The Swan Widow

PART ONE: INTIMACY

Wednesday 3rd March 2004, Lady Lever Gallery, Port Sunlight, Wirral

For almost half a year, I’ve been planning to get rid of Peigi MacKenzie. I can’t risk a single false step. Every detail I’ve gone over in my mind until it’s perfect. The arrangements are falling into place; the documents, the bank accounts. I’ve done my research thoroughly. I’ve even been to Aberystwyth a couple of times, so that I can build plenty of authentic local colour into the story. All that remains is to lay the trail leading to the inevitable conclusion.

The trickiest part will be staging a convincing death without a body. The most straightforward way would be a drowning. A pile of clothes on a likely beach, near some place with strong tides. Though why would she suddenly take a notion to swim in the sea? This is another decoy I have to set in place. Not in March in UK waters though. Maybe around the end of May, Peigi will launch into her new hobby.

Then: a whole new life. I’ve set my heart on reaching my goal before my sixty-second birthday in July. Maybe I’ll get a tattoo to celebrate. Always had a notion of a peacock, all the way down my back, starting at my left shoulder.

I look up, and find an eminently presentable man looking at me. Men look at me still, despite the years. Even that Iranian colleague of Danny’s, and I’d swear he’s not a day over forty-five… The difference is, I don’t usually return the glance.

This man is slim and rangy, with a hill-walker’s tan. His hair’s mostly gone, but what’s left is close-trimmed and silver. He has the spare, lean features of a hawk. I’ve seen him here before. He held the door open for me last week when I was coming in and he was leaving. He smiled straight into my eyes. His are deep, dark pools you could drown in, like the tarns on the moor below Beinn Erisnish. Och, pull yourself together, woman.

Damn. He’s coming over. What a sense of humour God has. Why would he lay this on me when the timing’s so irretrievably wrong?

I keep my eyes lowered. I take in the immaculately polished shoes, the trousers with a proper crease.

‘Hope I’m not interrupting, but I’ve seen you here a few times, and you always seem to be working away with that notebook. Are you a writer?’

‘Crime,’ I say. ‘Just planning the perfect murder.’

I spend more than half my hours in this place working on my thesis; that’s what I should have told him about.

He grins. ‘I’m your man then,’ he says. ‘I’m an ex-cop.’

All I need.

He has his coffee cup in his hand. It rattles a little in the saucer. He sets it down carefully on the table.

‘Do you mind if I join you? Hellish crowded today.’

We are, for the time being, the only customers in the Lady Lever Gallery coffee shop; but his smile is very endearing. I can tell from his accent that he’s not an incomer like me. When I moved here at first, it used to make me shrivel inwardly; the strangled, contorted vowels, that strange sibilance of dental consonants. I’ve grown accustomed to it. On him, it’s attractive, because his voice has a deep timbre that counteracts the nasal twang, and it’s also been mellowed by a good education, I’d think; that’s the teacher in me talking.

‘Sorry,’ he says. ‘I guess you really want to be alone?’

I close my notebook.

‘Actually, no I don’t. I’ve finished writing for the day.’

An ex-cop. I must be tactful. Some never make it past sergeant. In fact, most – like poor Gregor McIvor at home – never get beyond PC. But then, Gregor died young. Difficult to gauge what age this man is; about the same as me, I’d say, but I’ve always been hopeless at judging men’s ages. When I first met Magnus Olsen in Montreal back in ’68, I thought he was around forty. In fact, he was well over fifty. This man hasn’t turned jowly, like many our vintage. He’s looked after himself, just as I have.

‘You have a lovely accent,’ the stranger says. ‘Scottish Highlands? Western Isles?’

I like him even better when he looks more relaxed.

‘Not a lot of people notice that.’

‘I used to work beside a guy from Barra. There were a lot of people from that neck of the woods in the police in the sixties.’

‘You can see Barra from the village I come from.’

‘Whereabouts is that then?’

‘A small place called Balvaig, on the Isle of Soma. I don’t suppose you’ve even heard of it?’

He smiles and shakes his head.

‘And you – Liverpool?’

He winces. ‘No prize for guessing that. I was born in Garston. I’m only masquerading as a woolyback.’

‘A what?’

‘A citizen of the Wirral. I live just a few miles away. Though I moved around the country a little in the years between. So, this crime novel you’re writing – are you famous? Should I recognise you?’

I’m suddenly aware that talking to a stranger is not my style. I don’t know this man from Adam. He says he’s an ex-cop, but he could be a serial killer. The police – that’s one of the jobs that attracts more than a proportionate share of psychopaths, isn’t it? I’m sure I read that somewhere. Police, clergymen, surgeons, lawyers, and company CEOs. I gather my notebook and pen into my bag, and drain my cup.

‘Sorry,’ he says again. ‘You don’t know me, and there’s no one here to introduce us.’

He holds out his hand. ‘Kevin Phillipis. Greek father, Liverpool Irish mother,’ he adds.

His handshake is confident and friendly and warm. I notice how clean his nails are. I like that; it’s important. He hands me a business card. He’s a security consultant. Anyone can have business cards printed these days.

‘I’m – Gwen MacKenzie,’ I say. ‘You won’t have read anything I’ve written.’

‘I admit I’m not a great reader, specially not crime fiction. Got enough of the real stuff at work. But, as I said, if I can help at all with your research, I’d be happy to. I’ve heard about writers working in cafes, never met one before.’

He leans back in his chair, stretching his long legs under the table; he’s careful not to touch my feet. His jacket is open, revealing a crisply-ironed pale blue shirt, and neat black leather belt at his waist. No sign of a paunch.

‘I come here to look at the paintings too,’ I say.

‘Which is your favourite?’

Without thinking, I’ve confessed: Holman Hunt’s Scapegoat. But I don’t need to tell him why. I don’t need to explain that it contains all the skeletons of the lives I could have saved, along with the hapless goat.

‘You prefer the version here to the one in Manchester?’

So he knows a little about art? My heart gives a small leap. I nod. The one that’s usually in this gallery has no rainbow, no iota of hope. Its palette is the same as the landscape around Balvaig.

And the Goat shall bear upon him all their iniquities unto a Land not inhabited.

‘Is it not a bit depressing?’ he asks.

Of course it is. It encapsulates how I feel, how I’ve felt my whole life, ever since I was old enough to be blamed for other people’s misfortunes. I shrug. I find I’ve agreed that I’d like another coffee. My mind’s spinning. I should find some way to get myself out of this now, but I’m overcome by inertia. Despite all my resolutions, I’m enjoying his company. I like the sound of his voice. I don’t want to leave, and I don’t want him to go.

The waitress who brings our cups calls him by name – and it’s not usually table service here; she knows him right enough. She likes him. Not that it proves he’s on the level, but I recognise paranoia when I see it. I relax a little.

‘You like looking at paintings?’ he asks. ‘I do too, but I know jack squat about art.’

Without meaning to, I launch into a description of what I’ve spent the last few years doing, the original OU degree (damn! Another possession I’ll have to forfeit if I do away with Peigi), my current research. All I leave out is why I’m delving into the life and work of Miriam McIsaac, within the context of how depiction of women in art altered as more women became artists.

‘She was one of a group of artists called the Glasgow Girls,’ I say. ‘She wasn’t around when the most famous ones were working – though she met Margaret Macdonald in the 1930s, not long before she died. She said she’d remember her all her life, she was such a magical lady. Margaret was Charles Rennie Mackintosh’s wife; have you heard of him?’

He nods vaguely.

‘Architect, wasn’t he? His father was a cop, I read somewhere,’ adds Kevin.

So he knows more than he’s letting on. Crafty. I need to watch my step.

I’ve been told Miriam was the one who insisted I was called Margaret, though I suspect that may be a family myth. I never asked my mother. One of those questions you always think of asking when it’s too late. Mammy wouldn’t have told me the truth anyway. She never got beyond resenting that her aunt Miriam hadn’t left the money to her.

Margaret Macdonald MacKenzie. ‘That spells Mmmmm,’ Frank Stuart used to say, nuzzling my neck, as we lay on the hillside above Balvaig, among the fronds of young bracken that smell like pepper, and that my forebears used to eat in place of asparagus, a vegetable they would never have seen or heard of or been able to afford even if they had.

Enough of that.

Kevin pulls a face.

‘That’s the sum total of my knowledge of the Mackintosh guy. I’m an ignoramus about anything to do with culture.’

He consults his watch.

‘It’s almost twelve. Could I be terribly cheeky and invite you to lunch? This place isn’t great shakes for anything more than coffee, but there are some nice spots not too far away.’

‘I can’t,’ I say. ‘Really, I’d love to, but I have to get home. I look after my niece’s children, and they’re due out of nursery in half an hour.’

He looks as disappointed as I feel. I can’t possibly be the one to say it though…

‘Perhaps another day then?’

‘Yes, I’d like that.’ I’m trying not to sound too eager. ‘It’d have to be a Saturday or Sunday when their father’s at home. Is that OK?’

‘Are you free this Saturday? Saturday it is then. Shall I pick you up, or shall we meet somewhere?’

‘Let’s meet here.’

He nods and grins at me. I’m unnerved to realise just how much he has relaxed. He was jittery about asking me. I treat him to my best smile. I’m terrified. I haven’t been on a date for more than thirty years.

‘You need a lift just now, or do you have a car?’ he says.

‘I have a car, thanks.’

He stands up and shakes my hand again; he’s not going to attempt to follow me out.

‘Till Saturday then – Gwen. Meet outside here about half eleven?’

He touches the back of my hand, very lightly.

I can still feel a glow there, hours later, almost like sunburn.

Thursday 4th March, Church Street, Liverpool

It must be more than five years since I bought myself anything new to wear. The shops have their summer fashions on display, no matter that it’s still winter outside. I’ve struggled to find anything I’d be seen dead in. But in the rushed couple of hours between dropping the kids and collecting them, I’ve acquired a couple of floral print blouses, and pastel skirts. More in desperation than in optimism, though the assistant assured me that these are bang on trend, and they don’t make me look like the proverbial mutton. As long as I wear a cardigan and my warm jacket, I won’t freeze, but neither will I look like someone’s grannie. (I hear the nursery staff calling Liam when they see me arrive: ‘Here’s your grannie.’)

Liam. Every time I think of his name, I hear my father’s voice in my head, What kind of name is that, is it a Catholic name? and I’ll say to him Uilleam, Dadda. A fine Gaelic name. But he doesn’t listen to me dead any more than he did alive. He’d have disowned Liam’s mother, just the way he would have disowned his own daughter.

Saturday 6th March, Port Sunlight

Kevin’s waiting for me beside the fountain, which is in operation, for once. I like the fact he’s so trim, and holds himself well. A good, straight back. A vain one, probably. Thinks he’s God’s gift. His face lights up when he catches sight of me. Maybe he thought I wouldn’t show.

‘I’d like to take you to a restaurant at Heswall. Are you OK to come in my car, or do you want to take yours?’

God, if my mother could see me now! Piss off, Mammy.

‘We could go in yours, then you won’t need to criticise my driving. I’m a real country bumpkin. I’m not used to the traffic here, even now.’

It’s a dark blue BMW, not brand new, but new enough. Leather seats. It smells clean, and it’s immaculately tidy.

‘You’re not a smoker then?’ I say.

‘Not in recent times. I hope I stopped soon enough to let my lungs recover. But everyone smoked back in the day, didn’t they?’

‘I didn’t, ever. No one in my family did. My father was an anti-tobacco fundamentalist, long before we were all told it’s bad for us. I suppose he could have saved the NHS a fortune.’

Not that it was on health grounds Dadda disapproved. It was because he believed tobacco was grown by the heathen. If he was still alive, he’d condemn heroin on the same grounds.

Kevin grimaces and laughs. I enjoy hearing him laugh. I like his eyebrows too; good, thick ones, well spaced and level, and although his hair’s silver, they’re still dark. They contribute to the expression he usually seems to wear: on the cusp of a smile. I bet that confused the criminals he was questioning.

‘So how long have you lived down here, if you’re not used to the traffic yet?’

‘A bit less than two years.’

‘And this perfect murder you’re planning?’

I’m not sure I can keep this up. I tell him I’m working out the logistics of a woman trying to find a way to escape from an unbearable situation, and deciding to do a John Stonehouse. Missing presumed dead, and the chance to start a new life.

He looks sideways at me. ‘What’s your real name?’ He grins when he sees my discomfiture. ‘I wasn’t a cop all that time for nothing.’

I confess all. I tell him Gwen’s the name of my fictional alter ego. I don’t reveal yet that she’s also my cousin.

He laughs. ‘Well, Peigi with two ‘i’s, short for Margaret, I prefer that, I think. You don’t look like a Gwen. I’m glad you have two eyes, by the way. They are the most gorgeous colour. And I take it this isn’t really for a book?’

I shake my head.

‘I’d say you’ve not been married. Not recently anyway. So this unbearable situation doesn’t involve a husband.’

‘How on earth do you know that?’

‘No ring, no mark of a ring. The mark lasts for a long time.’

He holds out his left hand. ‘See? There’s still a faint trace, even years later.’

That’s got me guessing. Widower? Divorcee? Lothario on the pull?

Mind reader. ‘My wife died a bit under four years ago,’ he says.

‘I’m sorry.’

‘She’d been ill a long time, and she’d had enough of suffering.’

‘What was her name?’

‘Beatrice. She got called Bea. She had MS.’

‘That’s a cruel illness. How long?’

He gives a mirthless laugh. ‘She was diagnosed less than two years after we got married. It progressed slowly, but progress it did. Anyway, am I right about you?’

‘You are. I’ve never been married.’

‘And what’s an elegant single lady from the Isle of Soma doing down here? I looked it up on the map, by the way. Near Coll and Tiree?’

I nod. I’m feeling relaxed, though I’m normally a nervous passenger. He strikes me as being an extremely competent driver.

‘I told you. Looking after my niece Serena’s children. She died very suddenly, in 2002. Her husband needed someone to step into the breach.’

‘What age was she?’

‘Thirty-five.’

‘Jesus!’

Twice I’ve psyched myself up to tell Danny de Bourka I can’t look after his kids any more. He’ll need to find a nanny. Twice, he’s put on his anxious Labrador puppy look, and said can we discuss it when he gets back from the latest medical conference he has to attend. And of course we never do. I’m as trapped as if I was married to him. So what’s new? My whole life’s been taken up with making sure my sister Morag was OK, and then that her daughter was OK, and now that her grandchildren are OK. I could maybe have handled it if they’d been a little older, and less difficult. They’ve both been spoilt.

I have tried hard to love Serena’s children, but it’s tough going. I don’t know whether it was emotional laziness on her part, or if this is a philosophy she genuinely bought into, but it’s clear they have never been disciplined. They are accustomed to doing exactly what they want, when they want. Unless they are served precisely the food they’ve decided to eat that day (and their preferences seem to shift from hour to hour, specially Gabrielle’s), they will literally throw up on the floor; Gabby gives the lie to any idea that projectile vomiting ends at the baby stage. Most days, it’s a battle to get Liam to eat at all.

It’s mainly the noise I can’t cope with, and the endless worry that they’ll hurt themselves. Clearly their father isn’t interested in the fate of his furniture, so why should I worry about it? But the din, all the time they’re in the house, is far above my tolerance.

‘The children are young?’

‘Five and three. I’m sure the boy – the five-year-old – is autistic. But his father doesn’t want to know that.’

I’ve been reading about it, because it’s a long, long time since my teacher training. He’ll never be cured. But it’s a spectrum; there’s no black or white, just countless shades of grey. Liam seems to be towards the end where he can hope to lead a life like any other. In fact, he may do very well in education. He’s an attractive-looking boy. If he gets a well-paid job and an understanding wife, he’ll be the same as anyone else.

Kevin whistles softly through his teeth. ‘That’s tough. And what does their father do?’

‘He’s a very busy man. A doctor – a consultant, in fact. He’s away a lot. That’s why I agreed to come down to take care of them. Do you have children?’

His face hardens.

‘I have a son. He’s in America. We don’t see a lot of one another.’

‘So was he very young when your wife turned ill?’

‘He was. Just a baby.’

‘That must have been hellish for all of you.’

‘I don’t suppose I coped with it in any sort of exemplary way. Anyway, your situation – being landed with someone else’s kids – makes some sense of the favourite painting.’

I’m at the babbling stage because I’m still confused by the pain and anger in his eyes when he mentioned his son. I find myself telling him the story of how The Scapegoat was painted, how the first goat died, and Holman Hunt had a devil of a job finding another that looked just right. How I’d thought: That’s one way to get out of it.

Kevin says, ‘Just walk away from it then. It’s not as if the mother was your daughter’.

‘She was the nearest to a daughter I ever had.’

It’s true, although it’s a lie, and not something I can begin to explain to a stranger. Some critics say much of Hunt’s work is focused on dereliction of duty – maybe because the man himself failed so miserably in his mission to convert the whore, Annie Miller, into a respectable woman he could marry.

‘I’ve tried, believe me,’ I say. ‘That’s why I came up with my plan.’

‘You were really going to disappear?’

‘I’ve planned it well. I have my cousin’s birth certificate – that’s who Gwen is. It had been left in my house up north, ages ago. She’s the same age as me, more or less, and we have the same surname.’

Gwen’s eight years younger, but I know I could pass for that.

‘Won’t she find out?’

‘She moved abroad over thirty years ago, and I know for a fact she has a new name, and a new identity. So I used the certificate to generate enough paperwork to get a cheap rental in Rock Ferry, then I used the utility bills from there to get a photo-library card. Then I used that to open a couple of bank accounts. I sold my house up north last year, and some land too.’

‘Was that not a touch premature?’

‘I knew I’d never get back to it any time soon, and you can’t really leave houses lying empty in that climate. I have more than enough to live on, if I’m careful. I know if I disappear, so will my pension.’

‘You did plan it well! But you’ll have a bit more trouble getting a passport or a driving licence?’

‘That’s where it was starting to come unstuck. I reckoned I could manage to disappear, and I’d probably have been able to switch my money to the new accounts first, but I’d have to stay in this country. Then I’d probably have to take driving lessons and sit another test. Maybe I wouldn’t pass, some of the manoeuvres you have to make nowadays. I don’t think I could parallel park to save my life, because I’ve never had to.’

‘I’ll teach you. It’s easy. But your plot has lots of holes in it. The police would check out your bank accounts if you went missing.’

‘I thought of that. I decided if I transfer it in dribs and drabs rather than a huge amount at once?’

‘It’d still be too much of a clue,’ he says. ‘Sorry.’

‘You think I’m crazy.’

‘I think you’re in a situation you need some help to get out of.’

I can’t believe I’m pouring my heart out to a stranger. It’s just such a relief to have someone my own age I can talk to. Someone who appears to be interested.

I pump him for information about his police career. He’s very coy. I need to work through a process of elimination, starting with whether or not he had silver braid on his hat. Eventually he owns up to having reached the rank of Assistant Chief Constable by the time he was fifty. Five years later, he took early retirement.

‘I knew I was as far up the tree as I was getting,’ he says without rancour. ‘I’ve never been much of a one for marking time, so I decided to go while I still have all my faculties and could set up my own business. In any case, by that time Bea was in a very bad way. We had help of course, but her mother was too old to do anything, except interfere. I had to take care of a hell of a lot myself, so it wasn’t practical to be working full-time.’

He can see I don’t know what to say, so he asks me about my work. Little enough to tell.

‘So you know exactly where I’m coming from,’ he says, when I tell him about having made it to deputy head, with a headmistress who was fifteen years younger. Then I find myself spilling the beans about finishing my OU degree a few years back, and continuing my studies once I settled down here. I confess that Miriam McIsaac was my great-aunt. When I show him my student matric card, he’s so impressed I wonder if he’s sneering at me, but he seems completely serious.

We’ve arrived at the restaurant.