3
Walking down St Leonard’s Street towards the Pleasance, two weeks later, Alice revelled in the warm, summery breeze, its heat so uncharacteristic of the capital that its simple existence allowed the residents briefly to dream that they had been transported to London or Madrid, cities where the air has no sharp edges. Everyone she passed seemed relaxed, happy even, as if like plants they had responded to the sunshine and allowed themselves to unfurl. Even in the deep shadow of the Cowgate it felt balmy, and before too long she was able to bask once more in full sunlight as she turned to her right and entered Old Fishmarket Close. Heels clicking on the cobbles, she zigzagged her way up the hill, past Patrick Wheatley’s abandoned office with its jaunty slogan ‘A Wheatley defence makes sense’, intent upon joining the High Street at the City Chambers.
In Parliament Square a few mourners had congregated by the Mercat Cross, huddling together before entering the cathedral for the Sheriff’s funeral. She walked past them into the dimly-lit interior and was handed a copy of the Order of Service. A vacant seat near the Chapel of Youth caught her eye and she sat down, oblivious to the scowl on the life-size statue of John Knox guarding it. Self-conscious at being unaccompanied, she raised her eyes to the stained glass and began examining the depictions of John the Baptist and King Solomon, as if they were of genuine interest. Around her the few remaining seats in the row were being taken and a sudden hush fell over those assembled, as the minister, clad in robes of black and purple, climbed the stone steps to the pulpit. The service began with the hymn ‘O Love That Wilt Not Let Me Go’. As the strains of Heward’s melody burst forth from the massive organ pipes, she looked about her to survey those within the Kirk. She had expected St Giles to be packed to the gunwales, standing room only, but the elderly congregation filled no more than twelve rows. The female members of the establishment present seemed to favour wide-brimmed hats, velvet berets and veiled pill-boxes to cover their white locks, and their few remaining spouses wore Crombie overcoats to a man, some sporting sombre black ties, others regimental stripes. Gathered beneath a large marble relief of embattled warriors was a discrete group, clad exclusively in black and white, the uniform of the legal profession on duty. On further scrutiny Alice recognised the faces of Lords Cairncross, Darling and Thorburn, their features branded onto her memory from her High Court trial appearances as a witness. One of the women seemed familiar too: Lady Schaw, the trial judge for the Gravestone Rapist.
A second hymn, ‘Immortal, Invisible, God Only Wise’, started up, and the sparse crowd did their best to breathe life into it. While fumbling for the correct page, Alice became aware of an alien aroma, brandy, and as she was speculating on its origin an elderly man shuffled past her, extending his stride on reaching the northern aisle. There, he raised his head, lifted his shoulders and marched, as if on parade, towards the pulpit.
His accent was that of the former ruling class, with clipped vowels and staccato sentences, and his voice boomed out in the cavernous space, magnified unnecessarily by the sound system. The address that he gave was short, factual and without frills or any sign of emotion. It was more like the Sheriff’s entry in Who’s Who than any kind of funeral tribute. The congregation was informed that James Henry Freeman had attended public school at Wellington College, Berkshire, where he excelled academically and had been captain of the rifle team. At Edinburgh University he had achieved a first class degree in Law, the foundation for his subsequent meteoric career at the Bar. For five years in the sixties he had been the Sheriff in Haddington prior to obtaining his shrieval post in Edinburgh. On the bench his reputation was for a keen mind combined with a kind manner, and his industry, in this office, was second to none. The speaker paused briefly, re-adjusting his notes before continuing in the same authoritative tone. James had been a bachelor to the end, and had been sustained throughout his life by his strong Christian faith, albeit not as a churchgoer. He was, in short, a true Christian gentleman, and his premature death, a little more than a fortnight earlier, represented a great loss to the legal profession and, of course, a great personal loss to his only remaining family, his younger brother Christopher.
After the old fellow had cautiously descended the stone stairs, the minister resumed his place in the pulpit, neck now shrunk into his robes like a tortoise’s in its shell, and gave the briefest of addresses, excusing its slightness on the basis of his lack of personal acquaintance with the deceased. He ended it with two stark announcements. Firstly, all donations were to be made to the Earl Haig Poppy Fund, and secondly, a luncheon had been laid on in St Andrew’s Church Hall at Holy Corner, and all who wished to attend would be welcome to do so. On cue, the organ began to play the introduction to the final hymn.
Listening to the first few bars, Alice began to relax. Her unspoken fear that the service might provide too forcible a reminder of her mother’s mortality had proved groundless, the tissues remaining dry in her pocket. And then a beautiful soprano voice rang out, heart-rendingly pure, shattering her complacency and all but undoing her. She concentrated, as intensely as if her life depended upon it, on an inscription on a brass plaque, until she could be sure that the moment of weakness had passed, that she would remain the owner of her face.
As the mourners filed out, the Gunns, both dry-eyed, were at the front of the queue attempting to manoeuvre themselves round a small man who was stationary, sobbing unashamedly. Nearer the middle was Mrs Nordquist, her face partly hidden by the brim of her straw boater, but her eyes were exposed, red and tear-stained. Alice caught up with her by the Signet Library, where she had paused to slip on a pair of dark glasses. Recognising the policewoman, she spoke, as if sensing that some explanation for her condition might be required.
‘Funerals! It could be a deat ratt in the box ant I’d be weeping… I’m off home now for a goot, strong drink.’ But her breath suggested that she had refuelled already.
Few made the journey to the Church Hall, and a desultory affair the wake turned out to be. Metallic Women’s Institutestyle teapots were in service, and the food would have disgraced a post-war austerity street party, consisting entirely of white bread egg-and-cress sandwiches and angel cakes. Its unabashed stinginess contrasted uneasily with the ancient splendour of St Giles and the evident affluence of most of the guests.
The host appeared to be the Sheriff’s brother, Christopher, and Alice watched him as she took sips from a mug of bitter Indian tea. His leathery skin suggested a twenty-a-day habit, all deep lines and furrows, and white stubble shone in little, isolated patches on his chin, confirming, with the crusted blood on one cheek, the use of a blunt razor. His clothes were those of the no longer well-to-do of his class: frayed collar, elbow patches and a dark pin-stripe, glistening with wear. Only his brogues were impeccable, black and shiny, as if rarely liberated from their shoe-trees.
She noticed that his heavy-lidded eyes were scanning the room, checking who had turned up, and occasionally he chatted animatedly to a guest, pressing an angel cake on them as if it was Beluga caviar.
After an hour the numbers dwindled further as the old brigade took their leave, kissing each other’s powdery cheeks before heading slowly back to their well-polished cars. While farewells were still being exchanged, a woman busied herself scooping the sandwiches off the plates into polythene bags, and putting the remaining cakes into a Tupperware box.
‘They’ll do for the dogs,’ she said to her husband as he passed her, carrying a pile of stacked white plates into the scullery area.