by M C Beaton
“But someone else must have the key,” said Alison, her voice taking on the shrill note of the coward trying to be assertive.
“No,” said the Highland maiden patiently. “Only one person has the key! You see,” she went on with mad logic, “if anything goes missing, we’ve only the one person to blame.”
Alison’s lips trembled. “I want my keys.”
“I’ll see if the sergeant can do anything.” The girl stubbed out her cigarette and disappeared. After a few moments, the sergeant came back with her. Again Alison told her story and again heard the tale of the one person with the key.
“But I live in Lochdubh. I must get home.” Alison was becoming terrified. What if Maggie should phone or, even worse, turn up in person?
“Now, now, we’ll do our best.” He called into the back of the police station and another policeman, seemingly of more senior rank, appeared.
“Och, I think we can help you,” he said, and then as Alison watched, he took off his tunic and rolled up his sleeves. The sergeant produced a wire coat hanger which he proceeded to unravel, and then both policemen began to fish down the letter box, rather like schoolboys fishing down a drain and with as many chuckles, and “a wee but mair tae yer right, Frank,” and other jolly words of encouragement.
After half an hour – the Highland police force has endless patience – the door to the police station opened and a young man rushed in. He had hair en brosse, a gold earring, and a desperate expression on his face. He tried to get attention but failed because the policemen were too busy fishing.
Control yourself, said Alison’s inner voice. It’s not the end of the world. It’s only car keys. This poor man looks as if he’s here to report a murder. Aloud, she said to the young man. “Ring the bell on the wall.”
He did and the sergeant turned reluctantly from the letter box. “What do you want?”
“Can I use your toilet?” asked the young man.
“Sure. Through there.”
“This is madness!” howled Alison. “Look, give me the address of whoever has the key and I will take a taxi there and pick it up.”
“It’s twenty miles out on the Black Isle.”
“I don’t care,” said Alison, tears of frustration standing out in her eyes.
“Och, you English are always that impatient,” said the sergeant with a grin. “But we’ve got things in hand. We’ve sent out for a magnet.”
The girl of the reception and the cigarettes had returned. “A magnet!” said Alison. The girl avoided her eyes and pretended to read some papers.
Another half-hour passed by while night fell outside and Alison tried not to scream at the forces of law and order and then suddenly a cheer went up. “Got ‘em!”
“There you are,” said the sergeant. “There was nothing for you to get upset about, now was there?”
But ungrateful Alison simply snatched the keys out of his hand and ran out without a word of thanks.
Her face tense under the glare of the sodium street lights, she walked back through the deserted streets to the car park. Dingwall, like most Highland towns, had closed down for the night. No one will believe this, she thought, it’s cloud cuckoo land.
She got into the car, switched on the lights, and began the long drive home. Night driving was misery to Alison. Approaching headlamps seemed to draw her like a moth and she kept having to twitch the wheel nervously to make sure she kept to the correct side of the road. By the time she finally parked in Lochdubh and got out of the car, her legs were trembling and she was afraid she would fall.
She rang the police station bell but Hamish had seen her coming and was lying down behind his living room sofa, waiting for her to go away.
Sadly, Alison went home. It had been a nightmare. Driving was a nightmare. She would never get back behind the wheel again.
But no sooner had she managed to park the car neatly in the garage than she found herself already restless for a new day, a day that would contain her two favourite obsessions – driving and Hamish Macbeth.
♦
Priscilla climbed aboard the Highland Chieftain, the train which was to take her from Inverness to London. Outside the snow had begun to fall and inside, the air conditioning was blasting away. She had complained before about the freezing temperature on British Rail trains and so knew she had no chance of getting any heat. She wondered savagely if the anti-pollution campaigners had thought of doing anything about British Rail. The employees, reflected Priscilla, were so bloody rude that most people preferred to drive and pollute the air rather than go by train. It was rather like entering a Kafkaesque state where ordinary laws, rules, and courtesies did not apply. The motto of British Rail should be “Sod the Public,” thought Priscilla, standing up to get down a travelling case and find an extra sweater.
She sat down again and looked out of the window and there, strolling along the platform, came Hamish Macbeth. She waved to him and he climbed aboard the train and handed her a travelling rug. “Thought you might be cold,” he said.
“Oh, Hamish, how sweet of you!” Priscilla put the rug over her knees. “Did you come all this way just to see me off?”
“Och, no, I haff the police business in Inverness.”
“And what police business do you have that the Inverness police cannot cope with?”
“It’s a secret,” said Hamish stiffly. “Have a good trip and I will be seeing you in the summer.”
He turned about and marched off the train.
I’ve offended him, thought Priscilla miserably, of course he wouldn’t come just to see me off but even if he did, I shouldn’t have said so. Then she noticed the travelling rug was thickly covered in dog hairs and it also smelt of dog. Poor Towser. Priscilla stroked the blanket. I hope he doesn’t miss his rug too much.
Hamish walked angrily out of the station. What on earth had made him drive all the way to Inverness just to say goodbye to Priscilla? The fact was, he suddenly thought, stopping dead in his tracks and oblivious to curious stares, he missed being in love with her. He had only been hoping to stir up a few embers. And imagine giving away poor old Towser’s favourite rug.
“Better buy the smelly mongrel a new one,” he said aloud, “or he’ll be mad at me for weeks.”
He looked down and found a small middle-aged woman looking up at him curiously.
“Can I help you, madam?” he demanded, awfully.
The woman sniffed and then said, “I’m thinking ye could do wi’ a bit o’ help yersel’, laddie, staunin’ there mumbling.”
Hamish walked on, pink with irritation.
Damn all women!
∨ Death of a Hussy ∧
4
I’d be a butterfly, living like a rover,
Dying when fair things are fading away.
—T. H. BAYLY
Spring comes late to the Highlands, turning Sutherland into a blue and misty landscape; light blue rain-washed skies, far away mountains of a darker blue, cobalt blue sea.
And always through the glory of the awakening world drove Alison Kerr, propelled by her obsession with the car. She kept away from Hamish Macbeth, being of the timid nature which prefers love long distance. It was all too easy to understand he was not interested in her when she was with him; but easy to dream that he really was in love with her after all when he was absent.
So Alison was happier than she had ever been in her life. There was the magnificent stark beauty of Sutherland, the car, the cosy, practical mothering of Mrs. Todd, the car, Hamish Macbeth, the car, no Maggie, and the car, which she had come to regard as her own.
She privately called the car “Rover,” imagining it to be like a faithful and affectionate dog.
And then as spring gave way to early summer and great splashes of bell heather coloured the mountains and the nights were long and light, those northern nights where it hardly ever gets really dark, back into this paradise came Maggie Baird, although no one, not even Alison, recognised her at first.
She was sv
elte and beautiful with golden hair in a soft, clever style and a wardrobe of clothes by Jean Muir. She had high cheekbones and her eyes were large and very blue. She walked into the kitchen where Alison was having coffee with Mrs. Todd and stood for a moment, relishing the dawning surprise on both faces.
“Yes, it’s me,” she said triumphantly, if ungrammatically,
“It can’t be,” breathed Alison. “I wouldn’t have known you. What have you done to yourself?”
“Best health farm and best plastic surgeon,” said Maggie, who had also acquired a new husky voice. “Gosh, it’s good to be back in Peasantville. Take my coat, Mrs. Todd. I’m expecting four guests tomorrow so I want you to get the beds ready. Hang that coat up and come back and I’ll tell you about it.”
Alison looked at the beautiful Maggie in a dazed way. Maggie, she reflected, was like a highly coloured butterfly that had emerged from a chrysalis of fat. Then sharp anguish struck Alison around the region of the midriff. The car! What would happen to her driving?
“Who are these four guests?” she asked instead.
“They are four fellows I used to know,” said Maggie, stretching and yawning. “I’ve decided the single state doesn’t suit me so I went through my old lists and came up with four who are likely to propose. There’s Peter Jenkins, he’s an advertising executive, Crispin Witherington who owns a car salesroom in Finchley, James Frame who runs a gambling club, and that pop singer, Steel Ironside.”
“I thought he was dead,” said Alison.
“Who?”
“Steel Ironside. He hasn’t made a record in years.”
“He’s alive, all right.”
“And you expect one of them to propose to you just like that?”
Maggie smiled slowly while Alison studied her aunt’s new face for wrinkles and couldn’t find one. “I expect all of them to propose. Oh, I don’t rate my charms all that much. They all need money and whichever one marries me will get it and so I’ll tell ‘em. Cuts you out, of course.”
“How does it cut me out?” asked Alison.
“Oh, I’d made my will out in your favour but I’ll change it as soon as I’ve made my choice.”
“How’s your heart?” asked Alison and then blushed.
“Hoping I’ll pop off before I change my will? Hard luck, sweetie.”
Mrs. Todd came back and Maggie began to tell her briskly what to do about preparing for the guests. If only Maggie would drop dead, thought Alison fiercely, it would all be mine, the house and the car and Mrs. Todd.
She longed for Hamish. In fact the only thing to lighten her misery at Maggie’s return was that it gave her a good excuse to visit Hamish. But, oh, that dreadfully long, long walk along the coast now that she could not use the car.
“Have you finished typing that manuscript for me?” Alison suddenly realised Maggie was speaking to her.
“Yes, it’s all typed up,” said Alison, quickly averting her eyes so that Maggie should not see the disgust in them. The manuscript had become increasingly pornographic as it went along. Until she had read Maggie’s book, Alison, who read a great deal, had thought that she knew every sexual kink and aberration there was, but Maggie’s writing had introduced her to a whole new and disgusting world of sleaze. Then Alison decided to take the plunge. Better to ask Maggie about the car, this new and relaxed Maggie, and to ask her while Mrs. Todd was present.
“I’ve a surprise for you, Maggie,” she said in a breathless rush. “I passed my driving test while you were away.” The words began to tumble out. It wasn’t Mrs. Todd’s fault. She, Alison, had told her that she had had Maggie’s permission to use the car, but Alison knew that dear Maggie wouldn’t really mind because…
Her voice trailed away before the glacial expression in Maggie’s now beautiful and large blue eyes.
“That is my car,” said Maggie, “and you are not to touch it again, d’ye hear? Now I am going down to the village to stun them all with my new appearance. I may even drop in and try my hand with that copper, and while I’m gone, I suggest you start earning your keep by helping Mrs. Todd with the preparations.”
She strode out, tottering slightly on her very high heels.
A few minutes later, there came the harsh sound of revving from the garage. Alison crossed to the kitchen window and looked out.
Maggie drove out of the garage. The entrance to the bungalow garden was narrow and flanked by two gateposts. As Alison watched, Maggie scraped the car along one of the gateposts on her way out. Alison let out a whimper of pain as if the car were a pet dog which was being tormented.
Mrs. Todd’s calm Scottish voice sounded behind her. “I think we’d better be getting on with our work, Miss Kerr. I do not need the help but it would be as well to keep herself happy on her first day back.”
Alison moved through the housework, feeling as though she were one mass of pain. That precious car that she had polished and waxed and oiled! Tears began to run down her face. She prayed to all the gods to strike Maggie Baird down.
“Come on now, lassie,” said Mrs. Todd. “If I was you, I would be getting the local papers and looking for a wee job. Take ye out o’ the house until you get on your feet.”
“How can I take a local job when I haven’t a car?” sobbed Alison.
“If ye’re that desperate,” said Mrs. Todd grimly, “ye’ll walk. It’s only fifteen miles to the village.”
But fifteen miles to town-bred Alison seemed impossible. She had done it once to go to ask Hamish about driving lessons. But to do it every day!
♦
It comes as quite a shock to the respectable female to find that quite ordinary and decent-looking men frequent tarts. When Alison first met Maggie’s four guests she was surprised to find that, with the exception of the failed pop singer, they all looked normal and ordinary. The fact that Maggie, in the old days, had been what would have been called a high flyer or good-time girl did not cut any ice with Alison. She had read Maggie’s manuscript and knew what she had got up to between the sheets – or in the woods, or up against walls, or on yachts – and did not realise that Maggie’s less-exotic liaisons had all been pretty normal and regular.
Crispin Witherington, the owner of the car sales room, was middle-aged, like the others. He had that glossy artificial look which comes from a lot of gin and saunas. He was slightly balding, with black restless eyes, a small button of a nose, and a prim little mouth. He was expensively if tastelessly dressed, his double-breasted blazer with some impossible crest draped across his stomach and the flowered handkerchief in his breast pocket matching his flowered tie.
James Frame, from the gambling club, was tall and willowy and rabbity looking. He had a strangulated voice and appeared to cultivate a ‘silly ass’ manner which he fondly imagined to be upper class. He had patent leather hair and smelled strongly of expensive aftershave.
The pop singer remained frozen in the age of Sergeant Pepper. He had grey shoulder-length hair, small half-moon glasses, a denim jacket and jeans, a flowered waistcoat with watch chain, and red leather shoes. He spoke with a strong Liverpudlian accent, nasal and irritating to the ear and somehow slightly phony as if he had adopted it during the Beatles era.
Finally, the advertising man, Peter Jenkins, was tall and fair with a thin, clever, rather weak face and a drawling voice. In normal circumstances, Alison would have been impressed by him, but as it was, Maggie’s bedroom antics came between her and her assessment of the four men although not one of them had featured in the memoirs.
The men all talked about their surprise at getting Maggie’s invitation and how marvellous she looked, while Maggie fluted and cajoled and flattered, exuding that air of maternal warmth that she seemed able to turn on at will. They all, with the exception of Maggie who had a salad and Alison who was too distressed to feel hungry, ate their way through an enormous meal.
It was when they were sitting over coffee after dinner that Maggie casually announced that she wanted to get married again and that any husban
d of hers would find himself a very rich man, “and probably sooner than he thinks,” said Maggie, one hand fluttering to her bosom. “Got this terrible dicky heart.”
It was all very neat, thought Alison, sensing the sudden stillness in the room. Maggie had said it all. She was rich and she hadn’t long to live. Then the conversation became general as the men began to reminisce about old friends and acquaintances.
Maggie was the centre of attention. She was wearing a clinging dinner gown in a soft material. It was smoky blue and she was wearing a fine sapphire and diamond necklace. The skirt of the gown was folded over so that when she sat, she revealed one long leg encased in a gossamer fine stocking. Her breasts, expertly reduced in size, were displayed to advantage by the low neck of the gown. She was playful, she was amusing, she was teasing, and she threw only a few barbed remarks in Alison’s direction. But she did order Alison around. “Fetch Peter a drink,” or, “Move that ashtray nearer Crispin.”
But as the evening wore on, the tension in the air grew, and the men, with the exception of Peter Jenkins, the advertising executive, began to vie for Maggie’s attention. Maggie persuaded Steel to get his guitar and perform. The pop singer returned with an electric guitar. While he was singing what seemed to be a protest song, Maggie began to tear up little pieces of paper napkin and pass them around to the other three men to use as earplugs. Fortunately for Steel, he was too absorbed in his performance to notice his audience was sniggering. Alison found it all very unpleasant. Her head ached. She mourned her lost days of freedom. She hadn’t been able to bear to look at the car when Maggie had brought it home, a Maggie full of stories about how Hamish Macbeth had called her “a miracle.”
The guests, fortunately, were tired after their journeys and an early night was proposed. Fully dressed, Alison lay in bed, waiting until she heard the large bungalow settling into silence. Then she rose and put on her coat and went downstairs and out to the garage. She opened the small side door, switched on the light and stood looking at the little red car. There was a vicious scrape along the right side. Alison began to cry in a dreary, hopeless sort of way. She had to get away from Maggie, but how could she find the strength to make the first move?