It was five past midnight as the young woman walked up the path. Her straight black skirt stopped at the knee, and the peplum of the tailored jacket swished from side to side as she moved. Her bare legs were salon tanned, and above her red stilettos a small silver anklet glistened as it caught the moonlight. She walked purposefully, with conviction. A small leather handbag bounced slightly on her hip, her jet-black hair was cropped smartly.
She could have been any successful young woman going about her business.
But she was Elizabeth McGregor, and she was in control.
She strode across the lawn, ignoring the Keep Off signs, up to the front door of the St Boswell’s Care Home. She had told the driver to keep the car at the front entrance, engine running; she would only be a minute.
Auld Archie O’Donnell was in his wheelchair, his handmade shoes resting on the footplate, cardigan folded and ready. He had been waiting. Her intense brown eyes met his, pale blue like a cornflower faded by the sun. She could see in them the respect due from an O’Donnell to a McGregor.
‘How is he? My boy?’ The old man’s voice was a growl.
‘He’s going to be fine. They let his dad help him, your son. All will be well.’
‘So, all is well? Like I said to Richie-boy, nothing wrong in sleeping with the enemy, as long as you stay wide awake.’ The words were quietly spoken but had the strength of certainty about them. The old man’s bottom lip quivered a little, and he gave a slight nod of the head, as if assuring himself that all he had hoped for had come to pass. ‘Well done, hen. You’re a credit to those McGregor bastards.’
She smiled at him while he pulled his collar closed a little, as if he wanted to look smart. She wondered just how handsome he had been in his day. Too handsome, no doubt. She could still see a young Richie in there somewhere, half a century ago. She pushed him out of the door and down the path to the waiting Jag. This was exactly what Richie had promised his grandfather, on the very first day he had come to work in the care home.
The driver got out of the car to open the door for him. The boot was open ready to take the chair.
‘This is Mr Pettigrew, our chauffeur for the evening,’ she said.
She looked away as the two men embraced slightly, the way old friends do, holding on to each other for a wee bit too long as Pettigrew assisted Auld Archie into the car.
‘Don’t take me home yet. Give me a wee drive around ma city.’ Archie’s voice was strong from the back.
‘Our city,’ corrected Libby.