A Kind of Grief Read Online Free PDF Page B

It’s your wife.” Joanne could hear her daughter’s delight in saying that.
    â€œJoanne. Are you OK?”
    â€œAbsolutely. I’ve found a fancy man up the glens and am about to enjoy a night of passion in a den of iniquity, followed by a cup of cocoa and a good night’s sleep.”
    â€œDidn’t know Sutherland was that exciting.” He laughed. “Glad to hear you’re not taking to the road this late. How was your adventure?”
    â€œInteresting. I’ll tell you all about it when I get home.”
    â€œCall me in the morning when you leave?”
    â€œI will. And thanks.”
    â€œWhat for?”
    â€œFor not telling me off for not setting off back home earlier.”
    â€œI’m your husband. Not your keeper. Sleep tight.”

    Supper at the hotel was simple and delicious.
    â€œNot much call for meals this time o’ year,” the landlady-cum-barmaid-cum-receptionist said, “but you’re welcome to a share of the shepherd’s pie I made for we’re own tea.”
    â€œThank you, that would be lovely.” Joanne was hungry. Dinner was served in the lounge bar, the dining room being colder than outside in the street. With a side serve of mashed turnips, the steaming hot pie—made with lamb mince, she guessed—filled her up. For the first time since her injury, she had alcohol outside of the safety of her home, a small glass of port.
    â€œTo warm me up.” Why she had to explain, almost apologize, she didn’t know.
    â€œSo what brings you up here?” the landlady asked as she came in to clear the plates.
    â€œWell, I’ve never been this far up the northeast coast before,” was all Joanne could think to reply.
    â€œAnd you’re here chasing witches.” Seeing Joanne’s embarrassment, the woman laughed; she had a good laugh and a good smile. “Don’t worry. Mrs. Mackenzie at the garage told everyone her son Calum is about to make the big time.” Again she read Joanne’s face. “Publication in the Highland Gazette ?”
    â€œBig time? I’ll have to tell my husband that. He’s the editor,” she explained. “As for witches, if they accused every woman who makes herbal teas, or those who live alone in the wilds or keep a black cat, of being a witch, well . . .”
    â€œYou’re right there.” The landlady let out a deep raucous laugh that could have come from a forty-a-day smoker, which she wasn’t. “Och, it was never really about witches. It was stupid gossip that got out of hand.” She sighed. “Sorry, I’m still right upset. Miss Ramsay is a friend.”
    â€œIt must have been quite a controversy,” Joanne said.
    â€œThon poor wifie that lost her baby, she wasn’t thinking clear. As for her man, he’s a right head case. It was him who called Alice a witch at the trial. The name stuck. Mind you, some folk use ‘witch’ when they want to say the ‘b’ word but daren’t.” She stopped. “Sorry, I’m blethering on. And no quoting me, right?”
    â€œNot without your permission.”
    â€œShe’s a right nice woman, Miss Ramsay, keeps to herself. She calls in here from time to time, her and me being more educated than most o’ them round here. Went to art college so she did. I could have gone too, but I met Mr. Galloway, you know how it is.” Mrs. Galloway was proud that she had been to the Academy, proud she’d passed the exams. She thought of herself as educated. Though not highborn like Alice Ramsay, she was proud the artist had chosen her as a friend.
    â€œShe visits them at the local Old People’s Home, talks to them. Listens to their memories. She donated one of her paintings. Right kind of her. And another thing, since you’re wanting to know about her, Miss Ramsay always pays her bills on time.”
    Mrs. Galloway had learned this from the