voice behind him. He pushed open the door of the living room and blinked at the array of flower arrangements. “It’s like a funeral,” he said, closing the door quickly. “I’ll make us some coffee.”
“It was Mrs. Bisset and Mrs. Wellington. You know they do the flowers for the church,” said Priscilla, sitting down on a kitchen chair. She took off her coat and eased it onto the back of the chair. “Who on earth did Maggie Baird see at that party to give her such a shock?”
Hamish shook his head. “She was looking in the mirror. Whoever it was certainly gave her a bad fright. Where does she come from?”
“London, I believe. We had her and that niece over for dinner. Odd woman. Quite spiteful to the niece and quite repulsive looking, but Daddy was taken with her. I gather you guessed that the sudden outburst of crime in Lochdubh was to lure you back.”
“I wisnae quite sure,” said Hamish with a slow smile, “until I saw the welcome I got. I was so low in spirits in Strathbane, I thought you had all forgotten about me.” He put two cups and saucers on the table. “Still unmarried?” he asked casually.
“Yes, still unmarried. Still training in computers. Going to be a programmer. Think I’ll make a good yuppie?”
“You look what everyone believes a female yuppie to look like,” said Hamish.
“With all the yuppie-bashing around, I don’t know if that’s a compliment or not.”
“It’s a compliment. You look awfy pretty – as usual.” The last was said in a matter-of-fact way. Hamish, thought Priscilla, was no longer shy in her company.
¦
The following morning, before Maggie awoke, Alison went out to the garage and looked longingly at the little red Renault. In the post that morning, she had received a notification that her driving test was to be held in three weeks’ time in Lochdubh. When she had first arrived, she had written off for a test, confident that her benevolent aunt would surely allow her to learn to drive. That was when Maggie had been warm and kindly.
To learn to drive had become an obsession with Alison. In her dreams at night, she soared up and down the Highland roads, competent behind the wheel.
She should move to the nearest town, she lectured herself, get a job and get a car on the pay-up. Gutless, she raged at herself. But she
She pushed her lank hair out of her eyes and crunched across the gravel to the bungalow which every day seemed more like a prison.
It was too warm, too characterless, decorated in interior designer’s brown and cream with glass-topped tables; glass dining table and glass coffee table on wrought iron legs and little glass side tables. The air always seemed to smell of window cleaner, for the efficient Mrs. Todd was always polishing and shining the glass. Despite the kindness of Mrs. Todd, the kitchen was hardly the refuge it should have been. With its looped-back red and white checked gingham curtains, red geraniums in bowls, and glittering white Formica work surfaces, it looked as sterile as a stage set.
Mrs. Todd had not yet arrived. Alison made herself a cup of coffee and tried not to want a cigarette. Then she heard Maggie lumbering down the stairs, and her thin shoulders hunched as if to ward off the verbal blows about to descend on her.
To her surprise, Maggie was dressed. Usually she spent the mornings wandering around in a nightdress and dressing gown.
“I’m leaving today,” said Maggie abruptly.
Alison felt a rush of relief. Maggie was abandoning her and so she would need to make a life for herself after all.
“I want you to stay here and look after things,” said Maggie. “You can type, can’t you?”
Alison nodded.
“Well, on the desk in the study you’ll find a pile of tapes. I’ve been dictating my life story. I want you to type it out High time you earned your keep.”
“If you had let me learn to drive,” said Alison defensively, “I could have taken a job in the village.”
“What you would have earned in the village would barely have paid for the petrol,” snapped Maggie. “I’ll be away a few months.”
“When are you leaving?” asked Alison.
“Any moment now,” said Maggie, squinting at her wrist-watch. “The man from Chisholm’s is coming.”
Ian Chisholm, the local garage owner, had a large antique Daimler which was usually hired only for weddings and funerals. “I’m getting him to take me down to Inverness,” went on Maggie. “I’ll do some shopping, have dinner, and take the sleeper.”
“What are you going to do?” asked Alison, beginning to brighten. Maggie was obviously not taking her car. She always left the keys in the ignition. Now, if she would only leave those keys behind, then…
“I’m going to do a bit of work on myself,” said Maggie.
“I’ve let myself go to seed. Makes two of us, hey? Although I used to be beautiful and you quite obviously never were.”
All in that moment, Alison reflected that Maggie was indeed very like her sister, Alison’s late mother. Alison’s mother had been a colourless woman compared to Maggie, but she would say things just as Alison was preparing to go off to a school dance like, “I’ve done my best, but you’ll never be a beauty, dear.” People always said things about words not hurting you, thought Alison miserably, but they hurt like hell, the insults piling up until one’s self- esteem begins slowly to crumble under the sheer weight of them.
She thought of Maggie’s mild heart attack, if that’s what it had been, the evening before. She thought of Maggie’s money. She, Alison, was Maggie’s only relative. Had Maggie made a will? What if Maggie should die and leave her the house and the car and the money? Alison half closed her eyes. She would redecorate the house and sweep away the brown and cream and the glass tables and make it a homey place.
“Take that silly look off your face,” said Maggie. “Oh, here’s Mrs. Todd. Go off and get started on those tapes, Alison. I want the whole thing typed up by the time I get back.”
Alison rose and went through to the room off the sitting room which Maggie called her study. It had a workmanlike desk, an electric typewriter, and there, sure enough, were the tapes and a recorder. Alison had never seen Maggie at work. Maggie must have dictated the tapes during the nights, Alison thought, or have done them some time in the past before she came north.
She began to listen to the first tape, her eyes slowly widening in horror. It was pornography. But then Maggie’s life had obviously been pornographic. The first chapter dealt with Maggie’s loss of virginity. Alison did not yet know that it was mild stuff compared to what was to follow.
Then above the sound of Maggie’s voice, she heard the Daimler arriving. She switched off the tapes and went outside. Only one small suitcase was being loaded into the car. Mrs. Todd was standing respectfully while Maggie rapped out last–minute instructions. “And take all my clothes from my bedroom and send them to Oxfam or the Salvation Army,” Maggie was saying. “I leave it to you. And see that Alison gets on with typing out that life story of mine and doesn’t moon around getting lazier and spottier.”
Alison, whose clear skin was her one vanity, had found two small spots on her forehead that morning. Trust Maggie to have noticed them!
And then Maggie suddenly threw her arms around Alison and gave her a warm hug. “Look after yourself, pet,” she said. “That nasty cancer isn’t going to come back. Just take care of yourself.” There were tears in her blue eyes.
Alison hugged her back, startled and then moved.
Maggie climbed into the old Daimler, waved her fat hand once, and the car drove off.
Alison and Mrs. Todd returned to the house and sat and talked about nothing in particular and then Alison steeled herself to go back to her typing. The sudden burst of affection she had felt for Maggie after that hug was fast evaporating, to be replaced with the calculating thought, Why, the old bag’s fond of me. Will she leave me her money? Please God, she leaves me her money.
Alison was a good typist. She finished the first chapter, part of her mind noting mechanically that the writing was so bad, it would surely never get published, and the other part thinking, Did she leave the car keys, and if she did, what could I do?
