Free Beneath the Abbey Wall by A. D. Scott Page A

of them.
    The journey was short. The taxi driver pulled into a semicircular driveway and stopped in front of a glassed-in porch sheltering a double door painted a shade of brown reminiscent of a medical sample.
    The guesthouse was a large Victorian edifice with a lawn, herbaceous borders, and not one ounce of warmth showing in the shrubs or the curtains or the paint. It seemed that all the life had been drained from it in its transformation from family home to lodging house. Respectability dictated that net curtains shroud every window; convenience meant the removal of trees so all that remained were churchyard cypress evergreens.
    Neil took his suitcase, asked the fare, paid, and added a tip.
    â€œHere’s yer change, sir,” the man said.
    â€œIt’s for you.”
    â€œI don’t need a tip. Sir.”
    Neil saw the friendly face turn cold, registered that the man was offended. “I’m sorry, I . . . ”
    The driver slammed the door of the taxi and was off before Neil could finish the apology. There was a note attached to the door. Please enter and ring bell . It made no sense, but after ringing the doorbell a few times, Neil went inside, found a small brass handbell on a table, and rang it. As he waited he read the framed list of all things disallowed. Not a propitious start.
    Down the green linoleum-lined hallway came a tall grey woman with grey hair, grey dress, and grey demeanor.
    â€œMrs. Wilkie?”
    â€œMr. Stewart.” Her inflection was as grey as the rest of her, and Neil felt another of his illusions shatter. Where is the warm Highland welcome?
    *  *  *  
    Perhaps comfort is not respectable either, Neil thought after ten days of chill and damp and excruciatingly bad breakfasts whereeven the porridge was horrible, lumpy, and occasionally burnt. Dinners were worse; every meat, fowl, or vegetable was boiled into submission and coated with a grey sludge he presumed was gravy.
    Only his research gave him joy. One half of his book, set in the Canadian diaspora, was written. Now he needed to finish researching the Scottish part.
    The public library became his refuge. It became a habit to start the day with the newspapers. First he would read the Scotsman, the biweekly Courier, and finally the weekly Highland Gazette . He admired the Gazette. Unlike the newspaper he had worked on in Halifax, he saw it as a paper for the times. They know it is 1957, was his judgment, and they must be doing it tough reporting the murder of one of their own.
    As he was folding up the Gazette, he thought, Why not? It would help me financially and maybe give me access to their archives.
    *  *  *  
    Joanne was struggling to proof the pages the printers had set and sent upstairs for approval. “I’ll never get the hang of reading upside-down!” she wailed. “And I can’t read back to front.”
    â€œI can.”
    It was a scene from a romantic comedy except Joanne was a brunette, not a blonde. And the stranger in the doorway was not the proverbial American abroad but Canadian.
    â€œHello again.” He smiled at Joanne. “I’m Neil Stewart. We bumped into each other at the library. Remember?”
    â€œAye. I mean—yes. Hello.” She blushed. Then was furious with herself— The sight of a good-looking, interesting stranger and you’re behaving like a schoolgirl fainting over Elvis—grow up, Joanne.
    Neil looked across at McAllister, sensing he was the man in charge. “I was wondering if there is any part-time work available.”Again that North American grin demonstrated his confidence with strangers.
    â€œI’m John McAllister, the editor.” McAllister rose to shake hands. “Are you a journalist?”
    â€œI was on a newspaper in Nova Scotia for ten years. Worked on everything—reporting, subediting, and occasional staff photographer.”
    â€œWhen can you start?”
    Neil