Graham arrived first, bringing Frances Ledingham with him.
‘Yir dad and Sandra’s coming by after work,’ Frances explained, holding her daughter close. They stood like that for a moment. ‘Can I go in and see him?’
‘He’s at the undertakers’,’ Jennifer replied. ‘We agreed that he wasn’t to be laid out in the house.’ The words came out as though by rote. Jennifer knew she’d be repeating them several times in the hours to come.
Frances looked momentarily alarmed. ‘I wondered … The curtains are open.’
Jennifer nodded. ‘We agreed on that too, Ma.’
Frances could tell by the expression on Violet’s face that denying the tradition of closing the curtains and blinds after a death was not something of which she approved. Nonetheless, it had apparently been her son’s wish, and she seemed to have decided upon letting Jennifer have her way.
Nervously, Frances moved towards her. Violet stood to receive the mandatory embrace and Frances pulled quickly away, uncomfortable with the stiff formality.
‘Thank you, Frances. Good of you to come.’
A small rebellion forced itself upwards. Frances locked eyes with Violet Pascoe.
‘I would go to the ends of the earth for Jen – or Jim.’
‘Drumdarg? Hardly that!’
Frances took her place on the sofa, deflated and already calling to mind the words she should have said, could have said.
Graham followed, stiffly offering his condolences, no more comfortable in Violet’s presence than she. Then he turned towards Jennifer, and Frances closed her eyes. How more naked could his love for her daughter be?
And how, how in God’s name could Jennifer stand there, so beautiful, so … contained, at this, the worst time of her life? Frances had never felt a greater love for her daughter than in that one moment – nor had she ever felt so distant.
Graham kissed Jennifer chastely on the cheek and squeezed her arm, unable to tear his eyes from her.
‘I can take you into Craigourie,’ he offered. ‘The arrangements…’
She smiled her gratitude. ‘Donald drove me in first thing,’ she said. ‘He’s over at the Whig. He thought we might run short on whisky. But everything’s in hand. The undertakers have been very good.’
‘Well, that’s what they’re paid for,’ Graham said.
Frances swallowed, aware that Graham was probably wishing the ground would open up and swallow him. Violet Pascoe was looking at him as though he had two heads.
‘Sorry,’ he murmured, shaking his head. ‘I’m so sorry, Violet.’
A stony stare acknowledged the apology.
‘What can I do?’ he asked helplessly, turning back to Jennifer. ‘Is there anything you need?’
She began to demur, then stopped. ‘Actually,’ she said, moving towards the desk, ‘you could maybe drop Jim’s insurance policy into the office for me.’
‘Of course.’
‘I called in when we were in the town. I’ve signed everything, but I forgot to take the policy with me. I … I wasn’t thinking. You’d never know I worked there.’ She attempted a smile.
Graham took the policy from her. ‘Will you be going back to work now?’ he asked.
This time Violet actually gasped.
God, Frances thought, can’t he say anything right?
Graham inspected the floor, and Frances’s heart tightened with embarrassment for him.
‘Yes,’ Jennifer said firmly. ‘I’m starting back on Tuesday. They’re closed Monday, of course. Easter…’ Her eyes filled, and she moved towards the kitchen. ‘I’d better make a start on the sandwiches. We’ll probably have a few folk calling in over the course o’ the day.’
Violet and Frances rose simultaneously. Violet glanced at Jennifer’s mother, and Frances quickly sat down again. Graham sat beside her, the two of them perched there like crows on a wall.
Frances realised that Jennifer would be just a floor below Graham when she returned to work. How would he handle it? He’d be seeing her every single day. Until now, all Jennifer had had in common with him was Jim – and the business, of course.
‘I can’t believe he’s gone,’ Graham whispered, and Frances reached to pat his arm.
‘Me neither.’
‘I’ll never have a friend like him.’
‘Nothing can destroy a friendship, Graham. Not if you truly cared about each other.’
Graham turned to face Frances. And in his eyes was the knowledge that Frances had detected his love for Jennifer. Somehow, somewhere, she had seen through him.
Frances did not have to hide any condemnation in her expression. There was none. The only thing on her mind was her daughter’s happiness. And though she had loved her son-in-law deeply, and would miss him terribly, Frances was a pragmatic woman.
Again, she patted Graham’s arm. ‘Life goes on,’ she said.
‘Well, what do you think o’ that?’ Olive asked Sandy as they closed the gate behind them. ‘No’ a curtain closed, and Jim lying on an undertaker’s slab, instead o’ laid out in his own home. It’s a queer kettle o’ fish, altogether.’ Olive was deeply offended by it all.
‘It’s the modern way o’ doing things, I suppose,’ Sandy replied.
Luckily, some tradition had been adhered to that afternoon. He’d had two free drams and a nice cup of tea. He’d barely swallowed the first dram when Donald Pascoe had risen, somewhat unsteadily, to refill his glass. It had been an extrememly generous measure for a city gent to pour – and a Lowlander at that.
‘Poor Jennifer’s looking fair done wi’ it all,’ Olive remarked. ‘And as for that drum major of a mother-in-law…’
‘D’you think you’ll make the bingo on Sunday?’ Sandy interrupted, as they walked back towards the Whig.
‘If this neck ever gets better,’ Olive retorted. ‘It’s hellish agony I’m in.’
‘The linament’s no’ helping then?’
‘Not a bit. I canna’ even turn in the bed at night.’
‘I’d soon rub it better if I was in there beside you.’
Olive tried to yank her neck in Sandy’s direction, and nearly screamed in the process.
‘Watch yir mouth!’ she threatened. She glared at him a moment longer. ‘You’ve had far too much to drink,’ she said in disgust.
Sandy just smiled.
Maisie arrived in a bright orange floor-length creation, topped by a lemon crocheted poncho. She looked like a moving advert for Outspan. Wasting little time on condolences, she placed a wicker basket containing a loaf, a dozen softies, and two large tins of red salmon on the coffee table.
‘Loaves and fishes, mes amis. Loaves and fishes.’
Jennifer smiled her first real smile of the day. ‘Thanks, Maisie.’
‘Doug’ll be over when he closes the bar,’ Maisie said, heading for the sofa. Graham and Donald rose immediately, an identical expression of alarm on their faces. Donald perched on the arm of the couch, weaving slightly to catch his balance.
‘Howsh bisnesh?’ he enquired.
‘Hilarious,’ Maisie replied. ‘There is none.’
Some invisible string appeared to be pulling Violet heavenward. Had she been sitting any straighter, she would have been standing.
‘I’d have thought we’d be getting a few more in, with Easter at the weekend,’ Maisie continued. ‘The town seems to be busy enough.’
‘Have you given any more thought to … you know?’ Graham asked.
Maisie nodded. ‘We’ll talk about it after the funeral,’ she said. ‘When is it, Jen?’
‘Saturday. Eleven o’clock.’
‘Good,’ Maisie replied. ‘The sooner the better.’
‘Well!’ Violet exclaimed. ‘I’ve never come across such insensitive, primitive…’
‘Vy-let!’ Donald tried to focus on his wife.
‘Don’t “Violet” me!’ she said. ‘It’s your son they’re talking about!’
The atmosphere became even more charged.
‘I apologise if I’ve offended you, Violet,’ Maisie said.
‘Mrs Pascoe. I hardly know you.’
Maisie inspected her golden fingernails. ‘Well, I know you. And I knew Jim. I thought the world of him. And I knew him well enough to know that he wouldn’t want this time of mourning to be … any longer than it has to be.’
Frances knocked back a large rum and cola.
‘Mourning? Mourning? I’ve yet to see the first sign of mourning!’ Violet flung the words at the company in general and fled from the room.
Donald rose to follow her, but lost his balance and collapsed into the bucket chair she had just vacated.
Jennifer was staring at the floor, her face as white as death itself.
‘Well, Maisie, ten out of ten,’ Maisie chided herself.
Jennifer looked up. ‘Don’t feel bad,’ she said. ‘I know exactly what you meant, and you’re quite right. Jim would detest … would have detested all of this.’
She rose to clear the coffee table of the assorted cups and glasses, and glanced above Maisie’s head.
Barra was coming up the path in full school uniform, a bunch of wild flowers held tightly in his hands, his hair plastered to his skull in an obvious attempt to control his curls. One, more disobedient than the rest, had escaped from his crown, looping upwards like a tiny halo.
Jennifer stared at him.
This is unbelievable, she thought, but she couldn’t quite conceal a smile.
Jim, I could really do with a hand here. Stop laughing. I mean it.
She went to answer the door and, somewhere between the thought and the reality, Jennifer realised that Jim wouldn’t be there for her – ever again.
‘I was black-affronted,’ Helen confided. ‘She could have at least paid her respects.’ Marjorie Cunningham was once again the topic of conversation. ‘After all, it’s no’ as if they’ll be here for the funeral.’
‘Aye,’ Murdo agreed. ‘It wouldn’t have taken too much out o’ her just to call in. Of course, she never knew Jim.’ He tapped his pipe on the saucer, but Helen was too dismayed by the prior day’s occurrences to notice.
‘At least Stewart was there,’ Murdo reminded her.
‘That’s another thing,’ Helen said. ‘I know they’ll be leaving tonight, but I’d have thought Stewart could manage one more day, at least stay for the service.’
‘Well, it is the Easter weekend. I’m sure he was right that there wouldn’t be any hope of him changing their tickets at this late date.’
‘He could have tried,’ Helen said.
Murdo nodded. It saddened him that he felt only relief that Stewart and Marjorie would be leaving that evening. The rapport he had once shared with the young man seemed to have evaporated, leaving a hollow silence in its place. The only time the two had come close to recapturing it had been on that first afternoon, down by the river.
Just two days had passed since then, but they’d been two of the longest days of Murdo’s life.
He reached for his pipe, admitting to himself that he was sorely looking forward to regaining his morning solitude. Helen had been like a cat on a hot tin roof since the couple arrived – and for quite a few days before. He hoped their departure would bring a sense of order back into his life.
‘Even poor Hattie managed a visit,’ Helen continued, like Gallus with a bone he had no intention of surrendering. ‘And you know how feared she is o’ anything to do wi’ death. She’ll no’ manage the funeral, I’m thinking.’
‘Jennifer would make no difference over that,’ Murdo said. ‘She’s a grand lassie.’
‘Aye, she is that. Which is more than I can say for Violet Pascoe.’
‘Och, Helen, the wifie must be feeling desolate. God, she didna’ even know half the faces that were there yesterday. How could she do more?’
‘She’s a bloody snob! She hadn’t a word for anyone until Stewart arrived, and then she was all over him, as though he was the only one worth the time of day.’
‘Hmmm. Well, it doesna’ change the fact that she just lost her boy. Maybe we should be a wee bit more understanding.’
‘You mean I should be a bit more understanding?’ Helen asked, her voice quieter now.
Murdo smiled. ‘We all should.’
Helen sniffed, and lifted her cup. Preparing to drink her tea, she paused. ‘Did you see the shiner on Chalmers?’
‘Aye. He must have hit it at work.’
‘Maybe. And maybe not.’
‘What’s in yir mind now, Helen?’
‘Well, you didn’t think it funny that Sheena Mearns didna’ show for her work yesterday?’
‘Away wi’ you! Sandra was saying Miss Falconer in the library didna’ show either. There’s probably a bug on the go. You’ve just got it in for Sheena Mearns – ever since Rose’s party.’
‘Long before that!’ Helen snapped. ‘That dame’s been a suggestive besom since ever I’ve known her. And it’s all very well for you, Murdo Macrae, propping up the bar wi’ yir cronies and leaving me at the table to witness thon carry-on! She was leading Chalmers on something awful, and he wasn’t too disappointed, I can tell you.’
‘That tongue’ll get you in trouble one day,’ Murdo warned.
Helen shrugged. ‘Well, I’d love to know what really happened to Chalmers’ eye. Still, Rose seems more like herself again.’ She smiled. ‘Though Barra seems quite desolate, poor thing.’
Murdo puffed on his pipe. ‘To tell you the truth, I thought Jennifer looked quite relieved when Rose got up to go. Thon boy can be a bit of a handful, though the day would be poorer without him in it.’
‘Och, it’s a hard thing for a youngster to contend with. And I’m thinking he’ll no’ be so ready to believe in angels for a while – more’s the pity. Still, wasn’t it just like him to bring Jennifer flowers? What boy would think to do that?’
‘Mmm! They’re no’ what you’d call flowers. They’re weeds. They’re all over the woods just now, and I just hope she doesna’ take him at his word and put them in her borders,’ Murdo mused. ‘They’ll be rampant in no time at all.’
Gallus was running in circles at the back door, chasing his tail. As soon as he was aware that he’d caught Murdo’s attention, he stopped. Never taking his eyes from his master, he thumped the door twice with his behind.
Murdo rose. ‘What a sense o’ humour he’s got,’ he said lovingly.
‘He’ll get “sense o’ humour” if he wakens herself,’ Helen warned. ‘Be off wi’ the pair o’ you.’
‘Aye, aye, sir.’ Murdo laughed, reaching for his wellies.
Isla wandered up the trail, glad to be out in the fresh, cool air of the morning. Unusually, Doug and Maisie weren’t on the best of terms, and she’d decided to make herself scarce for a while. As she rounded the first curve she spied Barra ahead, down on all fours, rapt in attention at something outside her line of vision – something on the ground.
‘What you looking at?’
‘A beetle.’
‘Did you see me coming?’
‘Didn’t have to. I heard you.’
‘You’re in a vile mood.’
‘Go away.’
Isla moved closer, for the first time noticing the beetle. It was huge and glossy-black. She retreated again.
‘Gyudders!’
The beetle became trapped in a rotting leaf. Struggling to get free, it flipped on to its back, legs waving wildly in the air. Barra picked up the leaf, using a corner gently to turn the beetle back on to its feet. It scuttled off, disappearing into the grass.
‘He’s not gyudders, he’s marvellous,’ Barra informed her. ‘In relation to his size, he just travelled as far as a human being would crossing the Sahara. Except he did it in seconds.’
‘God, aren’t you the professor?’
Barra stood, dusting off his knees.
‘What’re you doing here anyway?’
‘It’s a free country!’ Barra turned from her and began walking upwards, listlessly scuffing the earth with each step.
Isla hesitated, then moved forward to join him.
They walked in silence until they reached the clearing. Taking proprietory charge of the old log, Barra stretched himself along it, face down.
‘What’s wrong wi’ you?’ Isla’s tone was puzzled. Barra glanced at her briefly before reaching to trace the lines on the end of the log with his index finger.
‘It’s ancient,’ he murmured. ‘I always lose count.’
Then, swinging his legs to the ground, he made room for Isla to sit.
She paused long enough to let him know that the decision had been her own, before carefully positioning herself as far from him as possible.
Barra hardly seemed to notice. He rested his elbows on his knees and dumped his head between them.
‘People should get to be old,’ he said. ‘Not just trees ‘n’ things.’
‘I hope she keeps the Mini,’ Isla sighed.
‘Course she will. Why wouldn’t she?’
Isla shrugged, her bosom moving magnificently upwards.
Barra caught the motion from the corner of his eye, and felt himself grow hot. He squinted back down the trail, afraid that Isla might notice.
‘You’ve been too long in the sun,’ she remarked. ‘Yir neck’s red.’
‘You think yir sophisticated,’ Barra answered, glaring back at her. ‘But you’re not.’
Isla stood immediately. ‘I’m off,’ she retorted. ‘No-one’s got a civil tongue in their heads the day!’
She moved to pass him and Barra lifted a hand as though to stop her. Then dropped it.
‘I’m sorry,’ he whispered. ‘Y’can stay if you like.’
‘I don’t have to.’
‘Then go. Everyone goes.’
Isla stopped, her eyes coming to rest on the crown of Barra’s head. He had lovely hair.
‘Yir angel couldn’t help then?’ she asked, her voice softer now.
Barra sniffed, shook his head. ‘He’s gone too.’
Slowly, Isla sat down again, closer this time.
‘D’you think you imagined him?’ She seemed interested.
‘Dunno. He seemed real.’ Barra sniffed again, louder this time, and for a moment his eyes filled. Isla looked away, uncomfortable, yet wanting somehow to console him.
Barra, too, turned his head, blinking back his tears. How could he possibly have imagined Jamie? He’d been so sure, so very sure that he existed, even though he’d never found out exactly why the angel had chosen him. And he’d truly believed that Mr Pascoe wouldn’t die, would wake from his coma and start getting better again.
Well, if Jamie was some kind of stuntman, appearing and disappearing like that, he was pretty good at it. Barra’s lip curled at the thought. He’d been made to feel daft, soft in the head, by some evil boy who should know better than to go around making a fool of people.
Isla’s presence all but forgotten, Barra narrowed his eyes until they were almost closed, until the forest floor was no more than a shimmering verdant line. He hadn’t imagined Jamie. He’d been real. He’d been real!
Perhaps, because Jamie was just learning to be an angel, he didn’t know how to mend people. Maybe he’d got into trouble for making Barra believe in something that was never going to happen in the first place. Maybe he’d been called away as some kind of punishment.
Still, it would’ve been nice if he’d stayed around long enough to explain it all – or just to say goodbye.
Barra screwed his eyes completely shut, too late this time to prevent the escape of his tears. As surreptitiously as he could, he raised a finger to stroke them away.
Isla placed her hand on the log between them, inches from Barra’s own, making a great show of studying the woods around them.
Barra looked at it for a long moment. Then, tentatively, he laid his own hand by hers.
For Isla, it was no stretch at all to cover it with her own.