Red Alert (12 page)

‘Is it something about Johnny?’ she cried out. ‘Has something happened to Johnny?’

He might have known that any bad news in the Price family was always connected with Johnny, and so Kirsty would know immediately. Not the horrific details, of course.

‘Darling,’ he said gently, ‘there’s been a car accident.’ He went over and gathered her up into his arms. ‘Johnny didn’t survive it.’

‘Johnny’s dead?’

‘Yes. I was on one of the engines that attended the accident. He was the only one in the car …’

‘But are you sure …’

‘Yes, darling. To everyone else it was a case of the victim being unrecognisable. But there’s absolutely no doubt in my mind, darling, it was Johnny at the wheel. You know how proud he was of that car. He’d never let anyone else drive it.’

She began to weep and moan.

‘Oh Johnny. Poor Johnny. He had such a difficult life. So much pain when he was a child and a teenager. He was only recently getting over all that. Oh Greg, how am I going to tell my mother? She loved him so much. She’ll be absolutely broken-hearted. It might even kill her. Oh Greg, I can’t bear it.’

He held her tightly and tried his best to soothe her.

Eventually he said, ‘Do you want me to tell her?’

‘No, I’m the one who should talk to her, but stay with me, please.’

‘Of course, darling. For as long as you like. Is your father in? He’s got to be told too.’

Her voice turned bitter. ‘Oh, he’s out drinking as usual. No doubt with some of his adoring fans. I can’t imagine him being broken-hearted when he hears that Johnny’s dead. He never had a good word to say about him.’

‘I think a lot of it is just his manner. He’s bound to have felt something for his son.’

Secretly Greg could understand Simon Price’s attitude. He could never have thought of a good word to say about Johnny Price himself. He had caused nothing but worry to Kirsty, and now the worry had been replaced by terrible grief.

So far, so good. Betty Powell kept mentally rubbing her hands in glee. Her mother was still in hospital and couldn’t talk. She prayed that the miserable, domineering old bitch would be silent for ever. Meantime, for the first time in her life, she was experiencing true freedom. She could get up when she wanted, go to bed when she wanted, eat what she wanted, drink what she wanted. She discarded the woollen cardigan her mother had bought her for a denim jacket and trousers instead. She even had a stylish short haircut. For the first time in her life, she bought and wore make-up. Not too much – just a little blusher and a touch of lipstick to give her pale face some colour, to liven it up a bit. She admired her appearance in the bedroom mirror and was hugely delighted. She looked a new woman. The next step was to return to the Art School. She had a lot of work to do before the show. It was quite a while away yet, but she would need the time to finish all the work she was supposed to include.

At the Art School show, everyone’s work would be displayed. Joiners and other workmen came and set up tables and shelves all over the place. Then paintings, sculptures, needlework, metalwork, stained glass, pottery – every aspect of the wonderful variety of art taught at the School – would be displayed. Then it would be judged and a notice would go up listing all the students and next to their names would be either a pass, or a failure to gain their degree.

Students always crowded round the board in an agony of suspense.

She told herself that she didn’t care whether she passed or failed. She could get a job somewhere, anywhere. Life had become a great adventure. But in truth, she had to admit she would prefer a pass. A degree would be something to be proud of and necessary to qualify her for a job as an art teacher, for instance. More than that, though, it would be such a terrific boost to her self-confidence and self-worth.

If she went back to the School now and worked hard, she could have enough to put in the show. She could just imagine her still life, her life modelling, all her paintings and other artwork proudly on display and crowds of people milling about admiring it, buying it even. The show was open to the public and was always well attended. Before it was opened to the public, of course, the relief at finishing the course and all the hard work it entailed was expressed in such a wild and reckless show of joy and celebration that the street had to be closed off to the public for their safety on the day the course finished.

Betty kept thinking about it and looking forward to it. She’d never bothered to think about it before. It would have been pointless. Because of the fear of her mother finding out about what she did at the School, she would have had to stay away and keep quiet about it.

Now, it was the danger of her mother recovering and returning home that she tried not to think about. If her mother’s voice recovered and she returned home, she would rage on endlessly at Betty. Her mother would never forgive her. Never in a million years.

‘You wicked creature!’ She could just imagine her mother saying it. ‘You will burn in hell for ever. You’re disgusting, an absolute disgrace.’ It would go on. And on. And on.

But then her new-found sensations of happiness and freedom would surge over her and she’d think, ‘Why should I care? Why should I even listen to her? I could just walk away, into another room, or leave the house and go to a cinema or to a café for a cup of coffee and some younger company.’ She didn’t even need to go straight home after her day at the Art School. She could go with the others to the CCA, where there was a nice café. Or even to one of the clubs she knew the others frequented.

Betty had always avoided even speaking to the others before. She’d felt it was pointless. She had felt so hopeless, guilty, intimidated and depressed. Now everything was different. They had always been friendly. It had been her own fault that they’d given up talking to her or bothering about her eventually. She felt sure that if she made the effort to be friendly now, they would respond.

She had behaved badly in other ways too, of course, and she deeply regretted her actions, especially about trying to cause a fire and stalking Greg. She wasn’t quite so sure that side of her behaviour would be so easily forgotten or forgiven.

But her fellow students were a good crowd, and if they saw that she was a changed character, hopefully they would understand and give her another chance.

Anyway, she couldn’t stay away from the School for ever. It was high time she returned to work and faced the music, whatever that might be.

As it turned out, everyone was surprisingly sympathetic.

‘How is your mother now, Betty? Is there any improvement?’

She explained about how her mother was still in hospital and how she’d lost the power of speech. She’d even said, ‘Thank goodness for that in a way. She was always nagging me and telling me what I had to do. When she does manage to talk again, I’ll never hear the end of how wicked I am, being in this class. She’ll tell me I’ll be going right down to burn in hell.’

They all laughed then. But it was kindly, sympathetic laughter. Hamish Ferguson said, ‘Gosh, Betty. She sounds even worse than my mother.’

Everything was all right after all. They chatted to her and she chatted to them. Perhaps a little too much at first, in her excitement at being able to talk at all. They didn’t seem to mind.

She went with them to the rec at break time and didn’t even feel unhappy or jealous about Sandra Matheson and Tommy Pratt looking so much in love. Though Tommy didn’t look so happy now. Indeed, he looked as hopeless and depressed as she used to feel. She teetered on the verge of speaking to him about it. Just in the nick of time, she controlled the urge. After all, it was none of her business. Tommy had Sandra to speak to him about whatever was bothering him and Sandra obviously cared about him.

But she wished Tommy well. Nobody, but nobody, should go through what she had gone through.

She knew it wasn’t going to be easy but she was determined that she was not going to go through it all again. She was free. She had a life now and she was going to live it.

Simon Price had to half-carry his wife to the funeral. They had all told her that she was not fit to attend, but she had tearfully insisted. ‘I have to say my last goodbye to my dear and loving son.’

It was a very moving service conducted by the Reverend Peter Gordon, and afterwards they returned to Botanic Crescent for a buffet meal that Kirsty had prepared beforehand. Now Sandra helped by putting the kettle on and making a pot of tea. It had been a small gathering with the family, Greg, Tommy and Sandra, and Paul and Renee. A few of Johnny’s young Goth friends had turned up at the church but had declined an invitation to come back to the house for tea.

‘We’d rather toast Johnny’s memory in his local,’ they said before slouching away.

Mrs Price still refused to go to bed for a rest. Kirsty could understand it in a way. It was safer to remain in the company of friends and family for as long as possible, rather than be alone with her grief. Once alone, it could become unbearable. Kirsty was dreading it herself. Greg was on night duty and had to leave immediately after the meal, but he promised to return to see her early the next day. She was taking one or two mornings off work and so wouldn’t see him at the station. After tomorrow, though, she had to at least think of returning to work. Her mother assured her that she would be all right after that.

Of course, they both knew that neither of them would ever get over their grief. It would only become more manageable as time passed. Now they chatted in an almost normal, even cheerful way, over the meal. They tried their best to hang on to the company of the others for as long as possible, both secretly dreading being on their own when bedtime came. Kirsty would be alone. At least her mother had her father, but in another single bed, and the two beds were separated by a large chest of drawers. Anyway, her mother knew only too well how critical he had always been of Johnny. She could just imagine him believing the accident had been Johnny’s own fault. But he had the decency not to say so – so far.

To all appearances, her father had tried to be supportive of her mother. Kirsty had been sarcastic and bitter to Greg about this but he didn’t understand.

‘Darling, Johnny was his son. He’s bound to be suffering …’

‘Suffering?’ she echoed. ‘He never had a good word to say about Johnny. He never cared about him.’

‘Now, you don’t know that, Kirsty. Some people just can’t show emotion. Men are especially bad at that. But it doesn’t mean they don’t have any feelings.’

How ironic, she thought.

When Johnny was alive, she and Greg had argued about him. Now that he was dead, they were arguing about her father. Her father’s talent as an artist, of course, gained him many friends and much forgiveness and understanding.

‘You know what he’s like. You’ve heard how nasty he can be to the students, especially Tommy, in the Art School.’

‘OK. I wouldn’t allow him to speak to me the way he speaks to the students, but I suspect he’s just trying to get them to do their best and gain their degree. He was all right to Tommy today.’

‘Oh yes, he was very charming today. He can be charming when he likes.’

‘I’ll have to go, Kirsty. Promise me you’ll take one of the sedatives the doctor gave your mother, and go to bed as soon as the others leave. After a good night’s sleep, you’ll feel better.’

She swallowed down a sarcastic retort and she even managed a smile.

‘All right, darling. I’ll see you tomorrow.’

‘Yes, I’ll come over before I start my shift. OK?’

She nodded, then saw him to the door. He strode away along the Crescent and round into Queen Margaret Drive. She shut the door and took a deep breath before returning to the sitting room.

Later, Sandra and Tommy helped her to clear up, and wash and dry the dishes. By this time, her father had persuaded her mother to go to bed. He said goodnight and retired with her. Then, when Sandra and Tommy left, Kirsty switched off all the lights and was just about to go up to bed in her own room, when she heard the cat’s bell. It came from the back of the house. She returned to the kitchen, and through the shadows she saw Jingles weaving backwards and forwards at the back door. It obviously wanted out.

She opened the door slightly. Then she immediately staggered back in shock. She thought she was going to faint. She hadn’t even enough strength to scream.

Her brother Johnny was standing in the doorway.

‘Come on, Betty.’

They were all going to the rec for a break. Betty smiled and called over, ‘Right.’

She was still a bit shy and unable to talk with the same ease as the others but she felt such thankfulness and happiness that they hadn’t given up on her and she could go along with them and eagerly listen to everyone. Sometimes she would burst out with something and, as often as not, it would make them laugh. They were laughing at her but she didn’t mind. It was friendly laughter.

She still lusted after Greg McFarlane, but sadly, when he was there, he either glanced at her with dislike or ignored her altogether.

She had a terrible struggle with herself not to follow him or watch him anywhere outside of the Art School. She tried her best to look attractive in the hope that she might see a glimmer of admiration in his eyes. She now wore a short denim skirt and a low-necked top, and even lipstick, but nothing made a bit of difference. She lived for the days when he was the art model and she could devour his body with her eyes. She was at least rewarded by the tutor.

‘Good,’ he said, standing back and staring at her painting. ‘Yes, you’ve captured something there.’

Love. That’s what she had captured. Her love for Greg McFarlane. It was in every careful brush stroke. Hope was fizzling out, though. Greg McFarlane had a girlfriend. Betty heard all about her from the conversations of the other students. Her name was Kirsty Price, and she was the daughter of the tutor, of all people. Kirsty and Greg were going to get married and it was obviously with the blessing of Simon Price. He always chatted in a very friendly manner to Greg, indeed seemed to have great admiration for him. Who wouldn’t admire such a man, of course? Betty struggled to banish him from her mind when he wasn’t sitting as a model in front of her. But it was a losing battle. She fantasised about him. She wrote poetry about him. He filled her sleeping hours with erotic dreams. She told herself that it was all a waste of time. He belonged to someone else. She was being stupid and ridiculous. She knew it. Yet she couldn’t stop her wayward thoughts. She would still be stalking Greg, had it not been for Tommy and Sandra’s strong warnings. No way could she risk being banished from the Glasgow School of Art. Apart from anything else, it had always been her blessed escape from her mother.