They did what they had done the day before: ate, walked, worked, and read. On the walk Ewan asked about the right-of-way, and Mollie gestured vaguely up the hill. “It was Chae’s battle,” she said. “I’m not even certain where the property line runs.” Late in the afternoon she went out to the garage and on her return pronounced the car to be running fine.
“That’s good news,” Ewan said.
He spoke so absently that Mollie stopped to study him. His eyes were shadowed, his mouth drawn, and in spite of their walks, his face seemed less ruddy than when he arrived. She recalled his remark about troubles of his own. Over supper she said, “The other night you mentioned a row at the office. Is it serious?”
“Y-y-y-y- quite.”
“Can you tell me about it?”
He tore off a piece of bread. “It’s complicated.”
“I’d like to hear.” Cunningly she added, “I need to know I’m not the only one who has problems. Please, Ewan.”
“Okay—but I warn you, it’s going to sound boring. You’ll have to take my word that it’s serious.” He began to explain about his job, how he dealt with stocks and shares, how clients came to him. “A lot of the information I get is confidential,” he said, “and people often try to pump me over lunch or cocktails. Fortunately I’ve cultivated a reputation as a dour Scot; it’s one of the reasons clients trust me.” He gave a small, unamused laugh.
“Anyway, to cut a long story short, I had dinner with someone and we were chatting about business. Vanessa made a remark that seemed to indicate we’d reached a new level of trust, that although we worked for different companies, we could be friends. I responded by letting fall a couple of details about this merger I was arranging. I didn’t want to be standoffish, and to most people my comments would have meant very little. She asked one casual question. Then she said she was going over to New York soon and could I suggest a good hotel.”
The lasagne was cooling, but Mollie hesitated to interrupt by eating, or by urging Ewan to do so.
“We had a date for a concert the following week, and she called to say she was stuck in the office, but that happens all the time in our line of work. I didn’t give it a second thought. Then, the day before the merger went through, I got a phone call from Brian Ross, whom I used to work with at the Bank of Scotland. He’d just bought a large block of Gibson Group stock for one of his clients. He was calling because the client had been unusually vague about his sudden interest in the stock. Brian had gone ahead, of course, and made the transaction. Afterwards he remembered I was connected with the company, and he wanted to check it out with me.” Ewan looked at Mollie. “Is this making any sense?”
“Yes, go on. What did you tell him?” She took a bite of lasagne. Now that Ewan was in the grip of his story, she noticed, his stutter had vanished.
“I said I’d no reason to think anything special was afoot, though the stock would probably hold steady. Fine, he said, so long as it wasn’t a colossal blunder. Then, just before he hung up, he remarked again that it was an odd buy for this particular client—he’d worked for him for several years and never known him to be impulsive before.
“I got a strange feeling after that phone call. I kept going over my conversation with Vanessa, and it was obvious anybody who wanted to could make use of what I’d said. I felt like an idiot. It’s one of the basic rules—never divulge sensitive information—and I babbled like a ten-year-old.”
“I still don’t see the problem. Maybe you were a little indiscreet. So what?”
“So nothing.” Ewan meticulously straightened the cuffs of first his shirt, then his pullover. “Unless someone profited by my indiscretion. At which point I’m an accomplice to insider trading, like that American, Milken. It’s a relatively new crime. People say that’s how Rothschild made his fortune. He had spies at the Battle of Waterloo and used their information to manipulate the stock market in London. But it wasn’t a crime in his day.”
“Can’t you just ask this Vanessa person?”
Ewan shook his head. “I doubt it. She’s still in New York. And besides,” he added gloomily, as if this were the last straw, “I’m fond of her.”
Only Ewan, Mollie thought, would say fond when he meant dying of love. No wonder he’d been so upset when she asked about girlfriends. Across the empty plates she gazed at him, his misery blatant now to her unsealed eyes. “You’re probably imagining the whole thing,” she said. “No one will ever find out, and you can go back to being a dour Scotsman with a vengeance.”
“Perhaps.” He stared disconsolately at his lasagne, and Mollie saw that her platitudes about business were as convincing as his remarks about a new life. She stood up, went round the table, and hugged him.
A few minutes later, as she scraped their plates into Sadie’s bowl, she moved into Machiavellian mode. “It sounds as if you’re under a lot of pressure. Maybe you should fly down from Edinburgh? If we get up early you could make the nine o’clock shuttle and be in your office by eleven. I can always use your train ticket when I come to London.”
“But what about the drive?” Ewan’s forehead furrowed. “It’s a long way to the airport. And there’s Olivia to deal with.”
Sadie hurried over, her nails clicking on the floor. “I’m sure I can manage the drive. I’ve been fine on our walks. The famous demons have flown. Of course you could take a taxi, if you prefer. And Olivia just needs to be handed over at Perth police station, doesn’t she?”
Ewan nodded. “There’ll be a statement to be made, though, and I am the one who found her.”
“You can go to the police in London. They’re all connected nowadays.” She put the plates in the sink and turned on the taps. That’s quite enough, she thought. I mustn’t push any harder. She went to the cupboard to fetch the Scotch. “I’m having a nightcap,” she said. “Do you want one?”
“Please. If you really think you’re up to taking me to the airport, I have to admit it would be a relief. This business has me rattled. I have the stupid idea that as long as I’m at my desk, nothing terrible can happen.”
“Nothing terrible will happen anyway,” Mollie said, passing him a glass. “It’s good for me to have projects. I got myself in a bit of a state this last month. Now, thanks to you, I’m okay. I can do whatever’s necessary, even if I’m not wildly cheerful about it.”
“No one’s asking for wild cheerfulness,” he said. “Such emotion would be quite unlike the Munros. Skol.”
“Skol,” said Mollie.
The alarm rang at five-thirty. No rain, Mollie thought as she slipped from the bed. She changed and fed Olivia, made coffee, and woke Ewan. Fifteen minutes after she knocked on his door, he came into the kitchen wearing his suit, carrying his bag in one hand and his briefcase in the other. Ten minutes later he was installed in the back seat of the car, Olivia on his lap.
The mist was rising over the fields and the country roads were quiet. The A9, however, was already busy. Mollie fell in behind a grey Volkswagen. She could not imagine why all these other people were up so early, but her claim to Ewan turned out to be true: the traffic did not bother her.
Soon after eight-thirty they pulled up at the airport. Mollie went round to open Ewan’s door. He handed her Olivia, once again wrapped in the blue blanket, and climbed out.
“Are you sure you’re all right?” he said.
“I’m fine. I know exactly what to do.”
“You’ll have to tell me what happens.” He gestured at Olivia, squirming in Mollie’s arms. “I’ve got quite attached to her in the last couple of days.” He planted an awkward kiss on Olivia’s forehead, then kissed Mollie. “Come soon,” he said. “It’ll be great having you in London.”
“I will, and thank you. For everything. Good luck.” She patted his shoulder and smiled.
He stepped through the glass doors and disappeared among the crowds of travellers. A loudspeaker announced no parking anywhere in the terminal. Mollie got the pillow she had brought out of the boot and put it
on the floor below the passenger’s seat. She wedged Olivia in place, secure and out of sight, then turned towards home.
II
Chapter 7
The part Kenneth remembered best, which had nothing to do with anything, was shaving that morning. Joan had left early, in a flurry of instructions about Grace: give her a bottle at nine, don’t forget to change her, she likes her bear close by. He had nodded intelligently and been asleep again before her key turned in the door. A couple of hours later, he woke in the crumpled bed and knew instantly that he was in Joan’s flat and that he had it to himself for five whole hours. This was one of his talents: never to wake in a lurch of terror, wondering where he was, but to surface seamlessly from the night before, no matter how many pints he’d had, into the morning after. The first night he’d gone home with Joan, she’d said, “Most people die when they’re asleep. Not you. You’re always here, alive.” He wasn’t sure what she meant, but his mother, an avid reader of dreams and horoscopes, whose lumpy sofa was at present his most permanent home, often commented with something close to horror on Kenneth’s lack of dreams. He could no longer recall if his claim not to dream had been true at the time he made it, or if he’d simply wanted to wind her up. In any case, for years now his sleep had been empty. And so he was glad to be praised by Joan for something that came naturally.
He had gotten up, turned on the gas fire, made a cup of tea, and carried it into the bathroom, where he set it next to the radio, on the tank of the toilet. As he waited for the water to run hot, he caught sight of his face in the mirror. How peely-wally he looked, but didn’t he always think that after a night with Joan? It was the contrast with her penny-coloured skin. Then he noticed her razor, a pink fiddley number, and a can of shaving foam perched on the edge of the bath. For no good reason he decided to shave. He squirted a blob of foam into one palm and smoothed it over his cheeks and chin, enjoying the cool, lemony smell. He liked using women’s things.
Of course with the foam he couldn’t drink his tea. Letting it go to waste, though, only added to his sense of luxury. He’d make another cup when he was done. He rubbed the mirror and leaned closer. Against the shaving foam, the whites of his eyes had a yellowish cast—not bad after five pints on an empty stomach. You have the eyes of a dog, Joan had said soon after they met, but he’d refused to take offence; that was just her being a foreigner. Instead he’d led her, jokingly, to the dogs he liked, Labs and setters. Now he peered deep into his brownish irises and appreciated the little flakes of light.
He had finished the left cheek and was at work on his chin, craning into the razor, when a sudden screech interrupted his pleasant task. What the hell was that? Oh yes, the bloody baby. Last night he’d agreed to watch her so that Joan’s mother, who baby-sat on Fridays, would not arrive at seven-thirty this morning, thereby cutting short one of his few precious nights in a bed. You promise, Joan said. Cross my heart, he said, slipping his hand inside her blouse. He remembered now there’d been a pile of nappies and bottles on the kitchen table. Shut up, you little bugger, he thought, and switched on the radio. “Occasional showers, heavy in some areas,” the weatherman said, in that singsongy way they had. “Inverness will have freezing rain, and in the north there may be snow on high ground.”
“Snow on high ground,” Kenneth echoed, and nicked himself in the soft fold of the jaw. He wasn’t even sure he had broken the skin until he saw the red tinge in the foam. At once he felt a sting of pain.
He swore and moved on to the safety of the other cheek, where the razor swept sweetly through the foam. A few deft strokes and he was done. He patted his face with a towel from the rack behind the door and headed for the kitchen.
As he waited for the kettle to boil, Grace’s cries from the living room rose steadily, until she was bawling fit to beat the band. How old was she? he wondered. If he counted from when he met her, three months; from her birth, just before Christmas, four. He’d been away in Arbroath, loading lorries—his first job after getting the sack from Perth Infirmary, but only temporary. It was late January when he ran into Joan at the supermarket. She was shopping with her mother. He hadn’t seen her since that summer evening when they’d gone for a walk on the South Inch and she told him about the goddess of fertility. Already he’d forgotten her bright silky clothes and gleaming hair, the things that first caught his eye in the infirmary cafeteria. Here she was again, small and glittering in the tinned-goods aisle.
“Joan,” he’d said, “you’re looking awfie bonnie,” knowing she wouldn’t understand his phoney Scots.
He didn’t notice the baby—the mother was carrying her—until Joan pointed her out. “This is Grace,” she said, “your daughter.”
They were beside the soups, and he’d backed away towards the oxtail. “Don’t talk rubbish.”
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, staring sadly at the lino floor.
Well, that was what he liked about her: she did what he said. Maybe some men enjoyed a wildcat, but not him. When they shouted, he left. She stood there, eyes downcast, her mother, who knew no English, dandling the baby behind her, until he said he’d call round sometime.
A month later, after getting thrown out of the Perth Arms without so much as a coat on a rainy night, he’d made his way to her council flat. She had offered no reproaches and served shepherd’s pie. While she was washing the dishes he took a keek at the baby. He saw not a vestige of likeness, except perhaps her brown eyes, though Joan had those too. He couldn’t tell if she was his, nor if he wanted her to be. The thought of Joan playing nookie with anybody else gave him a slippery feeling, so he put it aside. He’d never had a dad. Why should this brat?
Since then he’d popped in on Joan half a dozen times, her flat being handy for the bus station, taking care to come without warning and leave without promises. But when he showed up last night at nine-thirty, Joan explained she’d been moved to the early shift at the infirmary, and a bit the worse for wear, imagining a quiet morning with the telly, he’d agreed to mind the baby until she got home at three.
Now, with a complete absence of her mother’s docility, Grace howled. Kenneth drank his tea, shouted at her, tried to watch TV. He even resorted to one of the bottles Joan had left. That worked while she was actually sucking. Then she cried louder than ever. Finally, having smoked his last cigarette, he decided to take her to the shops. Probably she had some kind of outdoor gear, but he wasn’t going to faff around. He took the blanket from her cot and a yellow cape he found hanging behind the kitchen door. He’d always had a knack for parcels, and in spite of the hullabaloo she was making, he soon had her turned into a neat papoose he could tuck under one arm. He pocketed the keys Joan had left him and set out.
Grace wailed the whole time, even when he shook her, until they were in the street. Then she quieted almost instantly and fell asleep even before they reached the corner shop. Kenneth bought his fags out of the seven quid his mother had given him to pay the newsagent. The question of how to replace the money flashed across his mind and vanished with the first cigarette. He wandered up Leonard Street, past the betting shop—too early, though the two-fifteen at Newmarket might be worth keeping an eye on. A rabbity lad came by, kicking a can along the gutter. Kenneth sauntered towards the bus station.
He could not describe the inside of what happened next—perhaps the death that most people experienced in sleep came to him while awake—but the outside was like this. The tea was making itself felt. Kenneth eyed the long, low bus station and thought rather than endure, he could use the Gents. The mere idea gave him a small flare of satisfaction. He stepped through the door into a haze of bacon. Putting Grace down just inside the stall, he went over to the urinal and released a stream of urine. She was still being quiet, Christ almighty, as he zipped up and edged away. The room was small, and two steps took him to the door. He opened it and stepped out. Without any gesture on his part, the door thwapped shut. Maybe, he thought, she’d cry and bring him back; if she was really his daughter, she would c
laim him.
Several buses were lined up with their engines chugging, no problem for Grace, though, who—as she’d just shown him—could outyell any football fan. Yet she was silent. Somebody had left a copy of the Sun lying on a bench, and Kenneth sat down and glanced through it while waiting for Grace to summon him. A story about a family of illegal immigrants reminded him of Joan’s brother: Lalit had come over last year and was sneaking around somewhere in Lancashire. Joan herself was mysteriously legal. The big news was that most football players were taking drugs. What a surprise. A bloke in a suit came hurrying down the platform. Kenneth gawked at his shiny shoes and briefcase. The man’s eyes slid over him as if he were another plank in the bench, then he reached for the door of the Gents and disappeared inside.
A space opened in Kenneth’s brain, and when it seemed he might be in danger of coming to the end of it, might actually have to open the toilet door, another space opened. A horn hooted. The bloke came out, looking stupid, carrying the yellow bundle that was Grace, and the next thing he was climbing onto one of the buses. Kenneth raced over and followed him up the steps.
As the bus pulled out of the station, Kenneth felt a panicky desire to ask the driver to let him off. Then they turned into North Methven Street and he caught sight of Harvey, one of the orderlies he’d met at the infirmary, gazing into the window of Dixon’s. Somehow, that glimpse of old Harve in his tatty leather jacket, lusting after a CD player or a portable telly, made him feel better. He settled back to enjoy the journey. Just beyond the outskirts of Perth, past Dewar’s distillery, Grace started to yell, but the time for summoning him was over. He watched the bloke getting annoyed, trying one thing and another, not daring to raise his voice. At last she calmed down in her unpredictable way, and the two of them nodded off. Kenneth stared out of the grimy window at the sheep and cows. In Arbroath his digs had been on the edge of town, a room overlooking a field, which he hated. Whatever else you could say about his mum’s flat, at least it was on a nice busy street.
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