happy to explain, with a cynical growl, to his new customers. ‘Inventing what’s called an ancient tradition, of riding out and beating the bounds. Only you don’t have to do it every few months — except to put on an act before your paying guests.’

  Martine was tugging at Ronnie’s elbow, afraid that the pub atmosphere might be restoring his old pushy self-confidence too swiftly.

  Stuart and the landlord edged towards the far end of the bar. ‘Anyway,’ Stuart was saying, ‘at the very least he’ll put on his lumberjack shirt and wellies, and go clomping his way round his estate to see if they’ve left any litter. Sort of beating the bounds, only without any entourage — the one thing he seems to enjoy doing for himself instead of letting anyone else do it. Always the same route.’

  ‘Like taking the dog for a walk.’

  ‘Only he’s never had the patience to train a dog.’

  On their drive back, Martine said: ‘We don’t seem to have found anything useful.’

  ‘I wouldn’t say that. We’re beginning to get the hang of his movements.’

  ‘Most of those are indoors, except for him doing a wander when he’s got rid of his guests.’

  ‘Yeah. After playing his stupid bloody murder games. Making a joke of it. After what I went through because of his other silly games on the telly.’

  ‘Maybe,’ said Martine, ‘he’d appreciate the irony of being a real murder victim himself?’

  *

  The bell over the door of the craft shop jangled as Anna pushed it open, to find Brenda leafing through a catalogue of Christmas cards.

  ‘A bit early in the year, isn’t it?’

  ‘If I don’t do it now, there’ll be all sorts of excuses for non-availability and all that sort of talk.’

  The bell jangled again. Stuart said: ‘Oh, great. Saw the old wagon outside. Queenie seems to have walked out on me, and I was wondering how I was going to get things up to Cecil B. de Mille. Any chance of a lift?’

  ‘I’ll be going back in a few minutes. Drop you off.’

  ‘I’ll go round and bring the bits out.’

  When he had gone, Brenda said: ‘And what are you intending to carry off?’

  ‘Nothing special. Just that I want to borrow your Local Craft Trail Directory. I want to check we’ve got the up-to-date autumn opening times and phone numbers in the information folder we leave in the cottages.’

  Brenda fished the book out from under the counter, and reached for a ballpoint. She flipped over a few pages and struck out an entry. ‘The potter up the glen has just packed it in.’

  ‘Not enough passing trade?’

  ‘Some of it went past too quickly. One customer took the puir wee man’s wife awa’ with him. Maybe he’s gone after them. Anyway, he’s shut up shop.’

  Anna put the directory under her arm and went out to the car. Stuart was only a couple of minutes behind her, with a framed picture wrapped in sacking under his left arm and a large leather bag in his right hand.

  ‘A painting?’ said Anna, curious. ‘Something olde-worlde to embellish the walls of the Lodge?’

  ‘Don’t worry. No competition with your rural scenes. Just a framed photograph of Georgina whatsername.’

  ‘Oh, that one. I wonder what Jilly-Jo will have to say when she gets back?’

  As she drove out of the village, Anna was aware of Stuart glancing at her, as if wondering whether to make some advance, say something that would lead somewhere. She began to talk quickly. ‘He’s got a nerve, our friend Brunner, dragging you out yesterday and now again today, just on some whim.’

  ‘That’s the way he is.’

  ‘You give in too easily.’

  ‘And what about you? When did you last put your foot down and threaten to walk out? Leaving poor old Alec and Queenie to his tender mercies?’

  ‘They’re not really my concern. I mean, I’ve got good reason to be fond of Alec, but they have been working for him all these years. Long before I came on the scene and married into the family. They know what the score is.’

  ‘Do they? And do you? Wouldn’t it affect all of you if Brunner decided to pack it in here? Without bothering to let anyone know until the last minute?’

  The Volvo swerved and sent up a flurry of grit from the roadside. Anna corrected it and stared firmly at the road ahead. ‘You’ve heard something?’

  ‘Through my own little grapevine, which may be warped. Just a hint that he’s been talking of putting the Balmuir estate — including the lease of your cottages — on the market. Just to see what price he might get from some entrepreneur interested in laying out a golf course and a luxury hotel, getting his hands on fishing rights on the loch, and all the rest of it. And a lot of the stuff I’ve made for him recently hasn’t been for use on the premises. It’s all gone direct to a production company back in London.’

  ‘I see. Moving on again?’

  ‘It’s only hearsay, but there’s a fair old whiff of it about. Might be an idea if we moved on ahead of him. The two of us. If we —’

  ‘No, Stuart. Let’s not get into any complications. No need to panic yet.’

  ‘But when we do decide to panic?’

  ‘In spite of everything, we all owe the old bastard quite a lot. I don’t know what would have happened if he hadn’t . . . I mean . . .’ She floundered. Perhaps if Brunner hadn’t been there behind Alec, and Alec hadn’t been there behind Peter and herself, might things have been better in the long run? Might two people now dead still have been alive?

  *

  Stuart Morgan and Peter Chisholm had supported one another through the chilly rigours of school life at Gordonstoun, and could never entirely break away from each other afterwards. They would not have dreamt of attending school reunions or subscribing towards appeals or old boys’ newsletters; but somehow they found excuses for meeting in Edinburgh, displayi
ng a succession of girlfriends for approval or otherwise, and exchanging letters about business projects.

  Stuart’s flair was for the painstaking restoration of antique furniture and small, delicate objets d’art. He worked, adequately paid but in an uninspiring groove, for a firm specializing in reproduction furniture, sold through major stores in Scotland and northern England. Even in routine jobs he was a dedicated craftsman — fussy, even.

  Peter, as Anna discovered within a short time of being married to him, was by nature a dabbler. He had been a glib, charming courier in a holiday tours firm; public relations officer for a small hotel chain; and finally a supplier of props to the film and television production company for which his father worked.

  From time to time the two friends had talked vaguely of getting together on a permanent basis one day and setting up a high quality workshop of their own, with Stuart concentrating on the creative side and Peter handling the commercial and promotional end. A lot of talk, and all of it tapering off when Peter found some other brief obsession.

  After the two of them married — Peter first, Stuart three months later — the Chisholms moved out of Edinburgh and into the grey-green fells and glens of Carrick. Still the friendship was not broken. The Chisholms spent long weekends in Edinburgh with the Morgans, and the Morgans were given free holidays in one of the cottages at Balmuir Mains.

  It was largely because of Peter’s father that Anna found herself running the self-catering cottages and craft shop, at first with Peter, and now on her own. Alec Chisholm had used his influence with his employer in the big house to get them possession of what had been the Mains — the old home farm house and outbuildings. He helped out with a loan towards the cost of turning the stable block and barn into self-catering cottages. Sometimes she let herself wonder whether the whole idea had been a bad one from the start. They all, at one remove or other, owed too much to the unpredictable Chet Brunner, and he was happy to keep them aware of it. And there were too many awkward people to deal with, soothe, pander to, sweep up after . . . and, in the end, too many personal problems. Peter’s temper snapped more easily than her own; and he grew too easily bored with the day-to-day running of anything.