Authors: Frederic Lindsay
'Irene?'
His
mother
surprised
him.
'You're
the
detective.
I'm
only
an
old
woman.
She
is
a
good
wife
for
Malcolm
–
he
needs
someone
to
give
him
a
push,
he's
not
as
confident
as
he
seems
–
but
she
isn't
a
lady.
I
wish
she
was.'
A
memory
had
made
him
smile
.
'Do
you
remember,
years
ago,
when
the
plane
crashed
on
Breagda?
There
was
no
one
on
the
island –
you
had
all
left
it
long
before
and
so
though
they
searched
it
was
weeks
before
they
found
him.
He
had
been
alone
piloting
his
own
plane
.
That
seemed
marvellous
to
me,
to
have
your
own
plane,
to
be
as
rich
as
that.
But
I
overheard
you
saying
to
my
father,
“
oh,
he
was
not
one
of
the
gentry.
No.
He
was
just
an
ordinary
fellow”.’
'I
know
what
I
mean
even
if
you
can't
see
it,'
Mother
said. 'Behind
all
her
airs,
there's
a
common
woman.'
Now
they
had
come,
she
hurried
them
to
the
table.
She
kept
the
flat
tidy
and
resented
the
woman
whom
the
brothers
paid
to
come
in
twice
a
week.
She
cooked
for
herself
and
enjoyed
preparing
these
Sunday
lunches.
There
was
soup
first
and
then
sliced
ham
with
peas,
tomatoes,
potato
crisps
of
which
she
was
fond.
Malcolm
had
developed
the
habit
of
bringing
a
bottle
of
wine
and
he
would
open
it
and
set
it
on
the
table,
pouring
a
glass
for
his
mother,
Irene
and
himself.
To
Murray,
who
remembered
an
earlier
time,
his
mother
raising
the
wine
glass
to
her
lips,
the
slight
flush
that
coloured
her
cheeks,
gave
him
a
sense
of
unreality
.
For
Malcolm,
born
at
the
junction
time
of
his
father's
death,
it
was
different
.
'Pull
your
chair
in,'
Mother
said.
She
insisted
on
serving
the meal
herself.
'You've
pushed
your
seat
back,
and
I
can't
get
past
you.'
The
soup
had
been
eaten,
and
now
she
brought
through
their plates,
the
portions
decided,
there
was
no
question
of
setting
out
bowls
from
which
they
could
choose.
She
gave
more
to
the
men,
and
if
one
slice
seemed
sappier,
more
succulent,
it
might
be
that
it
went
to
her
younger
son.
For
herself,
she
was
at
an
age
when
a
little
would
satisfy
her,
but
she
expected
each
of
their
plates
to
be
cleared
.
'It's
the
piano,'
Murray
said,
hitching
his
chair
forward.
'I
don't
know
why
you
keep
it,'
Malcolm
said.
'There
would
be
plenty
of
room
if
you
got
rid
of
it,
Mother.'
Irene,
however,
was
not
to
be
diverted.
'I
don't
know
why
it should
make
you
so
angry,'
she
said,
accepting
her
plate
.
'Usually
you
like
him;
I've
heard
you
laughing
aloud
while
you
read
him
.
'
'It
didn't
make
me
angry,'
Malcolm
said.
'Angry,
for
God's
sake!'
His
face
had
gone
red
.
'You
asked
me
to
read
it –
I
read
it. You're
the
one
who's
fascinated
by
it.'
Murray
didn't
have
to
ask;
before
Irene
spoke,
looking
across
the
table
at
him
and
smiling,
he
knew.
'Did
you
read
it
yesterday,
Murray?
What
that
friend
of
yours
wrote
in
his
column?'
Mother
rested
her
hand
on
Malcolm's
shoulder
.
'What
friend is
that,
Murray?'
'Billy
Shanks,'
he
told
her,
but
without
taking
his
eyes
from
the
younger
woman.
'Murray
knows
someone
famous,'
Irene
said
laughing
.
'Yet
I
had
never
heard
of
him
till
I
came
here.
He's
famous
here.'
'Famous!'
Mother
exclaimed
in
what
sounded
like
contempt.
While
her
husband
was
alive,
she
had
lived
in
isolated
places
.
She
had
never
acquired
the
habit
of
newspapers.
Now
she
was
addicted
to
television
.
Only
someone
who
appeared
on
television
could
be
famous.
'A
man
was
killed,'
Irene
said
.
Sitting
opposite,
Murray
saw
a
circle
of
light
surrounding
her
.
The
sun
had
found
a
gap
in
a
drifting
sky
of
clouds,
and
struck
into
this
room
in
the
cliff
wall
of
the
high-rise
to
surround
her
with
its
dazzling
brightness.
Like
an
actor
picked
out
upon
a
stage,
she
cried
to
them,
'He
was
found dead
in
Moirhill
–
near
where
Murray
used
to
live
–
where
he
became
friends
with
the
famous
Billy
Shanks.
Years
ago.
After
you
ran
away
from
home,
Murray
–
when
you
were
only
a
boy,
really.'