Jemima found Jock a very inept pupil. He didn’t seem to have a clue about computers, and kept clicking in the wrong place because he didn’t understand the mouse; when the internet took a couple of minutes to respond he hit several keys at once and managed to lose the Windows task bar; when they finally reached the International Genealogical Index website he announced that his grandfather’s name had been John Smith... It would have been very easy to lose patience with him and flounce off.
But Jemima Stevenson had never been a flouncer. She just pulled her woolly hat into the right position, squared her shoulders and demanded that he think of a family member with a more unusual name to start with.
‘It’ll be a lot easier to track down somebody called Ignatia Farthingale than John Smith,’ she said. ‘We won’t get so many results, and we should be able to tell which is the right one.’
‘I don’t think there are any Farthingales in my family,’ said Jock.
She couldn’t tell whether he was using his famous weapon of irony or not. She decided to take his words at face value.
‘It doesn’t have to be Farthingale. Just think of somebody with a more unusual name than Smith. Look – my great-great-uncle was Lachlan Farquharson.‘
She keyed in the name with nonchalant expertise.
‘See – only three results. That one there must be my great-great-uncle, he’s the only one with the right dates... Now let’s try and find somebody in your family.’
‘How about Fenwick Colquhoun?’ suggested Jock. She tried to analyse his words for any trace of irony, but he seemed to be perfectly serious.
‘Fenwick as a first name?’
‘Yes. Is that unusual enough for you?’
She typed it in. There was a pause.
‘There!’ she said triumphantly. ‘Only one result. Is this your relative?’
Jock peered at the screen.
‘I’ve got the wrong glasses on. Wait a minute.’
He went through a rigmarole of taking off his glasses, putting them away in their case, fishing out another case, taking out glasses, putting them on, and peering at the screen again. Jemima seethed. Some people were just their own worst enemies.
‘I think that might be my grandfather,’ said Jock after prolonged study. ‘My goodness, that’s impressive. Is there a picture of him hidden here somewhere?’
He started pressing keys again. Jemima actually wrenched the keyboard out from under his fingers and held on to it. Search results for Abraham Lincoln appeared on the screen.
‘How did that happen? I was only trying to see if – ‘
‘There aren’t any pictures in this index,’ said Jemima, still clutching the keyboard and speaking slowly and clearly to conceal her irritation. ‘Pictures are much further down the line. You’d need to get more documentary evidence – death certificates, parents’ marriage and so on. Then there might be a newspaper obituary. If you’re lucky.’
The meeting room was getting crowded. Jemima had a minor inspiration.
‘Why don’t we let somebody else use the computer just now? We could go into the library and look up their local records. There might be something about him –‘
‘He wasn’t from around here,’ said Jock with satisfaction. ‘Thurso. Or maybe Wick. That’s where he was from. Or maybe Kyle of Lochalsh. Or Golspie.’
‘He doesn’t really belong in the Pitkirtly Homecoming day then, does he?’ snapped Jemima.
‘All right, I won’t bother about him any more if he doesn’t fit in,’ said Jock. ‘God knows, I’m used to that sort of thing... Let somebody else play with the computers. I’m going into the library to change my books now. I may be some time.’
He stalked off. Well, Jemima reflected, at least I broke through his protective shell of irony. She had an uneasy feeling, though, that he wouldn’t forget this small disagreement.
‘Excuse me,’ said a small woman in a green quilted coat and a fluffy pink hat that Jemima wouldn't have been seen dead in. ‘Did I hear you say your great-great-uncle was Lachlan Farquharson?’
Jemima turned to the stranger with relief.
‘Yes, that’s right,’ she said eagerly.
‘It’s just that I think he may have swindled my great-grandmother out of rather a large sum of money,’ said the small woman in an accusatory tone.
‘Oh dear,’ said Jemima. ‘I must just go and see what’s happened to my friend. He was a bit upset about something.’
She put the keyboard she had been holding all this time back on the table, and wandered out to the foyer. This family history day wasn’t working out at all as she had hoped it would.
'Mrs Stevenson,' said a faint voice at her elbow. Her spirits plummeted further. She turned to face Clarissa, who now looked like a piece of chewed string. Her hair drooped, her eyelids drooped, the corners of her mouth drooped as if she didn't have the energy to hold any of them up any longer.
'Oh, dear,' said Jemima, meaning every word of it.
'He's doing it again,' said Clarissa, her voice trailing downwards as if it, too, was drooping.
'Doing what?'
'He's got some American woman in a corner of the folk museum and - ' she choked back a sob.
'And what?'
'You know - he's getting too close to her.'
'Do you mean Andrew?' Jemima tried not to seem incredulous, but really, Andrew! She doubted very much if he was actually the small town Casanova of Clarissa's fantasies. 'What American woman?'
Clarissa shrugged thin shoulders. Even this movement was half-hearted. Jemima wondered if the girl was suffering from anaemia - or maybe it was thyroid. Or maybe she just needed a tonic. 'Just one of the visitors. She's got very yellow hair. It can't be natural. And a loud voice. I think she's American.'
'Let's go and have a look,' said Jemima. She wasn't at all convinced by Clarissa's account - and as for Graham's sighting of Andrew and a woman in the furniture shop, that could have been pure malicious fabrication, for all anybody knew.
Of course, it was the wrong thing to do. She should have known that.
They entered the Folk Museum quietly and discreetly enough; Andrew was indeed in the corner leaning over a woman with very blonde hair. They seemed to be deep in conversation, although it wasn't necessarily of a romantic nature. For one thing, Jemima realised immediately that the woman was old enough to be Andrew's mother. Of course some men wouldn't be at all put off by that, but she considered it slightly weird, and her previous experience of Andrew suggested he was conventional enough to agree with her.
She turned to Clarissa to try and put these thoughts into words that would make some impact on the girl; but Clarissa was no longer standing by her side. Instead, finding some energy at last, she had pushed her way through the other people in the room and now confronted Andrew.
'Andrew! Can I have a word with you?'
Andrew said something Jemima couldn't hear. He had on a strained half-smile. The very blonde woman put her hand on his arm and spoke to him, smiling warmly at Clarissa as she did so.
Clarissa stared fiercely at the woman's hand as it rested on Andrew's arm. Jemima almost winced as she imagined Clarissa slapping the hand away and grabbing Andrew for herself. She had started to close her eyes against the picture when she realised it had all been in her own head.
Andrew said something to Clarissa. His half-smile had gone and he was looking quite stern.
'But I need to speak to you! Now!' said Clarissa loudly and clearly. 'Alone!'
The very blonde woman removed her hand from Andrew's arm. Andrew frowned and spoke to Clarissa again. If only he hadn't been so quiet and discreet, thought Jemima, desperate to know what was going on. But then, that was his way. He was maybe a bit too discreet for his own good.
'Fine!' said Clarissa. She gave the very blonde woman a venomous look, turned on her heel and marched off in the direction of the library. She was probably going to sulk somewhere in the foreign languages section, where Jemima had found her several times before. There wasn't much call for foreign languages in Pitkirtly so that part of the library was almost always deserted.
Wondering at the intensity and volatility of Clarissa's emotions, Jemima went back through to the foyer, where she noticed that there were people wandering about looking lost, and although there was nothing on earth she hated doing more than she hated interacting with members of the public in this kind of environment, she couldn’t stand by and let fellow family historians wander about looking lost. Especially when she had been personally involved in setting up this family history day for them.
Glancing up from a floor plan of the building on which she had been pointing out to a visitor where the coffee vending machine was – as well as warning them not to use it due to its temperamental nature – she noticed the woman in the fluffy pink hat making her way purposefully through the throng and going out the main door. At about the same time David appeared by her side and, silently divining what she was doing and the fact that she needed some assistance with it, started to help with all the questions.
‘I’m a Cockburn on my mother’s side, of course,’ she heard him say proudly. She smiled to herself. She had drawn him into it as she knew she would.
Soon after that the screaming started.