Does Your Mother Know?

by Maureen Jennings

  I took the photograph again, suddenly full of doubt.

  “Was there another daughter beside Shona, a twin even?”

  “No, not at all. Just the wee one of Annie’s. Her half-sister, I suppose you’d call her. Penny and Barbara are the only twins we’ve had in the village.” Mrs. MacNeil dabbed at her mouth daintily and continued as if there had not been an interruption. “They were a private family, those MacAulays. Not Tormod’s side nor my mother-in-law, who was as welcoming a woman as you might wish to find. But for some reason, Norman was a sour sort of fellow. He lacked humour, and he was very strict with his children. It got far worse after he lost both of his wives and his daughter. He withdrew into himself. Nowadays, I imagine he’d be called depressed and he’d get some help, but then we just accepted that was who he was. Private. His boys turned out the same way. Thank goodness they’ve all married good-hearted women who’ve managed to soften them up. Norman’s gone now. He died of tuberculosis in 1979. I did mention Annie passed away as well, didn’t I?”

  “I know about that, but Christine probably doesn’t,” said Lisa.

  “Poor woman died of a tumour when her girl was only eight. She’d doted on her own bairn, but it must have been a cold hearth for the child after that. Poor Sarah. She had a difficult life. She had one chance of happiness. She and young Iain MacAulay fell in love with each other. I’ve never seen her as happy as she was when she told me they were going to get engaged, but it all came to naught. Apparently, Tormod was quite opposed to the match, although Sarah was a sweet girl in those days. Iain gave in and went off to Perth. The next thing we knew he was married. Sarah was heart-broken. I’ve heard tell that sometimes it’s the reason people turn to the bottle for comfort. Which she did in this case.” Suddenly she looked flustered. “Not to speak ill of the dead mind you, but it was common knowledge.”

  I’d been in the middle of trying to down some of the cold tea. I almost choked.

  “Hold on. Am I getting this right? Sarah MacAulay is one and the same as Sarah MacDonald?”

  “Yes, my dear. MacDonald was her married name.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  I needed to go somewhere and think, so I did what women have done for decades. I fled to the bathroom. I washed my hands with the highly perfumed pink soap and regarded my own reflection in the mirror. If I were a stranger meeting me for the first time, I’d think “What a stressed out woman she is.” Worry lines seemed to have suddenly etched themselves between my eyebrows, and there were dark shadows underneath my eyes. I concentrated on washing my hands. It was one thing to look at an old photograph, say in a school yearbook, and pick out so-and-so when they were sixteen. You knew who you were looking for. It was different to come across a picture and think you recognized somebody from fifty years ago. Was Shona MacAulay truly one and the same person as Joan Morris, my mother? You can’t really fake your own death. There are too many legalities to deal with. Did the family really believe she was dead? Given what Mrs. MacNeil had said, especially with regards to the lack of a proper funeral, I was more inclined to think they put about that story because Joan/Shona was in some kind of disgrace. To disown her was a kind of death. If that was the case, she had gone along with it. And it would certainly explain why she had never wanted to talk about her family, why she’d told me her parents were dead.

  I dried off my hands on the pristine pink towel. I felt as if I had stepped through the gate at platform nine-and-three-quarters and I was into the true world where I belonged and had always yearned to be. I might have discovered relatives I never knew I had. If Sarah MacDonald was Joan’s half-sister, she was my aunt. She had a daughter who would be my cousin. And there were brothers, Mrs. MacNeil had said. Uncles for me. More cousins. I was almost literally dizzy with the notion. My God, some of them might even be here, and if Tormod MacAulay was Joan’s cousin, he was my second cousin. I was trying to work out how the Stewart twins were related when there was a discreet tapping on the door.

  “Anybody in there?”

  “Be right out,” I glanced in the mirror again, and pushed at my hair, which was starting to frizz in the damp air. My eyes were much brighter now.

  A man was waiting outside. We exchanged the polite smiles of two people passing on the threshold of the toilet, then he halted.

  “Hello again.”

  He looked familiar, but I couldn’t place him immediately. He smiled and helped me out.

  “Duncan MacKenzie here. We met on Sunday on the moor. You probably don’t recognize me in my good clothes.”

  It was the shepherd who had reacted so strongly to hearing I was from Canada. And it was true what he said. He was in a dark-blue suit with a white shirt and maroon tie, and I hadn’t recognized him out of context of the moor and his border collies.

  “Yes, of course.” I was about to move on when I remembered. “Congratulations on becoming a grandfather. I’ve seen the baby, and she is quite adorable.”

  “I’m going over this afternoon to see Mairi. I hear you came to the rescue.”

  “Not exactly. She seemed to be going into labour and I helped until the midwife arrived, which wasn’t long afterward.”

  “Well, according to Mairi, you were brilliant.”

  An older woman with a cane had come up and was standing near. “Are you... are you... ?”

  She indicated the washroom.

  “Go ahead,” said MacKenzie. He stepped back to allow her entrance. I started to shuffle off. I wanted to get back to Mary MacNeil and ask some more questions. Duncan followed me.

  “Have you seen Lisa?” he asked.

  “Yes, we came together. She was over there.”

  The gorgeous scarlet hat was clearly visible in the midst of the blacks and navies of the other women. He frowned. “That’s my Lisa for you.” She turned at that moment, saw him, and waved a greeting.

  I was easing my way through the crush at this point, and he was close behind. I could only assume his bathroom call had not been an urgent one. When we reached Lisa, she moved forward as if to embrace him, but his disapproval was palpable and she stopped herself.

  “Hello, Dad.” She tilted her head. “How’d you like my hat?”

  He shrugged. “I suppose it’s better than a bike helmet.”

  “I was considering that, but it’s a bit cumbersome.”

  Lisa’s tone was deliberately flippant, but I thought she was hurt by his disapproval. Mary MacNeil rescued all of us from an awkward moment.

  “Maitain mhah, a Duncan.” She said something else, and he replied in kind and gave her a friendly handshake, the contrast marked between that and his greeting to his daughter.

  “Excuse me, I’ve got to go to the loo,” said Lisa and she moved away. Ah, that useful bathroom.

  I took the opportunity to look at the photograph once again. En route from the bathroom I’d been grabbed by doubt, but when I studied the picture again, I was absolutely sure. I became aware that Duncan and Mrs. MacNeil’s conversation had tapered off, and they were regarding me with interest.

  “I’ve been inundating Miss Morris with family histories, “said Mary. “You remember Annie Stewart, don’t you, Duncan? And that branch of the MacAulays? They knew so much tragedy, poor folks. You were quite daft on Shona, as I recall.”

  MacKenzie would never be good at poker. His face turned scarlet. “That was a long time ago, Mary.”

  “You knew her, did you?” I asked.

  “I’m from this village. We all knew each other.”

  “Mrs. MacNeil told me she died somewhere in Canada when she was only eighteen.”

  “Aye.”

  “A rather mysterious death, by the sound of it. Do you know where she went?”

  “I do not.”

  I waited a moment, but it was obvious he wasn’t going to be any more forthcoming. I turned back to Mary.

  “Whereabouts did the MacAulay family live?”

  She didn’t seem to find my curiosity strange, thank goodness. “When she was
born they were still in the black houses up near the coast. They’ve been turned into a tourist site now, more’s the pity. I used to visit my cousin Peigi, who lived in the next house up, and it’s now a youth hostel. And the MacLeods’ house is a fancy self-catering cottage. I just can’t get over it. Time just sweeps you away before you know it.”

  “Have you been to see Na Gerranan, Black House Village, yet?” Duncan asked me.

  “No, I haven’t.”

  “I tell you what,” said MacKenzie. “I’ll take you up to Na Gerrannan right now and you can have a look around. This is pretty much finished.”

  As far as I could tell, there was no lessening of the crush of people and the level of noise was even higher.

  “The men haven’t got back from the gravesite yet,” said Mary.

  “I can run you back to Stornoway after,” continued MacKenzie. “I’m going in to see my daughter anyway.”

  “Thanks, but I was going to get a ride with Lisa.”

  “On her bike?”

  “Yes.”

  “You wouldn’t get me on that thing if you paid me. She goes much too fast.”

  “She promised me she’d ride carefully.”

  “Careful isn’t a word that Lisa is familiar with.” He said it jokingly, but I knew he meant it. The subject of the conversation was back in the room and she had a plate in her hand, which she thrust into the middle of our little group.

  “Here you are. Barbara’s homemade oatcakes and crowdie. Christine, you must try them. Crowdie is rather like cottage cheese but a thousand times richer. And delicious on oatcakes.”

  I did and she was right. Duncan swallowed his quickly.

  “Lisa, I understand you were going to give Miss Morris a ride on the bike, but I’m going in to see Mairi and the new babe, so I can give her a lift.”

  “Okay. Is that all right with you, Christine?”

  Frankly, I was rather relieved not to be on the back of her motorcycle, but I would certainly have preferred her company.

  “Your father is going to take her up to the Black House Village to show her where the MacAulays used to live,” added Mrs. MacNeil.

  I hadn’t accepted his offer and wasn’t sure I was going to.

  “Do you want to come with us?” I asked Lisa. I was hoping for a buffer. There was something about the shepherd that was making me uneasy.

  “I won’t this time, thanks. I’ll stay and help Penelope and Barbara with the cleaning up.”

  “Shall we go then?” asked Duncan.

  I took another quick assessment. He was sixtyish, fit and trim from shepherding, I presumed. There was no weird sexual energy emanating from him as far as I could tell, but he seemed awfully keen to get me out of here. The thought struck me that he might want to talk about Shona. I said my goodbyes, recovered my coat and hat, and followed him to his car.

  He didn’t speak at all, but we hadn’t gone far when I realized two things. One, we had just passed the sign that pointed to the Black House Village, and two, he exactly fitted the description of the man Mrs. Waring said had pretended to be a police officer and who had picked up Joan’s suitcase. What the hell! Was I being abducted? I looked out the window. We were travelling at a normal speed but trying to jump out would be foolhardy.

  “Didn’t we just pass the turnoff to the Black House Village?”

  He nodded. “There’s a smaller one at Arnol. It hasn’t been converted into swanky cottages, so I thought it would give you a more authentic picture. And it’s on the way.”

  Okay. But he was bloody tense, I could feel it. We were heading along the road towards the scene of the accident, and along this stretch of road there were no houses, the only life, placid sheep cropping the grass.

  “Do you know somebody by the name of Joan Morris?” I asked, deciding action was better than not.

  “Can’t say I do.”

  I was watching his hands on the steering wheel, and I saw the tightening of his grip. Almost as good as a polygraph test. He was lying.

  “She was involved in an accident right near here. Mrs. Sarah MacDonald was her passenger, and they went off the road.”

  “Terrible thing, that.”

  I turned my head to look at him, while he stared straight ahead. “Joan Morris is my mother. That’s why I’m here.”

  “Is that so?” His tone was without inflection. He knew that already. His complete lack of surprise was unnatural. My heart was starting to beat faster, and I casually moved my hand to the seatbelt release. We rounded the bend where the car had crashed, but he didn’t slow down or comment and continued on. Then, less than five hundred metres on, he slowed and made a sharp turn onto a narrow, unpaved road. A big wooden sign said, MACKENZIE’S COLLIES. There was a picture of a border collie facing a sheep.

  “Where are we going?”

  “I just have to stop at my house and pick up a present for the baby. I almost forgot. Won’t take a minute.”

  The road dipped down towards the sea. I could see the roof and chimney of a house nestled at the tip of an inlet. There were no other houses in sight. I released the seat belt, holding it at the ready.

  “Do you like music?” he asked suddenly

  “Excuse me?”

  We made another turn onto a long driveway. A dozen sheep were penned on the right, and on the left was an empty enclosure.

  “I bet you like ABBA. I bet you grew up dancing to their music.”

  I can’t tell you how bizarre this conversation sounded. MacKenzie was speaking in such an odd way, tense and jerky. He pulled up in front of the house. I let go of the belt, opened the door, and jumped out of the car. I was on the verge of throwing all civility to the wind and making a run for it, when he leaned over and said, “Does your mother know?”

  I gaped.

  “That’s the name of the song. ‘Does Your Mother Know?’ I bet you danced to that. Am I right?”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  MacKenzie was staring at me.

  “Am I right?” he said again. “One of your favourite songs, isn’t it?”

  “Where is she?” I asked. “Is she still alive?”

  He nodded, looking less crazed. “She’s inside. She asked me to get you.”

  The front door of the house opened and four border collies spilled out, bounding over to meet us with tails wagging. A plump woman in dark glasses with bleached-blonde hair came to the doorway. She was wearing jeans and a sweater that sported an image of a border collie on the front. A tartan scarf was wrapped around her lower face as if she were suffering from a toothache. She gave a tentative wave. It was Joan, and I wouldn’t have known her. I was flooded with feelings so tumultuous I could hardly breathe: relief, rapidly followed by anger. Fury, to be precise.

  “Let’s go in,” said MacKenzie.

  We had to push aside the exuberant dogs, who then peeled off and went to explore some essential thing. Joan retreated inside the house while Duncan ushered me in. I registered a hazy impression of a modern bungalow, white walls and light-coloured furniture, a smell of damp dogs.

  Joan was standing with her back to me, looking out of the far window in a way that reminded me of Lisa staring out at the sea at Tormod’s cottage.

  “Hi, Joan,” I said, and she turned around. Now I could see what she had been trying to hide. The scarf had dropped and the left side of her face was swollen and a livid bruise splotched her jaw. Her bottom lip was split.

  “I understand you had a car accident.” I knew my voice was thick with sarcasm, barely containing my anger, and she flinched away from it.

  “I wasn’t drinking, Chris. I know I wasn’t drinking.”

  Duncan was right behind me.

  “She was knocked unconscious. She banged up her leg, too. Show her.”

  Obediently, Joan rolled up the bottom of her jeans and revealed her shin, which had an angry-looking lump and a long, ugly bruise the colour of ink.

  I gave the injury an insultingly brief glance. “You do know that the police are looki
ng for you, don’t you? Your passenger died. You disappeared. Not good choices, Joan, not good.”

  We stared at each other in the old familiar way, like two fighters trying to find the right balance so we could parry the next blow. I could see the flash of anger on her face, too. MacKenzie pulled out a dining-room chair and perched on the edge.

  “I’ll explain everything in a minute,” said Joan, “but I’m just glad to see you, Chris. I couldn’t believe it when Duncan told me he’d met you on the moor. What a shock. How did they get hold of you?”

  “The usual way. Your ID was still in the car and the police found my number as next of kin. I was actually attending a conference in Edinburgh.”

  “Really! Then you were quite close. This side of the pond anyway.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Well, thanks for coming.” She glanced at me timorously. “You must have been worried.” She seemed almost afraid to say that, in case I hadn’t cared.

  I didn’t answer. She touched her bruised chin cautiously. “I was lucky.”

  Duncan had been watching us with the concentration of a referee. “Tell you what. Why don’t I make us all a nice cuppa? Christine, come and sit at the table.”

  He pulled out a second chair with a gallant gesture, which irritated the hell out of me. I was sick of pretending this was all business as usual, a happy reunion between a mother and daughter. However, I couldn’t refuse without being a complete boor. I sat down.

  He chuckled. “You must have wondered what was happening when I was driving here. You looked like you thought I was kidnapping you.”

  “It did cross my mind.”

  “I wasn’t sure how you’d react,” said Joan. “whether you’d come or... send for the police or what. So I told Duncan to offer to show you the village or something like that and then to give you a sort of code so you’d know it was really me he was bringing you to. I thought that song was a good one. Only you and me’d know about that dancing.”