A Kind of Grief Page 5

  “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.

  “Miss Ramsay wrote to me. She’s furious. Quite rightly.” She took a deep breath. “I can’t be responsible for small-minded small-town gossip. It’s not my fault that traitor Forsythe broke a confidence.” As she said this, she knew it was untrue. In discussing Alice Ramsay, she was as guilty of gossiping as Calum’s mother.

  Calum said, “Mum doesn’t mean any harm. She’s lonely and likes to talk about people and . . . you know.”

  She heard his voice, quiet, apologetic, with a hint of sadness, and was immediately contrite. “I’m sorry, I’d never betray Miss Ramsay. Or anyone—not deliberately.”

  “I know.”

  She sighed. “ I hope it all blows over soon.”

  “Hope so too.” It was his turn to sigh. “Bye-bye for now.”

  “Bye. And Calum, thanks for listening.” She meant it. She did not really know him. She would probably never work with him. But another journalist’s opinion mattered.

  Joanne found herself standing in her hallway, the receiver in her hand still purring, telling herself, I’m no better than those gossips I condemn.

  CHAPTER 5

  Alice is distraught. And afraid.

  She remembers being at the garage shop to pay for petrol and pick up the newspapers. How Mrs. Mackenzie had handed her the Herald, open at the article, saying, “You’re famous and, from what this says, too good for the likes o’ us.”

  She remembers the woman’s malicious smile. Not wanting to satisfy her, Alice had said, “I can’t help what others say, or write.”

  “But,” Mrs. Mackenzie had said, “it mentions you by name, so maybe you should be interested.” And she’d shoved it into Alice’s basket, along with the milk, charging her for a newspaper she didn’t want.

  “How could she? How could she? How could she?” Alice shouts this to the wind, hoping it will carry all the way across two counties into what she imagi
nes is the smug-snug home of Joanne Ross.

  Publishing my business in a local newspaper is one thing; publication in a national newspaper that is read even in London is another.

  Later, deliberately letting go of her fury, knowing how much it damages the tranquillity she needs to paint, she remembers those who spoke up for her. Nurse Ogilvie and Dr. Jamieson, both were called for the prosecution, both turning out to be her best witnesses, best allies. She remembers the kindness and friendship from Mrs. Galloway. The support, with a squeeze of her hand, from the young nurse who works with the old people. Alice had heard she was engaged to the reporter, that short fellow. Heaven help her, with Mrs. Mackenzie as a mother-in-law.

  “Good people. Nurse Elaine, she’s young, but she’s kind and clear-headed.” She scratches the dog’s ears. “Listen to me, will you? Talking to a dog. First sign of the mind going, they say.”

  The wee dog cocked his head, wanting her to continue scratching. If he could, he would tell her he understands. He cares. So he whines.

  “Sorry,” she says, “I should be used to betrayal by now.”

  Next day, Alice picks up her letters from the post office, thankful the boxes were in the entranceway and she would not have to endure the stares, the sideways glances, from other customers. She uses her key, removes the letter she had half-expected, half-dreaded. She goes to her Land Rover and writes a reply on a sheet from her drawing pad. She knows he is not interested in explanations, and certainly nothing is ever to be said in writing. Or in telephone calls. Not even from public call boxes. Never know who is listening, he’d taught them.

  She doesn’t want to see him. Yet she misses him. Misses the life she used to have.

  Drat! She realizes she needs a stamp and will have to go into the post office after all.

  She assumed he will come by train. So she suggests a time, one week hence, and a place, far enough away but convenient for both of them.

  The encounter with Alice Ramsay in the Station Square was much worse than Joanne had imagined. She knew that after Forsythe’s article, she was unlikely to meet Alice Ramsay again, as any contact would be fraught with misapprehensions. Yet she longed to explain. In her mind she had written a letter, she had rehearsed the conversation, she had fantasized the outcome: Alice was understanding, forgiving, and they became friends. In her mind.

  The day was dreich—damp, cold, with intermittent rain. The figure crossing the square towards Joanne had her umbrella tilted forwards partially covering her face, so the women did not recognize each other until they almost collided.

  Joanne instinctively said, “Lovely to see you, Miss Ramsay.”

  They were standing at the base of a statue honoring a Highland soldier killed in some forgotten war.

  Alice stared at Joanne. Not cold, not warm, just a clear, calm stare. “I have nothing to say to you.”

  She walked away to the steps of the Station Hotel, where a gentleman in a suit, also carrying an umbrella, joined her on the top step. The doorman took both umbrellas. The gentleman took Alice’s hand, smiled at her, then they disappeared through the large brass-handled doors.

  Joanne was trembling and needed to sit down. Across the street, at an entrance to the covered Victorian market, was a tea shop. She ordered and took a seat as far away from the window as possible. It took two cups of tea and a sticky raisin bun for the hurt to subside to a slow-heartburn ache.

  On the bus home, she stared out the window into a day half lost in mist—mist from the river, mist from tears. Going over and over the encounter, it was the tone of Alice’s voice that hurt. I’ve nothing to say to you. There had been a hint of pity, of disdain. Or was it indifference?

  Walking the last stretch from the bus stop to home, Joanne again considered her part in the betrayal of Alice Ramsay.

  She owned up to being foolish, naive even, admitted she’d been flattered by Dougald Forsythe, seduced by him calling her a fellow artist. When she’d protested, he’d said, “You are a writer, therefore an artist.” Fatal word, that, artist.

  Her loneliness she considered. Then dismissed. I have a husband who is not only the man I love but a friend. I have Chiara Kowalski. Her friendship with the Italian refugee and incomer to this insular town was warm and true. But since Chiara’s marriage and the birth of her son, they met less frequently. Joanne had a sister she saw less than she should. She had a mother she barely communicated with. The violence in her first marriage had isolated her. The common knowledge of her divorce made her reluctant to seek new friends.

  Meeting Alice Ramsay was like having a character in a story come to life. Her independence, her home, her books, her work, her way of talking, and her dedication to her art were familiar to Joanne only from novels or articles in one of McAllister’s literary magazines. An artist was not someone she expected to meet in the wilds of Scotland. Paris or London, yes. Edinburgh even. But to know one herself had always seemed like too great a dream for Joanne to harbor.

  I was wrong. I made a mistake. And it has cost me a possible friendship.

  She couldn’t yet recognize it, but in accepting the loss and acknowledging her part in the debacle, Joanne had changed. Healed. She was leaving behind, slowly but surely, her former self, a woman with no identity except that of daughter to a tyrant father, wife to an equally cruel husband, and mother to two young girls. To see herself as a writer, an artist even, was her dream. Meeting Alice Ramsay, seeing how she lived and worked, had made that fantasy seem possible.

  Write, Joanne told herself. Escape into the romancing of a bonnie lassie by her Highland hero. Write anything and everything to block out the glums.

  So she did.

  Joanne knew that her husband would have good suggestions, good insights into her struggles to find a plot for a novel. But she knew she wouldn’t ask. To show him a finished manuscript, for him to be overwhelmed with admiration, that was her fantasy. After three days of thinking and two more days of anxiety, she decided she had to talk to someone who knew about writing.

  “Highland Gazette. How may I help you?” It was a new girl on reception, and Joanne couldn’t remember her name. That made her sad. The Gazette had saved her, made her who she now was.

  Having started as a part-time typist and evolved into a part-time then full-time journalist, her work had given her an income and an escape from her former husband. Initially, she had been intimidated by the new editor, John McAllister. Marrying him had been beyond her imagination. A man like him marry a woman like me? she would have asked. For a man to take on a divorcée and two children was rare, especially in a society decimated by war, where women outnumbered men. For a man as respected and accomplished and prosperous as McAllister to do so was practically unheard of.

  She missed working, missed the day-to-day chats, the laughter, the controlled chaos of deadline day. Don McLeod, the deputy editor, and Rob McLean, friend and fellow reporter, even Hector Bain, the all-round nuisance but brilliant photographer—she missed them.

  What she didn’t regret was not working with McAllister now that their relationship had changed. He made her nervous; nothing intentional on his part, it was she who had lost her spontaneity and her confidence. And she hated how solicitous he became when she couldn’t find a pencil or a phone number or the right word for a sentence. He too was terrified the operation on her brain would leave her diminished, but she knew it was simply who she was, who she had always been, but forever searching for more.

  About to ask for Rob, she found herself saying, “Mr. McLeod, please.”

  Someone picked up the phone and answered with an irritated “Aye?”

  “It’s Joanne.”

  “Lass. How are you? Where are you? No lost in the wilds o’ Mackenzie country, are you? Right funny people up there.” As a McLeod of Skye, he had the right to joke about fellow clansmen.

  “I’m at home. And I need your advice.” She was smiling as she spoke, knowing she’d called the right person, knowing Don cared for her. Much shorter than her, his h
ead reaching her shoulders, partial to a drink and a bet, and a chain smoker, he was not a man she would have imagined as a father figure. If someone had described him as such, she would have protested, saying he was a friend. But father figure he had become, a person who gave her painfully honest advice, a friend who cared for her as a daughter.

  “I was just about to go and have ma dinner break, so why don’t we—”

  “I am not going to the Market Bar.”

  “Pity. The Station Hotel? You can have tea, I can have a dram.”

  “Not there either.” She was scared Alice Ramsay might still be there. Joanne could only think of tea shops. “No, you’re right. The Station Hotel, just not the bar.”

  Half an hour later, she and Don met up. Lunch was being served to the worthies of the county and what looked like commercial travelers, which they turned out to be, as there was a sales conference of insurance agents going on. That and a Liberal Party meeting made the place much busier than usual. Joanne was uncertain if she was relieved or disappointed when she discovered no sign of Alice Ramsay.

  “You’re looking well,” Don said as he looked around for an empty table. He spotted one, and as they reached it, a man in a navy-blue suit with a shiny tie swept in and pulled out a chair. But when he saw Don’s face, he stood aside.

  That glower from Don McLeod would have made Joe Louis stand aside, Joanne decided.

  “I’m glad to see you’re looking the same as ever,” Joanne said as she looked at him over her menu.

  “Pity. I need to look ten years younger.” Seeing the question in her eyes, he continued, “The high heid yins in the board of management want to give me my gold watch.” He took a long glug of his beer. “I ask you, what eejit came up wi’ the idea o’ giving a person a gold watch on retirement? To count down the hours to the grave? Nah, I’m hanging on as long as I’m standing.”

  “McAllister will be pleased to hear it.”

  “Aye, and so he should be. No one knows this place like I do.” He looked around at all the strangers. “Or like I used to. Nearly the end o’ another decade, but too many changes too fast for my liking.”