Beneath the Abbey Wall (16 page)

Neil was about to ask Jenny more when Jimmy McPhee came into the saloon bar.

“Ma. Rob.” He nodded. “Mrs. Ross.” He looked at Neil.

Rob introduced them. “Jimmy McPhee, Neil Stewart. Neil is from Canada and working at the
Gazette
for a couple of months.”

Jimmy did not offer to shake hands—it was not his custom. He looked at Neil, sizing him up—that was his style. He wasn't sure of what he saw, except that this stranger obviously had money and education, could look after himself in a fight, and although Scottish on the outside was something else inside. And Jimmy knew that although Neil might be bigger, he was softer, and he, Jimmy, could take him in a fight.

“Neil Stewart,” Jimmy repeated. “My ma was a Stewart . . . ”

“I must be off now.” Jenny stood. “Thank you for buying an auld woman a drink, Mr. Stewart.”

If Jimmy was as surprised as the others at how quickly Jenny left he did not show it, only followed her out like the faithful watchdog he was.

She moves surprisingly quickly for an old woman,
Joanne thought.

“I obviously didn't make a favorable impression.” Neil smiled.

“Of course not.” Joanne was indignant at the thought of anyone not taking to Neil.

Rob too had been puzzled by Jenny's reaction but dismissed it as another of her eccentricities. “Jenny McPhee takes some time to warm to strangers, that's all.”

“Good, hate to think my charm isn't working,” Neil said, giving her the little boy lost smile that always made Joanne's stomach lurch. “Another drink, anyone?”

“Not here,” Rob said, “this place has all the charm of a mortuary.” He stopped. “Sorry, sorry. Me and my big mouth.”

But his words had put a damper on the evening, and as they left and stood in the street, the drizzle and the sound of a shouting match further down the street—probably Clach supporters arguing over another defeat—made for miserable company.

“Come on,” Rob told them, “I borrowed my father's car. I'll give you both a lift home.”

Joanne sat in the backseat watching her evening disappear and the drizzle turn to rain. Rob drove to her prefab first.

“Thanks for the lift.” She smiled. “I enjoyed band practice.” She waved at the departing car, but Rob and Neil were laughing at something and didn't see her. As she opened the garden gate, her head caught an overhanging branch of the lilac tree. It showered her with rain and the slimy remains of autumn leaves.

“Damn and blast it.” She had been meaning to trim the bush, one of the many jobs not done around her tiny refuge, the postwar emergency house that was supposed to be pulled down in two years' time. Through the tears it was hard to find the keyhole. “Damn and blast,” she said again, but with no real anger, only tiredness.

Making herself cocoa at twenty-five past eight on a Saturday night, she couldn't shake the insidious internal voice that kept whispering,
Why would he want to spend an evening with you anyway?

So she did what she always did: turned on a classical concert on the BBC Third Programme; read her library book; fell asleep in the chair; came to at the sound of the national anthem that ended the evening's broadcasting; went to her single bed in the smaller of the two bedrooms; slept until the dawn chorus, the persistent song of the blackbird that lived in her garden not allowing her to go back to sleep.

I
t was not that Joanne Ross was being heartless over Don McLeod's plight, more that her heart was occupied by Neil Stewart.

Every day she was reminded of Mrs. Smart's death, of Don's absence, of the forthcoming trial, but a veil of enchantment enveloped her, shutting her off from reality.

Joanne was not neglecting her children, had not forgotten her friends, was not indifferent to her parents-in-law's concern about the collapse of her marriage, and she was working well in the still-unfamiliar role of reporter on the
Gazette
. It was rather that with the appearance of Neil Stewart, everyday life seemed less interesting, less vivid, than time spent with him. The hours alone with him, in the office, sharing sandwiches, which she provided, at her favorite thinking spot—the castle forecourt—weather permitting, were beguiling.

What no one, not even Joanne, knew was that she was in the grip of an obsession that might be called love. It affected her sleeping, her ability to acknowledge that Neil would leave, back to his life in the university. She read and reread Annie's favorite geography book about Canada; she even reread the Anne of Green Gables series and loved the ending. She collected the brochures from the man from the Canadian High Commission who had come to town to recruit Highlanders to the emigration program. She dreamed of her new life in a custom-built ranch house with picture window and wooden floor and a large stone
fireplace. She imagined a kitchen with a washing machine and refrigerators full of exotic fruit like melons and pomegranates, though she did not quite know what a pomegranate was. She had redecorated an imaginary bedroom at least six times. She planned and planted a garden with flowers and vegetables and maple trees—she knew no other Canadian tree except endless varieties of pine.

The dreaming was no longer confined to her bed: filling her daytime, her work time, her alone in the evening with her knitting time; the dreaming crowded out all sense and all reality; crowded out Mrs. Smart and Don McLeod and John McAllister.

Her daughters found her singing more often, dancing with them in the garden, playing silly games, always ready to tell a story, to take them for ice cream, where they usually bumped into her friend from Canada. They went on picnics with him to Cawdor Castle, to Castle Urquhart, to Culloden. He seemed to know more of Scotland than a Scot. He told stories about battles and empty glens and people leaving to live in Canada and America and New Zealand and Australia—which seemed a fine idea to Annie, especially Canada—she wanted to meet grizzly bears and Mounties and red Indian chiefs and visit Anne of Green Gables.

At work, McAllister did not notice; he was often absent from the office, and when he was present, his mind was elsewhere. He thought Neil was not a stylish journalist—his ability to pitch his stories at a small-town audience lost in all his education—but he was hardworking, capable, and competent, all McAllister needed. He envied Neil's ability to talk lightly and amusingly yet be a serious academic—in less fraught circumstances they might be friends. He noticed Joanne around Neil, thought it a foolish flirtation, but it irritated him nonetheless. And he thought less of Joanne for being so easily charmed; they all knew Neil was only passing through.

Rob was distracted by the extra work, plus rehearsals for his band's upcoming first night in front of an audience of more than fifty-five, but he enjoyed being around Neil, saw him as a man of the big wide world, a man who had crossed the Atlantic on an aeroplane.

Hector had spent the past weeks scuttling around like a demented guinea pig. Now responsible for all the content of the sports pages, plus his usual work covering school events, town and county council gatherings, and the occasional accident and emergency, he still had time to notice Neil. And have reservations.

Neil paid him no heed and, although used to being ignored, Hector was used to being ignored in an inclusive way, as though he was the
Gazette
's mascot, or resident genius, as he thought of himself. No, Neil's charm did not work on Hec, because Hec had never been caught in Neil's searchlight.

“Have you time for a coffee this afternoon?” Joanne phoned Chiara, catching her as she was about to leave for the café.

“For you—always.” They laughed. “But no coffee, my wee one kicks enough as it is.” Despite her pregnancy, “slow down” was not in Chiara's vocabulary, so work continued, a glass of red wine with dinner stayed; only her five cups of coffee a day changed.

Later, sitting in their favorite window table, Joanne told Chiara about the plan for the trip to the west coast.

“Of course the girls can stay with us. Why don't you leave them on Friday evening, that way you can set off without rushing.”

“That would be great. They hate getting up in the dark, Jean especially—she is still scared of the dark and Neil says we should be on the road by seven.”

“Oh well, if Neil says seven then it's seven.”

Joanne did not catch the sarcasm; she was too busy thinking about Neil.

“He's looking at the more recent migration to Canada—turn of the century,” Joanne was telling Chiara. “He laughs about a people who leave one stretch of barren rock for another, in places like Newfoundland and the southern tip of New Zealand.”

“Very attached to barren rocks, you Scots,” Chiara teased.

“And Neil says . . . ” Joanne saw Chiara rolling her eyes. “What?”

“Have you any other topic of conversation? Like . . . ” Chiara saw what she had done to Joanne; like a bright wee sailing boat hurtling along and suddenly the wind drops, her smile, her happiness, came to a standstill. “Oh, Jo, I'm sorry. I was teasing. It's only that . . . I don't want to see you . . . ”
Make another mistake
was what she was going to say. “Me and my big mouth.” Chiara mock-slapped herself. “You know you're the sister I never had, you're family. And I'm wrong. You're right. Life is short. Go off with your gorgeous Canadian and enjoy yourself.”

Joanne was blushing. “I'm still in shock over what happened to Mrs. Smart . . . but it also makes me want to
live
my life.”

“And life is precious.” Chiara took her hand. “I mean what I said. Enjoy yourself. You deserve it.” She stopped herself from saying, “Be careful,” but only just.

Chiara had reservations. Not about Neil but for her dearest friend. She watched Joanne falling. She knew Neil was passing through. She saw Joanne dreaming. She could see Neil's charm. She also saw he was ambitious. She did not know but she suspected her friend's fantasy; the one where Neil proposed and they all went to Canada and lived happily ever after.

Chiara knew a divorce was almost impossible for a woman; a man was more easily forgiven. She knew that for a woman, the
financial consequences were often dire. She knew how the town would label Joanne—and her children. She was completely certain that Neil Stewart cared for Joanne, but for him this was the working equivalent of a holiday romance. And she was scared for her friend.

Neil had been telling Joanne of the trip for a week or so.

“I'm off to the west coast via Strath Oykel,” he had said. “I want to look up the parish register in a tiny church near Lochinver.”

“A wee kirk”—she laughed—“‘tiny church' makes you sound English.”

“Heaven forbid!” He held up his hands in mock horror. “Why don't you come? You can be my interpreter.”

“I'd love to.” She meant it; the rain and the cold and the dark of the Northwest in late autumn did not matter; being with Neil was all that mattered.

The trip arranged, the girls taken care of, Joanne was watching Neil sorting papers on the table. It was clear he knew what he was looking for and where to look. He had names of arrivals to Canada and relevant dates, lists of families and familial relationships and the parishes they came from, names of ships, ships' manifestos, all neatly typed in columns, with space between questions allowing for the answers. What he needed was to confirm his research in the Scottish parish records.

To one side was a photograph.

“That's your mother.” Joanne recognized the photograph Neil had shown Jenny McPhee.

Neil pushed it towards her. “It was taken a week before she left the glens for the last time.”

The photograph in the cardboard folding frame was protected by tissue paper but had yellowed. The lucky white heather his mother had brought with her to Canada had long
since disintegrated. He had promised himself to pick more, but it was too late in the season for heather, and very few knew where white heather grew—only the tinkers know, his mother had told him.

Joanne examined the picture, but the woman's face was hard to read, her eyes squinting as she looked into the sun. Her clothes looked as though she were about to go to church, her hat her Sunday best, was pulled down—
to hold it tight against a ferocious wind, most likely,
Joanne thought. In the background, the twin peaks of the distant mountain were distinctive and strange. On the far edge of the picture, although faint and faded, was the unmistakable shape of Travelers' caravans and two horses. She didn't like to mention them, although she didn't know why.

“Where was this taken?” Joanne asked.

“At the far end of Strath Oykel, so my mother said. This was before she was married; ‘just a lass' was how she put it. And that mountain is called Suilven.”

“It's certainly striking.”