A Kind of Grief (2 page)

They were at the kitchen table, and as usual, he was reading the morning newspapers. “Absolutely. Nothing sells newspapers like a bit of controversy. But I'll let you deal with the letters to the editor from the Holy Jo brigade, as I'd throw them in the bin.” He smiled at her.

She smiled back but had an uncomfortable thought that her new husband would be enthusiastic about almost everything she suggested.

“Witches,” said Annie, “Great. I love stories about real witches.”

“Don't know about real,” Joanne replied to her elder daughter. “When people call a woman a witch, it's . . .”

Here she stopped; to explain the viciousness of small-town gossip to a twelve-year-old was not appropriate. But she had an idea that her daughter already knew that. Having a father who had deserted them and a twice-married working mother, the girl had overheard more than enough from the fishwives of the town.

“I'll follow it up,” Joanne said. Then, seeing the time on the gold watch McAllister had bought her as a wedding gift, she started the usual morning shepherding-children-out-the door-to-school routine.

When she had the house to herself, she started making notes. Her handwriting had suffered after years as a typist, and the scrawl in her notepad offended her. But later, sitting back, rereading the opening sentences, the jottings of notes, she felt a tug of real interest in the idea. And it had been many months since she had been interested in much.

Yes,
she thought, McAllister was right. Witches were an antiquated notion in the soon-to-be-1960s. Might make an amusing short story, though.

The Sutherland newspaper had been five days out of date when she'd read it, but she knew that for the locals, the story would still be fresh. Probably even less happened up there than down here. She telephoned and asked for the chief reporter.

“
Sutherland Courier
.” It was a male voice. Young. “Yes, I covered the trial. I'm Calum Mackenzie, senior reporter.” He didn't say he was the one and only full-time reporter, but having worked on the local newspaper, Joanne assumed this.

She explained. He listened.

“Oh, aye, the trial made a big commotion up here. Went on for two days, and everyone was talking about it.”

“My idea is to do a longer piece—the background, the trial, the verdict, belief in witchcraft in the twentieth century . . . you know.”

Eager for a chance at the bigger time, Calum replied, “I think I can see where you're coming from, and I don't think there'll be a problem. Of course, I'll have to ask my editor first. Give me your number. Right, Joanne Ross,
Highland Gazette
. Thanks. Be in touch.”

When, two days later, Joanne received newspaper clippings covering the trial and a summary from Calum Mackenzie, she called again, asked a few more questions, and asked if he would mind if she used his report.

“We can share a byline,” she said.

Calum was delighted. “You should come up and visit,” he said, as they wound down the conversation. “Maybe meet Miss Alice Ramsay. Even though she's older—she's my mother's age—she's an interesting woman. Different. And she's an artist.”

Joanne heard the implication that older women were not often interesting and smiled. She also heard the emphasis on
artist
, as though being an artist indicated louche behavior and made it more likely that Alice was up to no good.

“I don't know the far northeast coast of Scotland,” Joanne replied, “but in the summer, I went camping in Portmahomack and couldn't miss the monument above Golspie.”

“The statue to the Duke. The Big Mannie, us locals call it, him up there lording it above us all for dozens o' miles around.”

“Maybe I will come up someday. It'd be nice to explore a different part of the Highlands.”

He told her if she did visit, she should give him a call and he would show her around. Then he went back to writing a piece on the price of sheep at the local livestock auctions, and she went back to thinking about witches past—and perhaps present.

Next morning, Joanne was again waiting for the postman. Again at the kitchen table, she straightened out the newspaper cutting to reread the story.

She jotted down “To Do” notes:

Interview Calum Mackenzie of local paper.

Interview the woman Alice RAMSAY??? Check spelling.

Talk to someone re the trial. Local police? Procurator fiscal's office?

The clock in the hallway chimed ten. No mail. Not for the first time, she wanted to smash that clock, knew she wouldn't, knew she did not even have the courage to stop the pendulum; any explanation would seem ridiculous, especially to her elder daughter, whose constant “why?” exasperated her mother.
Thank goodness for McAllister—he always has an answer.

She pushed her notebook across the table, opened the folder with two stories she was working on, glanced at the first page, and closed the folder. She thought of making another cup of tea. Didn't. She thought of all the ironing. But didn't move.

Maybe I should stick to light romance.
But I want to impress him, show him I can do more.

She knew she was being unfair, attributing thoughts to her husband, who was always encouraging. But he was a journalist, a former war correspondent, respected in the publishing and newspaper industry. He was a reader of books with words even he occasionally had to look up in a dictionary. And although she would never acknowledge the thought, he intimidated her with his worldliness.

“You give people pleasure,” he'd said when, yet again, she'd made light of her own modest success.

She couldn't accept that, longing instead to write serious, intellectual work; articles, essays, a short story—anything that he would admire and be proud of. But, she reminded herself, what filled her imagination and what came out of her fingertips did not often match.

“McAllister,” she said to her husband, “the woman I was telling you about . . .”

He looked up from his newspaper. The headline was once again about the upcoming general election. A Labour man, as was most of Scotland, McAllister feared the Tory Twits, as he called them, might win.

She saw the question in the raised eyebrow. “The woman in Sutherland they're calling a witch?”

“Oh, aye?”

“I was thinking I might go up there, maybe interview her.”

“Great idea.” He loved stirring up controversy. “Take the car. Maybe ask someone to go with you . . .”

“I'm fine by myself.” That came out harsher than intended. She smiled. “I'll set off early, and I promise I'll look after your precious car.”

That was unfair. McAllister had no pride in cars. Or in much else in the way of possessions, except books and gramophone records.

“Mum, I could take a day off school and come with you,” Annie offered.

“Stop fussing. All of you.” Her eyes felt hot and she blinked away unshed tears. “Sorry. Maybe I'll just see if I can interview her on the phone.”

“Can I have more custard?” Jean asked.

Seeing the anxiety in her younger daughter's eyes, Joanne apologized. “Sorry, I didn't mean to snap.”

Later that night, before going to bed and abandoning McAllister to his book and a jazz record she found too discordant a background for her reading, she again apologized.

“Sorry. It's just I don't like fuss.”

“I know. But it's a long drive, and . . .” He was about to say
I worry about you
. Didn't, appreciating it would upset her. Instead he told her the deeper truth. “I couldn't bear anything to happen to you ever again.”

“Me neither.”

He nodded.

She hesitated. “Night night.”

“Sleep tight.”

A particularly tortured passage of free-form saxophone began.

She grimaced.

Then fled.

Whereas her husband was a reluctant driver, Joanne was a natural. It was indeed a long drive, skirting around two firths, navigating through the twists and bends of the landscape, but the solitude, the warmth—like being snuggled up in a linen cupboard with clean washing—opened up thoughts and fancies and songs. A bonnie singer, she drew inspiration from the hills and rivers and the North Sea. On the three-hour drive, through song after song, mostly Scottish apart from an attempt at an aria from
Don Giovanni
, she sang loudly, and with no passenger to chide her, she would occasionally steer with one hand, making operatic gestures with the other.

After crossing the Dornoch Firth and into Sutherland at Bonar Bridge, the town was a short distance farther. Parking in the Cathedral Square as Calum Mackenzie had advised, she walked to the newspaper office, asked for him, and was offered a cup of tea by a young woman who looked like she should still be at school.

Joanne was about to say yes, when Calum arrived.

She was taken by his outdoors-in-all-weather tanned face, his smile, but taken aback at his short stature. Everything about Calum was miniature. She fancied he would fit into the school uniform of a twelve-year-old. His sandy-colored hair, in kinks no wind would ever ruffle, could have been set with a curling iron. But it was his eyes, kind and considerate eyes, that made her immediately like him and trust him.

“Mrs. Ross.” He held out his hand.

“It's Mrs. McAllister, actually.” She shook his hand back.

“But I thought you were . . .” He was checking the small foyer for another woman.

“Sorry.” She knew she was blushing and hated it. “Yes, I'm Joanne Ross, but I'm also a McAllister, and . . .”

“You have a pen name. Me too. But mine's a secret, and only for when I'm pretending I'm a real writer.”

She almost said,
me too
. “Maybe you
are
a real writer.”

“One day.” They were smiling at each other now, comfortable.

“Listen,” he said, “there's a wee tea shop I go to—full of old ladies, usually—but it should be quiet now. Not that you're an old lady . . .”

“Lead on, Mr. Mackenzie.”

“After you, Miss Ross.”

“Joanne. We're colleagues, after all.”

That did it. Calum Mackenzie became devoted to Joanne Ross. He remained so for years, long after what he later thought of as “the old days,” when the so-called witch's trial was consigned to distant memory. And history.

Over a pot of tea and cheese scones, then a second pot of tea, Calum told Joanne of the trial before the sheriff of Miss Alice Ramsay.

His account was confusing. He started in the middle part of the trial, reliving the most memorable moments of a witness the likes of whom Calum had never before encountered.

“Calling in thon art expert did Miss Ramsay no good at all. Many of the locals, the police, the procurator fiscal, and aye, the sheriff included, were none too pleased at being shown up for teuchters. Only Mrs. Ogilvie, the district nurse, enjoyed the professor's testimony.”

He saw Joanne's bewilderment and said, “Sorry, got it back to front, haven't I?” He had, but his mother's constant indignation at the not guilty verdict and her implication that Miss Ramsay had tricked the court were most fresh in his mind.

“You know how I wrote that Miss Ramsay was accused of giving thon poor woman”—his mother's words again—“the herb tea that made her lose her baby?”

Joanne nodded, not interrupting but with encouraging nods and the occasional “aye.” Letting people tell the tale in their own way, listening to what they said rather than waiting for a pause to put in her opinion, was a talent Joanne had, a talent that made her a good journalist.

Calum continued, “Most of the case was about what the police found when they came to interview her at her house up the glen: skulls and animal skeletons, birds' eggs—some still in their wee nests—loads of flowers and leaves hanging from the clothes pulley above the kitchen stove. For teas and herbal remedies, she told the court. And it was a tea—raspberry leaf, she said—that got her into trouble. It is an abort—”