A Kind of Grief (21 page)

He watched her coat fly open, her hair escape the headscarf; he saw her skip off to join her children. Under the tunnel of barren trees, with the hushed roar of the river falling over the shallow weir filling his ears like a constant comforting tinnitus, he caught a distant glimpse of Annie's red jacket. As he watched Joanne and Jean shuffle through the dank carpet of leaves, he was engulfed by a happiness he had never previously known.
This is my family.

The week passed quickly for Joanne—an hour or so each day on Alice's manuscript, around two hours on her linked short stories in the not-totally-imagined world of a remote glen still stuck in a prewar time warp. How to use the subject of witches she could not fathom, so she wrote about what she called the Celtic Twilight, adjusting to the loss of the old ways, bracing itself for the coming decade of electricity and, maybe one day, television. It was a world she wanted to document before it disappeared entirely. Much as Alice had done in her paintings.

Do
not
lapse into Brigadoon
, she repeated to herself as she typed. Often. Much as she loved Gene Kelly, the Hollywood depiction of Scotland, with the fake accents and the terrible tartans, had her squirming in her cinema seat in embarrassment—unfortunately in the company of Rob MacLean, who'd laughed out loud at the more mawkish sequences, causing the woman in front to turn and shoosh him so often Joanne thought they'd be thrown out. Not a good look for representatives of the
Highland Gazette.

In between organizing the chapter layout, which was clearly scripted in Alice's notes, Joanne saw to the shepherd's pie or perhaps mince and tatties, or a pot roast, or bramble and apple crumble, or jam roly-poly. Cooking, washing, cleaning, ironing, mending and darning, checking the girls' homework—writing had to be fitted around the more important role of mother and housewife.

She joked with McAllister, “Unlike Mr. Wordsworth, I do not have a household of a devoted sister, wife, and helpers to allow me all the time in the world for art.”

He offered to pay for a housekeeper. She refused. “A weekly cleaner is all I need.”

She went over to her desk bureau, a lovely piece she had bought in the auction rooms in Church Street and restored with many sheets of medium, or fine sandpaper, and liberal applications of elbow grease. She took out her reporter's notebook. But her pencil remained in the pot. The notepad unopened.

“Alice,” she said aloud, “I know I wronged you. But I know you didn't kill yourself, and I can't let your death go. Please help me find who did it.”

The clock ticked. A car passed. A flicker out the corner of her eye startled her. Someone behind that cypress tree? The wind rattled windowpanes, shook the trees.
If we don't move house, that kirkyard tree comes down.
The girls came home. Then McAllister. And nighttime. And still no answer from Alice.

A
lice remembers Mrs. Mackenzie as an annoying child always on the edge of everything. In games in the woods and castle grounds, in the sand dunes, running and leaping, arms outstretched pretending to fly, she was the one who would complain about the sand down the back of her dress. On excursions up the glen to the waterfall, she was the one to complain the paths were too muddy, or too steep.

Father encouraged me to be friendly with the locals—as long as I didn't learn to talk like them. Or forget my manners. The summers were long, and boring, for an only child like me, so even though it was a long time ago and I hardly knew her, I remember her—Mackenzie was her maiden name as well as her married name—as someone to be pitied. Though why I couldn't exactly say.

At the end of the summer holidays, when we packed up to go back to London, Nanny McNeil would parcel up my old dresses and coats and give them to the Mackenzie family. “Always help those less fortunate than you,” she'd say.

Mrs. Mackenzie's grandmother was one of our housemaids, and her father worked on the estate. There was some scandal about him, but I never knew what, just some overheard remarks that meant little to me as a child, phrases hinting that he was “soft in the heid.” Father had explained, “He was never the same since he came back from the Somme.”

Now, knowing her present family circumstances, I pity her. But I've discovered, much to my detriment, just how dangerous she can be.

Frankie Urquhart, the
Gazette
advertising manager, found accommodation for Calum. It was off Island Bank Road, the route to the south side of Loch Ness. The short street ended at the rock face of the ridge above the river. With the castle to the left and the prison not far above, the small enclave of terraced and semidetached houses was within walking distance to the
Gazette
office and the town center.

A war widow ran the three-room boarding house, and Frankie knew she'd recently renewed her classified advertisement in the Rooms to Let section. “Respectable gentlemen only.”

Calum was delighted. Then terrified. He had only ever spent four nights away from home, at a Boy Scouts camp near Aviemore. Even then, his mother was one of the volunteers, helping with the cooking and general minding of seventy twelve- to fifteen-year-olds from all over the county.

Elaine had tried every which way to prevent her future mother-in-law from coming on the trip.

Calum agreed. “I'll tell her no,” he'd said.

“That'll be right,” she'd replied. To herself.

She'd also appealed to Mr. Mackenzie. Such a nice man, she always thought, but the way she treats him, no one blames him for straying. “I won't see Calum for weeks,” she'd told him. “It'd be really nice to have the day to ourselves.”

“Leave it with me,” he'd replied.

When Calum came to collect Elaine, Mrs. Mackenzie was in the front seat.

“Hello, Mrs. Mackenzie,” Elaine said through the front passenger door. “Are we dropping you off somewhere?”

“I'm coming to see ma boy settled in.”

“Really? And how will you get back?”

“The train.”

“Elaine is driving Dad's car back home. I told you, you can go with her,” Calum pointed out.

“It's no I don't trust you, dear, it's just I'm no keen on women drivers.”

Elaine saw how her less-than-full-sized fiancée was trying to disappear into the leather of the driver's seat. She saw how he couldn't look at her and how white his knuckles were as he held on to the steering wheel.
Poor Calum
. She refrained from making a sarcastic remark and resisted the urge to reach across and shake the woman.
His new job is step one in the escape plan
, she told herself,
so be nice.

Approaching the outskirts of the town after a mostly silent journey, Elaine said to Calum, “May as well open the present I got you.”

He glanced in the driving mirror.

She held up an envelope, with red ribbon around it and kisses and “S.W.A.L.K.” across the back. “It's a book of maps of the town and county.”

“I could have got you that,” Mrs. Mackenzie said.

“That's brilliant. Thanks, Elaine.” He was smiling that silly smile she loved. “Open it.”

Elaine blew him a kiss, opened the book, and found the map of the town. Using her forefinger, she traced the route to the boardinghouse. “Keep on the main road down Kenneth Street. Left at the T junction.” She continued, “Go straight ahead, and after crossing the river take a hard right.”

Mrs. Mackenzie was silent. From the set of her shoulders, Elaine could see she was in a huff and ignored her. Even Calum wasn't his usual “Are you all right, Mum? What's the matter, Mum?” Maybe he does see her tricks, her constant need for attention, Elaine thought.

“Now, follow the river, then turn left at the War Memorial, and left again. Then it's the third street on the right.” Before they stopped, she added, “Good location. Only a short walk to your new job.”

“If he lasts,” his mother muttered.

They heard. But didn't comment.

“I don't usually take young men,” the landlady told Calum. Examining Elaine—as though she was something the cat brought in, Elaine later joked—the landlady added, “And no female visitors allowed.”

“Don't worry, I live in Sutherland. I'm only helping my fiancé move in.”

“My Calum is a well-brought-up boy. He'd never dream of . . .” For once, Mrs. Mackenzie couldn't find a suitable word.

When the landlady showed him the cupboard containing the vacuum cleaner and the ironing board, Calum knew not to ask, in front of Elaine, how you worked an iron. The gas cooker, as ferocious a nightmare as a fire-breathing dragon, he instantly decided was not for him. As for the twin-tub washing machine, Mrs. Addison's instructions on its use were more complicated than a service manual for a Spitfire.

“Post your washing home,” his mother told him.

When he replied, “Thanks, Mum,” he caught the glance between landlady and fiancée and didn't care.

Lodging arrangements finalized and three suitcases lugged up three flights of stairs to the attic room, they went back to the car. Calum driving, Elaine navigating, Mrs. Mackenzie criticizing, the trio arrived at the McAllister residence, where they were expected for afternoon tea.

Joanne had invited Calum Mackenzie for a welcome tea, as she would any newcomer to the
Gazette.
When Calum asked, she said she would be delighted if Elaine joined them.

Annie answered the door. “Hello. Hiya, Calum. Come into the sitting room.”

“It's Mr. Mackenzie,” Mrs. Mackenzie said.

Annie pretended not to hear. She looked at Elaine saying, “Calum told us you're a nurse. My wee sister wants to be a nurse.”

Joanne had come into the hallway and watched as her daughter seized Elaine's hand and dragged her towards the dining room cum television room cum girl's den.

“Annie . . .” Joanne began.

“It's fine,” Elaine replied.

“I'll serve tea in a minute, so don't be long.”

A few minutes later, Joanne called out, “Elaine, can you give me a hand with the tea?”

“Your girls are lovely,” Elaine said as she helped butter the scones. “And so bright. All those questions took my mind off . . . family stuff.”

Joanne put her hand on Elaine's arm. “Poor you, is it really that bad?”

“Och, not really. I'm used to it. With Calum down here, well, I'm hoping we can escape her clutches.” Elaine looked around to see if any more help was needed. Spying the Dundee cake, she said, “Shall I cut it?”

“Please.”

“Aye, and what Mrs. Mackenzie doesn't know is that I've put in for a transfer to the hospital here.”

“It's your life.” Joanne did not want to become involved. Her own experience of families was mixed. Luckily, she adored McAllister's mother. “Elaine, I heard Miss Ramsay was cremated here in town. Did you know?”