In a League of Their Own Page 13

  Father Donald didn’t need to finish. Hannah already knew for sure. She rose and handed baby Ishbel to Peggy before saying, “You’ll have to excuse me but I must go to the call-box and get in touch with my people.” Her voice was quivering when she said, “I need my mother here – I want my mother.”

  Peggy threw her arms round Hannah and whispered in her ear, “The Father here has been in touch with the priest at Marionville and he’s going to get in touch right away with your brother Sam.”

  Sam was in the mess room having his break. He had just fried up a couple of herring that Pete had dipped in oatmeal for him when the desk clerk rang through to say there was a priest who wanted to speak with him. And no, nobody else would do. Before rising to go to the outer office, Sam threw Pete a warning glance. He thought this had better not be another complaint about Pete running a club for single mothers – at which he was the only male! Sam was relieved therefore when he learned it wasn’t Father Paddy O’Malley of St Margaret Mary’s but the friendly priest, Paddy O’Boyle from St Ninian’s at Marionville, whom he’d known so well ever since his juvenile football days. Both of them remained keen to encourage the local lads in a healthy sport that kept them out of trouble. And he had been so supportive of Morag ever since she’d come to stay at Learig Close.

  Sam extended his hand to Paddy. “Nice to see you, Paddy. And what can I do for you?”

  Paddy looked about. “Is there somewhere private where we could have a chat?”

  Sam beckoned Paddy to follow him through to the Inspector’s room. Fortunately the inspector was at Gayfield and the room was vacant.

  “Sam,” Paddy began in a sympathetic tone. Sam immediately thought he had come to tell him that Johnny, the father who had long since deserted the family, was either dead or dying.

  “I guess it’s not good news.”

  Paddy shook his head.

  “My father, is it?”

  Paddy looked at Sam in some puzzlement, wondering why Sam should expect him to come with news of his father. Obviously Sam would have had a father but in all the years he’d known Sam, he had never heard him speak of his father.

  “ ’Fraid not,” Paddy eventually answered and then faced up to the hard task of giving the devastating news from Herrig.

  Ten minutes after Paddy had left Sam was still sitting there, trying to take in what he’d been told. He knew he should already be on his way to tell his mother and book a flight to Benbecula; yet all he wanted to do was to scream. To accuse this God, that Hannah put so much faith in, of betraying his precious family yet again. Sam’s thoughts flew back to their childhood days. Days that should always have been filled with sunshine and laughter but were all too often cursed with desertion, poverty and hardship. He remembered how, as just a stripling, he had been prepared to do anything to help ease the predicaments that they regularly found themselves in. A slight smile came to his face as he remembered how he and Carrie once had to rob Gabby, their drunken grandfather, so that they wouldn’t be evicted for rent arrears. Surely, he thought, they’d known quite enough sorrow without it continuing. This was not at all what he wanted for Hannah and her large but happy brood. Unfortunately, not even robbing a bank, as he’d threatened to do when they were children, could change things this time. Firmly suppressing these angry fantasies, Sam reached out for the telephone directory. They needed to get to Hannah as fast as possible – and at least he had the wherewithal nowadays to do that without being dependent on his native wit to find it.

  Sam collected Carrie on his way up to Learig Close. “Oh, Sam,” Carrie pleaded, “tell me this is just a nightmare, that it’s not true and I’m only dreaming!”

  Sam said nothing. Deep in thought, he wondered if Hannah would be like Rachel and manage against all the odds to bring up her children unaided. But in Hannah’s case it wasn’t just the children – there were the thirty sheep and twenty hens, a cow and three ponies all needing looked after with equal care. And would she stay on an island where she was the only one who didn’t have the Gaelic? Well, Sam conceded, he could be of some help. After all, here he was at the age of thirty and still unmarried. The only two females in his life who depended on him both had four paws and shaggy coats.

  “It seems such a pity that there were only two seats left on the plane tomorrow,” Carrie remarked, breaking into Sam’s thoughts.

  “Aye, it would have made such a difference to everybody if you and I could have gone too. But that’s life, damn it!”

  There had been no problem for Sam to take the time off to see Rachel and Morag safely on the plane at Glasgow. One of the things that the police were good at was looking after their own. All the same, as they neared the airport terminal Sam grew apprehensive. Rachel and Morag had never flown before. To be truthful, the only two in the family to have done so were Alice, when she flew out to live in Canada, and Paul – who had honeymooned with Yvonne on the Costa Brava no less. But his mother Rachel had never travelled further than Carlisle to see Jeannie, Auntie Bella’s daughter, and when she visited Hannah it was always by the ferry. So how would she cope today, especially on a journey she’d hoped never to be making? And there was Morag too, who was trying so hard to be brave but whose heart was bursting at the thought of never seeing her beloved Daddy again.

  Sam waited until the flight had taken off before he reluctantly made to leave the airport. At the check-in desk he had asked if there were any cancellations as he’d have then jumped aboard with his Mum and Morag – but no luck. All he could do was to cradle Morag in his arms and whisper in her ear to tell her Mum that he’d be up as soon as ever he could. And he’d take on the responsibility of building the extension that would house a bathroom when the water was linked up in late summer. Then he faced Rachel: but both mother and son realised they were too full of rage and grief to speak. Silence was the only option.

  The day after Jamie’s funeral, Rachel and Hannah went out for a walk together. Before they knew it, they were at the cemetery gate and Hannah was half-running towards Jamie’s grave. Kneeling on the damp earth, she began to pat the mound below which her husband lay. “We’ll need to get him a nice headstone,” she said, looking up at her mother.

  “True,” agreed Rachel, thinking this was likely the best time to talk to Hannah – time when they wouldn’t be disturbed by children or well-meaning neighbours. “But there are other things we have to sort out first.”

  “Like the children and me coming home to live with you?”

  Shaking her head, Rachel instantly answered, “Home, Hannah? This is your home. Your children have known nowhere else but this island where they can roam free. Can you imagine even trying to get them all to stay on the pavement and keep a lookout for traffic? Not to mention the fact that this is where Jamie would want them to bide.”

  Tears welled up in Hannah’s eyes as she broke in: “It’s just that I thought I’d manage a lot better if I had you to help me. You coped so well when you were left to fend for us without a man’s help.”

  Instead of offering Hannah a handkerchief, Rachel leant over and gently patted Hannah’s face dry. “There!” she said, as if Hannah were a child once more. “You’ll just have to be brave. The children didn’t ask to be born and now it’s your duty to do your very best for them. And what they certainly don’t need, Hannah, is a mother who is always crying. Remember, they’re hurting too and they’re bearing up for you.”

  The effect of Rachel’s lecture had Hannah burst into uncontrollable sobbing which Rachel made no attempt to control. Instead, she earnestly counselled her daughter to get it all out. Eventually, through complete exhaustion, Hannah stopped crying and, seizing the handkerchief from her mother, wiped away the last of her tears. “And is there any other advice you would like to give me?” she asked bitterly.

  “Well, I know you have never liked talking about it, but with Jamie being …” Rachel hesitated as she detested using the word illegitimate, having only escaped being branded that herself because her drunken father, in th
e Leith Poorhouse, had succumbed to pressure and married her dying mother – her dear mother whose last wish was to lift the stigma of illegitimacy from her three-month-old baby, so she quietly continued “… being born out of wedlock – are you sure you’ll get possession of the croft?”

  Hannah looked up slowly but was unable to hide the look of bewilderment that rushed to her face. Of course, she told herself, Rachel was remembering how, after the death of Ishbel and Myrtle, Jamie’s two old aunts who had brought him up, hadn’t there been a worry that as Jamie, who was illegitimate and therefore had no rights of succession, would be ousted should a legal relative lay claim to the croft land and house? In the past Jamie had just bowed his head and accepted all the abuse and injustices that his bastard status provoked and had it come to that he would have accepted the loss of the croft as another unfair inevitability. However, ever since Hannah became his wife, he had never again apologised for something that wasn’t his fault – oh yes, it was Hannah who had given him the courage to believe in himself and had imbued him with reasons to hold his head up high. And so, when the time came, he did not hesitate – as the adopted son, a son his two dear aunts had reared as their own, a son they were so proud of, a son who had made their life worth living – to petition the Crofters’ Commission who without question had immediately awarded him what was morally his!

  “Yes, Mum, the croft is ours.” Hannah, who had never discussed Jamie’s submission to the Crofters’ Commission with anyone, added thoughtfully, “Well, not exactly mine…”

  “What do you mean – not exactly yours?”

  “Just that under croft law the eldest son inherits and that’s Fergus.”

  Rachel relaxed. “So you’re safe for now?”

  “Not just for now, Mum. My Fergus will always see to it that I have a home.”

  “Good! So that just leaves two things to get settled.”

  “And what are those?”

  “Firstly, I’ll come here to Herrig as often as I can. And so will Sam and Carrie.”

  “And Paul?”

  “Well, since he married Yvonne and bought a bungalow in Sydney Terrace he hasn’t got much time for family.”

  “You don’t get on too well with Yvonne, do you?”

  “When dirt rises it blinds you,” was all Rachel replied, which told Hannah everything about Rachel and Yvonne’s relationship. “But, as I was saying, I’ll come as often as I can and I’ll find another job to help you out financially. Send parcels every week, I will.”

  Hannah smiled. This was the old Rachel – shoulders to the wheel and courage screwed to the sticking place. “And the other thing?”

  “Morag. I’ll leave her here for now. It’ll soon be Christmas. But as soon as January comes she must come back to have her education in Edinburgh.”

  “Well, I thought she might like to be with us…”

  “She’s bright, Hannah, very bright, so she must get her chances. Unlike when you were young, there are plenty of us about to help you see that she does.”

  12

  BROTHERLY LOVE

  As Sam and Pimpernel Pete approached Silverknowes Parkway South, Sam still felt that the Deputy Chief Constable was ignoring the fact that the Drylaw Station from which they operated was the busiest not only in Edinburgh but also – if recent reports were to be believed – in the whole of Europe. In Sam’s eyes it was therefore all the more unreasonable, if not bizarre, that the DCC should decide to send the pair of them to interview and placate a certain Mr Wilfred Boland who apparently wished to register a complaint.

  Arriving at the front door, Pete pressed the bell with a flourish. As time ticked by with no obvious response from the resident, Sam had ample time to inspect Mr Boland’s garden. A square, meticulously-manicured lawn was bordered by four rectangular flower beds, each filled with blooms of an identical height and species, all standing rigidly to attention. The scene made him wonder why some people liked such uniformity in a garden where, in his opinion, nature should be allowed to blossom freely. His gaze took in the straight paved pathway where not a single weed had been allowed to emerge from the smallest crevice. Shaking his head and smiling to himself, Sam imagined how the owner of the garden would react to a dog of independent mind wishing to do its business there.

  With growing impatience, Pete rang the bell again and simultaneously hammered on the door. Almost at once the door was opened wide. “Oh, so I see you don’t like to be kept waiting?” sneered the figure they presumed to be Mr Wilfred Boland. This remark led both men to conclude that Mr Boland had been standing behind the door ever since their arrival.

  “Our Deputy Chief Constable has asked us to come over and interview you with the aim of trying to find a solution to your problem,” stated Sam politely, as Mr Boland edged aside just far enough to allow Sam and Pete a distinctly reluctant entry to his private domain.

  After closing the outside door, double-locking it carefully and then pocketing the key, Mr Boland led the two officers into the lounge. Once there and having declined to offer them the convenience of a seat, he immediately launched into his tirade. “Every day now for a whole year,” he emphasised by wagging his finger at Sam, “I have complained to you officers about a dog, a very large and excessively well-fed dog, fouling the entrance to my pathway.”

  “That’s perfectly correct,” replied Sam, “and our beat men, one of whom is Constable Capaldi here, have regularly inspected your property on their rounds and have never managed to catch sight of the offending animal.”

  Pointing to Pete, Mr Boland retaliated: “And I’ve never seen that beat man giving any attention whatsoever to my pathway at two and three in the morning when the culprit strikes. But perhaps that will be because he’s too busy inspecting elsewhere!”

  Sam looked directly at Pete, hoping for an explanation of some kind and wondering if the rumours he had heard about Pete keeping a pert little blonde happy while her husband was on nightshift had any credibility. And when Pete just beamed him the most engaging of smiles before placing himself behind Mr Boland, Sam knew for certain that the rumours were true!

  Mr Boland then strode to the window and indicated that Sam and Pete should follow him. Once assured of their full attention, he pointed to the exact spot where the daily deposit was made. “Oh yes,” Mr Boland continued, quite unaware that Sam was only half-listening. “I sit at my bedroom window all night long and at the exact moment when I have to interrupt my vigil in order to relieve myself – it’s then that the beast strikes! And when I return to my post, all I can see is the beast’s steaming calling-card.” Drumming his fingers on the window pane, Mr Boland gave a deep sigh before going on. “As I have said to your Deputy, it’s as if the animal had a spy who tells him whenever I’m off watch for an instant.”

  The mention of the Deputy made Sam turn from the window to give his complete attention to Mr Boland. “Yes. Now please tell me, Mr Boland, how was it you were able to get directly through to the Deputy?”

  “Oh, I’ve tried to do so on many, many occasions without success. I knew therefore that I had to take drastic action to get him to listen.”

  “Such as?”

  “By telling the telephone operator that the police force was blatantly and irresponsibly ignoring the fact that an alien plot to pollute the whole of Edinburgh with dog excrement was imminent – the danger being now at Level Five, one might say.”

  That remark was enough to make Sam realise there would be no placating Mr Boland and that diplomacy of the highest order was called for. “Well, Mr Boland,” he began, “please accept that I fully appreciate how annoying this problem must be to you; but short of stationing a police officer at your gate for twenty-four hours every day, which we do not have the staffing levels to accommodate, I cannot really see what else we can do.”

  Mr Boland sank down in a chair and shook his head in bewilderment. “You, a police sergeant who, so I believe, is at this present time an Acting Inspector?” he spluttered. “You don’t know what to do? No w
onder you’re just – acting.”

  Sam didn’t react to the slight, being much too busy trying to stop himself from laughing at Pete who was making outrageous gestures behind Mr Boland’s back. The pause allowed Mr Boland to continue, “You don’t know what to do? Well, let me inform you what you should do. Round up every dog in this district. Take them all to the police compound, feed them, and then wait for them to relieve themselves so that you may …” Mr Boland went back to the windowsill where he picked up a jam jar, plainly containing a liberal quantity of canine excreta, and handed the container to Sam, “… compare it with this morning’s sample!”

  Sam accepted the evidence with some reluctance and indicated to Pete that it was time to leave. With considerable relief the two officers made their escape into the mad, mad outdoor world, neither saying anything until they were safely seated once more in the divisional car. Handing the jam jar to Pete, Sam asked, “What d’ye make of all that then?”

  To which Pete replied with a wink and a chuckle, “Personally, I think it’s all just a load of shit.”

  “Precisely!” agreed his friend.

  From the mess hall telephone, Sam was completing his report to the Deputy about his meeting with Mr Boland, feeling rather gratified with himself that he had done so without allowing a hint of criticism into his voice. He concluded by calmly stating that in his opinion Mr Boland was at least extremely eccentric if not in need of some serious counselling. The Deputy, having listened to Sam’s unbiased assessment of the situation, could only agree with Sam’s findings and promised to write personally to Mr Boland. He would patiently explain that in years to come the police force might well possess the requisite technology and the manpower resources to test all canine stools within a square mile and thus identify the culprit but at this moment in time such expertise was not available to them.