Beneath the Abbey Wall (34 page)

She hadn't the energy to run a bath. She went to fill a hot-water bottle. She was waiting for the kettle to boil when she had to run. She was sick. She kept being sick.

No,
she kept moaning, as she bent over the toilet,
no, no.

*  *  *  

The band was packing up. Eilidh was waiting for Rob below the stage.

“Are you coming with us?” one of the girls asked. “We're going to a party in Hilton. One of the boys, his parents are away for the night.” They were thrilled at the prospect.

“No thanks, I'm waiting for Rob.” The way she said it made the other girl like her even less. Eilidh was popular with boys, not girls.

“Forgotten me already, have you?”

A young man, slightly older than the rest, stepped towards Eilidh, and taking her by the elbow, he pulled her away from the crowd.

Some of the girls were watching.

“Oh, hi, Dennis! Long time no see.” She allowed herself to be steered to one side of the dance floor.

Seeing no confrontation, the girls lost interest and left for the party.

A few minutes, a few angry words, and some waving of the arms later, Dennis Cameron strode across the floor out of the ballroom. He was a sensible young man, a doctor-to-be, and knew there was no point in arguing with Eilidh; she only saw what she wanted to see. In one way he was glad to be rid of her, she had expensive tastes,
but,
he remembered,
she was fun
.

As Dennis Cameron was leaving, he took one last look at the best-looking girl he had ever met and his first real girlfriend. He saw her standing below the stage, staring up at Rob.

“Good luck, Rob McLean,” he muttered. “Just don't take her too seriously.”

The equipment packed, Peter asked, “Rob, Neil, would you like to come to mine for a drink?” He knew Chiara would be in bed, but he was not ready for sleep.

“I've got plans.” Rob grinned and gestured to Eilidh, whose eyes, outlined in copious quantities of makeup, was staring adoringly at him, hoping he would see the resemblance to Audrey Hepburn.

Neil smiled. “Hi, Eilidh, what did you think of the band?”

“You were brilliant,” she said, “especially Rob.”

“Thanks.” Neil laughed. “Say, have you seen Joanne Ross?”

“No, but I wasn't looking.” Eilidh made it quite clear that Neil was making a mistake fancying Joanne Ross when he could have her instead.

Neil looked around again to make sure Joanne wasn't waiting somewhere, but she wasn't.
Couldn't find a babysitter,
he assumed. “Thanks, Peter, I'll take you up on that offer.”

*  *  *  

It was only a hundred yards from the ballroom to Eilidh's and Don's terrace. She and Rob ran most of the way. She locked the gate, ran to the front door, opened it, threw off her coat, kicked her shoes into a corner, threw her arms around Rob's neck, and started to kiss him so fiercely he thought his lips would bleed.

She pulled his jacket off. She pulled his shirt off. They fell backwards onto the sofa. Only on round two did they make it up the stairs.

Next morning, as Eilidh was on early shift, they woke to the alarm clock. She leapt out of bed, stark naked, and opened the big ugly cupboard that had been put together in the room when the house was built nearly two hundred years ago. He watched as, still naked, she threw clothes around, leaving them on the
floor that served as an alternative wardrobe, searching for a clean uniform.

“Who was the man I saw you arguing with when I was up onstage?” Rob asked, wanting to prolong the vision of her body.

“My ex-boyfriend.”

Eilidh assured him it was long finished and that the medical student she had been seeing for a few months was just being a nuisance. “He can't get over me,” she finished.

“I can believe that,” Rob said, meaning only to flatter her.

Eilidh took it as her due. She knew she was pretty. She knew she was different. She knew all the words of the latest songs, had seen all the latest films. She took day tickets on the train to Aberdeen and bought the latest fashions and the latest records. And she was a nurse, so she knew how to look after herself. She knew she was a catch, and if a doctor wasn't on the immediate horizon, Rob McLean would do very well as a prospect. Probably better. His family was maybe not
rich
rich, but they were certainly well off.

“How do you know Neil?” he asked.

“He came here asking if the empty house next door was for rent. I have a spare key. He looked at it, but said it wasn't his cup of tea. Pity, he's gorgeous. Would have been a much nicer neighbor than . . . Oh, no . . . look at the time. Sister will kill me if I'm late again.”

He watched her hurriedly clip her stockings to the garter belt. He saw her pulling her hair into an elastic band, then checking her eyes to make sure the liner was all scrubbed off. She bounced onto the bed and kissed him. “Let yourself out. The spare keys are in the kitchen drawer.”

He went back to sleep and woke at ten. The cacophony of bells reminded him he was on Church Street with three
churches within spitting distance and at least three more within throwing distance.

He waited until the good folk of the town were safely inside and the first psalm sung, before dressing and leaving. He tried to lock the front door but the key was stiff.
Often happens with the spare key
, he thought, and the key to the gate worked so he didn't worry.

Walking across the suspension bridge, whistling into a biting wind, which he did not notice, whistling
Bye bye love,
which was currently his favorite, he decided Phil would be his alter ego, not Don.

Don. Don McLeod in a prison cell. Don hearing the same Sunday-morning sounds he was hearing—the tolling of church bells, the wind that had increased in the night to nearly gale force. But Don, whose house he had slept next to, his editor, his mentor, and friend, was locked up, maybe forever.

The walk home was cold.
The prison must be colder
. Rob increased his pace. Swung his arms. It didn't help.

*  *  *  

The night before, Chiara had heard the front door. Heard the murmur of voices. She knew Peter liked occasional late nights with friends. She didn't, and had gone back to sleep.

Early next morning when Joanne collected the girls for church, Peter was in bed with a coffee and a three-day-old
Gazette,
so he missed her.

“Was that Joanne?” he asked when he came down for a refill.

“The girls were here last night—or hadn't you noticed?”

“Funny. Neil was looking for her at the dance. I thought maybe she couldn't find a babysitter.”

“I told you the girls were coming here.”

“Sorry, I didn't remember . . . What is it?” Peter asked.

Chiara sat down. “It's Joanne,” she said. “She's in love.”

Peter was about to ask
who with,
but he knew better. He would be accused of noticing nothing—which was true; a sensitive man, he could never discern quite what Joanne was thinking because, to him, she always seemed so bright, so capable. He admired her.

No, he said to Chiara, he hadn't seen Joanne at the dance. He'd noticed McAllister at the bar at the beginning of the evening, but not later. It was only Neil who had come back here for some brandy, he told his wife, Rob was off with his new girlfriend. So, no, Joanne could not have been with Rob.

At the end of this to-and-fro, Chiara worried even more.

When Joanne had called in earlier in the morning to collect the girls for church, she had no time to chat. No time to tell Chiara about the dance, too busy fussing over the children, getting their coats on, their hats, making sure they had sixpence for the collection plate, telling them to hurry or they'd be late for church.

“The rain's cold,” Joanne had said, “the wind colder.” She was buttoning Jean's yellow oilskin, and Annie kept repeating, “I hate this coat. We're not fishermen, you know.”

She said it once too often. Joanne slapped her on the back of her leg. Chiara caught a flash of the murderous look Annie gave her mother and didn't like it one bit.

They had all rushed out with hurried good-byes and thanks, to catch one of the few buses that ran on a Sunday, leaving Chiara wondering if they would get to church on time.

Now this.

“Peter, Joanne is . . . ” She stopped.
No, maybe not.
She had told Peter that Joanne was in love, but how could she explain that hopeless helpless passion, that was not love—it was obsession.

He was waiting for an explanation, and as Chiara looked at
him, she shivered. “I can't believe how lucky I am,” she said and went over and pressed herself against him.

He put his arms around her and her bump and said, “Nor can I.”

*  *  *  

Church was an ordeal. And lunch. Everything seemed in slow motion. Joanne passed off her state, saying she thought she might be catching flu. Her sister looked at her, saw the feverish eyes, and agreed.

“Would you like the girls to stay here this afternoon?” Elizabeth asked. “Duncan can run you home and you can sleep.”

“Aren't we going for ice cream wi' Uncle Neil?” Jean asked.

“All you think about is ice cream,” Joanne snapped. She saw her daughter's lip quiver and the child looking at her, her eyes saying,
What did I do?
And she apologized. “Sorry, Jean, I'm not feeling too well.”

“Well
I'd
like to stay here forever, Aunty Elizabeth,” Annie declared. Elizabeth joked it was only because Annie loved her apple charlotte. But she heard the bitterness in her niece's voice.

“Thanks, Elizabeth, I'll take you up on the offer. But I'll walk back.”

“In this rain? No you won't.”

After her younger sister had left, Elizabeth worried about Joanne, and she too did not share her thoughts with her husband, choosing the influenza excuse.

My poor wee sister,
she thought as she waved cheerio to Joanne,
you've not had much luck, have you?

*  *  *  

In the midafternoon Neil knocked on the front door. Joanne did not answer. The bedroom curtains were shut.
He won't know I'm home.
He knocked again, waited a moment, then left.

Her brother-in-law, the Reverend Duncan Macdonald, brought the girls home, but not until after evening service. They had had supper, were in borrowed pajamas and dressing gowns but their own Sunday church shoes. They were tired and went straight to bed without arguing.

“Hope you feel better tomorrow, Mum,” Jean called out as she climbed into bed. Annie said nothing.

“Night-night, girls,” was all Joanne was able to say. “Night-night.”

She made tea, even though she knew it would keep her awake. She sat in her chair that felt as though it had altered its shape from Neil sitting in it, claiming it.

Feel better? No. I am terrified. I am ashamed, I am enchanted.

The ridiculous thought, that a wicked witch had enchanted her, made her smile.
I must tell McAllister
 . . .
he would appreciate the idea of love as a wicked spell, an enchantment.
She hugged herself, remembering.
Him and his analyzing, he preferred Jung to Freud and Beethoven to Mozart. The way he would tell me his daft idea that Scotland would one day be independent again. The way he would tell me about the books he was reading. And tell me again about Spain, about camping under the pine trees, freezing cold in a forest high up in the mountains, eating olives and apricots, watching Franco's troops prepare for the assault that killed his friends. And the aftermath of the war in Paris, how the cafés and bookshops and the painters along the banks of the Seine had returned in that first magical springtime, when the war was finally over.

“McAllister,” she whispered, “talk to me.”

M
onday morning and the rain had not relented; the mandatory news meeting was accompanied by the smell of damp clothing and sniffs and sneezing and girning from Hector.

“I'm never standing in the rain to watch a football match ever again,” he complained. “I'll catch ma death a' cold.”

“Shut up, Hector.” Rob had been saying this since they were five years old in Miss Rose's class at Central School. They grinned at each other. No one else felt cheerful, especially Joanne, and the morning dragged on.

“I'm off to print up the sports shots,” Hector said as he closed his bag and pulled on his black-and-white Clach supporter's scarf, “and Joanne, I'm sorry I can't do those pictures for you and Betsy, ma granny would kill me.”

“What was that about?” Rob asked her.

“Mind your own business,” she snapped.

Rob shrugged. He was aware Joanne was not happy, but she had Neil, so she didn't need him.