Searching for Shona (13 page)

The Miss Campbells and Anna had come with Marjorie to Canonbie Station to see her off on the Edinburgh train. As she looked at these people who had become her family, she had a sudden flashback to timid little Anna Ray in the railway station six years earlier and the fussy, identical twin sisters who had taken them in. How they had all changed, she thought. They hadn’t just grown six years older. They had become different people, and that was partly because they had known each other. She must be different, too.

A boy, who had been in Anna’s class at school and now worked for the railway, shouted something to Anna, and she grinned at him, tossing back her dark, shoulder-length hair. She was now a pretty girl, and although she was still quiet, she wasn’t as shy as she used to be.

The Miss Campbells were both wearing their tweed coats, but they no longer dressed exactly alike. That dated back to the day Anna burned Miss Agnes’s best silk dress. Today, Miss Morag was wearing a green felt hat and Miss Agnes had a bright scarf knotted around her head. Wisps of hair struggled out from under it, and she looked younger than her sister as she handed Marjorie a small package.

“Just something to nibble on in the train, my dear,” she said, and then looked as if she was going to break down and cry.

“It won’t be long until Christmas,” Miss Morag said firmly. “Just think how much Shona will have to tell us when she comes home.”

Marjorie turned away and stared down the track. In the distance she could see a puff of smoke. The train was coming, and neither the Miss Campbells nor Anna could possibly have guessed the depth of Marjorie’s feelings as she watched the train approaching along the straight stretch of track.

It was coming to take the Shona McInnes they had known back to Edinburgh, where her new life had started six years before. She had the frightened feeling that nothing would ever be the same again. Suddenly she wanted to stay safe in Canonbie, hidden away from the real Shona.

But the train came on, whistling and thundering, and screeched to a halt.

“All aboard for Edinburgh!”shouted the porter, as doors banged open and shut.

The Miss Campbells eagerly helped Marjorie lift her heavy suitcase into the train—so much bigger than the little cardboard case she’d carried six years ago. Inside was the picture, the thread that tied her to Shona McInnes.

For the first few days in Edinburgh Marjorie was so busy that she found it easy to tell herself there was no time to go anywhere near Willowbrae Road. She was living in a student hostel and busied herself with registration and buying books and finding her way to lectures. But every time she wrote the name, Shona McInnes—as she did repeatedly during these first few days on forms, on registration cards, in her new text books—the uncertain feeling of not quite knowing who she was, came nagging back.

On Saturday morning Marjorie lingered over breakfast, then tidied her room and wrote a long letter to the Miss Campbells. At last, knowing she couldn’t put it off any longer, she pulled on her coat and went out.

It was a bright, clear day, but there was a cold wind from the east. Marjorie turned up the collar of her coat and shoved her hands into her pockets, as she stood waiting for a Number Eight tram car to Portobello. When the tram came, she climbed inside and took a seat next the window. Could she still find her way back to the house on Willowbrae Road? Beyond that, she dared not think.

The tram car rattled around a curve, and she recognized the church ahead of her, its stone walls stained black with age. How many times had she and Mrs. Kilpatrick got off the tram just here on their way back from shopping on Princes Street, she wondered. She rose from her seat as in a dream, stepped down from the tram, walked past the shops, and then turned up the long hill that led to Willowbrae Road.

She counted off the houses, her heart beating uncomfortably loud, and then found herself standing in front of her own familiar house. The curtains were closed and a feeling of relief swept through her because she was sure the house was empty. Just the same, she pushed open the wrought-iron gate and walked up the path and rang the bell. No one answered.

Marjorie walked slowly away from the house toward the narrow gate that led to Holyrood Park. She followed the road through the park to the little pond where the orphanage children used to play. A group of children were feeding the ducks, and Marjorie half expected to see a small, fair-haired girl in a faded, red coat among them.

She sat down on a park bench. Inside her head she could hear her own anxious voice asking, “But how will we change back?” Shona had answered, “I’ll work that out. After the war—in Holyrood Park.” But it was more complicated now than just switching clothes. She looked down at her brown winter coat. The Miss Campbells had sacrificed some of their clothing coupons to help her buy a new coat for coming to Edinburgh. She couldn’t give that away!

With a sigh, Marjorie got up and walked back to the tram stop. Somehow she had to contact Shona, and the only way she could think of was to start from the house on Willowbrae Road.

She went back to the house two more times but it was still empty. The first time, Marjorie was relieved, but the next time she felt depressed. The uncertainty of the future was gnawing at her. It would soon be the end of term, and she felt she couldn’t go back to Canonbie and the Miss Campbells without making a greater effort to find Shona. There must be something she could do.

One Saturday in December, she decided to try the house once more, but at the last minute she took a tram to Princes Street instead. The shops were very crowded, and on a sudden impulse, looking for somewhere quiet, she turned into a small art gallery just off Princes Street. There was a showing of paintings by war artists in one room, which didn’t greatly interest her, but nevertheless, she went in and looked casually at the stark and awful paintings.

Suddenly her attention was riveted to the work of one artist. The first painting was of a plane, wrecked in a desert. Pieces of distorted metal lay half buried in the sand. One piece, bent and twisted, cast a shadow like a swastika, and another—a huge lump of metal—was highlighted so that it looked like a skull. Marjorie walked toward the painting to examine it more closely and peering at the right-hand corner saw, as she had been sure she would, the small letters, “R.M.”

There were several other paintings signed “R.M.” One was of pipes, twisted together, a meaningless thing. She turned away and went back out to the reception desk and asked an old man if he could tell her the names of the artists in the war pictures exhibit.

“Didn’t ye get a paper as ye went in, lass?” he asked her. “It tells a bit about each o’ them.”

Marjorie snatched the paper from his hand and ran her eye down the sheet.

There it was! Robert McInness. 1903-1943.

This was followed by a brief biography: “Robert McInness was employed as a war artist to make sketches of enemy installations in places where photography was impossible. His sketches were of little use to the Government because he sacrificed accuracy for emotional impact. His paintings are, however, likely to have lasting value as a graphic interpretation of scenes of war. He was killed in active duty in November, 1943.”

Paintings of lasting value
. Here, at last, was something she could give to Shona. The father whom she had never known had left something so that people would remember him. Surely, through his paintings, Shona could find out about him for herself.

Clutching the flimsy paper, Marjorie turned and walked out of the gallery and caught a tram toward Willowbrae Road. When she reached the house, she was, somehow, not surprised to see that today the curtains were open and the house looked lived in.

She walked up to the door and rang the bell. She listened to the slow tread of answering footsteps. The door opened, and there stood Mrs. Kilpatrick looking at her stolidly.

Marjorie stood there, waiting for the spate of words that would surely come when Mrs. Kilpatrick recognized her. Mrs. Kilpatrick looked so much the same to Marjorie that it seemed inconceivable that Mrs. Kilpatrick wouldn’t know
her
. But Marjorie was quite changed from the little pigtailed girl who had lived there six years ago, the girl who had worn tailored coats and black patent leather shoes. Marjorie’s winter coat was new but was, after all, just a plain, wartime coat. She wore flat brown shoes and thick lisle stockings. She’d grown tall, and her hair, now brown, was curled—somewhat limp and straggly curls on that raw December afternoon.

When the silence became uncomfortably long, Mrs. Kilpatrick asked sharply, “Well. What can I do for you?”

“Is Marjorie Malcolm-Scott here?” Marjorie asked. And added by way of explanation, “We used to be friends.”

“She is here. She’s just back from Canada, you know. But I don’t remember her having friends in the old days.”

“We played together—in the park,” Marjorie explained in a small voice.

Mrs. Kilpatrick looked at Marjorie curiously for a minute and then said, rather grudgingly, “Come inside, and I’ll call her.”

She led Marjorie into the Victorian sitting room, and Marjorie looked around. Everything in the room was just as she remembered it, even the seven ebony elephants arranged on the mantelpiece. It was all so familiar, yet all so strange.

“What name shall I say?” Mrs. Kilpatrick asked.

Marjorie gave a start and then said, “Shona McInnes. She’ll know who it is.”

Mrs. Kilpatrick bustled out and came back in a few minutes.

“She says she’ll be down. Please take a seat.”

Marjorie sat down feeling dreadfully nervous.

“How long has she been back?” she asked.

“Just a week—and she’s not back to stay. Her Uncle Fergus wanted to see her, so she has come over for Christmas, but she plans to go back to her relatives in Canada. I can understand it. She’s more at home there.”

“Her Uncle doesn’t mind?”

“I think he was relieved at first that she had decided to live in Canada, but now, I don’t know. Such a smart and pretty girl she’s turned out. Her Uncle said he wouldn’t have recognized her when he met her off the boat if she hadn’t sent us her photograph. She’s not the quiet, sulky little thing she used to be before the war.”

Marjorie bristled at that and felt some of her nervousness leave her. The door opened and a tall, slim girl wearing a gray skirt, a pale blue twin set, and silk stockings stepped into the room. She tossed back her golden hair and said almost imperiously, “You can leave us, Mrs. Kilpatrick!” She spoke with a Canadian accent.

Marjorie stood up and wondered how to begin, but Shona spoke first, saying, “Mrs. Kilpatrick says that your name is Shona McInnes. I’m afraid I don’t remember you.”

She stared at Marjorie with a cold, calculating gleam in her blue eyes.

“Of … of course, you do,” stammered Marjorie. “The day in Waverley Station when we changed places.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I’ve found out about your family,” Marjorie said nervously. “Look, if you don’t want to change back, it’s all right with me, but we’ve got to talk about it.”

”I’m afraid there’s nothing to talk about.”

“Don’t you at least want to know about your mother and father? I was sent to Canonbie. I felt awful at first because you should have been one to go there, and you would have found Clairmont House for yourself. It would have meant more to you. The house in the picture, you know.”

Marjorie knew she wasn’t putting it well, but Shona’s icy stare unnerved her.

“I know all there is to know about my parents,” she said in a low, steady voice. “They were drowned in a yachting accident when I was five. I’m Marjorie Malcolm-Scott, and immediately after Christmas I’m going back to live with my cousins in Canada, and I doubt if I’ll ever come back here.”

Then she added, very slowly, looking directly at Marjorie, “There’s no way you can change that.”

“But can’t I tell you about your parents?” begged Marjorie. “I thought you used to wonder about them. Look, you should at least go to this gallery.”

She thrust the flimsy paper she was still holding into Shona’s hand. Without even glancing at it, Shona crumpled it up and hurled it into the fire. They both watched it burn.

Just then the door opened and a tall, slightly stooped, gray-haired man walked into the room. Uncle Fergus! Marjorie looked at him expectantly, but his glance just slid off her, almost as if she wasn’t there. He turned to Shona and said, “I didn’t know you had company, Marjorie.”

“She’s just leaving,” Shona said smoothly. “I’ll ring for Mrs. Kilpatrick to show her out.”

“I’ll show myself out,” Marjorie said, and added to Shona as she walked between her and Uncle Fergus, “After all, I know the way!”

She left the house, slamming the door behind her. Shona’s voice was still ringing in her ears. “I’m Marjorie Malcolm-Scott, and there’s no way you can change that!” She could see the hard look on Shona’s face, and for a moment she felt strangely sorry for her. Yes, Shona could keep her money, her relatives, and even her name! Marjorie walked down Willowbrae Road feeling bold, confident and daring. She had found herself at last. And she liked what she had found.

About the Author

Margaret Anderson was born and educated in Scotland. She has a B.Sc. (Honors) degree in genetics from Edinburgh University. After working as a statistician and biologist in England, Canada, and the United States, she took up writing science and nature articles for children’s magazines. Her first book was nonfiction,
Exploring the Insect World
. Then she turned to writing historical and time-slip fiction.
Searching for Shona
(© 1978 by Margaret J. Anderson) was a Borzoi book, published by Alfred A; Knopf. In writing it she drew heavily on her wartime memories of her own childhood in Lockerbie, Scotland.

After writing ten novels, all published by Knopf, Anderson completed the circle by going back to nonfiction writing. These books include biographies of Charles Darwin and Isaac Newton. Her most recent book is
Bugged-Out Insects
(Enslow, 2011). Because she gets emails from fans who read her early novels as a child and would now like to have their children read them, she is venturing into the e-book world.
In the Keep of Time
and
In the Circle of Time
are already available as e-books.
The Mists of Time
will complete the Time trilogy. Coming soon is
To Nowhere and Back
, originally published in 1975 and selected by the NY Times Book Review for their Outstanding Books of the Year list.