A Small Death in the Great Glen (28 page)

Joanne walked back to the office after her break, still stunned.

“He gave me permission, permission to work.” She was disgusted with herself, not Bill. “How did I get inveigled into that weekend away? I might just as well have hoisted up a surrender flag.”

She dawdled down the hill. “I'll bet that brother-in-law of mine had something to do with this; he said he'd talk to Bill. Till death do us part indeed! All very well for a minister to say, but we could do with an extra commandment, ‘Thou shalt not drink and hit thy wife'!”

Back at the desk she attacked the typewriter. That felt better. But she couldn't type accurately. The rendezvous with her husband had left her completely flummoxed.

“Why on earth do I always give in?”

Bill had phoned her at the
Gazette
office, unusual, asking to meet for a coffee—most unusual.

“I can't get out right now,” she replied. Fearing he would come round and drag her out of work, she suggested, “How about the Castle Brae Café at twelve?”

“Right you are.”

Replacing the receiver all she could think was, I wonder what he wants.

Sitting at a window table, watching the town pass by, she spotted Bill coming up the brae. She studied him as he strode toward her, taking the steep hill as though it was a stroll across a football pitch. She had loved him. She had married him. They had had good times—but too far back to remember. The weekend away had been good in parts but now came the negotiations for her surrender. What choice did she have? The girls had been through enough already. And why oh why, she asked herself, why can't you be like everyone else? Why can't you accept your lot? Her mother's words echoed around her head, echoed as they had done on and off for ten years or so—“You've made your bed. …” The sensation of being run over by an emotional steamroller had her almost forgetting to breathe.

Bill told the waitress to hurry. He had an appointment, he said. The woman rolled her eyes but took the order. Joanne leaned forward, speaking in that hushed voice reserved for ministers, doctors, bank managers and public places, and asked, “Have you talked to Mr. Keir at the bank yet? He's called a few times to ask where you are.”

“That's my two o'clock meeting.” Bill was strangely confident. “I told him about your job. He liked that.” He had doubled the amount of her wages when the subject was discussed. That had done the trick. “But still, he has no right to call you at work. I'll have a word about that.”

“Mr. Keir was only trying to find you.” Joanne was aware
that she was once again placating her husband. “Like you said, an extension on the loan is the best idea.” It was a habit, a necessary habit; she had to keep the peace after all. “It's good, though, isn't it? The bank agreeing to the extension on the loan? You'll be fine financially now, won't you?”

“Of course. You leave all that to me.”

Enough, Joanne told herself, don't push it.

“Guess what?” he went on. “I found out that thon firm, the one that came in second in the bidding for the contract out west, that's the firm doing the work on Grieg's lodge. So, if I don't finish on time, the second bidder can take over. That's the way the contract is worded. So maybe that's what the other crew has been promised.”

“Councilor Findlay Grieg! The rat,” Joanne exclaimed.

“Rat or no, he's got me. All legal too. But no if I finish on time. I have a wee scheme.” He explained his plan to get a couple of caravans and some workmen from the town to go over to the west coast to finish the job.

“But it'll mean spending cash to get ahead. And spending time over there. I can work seven days a week even if those west coast Holy Joes can't.” He finished his tea. “Most of the joinery on thon houses I've done myself already, some plumbing too. So, since I'll be away for a while, you can keep your wee job—seeing as how it makes you happy.”

He patted her hand across the table. It was like she was his pet.

“You'll let me keep the job,” she stated.

“So long as it doesn't interfere with you looking after the house and the girls.” He was pleased with himself, everything settled, no deep discussions like she usually wanted. “I've got to be off. Can't be late for the meeting.” He leaned forward, hand on her arm—“See you tonight, eh?”—and winked, leaving a pound note on the table.

Joanne sat, registered him turning left instead of right toward the bank, and continued to sit as the waitress cleared up around
her. All her intentions, all the discussions about their life, their marriage, practiced over and over in her head, vanished when confronted with the reality of Bill. Her optimism, that lifebuoy of hope that kept her floating above the reality of the marriage, seemed insubstantial in the face of the force that was her husband. Disgusted with herself, she recited her internal chant.

“I am a person, not a possession.”

Bill was not on his way to the bank, had never had any intention of going to the bank, cap in hand. He was not on his way to the council works department, cap in hand, to ask for an extension on the contract. He was on his way to meet his savior. The money to see him through the winter and more besides, in five minutes hence, would be his. No questions asked. More than you could say for the bank manager. He recalled the earlier meeting with barely suppressed fury.

“What security can you offer, Mr. Ross?”

“May I remind you, Mr. Ross, that your current loan is way behind schedule?”

“I need more than just your word, Mr. Ross.”

Bill couldn't be doing with the doubting Thomases of this world; he would pull this off all by himself. Cash to settle his suppliers, two caravans and some time, that was all he needed. It wouldn't do for Joanne to find out, though. He turned down the lane to the bar near the station. With Joanne, he thought, he had won. She'd never leave him. She couldn't take the shame. She'd never go against the Church. Touch and go though for a while, he knew. Good that he'd taken her out west. And that idea, he remembered, was all thanks to that brother-in-law of hers—first time a minister's ever been useful, he thought with a smirk. He pushed through the swing doors and looked around.

“Over here,” a voice called out in a Glasgow accent.

That evening, Bill Ross was at home. Slumped in his armchair, a newspaper open, foot tapping to the Strathspey on the wireless, he was in a rare good mood.

“Now another from Jimmy Shand and his band, this time a Shetland reel—‘Hens o'er the Midden …'” The music started up.

Annie was furtively eyeing her father, assessing his mood. She instinctively knew the time to strike. This was big, though. Her mother said they couldn't afford it. But his foot was tapping.

“Dad, Mum, can I go round to Sheila's house to watch television?”

“No you can't,” Joanne replied.

Bill and Joanne knew that Mrs. Murchison pumped the girls for information.

“It's no fair. I'm the only one in my class doesn't have a telly,” Annie lied, directing her protests to her father.

“I've told you before, we can't afford it,” Joanne shouted from the kitchen.

The child was not about to give up.

“Everyone else's dad bought one,” Annie persisted, exaggerating as usual. “Everyone thinks we're poor 'cos we don't have one.”

That got his attention.

Joanne, peeling tatties for supper, was half listening in.

“We'll get a telly.” Bill was definite. “I'll have a look first thing tomorrow. I'll get you one before I leave for the west coast.”

“I want to look too, but I'll be at school,” Annie wailed.

“I'll pick you up. We'll look in the shop window and you can help choose.”

“Me too, me too.” Wee Jean was thrilled. She desperately wanted to watch Muffin the Mule.

Annie danced into the kitchen. “Dad says we're getting a television.”

“We'll see about that.” Joanne frowned. Maybe they could manage to pay for a television on hire purchase. Then again there might be a problem getting the loan. “Christmas is coming up, so if you do without a big present, maybe we can manage it. But no promises, mind.”

“But Dad said we're getting one tomorrow.”

“I said, we'll see. Now into the bath with you both—we'll play dominoes later.”

The girls ran upstairs, no squabbling for once, excited by the magical news—a television. Joanne came into the sitting room, wiping her hands on her apron.

“Bill, what's this about a television?”

“It's high time we got one. We'll be the first in our street. Besides, it's good for the bairns. Educational.”

“You yourself told me to go easy until the contract paid out. I could only afford one bag of coal last month. The girls need winter coats before anything else.”

The first sign of anger appeared on his cheekbones, a hint of a flush that she knew all too well.

“Here, take this.”

He reached into his back pocket and peeled twenty pounds from a big roll of cash and thrust it at her. “Don't let anybody ever say I don't look after my family.”