A Kind of Grief (7 page)

A few days later, when Dougald Forsythe telephoned, Joanne was surprised. And wary. But after the long phone call, she felt enchanted.

“Hello, the McAllister household.”

“May I speak to Joanne Ross?”

“Speaking.”

“Dougald Forsythe, Glasgow College of Art and the
Glasgow Herald
here.”

“Oh. Hello. I've heard about you.”

“Aye, people who are educated know of my work.” He laughed, and she thought he might be tipsy. “I'm calling to introduce myself and to ask if I can check your article before it's published. Not that I think it will need changing. Sandy told me you're an experienced journalist, but . . .”

He blethered on, boasting of his role as arbiter of art for the Scottish nation.

He must have heard her sigh, as he stopped and turned on the charm. “So, Joanne, I hear you're a real writer, not just a small-town journalist.”

“Don't know about that,” she said, “but yes, I'm hoping to publish a novel.” She had no idea why she'd said this and was immediately cross with herself for sharing her ambitions. So she told him of her meeting with Alice, her delight at Alice's home, her work, and her kindness.

He listened, commented on her observations, and commended her appreciation of the paintings. “Not many recognize real artistic merit, especially when the artist is a woman.”

When she put down the phone, she couldn't decide whether to be flattered or furious. “Condescending” was one word that came to mind. And “charming.” So why she was suspicious of him she had no idea. Then telling herself not to be so distrustful, she went back to baking a Victoria sponge cake.

That Saturday, a week earlier than Joanne had expected, an article on Alice Ramsay was published in the
Herald
.

McAllister spotted it first. Breakfast finished, on his second cup of espresso made in the stovetop machine—a much-appreciated wedding present from their friends the Corelli family—he was reading the Glasgow newspaper.

“See the Forsythe character is stirring it up again: ‘neglected women artists.' He's right, but he leaves you wondering if he's only out to impress his female students.”

“Meow.” Joanne laughed, making a clawing gesture with her hands.

“He has a lot to say about the Sutherland trial, specially his part in defending a poor misunderstood woman artist: ‘defending her from the uneducated gossips of a small Highland community.' That won't go down well.”

“Let me see.” She grabbed the newspaper from across the table, skim-read the piece, then, staring at her husband, exhaled loudly. “How dare he! The man is appalling.”

“His writing is a bit florid, I'll grant you, but—”

She scanned the article again. “He's named her. He's identified her, made clear where she lives. He's stirred up the witch accusation, sensationalized the trial. All this is yet more gossip, a repetition of the ridiculous charges in the guise of defending an artist. It is everything Alice wants to avoid.” She read the piece again. “Some of these lines . . .” The newspaper was trembling. “He used me. He asked about her house, the glen, and her connection with the community. He told me he wanted a better picture of an artist's life but only as background. I fell for it. I betrayed her. ”

McAllister put a hand on her arm. “Joanne, it's not your fault. You weren't to know he—”

She ignored him. “No. I promised Alice Ramsay I'd never identify her, never publish anything without her say-so. Reading this, Miss Ramsay will know the information came from me, know I'm just as much a gossip as those who accused her of witchcraft.”

“Maybe Forsythe visited Alice after the trial and noted those details himself.”

“No, he said he'd never been to the glen. That's why he needed me to describe it.”

She remembered Forsythe's charm offensive:
I've read your work; Sandy speaks highly of you; neglected women artists; time they were recognized; my article needs a female input.
And she'd fallen for it.

“He even describes the William Morris cushion covers. I only mentioned them because I wanted to buy the same fabric.” And she had been showing off her recognition of Morris's work.

The second half of the article concerned the court case, how, by appearing as the star witness at her trial, one Dougald Forsythe, hero, connoisseur, and art expert, had single-handedly rescued Alice Ramsay both in the sheriff's court and in the court of public opinion.

“The cheek of the man!” Joanne exclaimed. “Look how he mocks the locals.”

“It is obvious the local judiciary knows nothing of art,” he wrote in one nasty paragraph that parodied the sheriff and his questions. He described the local community as insular, stuck in the Middle Ages.

“How dare he repeat that nonsense about Alice being a witch!” Joanne's cheeks were burning with fury. “I told him clearly that the sheriff dismissed the husband's accusations as malicious.

“There was a headline using that word in the local paper,” McAllister pointed out.

“Aye, and again it was
me
who told Forsythe about that.” Joanne was so ashamed she'd been hoodwinked, she could say little more.

McAllister took the newspaper from her. “To any intelligent reader, it's clear Forsythe's aim is to show how he, the great art critic, rescued a woman artist from the ignorant populace of the Highlands.”

“I can see that. But the details of Alice Ramsay's life up the glen came from me. How could I be so stupid?”

“I'll talk to Sandy.”

“No! I was the one commissioned to write a piece. I'll phone Sandy.”

McAllister nodded. Seeing how upset Joanne was, knowing how much she wanted to have her work published, he felt sorry for his best friend. “He won't be at work until Monday morning.”
Just as well
, he was thinking.
Joanne can put the fear of the Wee Man into the best of us when she's riled.

Annie came into the kitchen. “Mum, we're off to the Saturday matinee.” Then she stared. “Have you two been fighting?”

“No.” Joanne realized she was too abrupt. “No. It's just some idiot man who used my information in his work without my permission.”

Annie shrugged. “When I grow up, women will do the same jobs as men, only better.”

Joanne snorted. “Aye, that'll be the day.”

Over the weekend she stewed on Forsythe's article. Many times she came to the same conclusion: she had been gossiping on the telephone, and in doing so she had betrayed Alice Ramsay. Do as you would be done by. That was how Joanne tried to live her life.
And I failed.

On Monday morning, McAllister telephoned Sandy Marshall. A hatchet job, McAllister called the article, “an exercise in self-promotion at the expense of a woman who has already been crucified by some in the local community.”

Sandy agreed. “I don't know how it was passed, but it was not the article I read.” McAllister knew some poor subeditor would pay for the oversight.

“Disaster” was Joanne's word when she spoke to Sandy.

“Smug, self-satisfied, full-o'-himself wee shite” were some of the words Sandy used. “He's finished,” was the editor's pronouncement on the fate of Dougald Forsythe.

Not that that was any comfort, Joanne decided. She'd already lost any chance of friendship with a fascinating woman. And lost her self-respect. “I'm sorry for being upset with you, Sandy. McAllister did say there would be an explanation.”

“I'd never have published if I'd seen it before it went to print. No excuse, I know, and I can't apologize enough.” He'd promised not to tell Joanne that he'd already had a blast from McAllister over the article.
Not what I need first thing Monday morning.

“Sorry, I should have trusted you.” Another “sorry.” She knew she should stop apologizing.

“I know what I'd like to do to that man . . .”

She listened. Then began to giggle. “No, Sandy! You can't send his you-know-whats in a parcel. My postie might guess. Or the cat. She'd definitely sniff them out.”

On Tuesday morning, the letter with a Sutherland postmark arrived. Joanne instantly knew whom it was from. She took it into the sitting room. She sat in the big armchair with the high back and deep arms, a chair that gave a sense of support, of safety. She took the folded page out. Took a deep breath. Opened it. It was all she had dreaded. And more.

Joanne,
it began—no date, no address, no “Dear.”

The newspaper article has caused me great distress. It has also revived the gossip about myself. Again I have to put up with strangers and neighbors and acquaintances discussing me, my life, my past, my reasons for living here, alone, in a remote glen.

On closer reading of the offensive piece, I have detected details that few could have known about, such as the paintings on the walls of my home.

Only you could have provided the author of this piece with such details, which he has used to illustrate his self-aggrandizing article.

I thought better of you.

Please do not reply. Please do not contact me again.

Alice Ramsay.

That phone call, Joanne was thinking. The way he'd charmed her. The way she'd fallen for it. And he'd promised—“cross my heart and hope to die,” he'd said when she'd told him, twice, that he could never use Alice's name or identify her whereabouts.

What was I thinking?

The phone rang out. “Yes?” She didn't mean to be abrupt, but she was feeling . . . abrupt.

“Calum Mackenzie here. Sorry, is this a bad time?”

“Sorry. I thought it might be someone else.” Not that the great Dougald Forsythe would ever apologize. “What can I do for you, Calum?”

“Thon article in the Glasgow newspaper, it's stirred up a lot of interest.”

“I can imagine.”

“And I'm hearing there might be some as want to stop Miss Ramsay from visiting the old folks, maybe even shopping at the local shops. Feelings are running high.” He didn't say it was his mother who wanted to ban Miss Ramsay from their premises, but for once, his father had stood up to his wife.