North Sea Requiem (9 page)

“Does.” Annie had never seen this brother but would not be contradicted by a sister two and a half years younger.

“You're fine.” Joanne went around the table and stood over Annie, who flinched and tried to move her head out of reach.

“Sit still.” Joanne had a hold of a thick strand of hair crinkled from the pigtails she insisted Annie kept her hair in for school and which Annie hated and often threatened to cut off but was too afraid of what Granny Ross would say, or do, it being her belief that as well as jam making and chutney making and crunchy toffee cooking, her grandmother could brew up witch's potions and cast spells.

Joanne couldn't see any nits, but they were there, the telltale eggs dotted around the hairline and up in the nest of hair at the back of the head.

“Have you been scratching?” The colony above the ears was particularly thick, and on one side, where the scalp was inflamed, Joanne was certain she saw something move.

“It's only dandruff.” Annie knew, from the way her mother stood back, trying to search without her hair coming anywhere near her daughter's, that it wasn't.

“It's nits.”

“I'll have to stay off school.”

The obvious satisfaction in her daughter's voice made Joanne want to shout at her. But nits were no person's fault, no respecters of family or fortune—a fact Nurse Urquhart agreed on.

“Into the bathroom,” Joanne ordered Annie. “Jean, you sleep in my bed tonight; this is going to take a long time.”

She was looking at the thick hair, the same chestnut brown as hers but with more red in it, thinking how many nights she would have to soak it with olive oil and comb out every nit, every
egg, and even then with no guarantee she would get them all. She would never inflict on her daughters the method used by her mother from the one time she had caught them. Her eight-year-old self shuddered at the dire warnings about playing with the village children, and the loneliness she had to endure that summer, and the memory of paraffin rubbed into the scalp—a memory so strong that filling the paraffin heater in the winter still made her queasy.

“Give me a haircut like Nurse Urquhart makes the boys get.”

“That's this short.” Jean held her fingers half an inch apart.

Annie felt rather than saw her mother consider the idea, before saying, “Into the bathroom. Now. I'll bring the olive oil.”

“It'll take forever and I want short hair and if I don't get rid of them, I'll be off school for ages and”—she was calculating what else would tip the battle in her favor—“and maybe Jean will get them, and you too.”

“You sit down, Mum; I'll have a look.” The sweetness of her younger daughter's offer, the girls' assumption that Joanne might have them, her fear of losing her mane of beautiful hair she treasured so much that she always gathered rainwater for the final rinse . . . The argument was won.

“I can make it shorter.”

“No. Really, really short so the eggs don't cling.” Annie's pronouncement sounded like the quote it was. “Then the olive oil, then the comb, then wrap the head tight and do the same again in the morning for . . .” Weeks, Nurse Urquhart had said, but that sounded too long.

“I'll use the dressmaking shears.” Joanne went to fetch her sewing basket.

Annie had enough sense not to cheer; she scratched more vigorously instead.

The haircut took place in the bathroom, the hair first cut in
big chunks and dropped into a paper bag. Joanne wanted to burn the hair, burn the beasts alive. The rest of the haircut was traumatic for Joanne. She shuddered at one point, when holding up the scissors to examine the progress of the style—a pixie look was what she was trying for—and she saw something moving along the blades. She almost shrieked, before turning on the tap until it ran as hot as possible. She rinsed the scissors, and continued the cut, now moving more quickly. When she'd finished, Annie stared in the mirror. Joanne had to admit that her daughter looked more than good with a shorn head; she looked elegant and older and stronger, and the unfashionably short hair seemed to suit her daughter's personality.

“This is better than a real hairdresser.”

Joanne knew the back was not even, but Annie couldn't see that. She took the olive oil, rubbed it in, and began the tedious process of combing every section of the head, over and over, rinsing the steel comb under the tap until the hot water ran out and until all the eggs she could find were gone, but knowing there were more, there were always more, lurking. It was well after nine o'clock before Annie finally went to bed—she even helped her mother strip her bed and put the sheets and pillowcases in the washing machine and the quilt outside in the washhouse.

“Thanks, Mum, I love my new haircut,” Annie said.

“Wait until your granny sees it.”

“I'll tell her I chopped my pigtails off 'cos of the nits, then you tidied it up.”

Joanne smiled and didn't contradict her daughter. Granny Ross would believe the story, and Joanne would be saved that long look of disappointment she often received from her mother-in-law, along with the famous phrase, which summed up her relationship with her husband's mother, “Whatever next?”

Next morning Joanne took Jean to school on the back of her
bicycle, telling Annie to do some schoolwork, not to turn on the gas cooker, to leave the washing to soak, and to stay indoors—or at least not leave the garden.

“And don't let anyone in the house,” was her parting shot.

•   •   •

Joanne was the first into the office. Rob next.

“Do me a favor, would you?” Joanne asked him.

“If I can.”

She turned her back to the window. “Would you check me for nits?”

“It's easier if you sit down.”

This was one of the many reasons Joanne was friends with Rob; she could ask him almost anything. There might be a jokey comment or two, but with him, she didn't feel awkward, she felt herself.

“I had to cut off all Annie's hair.”

He was now examining the hair and scalp behind her left ear. “I bet she liked that.”

“She did.”

“Turn round a wee bit.”

“It's as though the nits know Nurse Urquhart isn't here and are taking revenge.” Joanne was joking, but the injuries, the sheer nastiness and pain of them, the thought how a face would look after an acid attack, were never far from her mind—nor were the threatening letters. And the why of it all that no one could work out.

“Frankie went to Aberdeen yesterday to see his mum. She was flown there by the Air Ambulance for an operation. He said his dad is falling apart without her.”

“Was it someone from the shinty?”

“I can't see it. I know how fiercely they hate each other on field, but it's a wee community. They're mostly pals off the field.
Naw, sick joke, probably after three too many drams is my theory on the leg in the laundry.”

“Am I interrupting?” McAllister stood in the doorway.

“No,” Rob told him before ruffling Joanne's hair back into place. “No nits.”

“Rob!” she swatted his arm.

“Have you heard how Nurse Urquhart is?” McAllister started.

“Better, but she may never speak again. She'll also have a lot of trouble swallowing.” Rob left out the worry about how Nurse Urquhart would breathe, which Frankie didn't mention but which was implicit in his description of his mother's injuries. “DI Dunne told Frankie and his dad they are doing all they can, but so far”—Rob shrugged—“no news.”

Joanne and McAllister were silent, absorbing the information.

“So what are
we
going to do?” Hector as usual had appeared in the room as though by magic. He still believed that his pictures of the leg, although not published in the newspaper, had started the whole catastrophe. He had said this to his granny, who told him not to be stupid, and to Fiona, who said it was not his fault. But the guilt would not go away.

“We?” Rob looked down at him. “Who's we?”

“You, me.” He wanted to add Joanne and McAllister but didn't dare.

“He's right,” Joanne told them. “Rob should concentrate on helping Frankie find out who did this.”
Then you can leave me to dig into the Robert Bell story,
she was thinking.

“Why not?” McAllister said. “First we'll start a shinty column. That gives us an excuse to hang around teams and supporters. Rob, you report on the games, Hec takes pictures, see if you come up with anything . . .”

“And make sure you get the names and teams right.” This came
from Don McLeod, who had come in in a current of rain, his coat and hat wet, and the turn-ups of his trousers a distinct shade darker than the legs. “There're an awful lot o' McLeods and Macleods and MacLeods, to say nothing o' the Alisters and Alastairs. If two are the same, ask their father's name, I'll work it out from that.”

Rob really liked Frankie Urquhart; he was one of the few in the town who shared Rob's twin enthusiasms—music and girls, but not girlfriends, for Rob was a recovering lover—and they had known each other forever. Frankie understood Rob when he said he was getting out of here one day, and he believed him.

Rob said, “There go my Saturday afternoons.” But he was secretly pleased that he might help the Urquhart family, secretly pleased that he was once more on the hunt for a scoop.

Mal Forbes came in with a tentative layout for the next edition.

“We're starting a shinty column,” McAllister said as he looked at the advertising blocked out on the sports pages. “We'll need space for it.”

“Why? There's no money in shinty, only football.”

“Do you think of nothing else?” The remark was out before Joanne could stop herself.

Mal smiled. “Aye, you're right. I do tend to be a wee bit single-minded.”

Joanne squirmed. “Sorry.”

Mal Forbes ignored her. Not nastily. His only concern was the newspaper.
Obsessive,
his wife, Moira, called him. He agreed.
If a job's worth doing . . .
he always said to his wife and family. He asked Don how many column inches were needed for “this shinty lark.” Don told him. He left.

No one said anything, just went on with the morning's work. It was as though Mal was part of the team but separate. McAllister, being the only newspaperman to have worked out in the real
world, saw this as normal; advertising and editorial seldom mixed. Don, who had only ever worked with the late office manager, Mrs. Smart, missed her and her no-nonsense approach to the job. Every day. Joanne thought everyone should be friends. Rob didn't care. Hec never noticed.

Much later Rob asked, “Jo, come with me to Arnotts. I need your help with a present for my mother's birthday.”

“Only if we don't take too long. I need to go home to make lunch for Annie.” She saw Don look up. “Nits.”

“Aye, come the Apocalypse, the nits will survive.”

“Not in my household.” She stood, smiled at McAllister. He winked. And the day suddenly became much better.

•   •   •

She and Rob were at the cosmetics counter. Joanne had pointed out Margaret McLean's favorite perfume. As they were waiting for it to be wrapped, Rob said, “You should ignore Mal Forbes, he's not deliberately trying to annoy you.” Rob was counting out what seemed like an enormous sum of money.

“I know. But he is so . . .” She didn't know a word for men who treated women as wee fluffy creatures that should be kept on the mantelshelf and cuddled every so often.

“He's good at his job.”

“I'm sure he's a nice man. Fiona likes him. So do his clients. All he says is no more than most men say and think . . . Ouch, what was that for?”

Rob had nudged her with his elbow. Accidentally hard. “I'm not most men.”

“That's because you're still a boy at heart.” She ran off up the street, a thirty-one-year-old woman giggling and running, and giggling some more as Rob shouted out, “I'm not most boys.”

When he caught up with her she said, “Feels like I haven't laughed in ages.”

Rob drove them to her house in McAllister's car, the unofficial office car.

Rob admired Annie's hair. Joanne reheated the potato soup and buttered rolls.

“Nurse Urquhart, is she going to be all right?” Annie asked Rob, knowing Uncle Rob would tell the truth.

“Not really. She'll live, so Frankie says, but she may never be able to speak again.”
Eating, drinking, and breathing will be almost impossible too,
but Rob didn't want to share that.

“You don't have to speak to tell someone they have nits,” Annie pointed out. “You just jump back . . . that's what everyone does when you tell them you have nits.”

“Like this?” Rob leaned towards Annie, then jumped back, holding his hands up in mock horror, and Joanne agreed with Rob's certainty that he would one day make it big in television.

•   •   •

Rob was right. Nurse Urquhart would never be able to talk again.

Frankie and his father had taken the train to Aberdeen. Neither of them knew the city and neither of them could understand the accent until a bus conductor took pity on them and told them which bus to catch and where to get off. Coach Frank Urquhart had spent most of the train journey in silence, his only real comment on the strangeness of his wife being taken to Aberdeen by air ambulance.

“It's more gentle than the road or train,” Frankie explained, not wanting to say it was for serious cases only.

“Aye, but she's so far away.”

Now, a few days and another two operations later, Frankie was hoping his mother was over the worst, hoping the longer she lived, the better her chances. Just plain hoping.

Nurse Urquhart—like his father, Frankie thought of as a nurse first, mother second, and as a wife never. In his picture
of her she was always in uniform with the upside-down watch pinned to her chest, sleeves rolled up, hair short and tucked into her cap. In winter she wore a navy blue trench coat, tightly belted, and until last year went everywhere by bicycle. The health authority gave her a car, dark blue, to match her uniform, she said. She treated it like a cherished offspring—keeping the polish sparkling, patting it on the bonnet as she went around to the driver's side, proud she needed no man to ferry her . . .