I thought about the euphemism when they were gone. It was an expression my father had used. ‘Take Bacchus out to clean himself,’ I could remember him saying. Or Judie. Or Rusty. Or Tara. We had a lot of dogs, which is why I have always liked them as long as they don’t develop delusions of grandeur and begin to think they’re the householder. The phrase reminded me of my family, the four of us living together. I thought of the possibilities there had seemed then and how strangely they had led to me sitting alone in the kitchen of the Bushfield Hotel. The other three were dead. I was glad my parents hadn’t known Scott’s death. I felt somehow responsible towards the other three. We had tried to make some kind of honest contract with the world and it seemed to me the world had cheated on us. The least we were due was some retrospective understanding. I decided I was here to collect.
I lifted the phone and dialled Glebe Academy. It was the same nice woman from yesterday who answered. John Strachan was with a class. They would have to fetch him. While I waited, I reflected that I had to know more about that closed room of Scott’s life Katie had allowed me to glimpse. If I couldn’t go through the door, maybe I could get in a window. But I would have to be careful in speaking to John Strachan. I wasn’t sure what John knew. I wasn’t even sure what I knew yet. Approach by indirections.
‘Hullo?’
‘Hullo, John. It’s Jack Laidlaw.’
‘Hullo, Jack.’
A session in a pub can be a great force-feeder of intimacy.
‘Look. I’m sorry to bother you again so soon. Especially taking you away from a class.’
‘No problem. It’s one of my more civilised groups. The room should still be there when I get back.’
‘What it is — ’ is something I’ll have to work up to. So let me cover my tracks a little by saying — ‘I was just wondering. Scott must have left some things at the school. I mean, he didn’t exactly know that he was leaving. I’m thinking of papers and stuff like that. Something that might help me to understand what he was going through at the end.’
‘It’s possible.’
‘I know it’s probably a terrible nuisance for you. But do you think you could check it out for me? Take a look at his room? And see if there’s anything there at all? That would give us a clue.’
I was trying to read the pause that followed. I wondered if he was going to refuse.
‘Actually,’ he said, ‘his room’s been taken over. You know? There’s somebody else in it now. It was a coveted room. Terrific windows for an art room.’
I understood his hesitation. He hadn’t wanted to convey to me how quickly Scott’s dying had converted to administrative practicalities. One man’s death is another man’s sunlight.
‘So I think it’s been cleaned out,’ he said. ‘But I’ll go up there today and have a look. I suppose there might be something.’
‘Thanks, John. Oh. There’s something else,’ which I casually mention since it’s why I phoned. ‘Ellie Somebody? It’s a woman I thought I might try to speak to. But I can’t get her second name. Does that name mean anything to you?’
This time the pause was impenetrable. Did he know about Scott and her? Was he instinctively deducing what I had just learned about them? Was he simply baffled by the name? The slowness of his answer, when it came, suggested alien matter caught up in his thoughts, grinding the machinery to a halt.
‘Well,’ he said. ‘I don’t know. It’s not an unusual name. But there was a woman who worked here at one time. Ellie. But I don’t know if that’s who you mean. She’s left now. Ellie Mabon. Do you mean Ellie Mabon?’
I didn’t know. But if all you have are shots in the dark, you’d better check out anything you hit to see if it’s what you’re after.
‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘It could be. Anyway, thanks.’
‘All right,’ he said at last, perhaps not sure what I was thanking him for. ‘I’ll see about Scott’s room. I’ll phone you if there’s anything.’
‘I’ll be out and about today, John.’
‘Well. If I can’t get you personally, I’ll try and look in at the Bushfield. Sometime in the evening. All right? I better go and see if the natives are getting restless. Cheers.’
‘Cheers.’
I put the phone down and went to look for Katie’s phone-book. I could hear someone walking about upstairs and imagined Mike pacing the psychological prison he seemed to have made for himself. The phone-book was behind the bread-bin. With Katie, it would be. We weren’t so different from each other as she thought.
I was on my third Mabon before I found an Ellie. The first one hadn’t answered. The second was what sounded like an amazingly old man who insisted on telling me about a mix-up with the plumbing in his house. I promised to look into it. The third was at a good address in Graithnock. The voice was brusque but with interesting undertones, like a sensuous body in a business-suit.
‘Hello?’
‘Hello. I’m sorry to bother you. I may have a wrong number here. I’m looking for Ellie Mabon.’
‘Speaking.’
I knew this was the one. The realisation paralysed my mouth for the moment. She didn’t know how closely we were connected, what I knew about her.
‘Hello?’
‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘My name’s Jack Laidlaw. I’m Scott’s brother.’
She practised breathing for a little.
‘God,’ she said. ‘Your voices are so alike.’
‘You knew Scott,’ I said, not one of my more illuminating remarks.
‘Well, I didn’t just speak to him on the telephone.’ Then I sensed her realise she was showing too much of herself too soon. Her voice, when she spoke again, was like a woman who has readjusted her dress. ‘I taught beside him, you know.’
‘Yes, I know. Could I meet you and speak to you about that?’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘I’m sorry. This must sound pretty bizarre to you. But I found Scott’s death hard to take. I’m just trying to come to terms with it. Talking to people who knew him. You know? I thought maybe we could talk.’
‘You’re right,’ she said. ‘It does sound pretty bizarre.’
‘I thought it might.’
‘What am I supposed to tell you?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Well, if you don’t, neither do I. All right?’
‘Not really,’ I said. ‘Come on. Please. It’s not such a wild request.’
‘Wild? Listen. As far as I’m concerned, it might have come straight from the Amazon jungle. Why don’t you go back there?’
The conversation wasn’t going well. I felt myself within seconds of losing this hand. But a couple of things had registered with me: the remark about not just speaking to Scott on the telephone was an admission in code and she knew it; if she was as angry as she acted, why hadn’t she put down the phone? Her whole game-plan was set on keeping me away from her life. I understood that. I even sympathised. But I couldn’t afford to agree. I might need something that she could tell me. Her weakness was that she didn’t want to put down the phone until she was sure she had frightened me off. I knew there was only one card I could play.
‘You live at 28 Sycamore Road,’ I said, reading from the phone-book. ‘I’m sure I can find it.’
‘What? Listen, you. I’m a married woman.’ She thought about it, made an emendation. ‘A happily married woman. I don’t need you messing up my life. What would my husband say?’
‘When does he come home?’ I said.
‘6.30.’ She had said it before she realised the impertinence of the question. That made her angrier. ‘What the hell does it have to do with you?’
‘Mrs Mabon,’ I said. ‘I don’t want to mess up your life. What good would that do me? I just want to talk. I can come in the afternoon. Nobody needs to know.’
‘I do have neighbours.’
‘We can stand on the doorstep.’
‘What about the children?’
‘Mrs Mabon, you don’t have any.’
There was silence.
‘This afternoon. Okay?’
‘I don’t think I believe you.’
‘Maybe you should.’