A Kind of Grief (4 page)

What caught her fancy most was an ink drawing of a bird skeleton—brown ink, faded ink, light-dirty-faded brown paper. The tiny bones, in profile, took up half the composition, details of the skull the other. Calum had said something about skeleton drawings being exhibited in court, and Joanne had to look away, lest she be caught staring.

Faded rugs, some rag, some woven, and some threadbare Oriental, were scattered on the slate slab kitchen floor. The covers on a sofa, set under a window looking down the glen, Joanne recognized as a William Morris print, a design she had seen in a book and always hankered after. She loved the tapestry cushions and wondered if Miss Ramsay had stitched them herself. And the paisley shawl—perhaps it was a treasure from some relative in the British Colonial Service. She felt she was in an Oriental bazaar in a story from
One Thousand and One Nights
. Entranced by the room and everything in it, Joanne did not disguise her delight. Never before had she been in a place where she coveted so many of the objects.

Alice enjoyed her visitor's obvious pleasure at her creations. As she busied herself stoking up the fire and searching for the tin of biscuits she had misplaced, she was remembering the numerous trips up the farm track, when every visit to the town, every hour outside the safety of her territory, was one trip too many.

She could picture her Land Rover, the rear area, the backseat, and the passenger seat filled with the spoils of the furniture and bric-a-brac auctions held weekly to coincide with the livestock marts.

Nails, screws, tools, cement, curtain rods, curtain fabric, flour, poultry feed, barley, oatmeal rough and flakes, tea—lots and lots of tea—sugar brown and white and castor, soap, washing soda, scrubbing brushes, sweeping brushes (outdoor, indoor, a broomstick made from twigs), bed linen, pillows, cushions, knitting yarn, knitting needles (secondhand from a church bazaar), thread, needles, sewing-machine needles, scissors large and small and pinking shears, antiseptic cream, sticking plasters, bandages, surgical spirits, and other spirits—whisky, gin, and cooking sherry (for she was not fond of sweet sherry, but that was all that was available hereabouts)—everything in the house and the outhouses and the garden she had carted up the road, through the gate, up the track, and into her life. The fencing posts and barbed wire and building materials, the hammer, screwdrivers, a set of spanners, and a bow saw—all these she had carried and used. Frequently.

Joanne cut into Alice's reverie. “Miss Ramsay, I wrote to your post office box. Is that not the correct address?”

“I haven't had time to collect mail.”

Joanne knew the mail would only have been there two days at most and didn't take the offense that was intended.

Alice put down a tray with the teapot hidden in a pale pink quilted satin cozy, the edges of which were stained a peat color from spilt tea. “Milk?”

“Yes, please.”

Alice sighed. She may have to venture out after all, as this was the last of her last pint of milk, with not even enough for that first early-morning cup of tea. For the remainder of the day, black tea or herbal was fine. But to start the day, milk was essential.

Joanne mistook the sigh. “I'm not your enemy. I came to talk, to ask you about the trial, yes, but never to publish without your permission. Most of all, I'm interested in your art.”

No answer.

“I know how it feels to be persecuted for being different.” Joanne's voice dropped, her gaze concentrating on the drawing of the bird skeleton; even the bare bones held within them the knowledge of flight.

Alice noticed how her visitor faded into herself when she spoke. How her eyes would widen, soften, as she asked a question. How her head angled imperceptibly as she waited for an answer. A good interrogator, was Alice's summation. “Ah. The trial. So you understand. I can see you have spirit. And intelligence. Not a good idea for a woman to show intelligence hereabouts.” She smiled.

And when Alice Ramsay smiled, a different woman appeared—as different as the shadows of light and sun in the shire of Sutherland, the place where she had hoped to remain, anonymous, unremarked upon. Until the gossip and accusations and exposure in newspapers threatened everything she had dreamed of, worked for, and almost achieved. What was worse for Alice, fear had returned.

“Mrs. Ross . . .”

“Joanne.”

“Joanne, the past months have been . . .” She was about to say
stressful
but knew it was anger that had consumed her through the police visits, the accusations, the solicitor's advice to ignore the gossip, his underestimating the venom of her accusers. “I'm not interested in revisiting that debacle. And I certainly don't want any more publicity.” Alice knew it was her own fault; in trying to be sympathetic, in attempting to help a woman who had tried every way to carry a child full-term. Then her kindness had been turned against her.

“Fair enough,” Joanne said. “It's just that I had this idea for a story, and as this is where the last witch in Scotland was executed, I thought—”

Alice burst out laughing. “And you thought you'd interview a real live witch!”

“No!” Joanne was burning in shame, from her face to the top of the V in her white blouse, down to her breasts, was how it felt. “No, I didn't mean—”

“How homemade herbal teas and ointments can lead to accusations of witchcraft astonished me too. But I should have known; a branch of my family is from the Highlands.”

Alice was riled. In the set of her face, the stiffness in her arms, her feet planted square on the floor, it was clear she was still hurting. “That poor old feeble-minded woman executed not far from here in 1728, yes, we have something in common. We were both condemned by nothing more than gossip. But I will survive. She, poor soul, was rolled in tar, put in a barrel, set alight, and burned to death.”

They both shuddered.

Joanne knew gossip could kill. Gossip, innuendo, jumping to conclusions, seeing what was not there to see, interpreting a word, a glance, an animal, an object, an artifact, even a change in the weather, in a malicious way; it all could be seen as signs of witchcraft.

Alice looked at Joanne again. Sensing the combination of confidence and anxiety, she asked, “What is it you are really looking for?”

“A story.” The moment she said it, Joanne knew she needed to continue. “I want to write something of worth. Something I can be proud of. I've written wee bits for the newspaper. I've had some stories published, just romance stuff, but I want to write . . .” Here she stopped. “You know.”

“Yes, I do know. Congratulations. You've had work published. Not easy, so don't be hard on yourself. The more you search for your place in the world, the more elusive it becomes.” She stood. “My advice is, be content with the little things, and you will make progress.”

Joanne recognized the farewell. “Thank you for talking to me.”

“I'm sorry I can't help you.” She knew
won't
was more appropriate than
can't
. “But as an artist, I will say this. Just work, Joanne. Just keep on writing, or in my case painting, and something will come.”

“I'll try. But everyday life leaves little time.”

Alice laughed. “Not an excuse. Yet I take your point. We women are always putting off our dreams.”

In the farmyard, with the sun gone, the wind bit.

“That's my thinking corner.” Alice gestured to a south-facing spot against the wall of the outbuilding where a bench, a table, and a dilapidated deck chair sheltered in a thicket of fading chrysanthemums and climbing rose. “Next year I'll build a conservatory where I can work. Or sit for whiles doing nothing.”

“Busy doing nothing, working the whole day through,” Joanne half-sang. Then stopped and blushed. “
Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs
.”

Alice looked blank.

Then Joanne remembered that only mothers had to sit through three showings of the same film. “I'm not sure I ever have time to do nothing,” Joanne confessed. “I'd like to. Though if I did, I'd end up feeling I should be getting on with something, anything.” Joanne knew she was blethering again but couldn't stop.

“Ah, yes, that Scottish Presbyterian guilt complex. Know it well.” Alice held out her hand. “It's been a pleasure to meet you, Joanne. Sorry I can't help you find your witch. Though I'm certain you'll find your story.” Alice's hands, rough gardener's hands, were warm. As was her smile. “Just listen to the wind, is my advice.”

At the top of the track, watching Joanne walk on the center ridge out of the muddy ruts, Alice called out, “Your dog, where is he? She?”

“My dog?” Joanne turned back. “I don't have a dog.”

“The one on the rug in front of the Aga?”

“I thought he was yours.” Joanne looked around at the empty hills, the distant mountain to the west, the glint of water to the far east, and saw no sign of habitation. “He came up the glen with me, and I assumed . . .” Now the light was fading. “Sorry, I can't help you. I have a long drive.”

“Yes, yes, leave him with me.” Alice waved her away.

Back in the kitchen, the dog looked up at her, cocking one ear.
Yes? You wanted me?
Receiving no reply, only a long silent stare, he harrumphed softly and went back to sleep.

“One night.” Alice spoke firmly. She knew how to handle dogs. “One night, then you go back wherever it is you belong.”

A
t first Alice had found the gossip amusing, the overheard snatches of conversations, the furtive muttering in the butcher's, the baker's, the five-bar-gate maker's, abruptly halting as her presence became known. She'd later laughed about it and shared the stories with the hens.

Alice doesn't worry when the local policeman came plodding up the track, holding on to his hat with one hand. He is not a threat, perhaps visiting to warn her of dogs on the loose worrying the sheep. Plainclothes policemen of mysterious variety are threatening; they are the ones she fears.

“Miss Ramsay. Constable Harris.”

“Come in. I'll put the kettle on.”

He is too much of a Highlander to refuse.

As he sips the tea, he looks around. Frankly, openly, he stares. The kitchen, with slate floors and whitewashed walls and cooking range—an Aga, he notes—is similar to most farm kitchens yet like nothing he's ever known. The bright cushions, curtains, rugs he takes no notice of. The flowers and leaves hanging from the pulley, the fresh tree branches standing in a zinc bucket in a corner, he notices and doesn't understand. However, the paintings and, most of all, the small and larger skulls used as ornaments, and in the case of a broken fox skull, a pen holder, fascinate him. “Unusual,” he was later to testify. “No normal,” he was later to say.

“Miss Ramsay,” he begins.

She sees how uncomfortable he is and doesn't help. Just waits, arms crossed.

“There's this woman claims she knows you, a Mrs. North.”

“Yes, I've met a Mrs. North.”

“And she claims you gave her some tea, herbs . . .”

“For her morning sickness. Yes.”

“Aye. Right.” He has his notebook open, his pen poised, but is looking down at his boots, seeing how the mud has splattered the usual high shine and thinking they need a good clean, thinking why wasn't there a woman around who could ask the uncomfortable questions. Constable Harris's knowledge of the internal workings of women's bodies was still at fifteen-year-old-schoolboy level.

“Mrs. North,” Alice prompted.

“She lost the baby.” He says this without looking at her.

Alice knew already. “That's sad.” She remembers the timid wee woman, how desperate she was to have a baby, a son. And she remembers the fading bruises on the woman's left arm.

“I fell over,” Mrs. North had said.

Alice had pretended to believe her.

“Trouble is,” the young constable says, “she—well, mostly him, her husband—they're saying it was your fault. You made her this potion, and that's why she lost the bairn.”

“Why on earth would I do that?”

He remembered the husband saying that because she had no man and no children, she was jealous of those who did. “I don't know,” he says.