Cradle to Grave Read online

  Alick grunted, then complied with a bad grace. It wasn’t his job to go making cups of tea for strangers in the middle of the night when a working man should be in his bed. A landslide, the lassie had said, and her name, Beth Brown, but what with the way she was carrying on, and her teeth chattering, he hadn’t been able to make out anything more.

  Maybe the emergency services were dealing with it already, but with the lines down and this area being a dead spot for mobile phones, they couldn’t find out. He could only hope Maidie would get Beth sorted so she could tell them what had happened. She was very young – not much past twenty, by the looks of her – so it was all just hysterical nonsense, probably, and then he could get back to his bed. He yawned, went to a cupboard and took out a bottle of whisky and a glass.

  When the women returned, Beth was wearing a thick pair of flannelette pyjamas with a woolly sweater over the top, and sheepskin slippers. She had a little colour in her cheeks, and at least the violent shivering had stopped. She sat down at the table again and began rubbing her hair with a towel, rather ineffectually, as if she weren’t quite sure what she was doing. Her hair was very dark, in contrast to her fair skin, and she had a rather heavy face, with light blue eyes. He noticed that there was something strange about them, though he couldn’t quite work out what it was.

  Maidie was looking almost as pale as Beth. ‘She managed to tell me. It’s the Rosscarron Cottages, Alick. You know there’s a wee sort of cliff up behind them? She was up there and saw half of it fall on the top of them. She was only feet away when the ground just disappeared.’

  This wasn’t what he had hoped to hear. ‘Anyone there at the time?’

  ‘She doesn’t know. She says her partner’s away, but there’s a woman lives in one of the other cottages, and maybe a young couple on holiday with a baby. Alick, you’ll need to get over there, see what’s going on.’

  ‘Why does this sort of thing always happen to me?’ he grumbled. ‘Oh, all right, all right. I’ll have to go up and change.’ He was wearing a Barber jacket and wellington boots over his pyjamas; he threw back the rest of the whisky in his glass and went upstairs.

  Maidie made tea, then, after listening anxiously to check that he wasn’t coming back, poured a slug of whisky into each mug. It would do Beth good to talk, and in her experience a drop of the craitur had considerable power to loosen tongues.

  ‘I was scared, so scared,’ Beth was saying when Alick returned fully dressed. ‘I didn’t know what to do. I just walked and walked. I couldn’t see where I was going.’

  His eye lit on the bottle of whisky, standing where he had left it, and unsuspecting, he returned it to the cupboard.

  ‘Don’t know when I’ll be back,’ he said. ‘I’ll maybe need to go to the big house, but I’d better check it out before I disturb Himself in the middle of the night.’

  Maidie agreed. Gillis Crozier, her husband’s boss, had quite an intimidating presence at the best of times and you wouldn’t want to get him out of his bed for anything less than a full-scale emergency.

  Alick went outside. The rain had stopped, though the clouds were still heavy overhead and he reckoned it wouldn’t be long before it started again. He jumped into the elderly jeep and turned the key in the ignition.

  It coughed, sputtered and stopped. He tried again. And again. He grabbed a rag, jumped out and dried everything he could think of. Then, swearing, he tried it again. And again . . .

  Quarter of an hour later Alick came back into the kitchen. ‘It’s waterlogged. Can’t get the bloody thing started at all. I’ve pushed it under cover in the barn – see how it is by morning.’

  Maidie looked at him in dismay. ‘So what do we do now?’

  ‘What the hell do you expect me to do? Grope my way two miles along to Rosscarron House in the dark? And then another two to the cottages, maybe, and tunnel through the landfall with my bare hands? They could have the lines fixed by morning and then the people who’re paid to do it can sort it out, instead of me. I’m away to get some sleep, that’s what I’m doing.’ He walked out.

  ‘Beth—’ Maidie turned to speak to the girl, to find that she had fallen asleep across the table. Maidie sighed, then shook her gently.

  Beth came to with a start. ‘What . . . ? Where . . . ?’

  ‘You’re all right,’ Maidie soothed her. ‘There’s a sofa in Alick’s office you can sleep on tonight, and we’ll sort things out in the morning.’

  Thursday, 20 July

  The hens might be birdbrains, but they knew enough to keep out of the rain, taking it as usual as a personal insult. The mash in the trough was a persuasive argument, but even so they emerged from the henhouse with muted, discontented mutterings. Even Gordon, the rooster, was too dispirited to make much of a job of hailing the morning. He was a downtrodden creature anyway: since his predecessor, Tony, had sinisterly disappeared leaving only a ring of feathers, the alpha hen, Cherie, had bullied him unmercifully.

  Had there ever been a worse July? Marjory Fleming watched them, her tall figure huddled into a hooded oilskin jacket, but even so her hair, chestnut brown with the odd streak of grey, was soaking wet. Usually her chookies had an instantly soothing effect, but this morning their low spirits seemed to be infectious.

  She should be feeling elated, instead of having a knot of nerves in the pit of her stomach. The tribunal yesterday had reinstated her, with immediate effect, and today she would be back at the job she loved. She had been totally cleared of the charge of racism, but there was a reprimand now on a record that before had contained only commendations. It would, she kept telling herself, feel just as it had before once she was back, but somehow she wasn’t altogether convinced.

  What had changed was her confidence in herself. Vanity had led her into a disastrous mistake, and in future when it was a judgement call – as in her work it so often was – there would be a small voice inside whispering, ‘Are you sure?’

  For the first weeks of her suspension, Marjory had kept herself busy. She had returned to a fitness regime, which had slipped badly of late, and then begun a relentless programme of purging neglected cupboards and tackling overdue decorating projects, which had left her family begging for mercy. She had been thinking, though, in terms of weeks, not months: her superintendent, Donald Bailey, had assured her that the chief constable would pull strings to get her back on duty as soon as possible – and perhaps he had. Sometimes officers were suspended for years.

  But as a month had slipped into two and her projects were completed, the pointlessness of her daily life began to weigh her down. She had set up an efficient domestic support system, geared to her hectic working life, and it had left her with nothing to do. Marjory had always felt there weren’t enough hours in the day; now she couldn’t believe how slowly the hands of the clock crept round.

  As each interminable day crawled past, she doubted herself more and more. She’d always accepted light-heartedly that as a homemaker she was a failure, but if she was no good as a police officer either . . .

  Worried, bored and quite desperately unhappy, she became short-tempered. Her long-suffering husband Bill took to spending more time than usual on his work around the farm; she was snappish with her children, Catriona and Cameron. After having her head bitten off when she offered sympathy, Cat had withdrawn, and Cammie, who still had not quite forgiven Marjory for not being a mother first, last and all the time, had reverted to grunting as a means of communication. It was something he did rather well – international standard certainly, and possibly even world class.

  Eventually, it seemed futile to make the usual early start to her day. It only meant more hours to fill, and Bill could easily let the hens out and make his own breakfast – he always complained that Marjory’s porridge was lumpy anyway. She had slept later and later, yet felt exhausted all the time. Her fitness programme lapsed; she just hadn’t the energy for it, but she resisted with scorn Bill’s suggestion that she should see a doctor. There was absolutely nothing wrong with he
r. It was just that she had been working flat out for years and a rest was exactly what she needed.

  Her brittle defensiveness only shattered when Cammie, in a clumsy effort to help, dropped a casserole, which shattered on the floor. She heard her own voice screaming at him, saw his white, miserable face and burst into tears.

  She couldn’t stop. She was entirely unaware of Cat and Cammie exchanging stricken glances and sliding out of the room. It seemed quite a long time later, when she had sobbed herself to a standstill, that she heard Bill’s voice saying quietly, ‘Finished?’

  Marjory looked up blearily. He was holding out a handkerchief and she took it, shamefacedly mopping her eyes.

  ‘You needed that,’ Bill said calmly. ‘You need a drink too. Come on.’

  ‘Cammie . . .’ she said, as she got to her feet.

  ‘Never mind Cammie for the moment. He’s OK; you’re not.’

  Marjory allowed him to lead her through to the sitting room which had seen so many of their long conversations over the years. She sat down in her shabby armchair and Meg the collie, who had followed them through, came to press herself against her mistress’s legs in silent sympathy.

  Stroking the silky head, she laughed shakily. ‘I’m sorry about that, Bill. I don’t know what came over me.’

  Bill brought her a heavy crystal glass with a generous slug of Bladnoch, the local single malt.

  ‘I know,’ he said. ‘Been there, done that. You’re starting to get depressed.’

  She glanced up. She remembered the foot-and-mouth epidemic, when the killing squads had wiped out his healthy sheep as a precaution; the wound, clearly, still hadn’t quite healed.

  Yet somehow his understanding annoyed her. ‘Of course I’m depressed. In my position if I wasn’t depressed, I’d have failed to understand the situation.’

  ‘Yes, I know, love. But when you start not wanting to get out of bed, and bursting into tears over nothing, you can’t pretend you’re just being logical.’

  Feeling crosser than ever about having the rug pulled from under her, Marjory muttered rebelliously, ‘Maybe I can.’

  Bill had a smile lurking at the corners of his mouth. ‘Getting annoyed about nothing at all – that’s another symptom.’

  ‘Oh, you!’ She glared at him, then picked up a cushion and hurled it. He caught it effortlessly, trying not to laugh.

  Her own laughter was close to tears, and her lip wobbled. ‘Don’t laugh at me, Bill.’

  He came across to her. ‘Move up,’ he said, and squeezed into the chair beside her, putting his arms round her and dropping a kiss on her forehead. ‘I’m not laughing at you. I’m trying to make you laugh with me. Nothing better for getting things in perspective. But I’m serious – go on like this and you’ll spiral down into real depression, where you can’t see the sun even when it’s shining in the sky. I know what you’re doing. You’re telling yourself a story that isn’t true – that somehow without your work, you’re nothing – and sooner or later you’ll start to believe it and fall apart.’

  Majory’s voice was muffled as she snuggled into his shoulder. ‘It’s pretty much true, though, isn’t it? I’m hopeless at my other role.’

  ‘As a farmer’s wife, you mean? This farmer’s perfectly satisfied. I didn’t marry you to get a housekeeper – and that’s a mercy.’

  He was trying to make her laugh again and she managed a watery smile, sitting up and twisting round to face him.

  ‘But, Bill, I’ve no idea how long this will go on. Some people can be on ‘‘gardening leave’’ for years – and I don’t like gardening. I’ve got to do something.’

  Bill got up, stretched his cramped arm and fetched the Bladnoch to refill their glasses, then sat down in his own chair opposite.

  ‘You have to make it something you’ve got to do. Set yourself a target and stick to it. What is there you’re interested in but never had time to do – yoga, flower-arranging?’

  Majory gave him a quelling look, but she was thinking. ‘They sent me on a short psychology course last year. That was fascin­ating. Maybe I might pursue that, get a reading list. View it as professional development . . .’

  The next morning she had got up with a sense of purpose, and though the worries and frustration certainly remained, her programme of study meant that she felt in control of her life once more. The fitness regime had been reinstated and her household, finding her recognisable again as the woman they knew, had breathed a collective sigh of relief.

  And then yesterday the tribunal had cleared her name. Now all she had to do, she told herself firmly as she checked for eggs and collected up the pails, was to get on with the job and live down the humiliation. And rebuild her bridges with Tam MacNee, who apart from the most stiff and formal expressions of regret, had been a stranger to her over these interminable four months.

  She felt another nervous twinge in her stomach as she squelched back to the farmhouse.

  2

  Alick Buchan was making no attempt to hurry his breakfast. He supped his porridge and drank his tea with maddening deliberation, while his wife, casting anxious looks but saying nothing, bustled about him as if her own busyness might nudge him into action.

  Beth Brown, aching in every limb and feeling now the bruises and cuts she had been too shocked to notice last night, sat gripping her mug of tea so tightly that her knuckles showed white. Her brown hair straggled round her pale face, and her eyes were red-rimmed and puffy. Her fitful sleep had been punctuated by hideous dreams: she was in prison again; now she was standing in the dock; the court was rising; the judge had terrible flashing eyes; then the roof fell and she was buried alive under tons of earth . . . She had forced herself awake at last and, too afraid to go back to sleep, had sat up shivering in the cold, grey dawn.

  It was barely light outside even now, with a leaden sky. When she had heard sounds of movement, Beth had dragged herself to her feet and got dressed in the jeans and sweater she’d found lying on a chair beside her. The jeans were a bit tight, but she could get into them if she left the waist fastening undone. She sipped at the tea as if even swallowing was an effort.

  Eventually, able to bear it no longer, Maidie said to her husband, ‘Why don’t you try and start the jeep while I make your toast? You’ll have to go – the phone’s still out, and dear knows when they’ll get it mended.’

  Grudgingly, Alick got to his feet and went outside. Maidie peered out of the rain-streaked kitchen window, reporting on his progress. ‘He’s shut the bonnet now. Oh, and wiped his hands on the back of his jeans. That’s good. Oily marks to get out in the next wash.’

  Just as she spoke there was a loud wail from upstairs. Maidie pulled a face. ‘That’s Calum. I’ll have to get to him before he wakes up Gran. Can you make the toast for Alick, Beth? If it’s ready for him, he maybe won’t sit down again.’

  Stiffly, Beth got up. It hurt to move, but if there was something she could do to be useful, she didn’t mind the pain. It had been all too clear last night that, however kind Maidie might be, Beth was an unwarranted intrusion as far as Alick was concerned. A small spark of anger flickered; she didn’t want to be here, any more than he wanted to have her. It wouldn’t cost him much to pretend to be civilised about it.

  As she toasted the bread under the grill of the old cooker, she heard the engine of the jeep catch and then start running smoothly. It stopped and started again a couple of times without a problem, and glancing out of the window she saw Alick jumping down and hurrying across the yard to the house, his hair flattened to his head by the teeming rain.

  As he opened the back door, he saw Beth alone and stopped.

  ‘Maidie not here?’

  ‘Your son was crying. She said you’d to have some toast. Here – I’ve buttered it.’

  He took the plate from her without thanks, dug his knife into a pot of raspberry jam and spread both slices thickly. ‘I’ll take them with me. Might as well get on with it, if I have to.’

  Beth’s parka was
drying on the old-fashioned pulley overhead. She went to pull it down, but Alick frowned.

  ‘You’re not coming with me,’ he said flatly. Then he paused. ‘Unless you want to be dropped off somewhere. With family, maybe?’

  Beth could hear the hope of getting rid of her in his voice. ‘No,’ she said coolly. ‘I’ve no one. Just the cottage. I thought maybe the police would want to speak to me.’

  Disappointed, Alick was dismissive. ‘What can you tell them they can’t see for themselves? And the emergency services won’t want people like you getting in the way.’

  Beth nodded with apparent submission. She’d learned that trick long ago.

  ‘A night out with a friend? Oh, that’s all right, then. You can go another time – have an extra night off. Not this week, though – we’ve a lot on. Next week, probably. All right?’

  She’d agreed, because it was the best-paid job she’d ever had and the result of saying no could be losing it, even though she was at the end of her tether after a difficult day and the promised extra night would never materialise.

  Alick seemed satisfied with her practised response. He was on his way out when his wife appeared with a small child on her hip. He looked about eighteen months old, curly-haired and with big, dark eyes, and he was grizzling quietly.

  Alick, his mouth full of toast and with the other slice in his hand, said thickly, ‘I’ll call in and tell Himself what’s happened – maybe the phones are all right there. We’ll sort her out later.’ He jerked his head ungraciously at Beth and left.

  Perhaps to cover her embarrassment, Maidie went to get a tissue to wipe her son’s tears and his runny nose. ‘I think he’s getting another cold. He was a right little b yesterday and no doubt he’s planning—’

  A peremptory voice interrupted her, from upstairs somewhere. ‘Maidie! Maidie! Where are you? What’s going on?’

  ‘Oh damn! It’s wakened Gran. I’d hoped for another hour’s peace.’ Maidie sighed. ‘I’d better go to her.’

  ‘Leave Calum with me,’ Beth said quickly. ‘I’ll look after him.’