Free The Low Road by A. D. Scott Page A

a requisite for assistants in this establishment.
    â€œCan I help, Madame? Are you looking for something in particular?”
    The woman came too close, sizing Joanne up, mentally calculating whether there would be a good commission from this customer. And clearly deciding not.
    McAllister felt Joanne shrink into her already much thinner frame. “We’re fine, thanks,” he said. “I’ll call if we need your help.”
    Realizing that the man would be paying, the woman took Joanne by the elbow, steering her towards the more expensive clothing section.
    â€œI think you’ll find something to suit over here,” she said in her put-on best posh Edinburgh accent. “These would look lovely on Madame.”
    The “Madame” came out as “Modom,” and it was all McAllister could do not to laugh at the preposterous woman but, seeing how nervous she was making Joanne, he once more intervened. Pointing to a white summer dress with a rounded neckline and no sleeves, and large scarlet poppies and lime-green leaves printed on a full skirt, he said, “I like this one.”
    Joanne turned, saw it, and smiled. “It’s lovely.”
    â€œA little young for Madame, don’t you think? This one is perfect. The latest style from London.” She held up another cotton frock, this one with cap sleeves, buttons down the front, a slightly flared skirt. A nice dress, in a subtle print in shades of blue and lavender.
    Nice for a respectable middle-aged-matron-of-the-town dress , he was thinking, then realized the woman had steered Joanne into the dressing room.
    â€œHold on,” he called out and took the summer poppy-strewn sundress from the rack, handing it to Joanne. When she emerged it was not the white with scarlet poppies she was wearing, but the dress in many shades of blue.
    It fitted well; the fabric was practical, the length right, the buttons delicate. But it did nothing for her; it made Joanne look like any other woman of the town. She looked at herself in the mirror. He had no idea what she was seeing, but she said, “I’ll take it.”
    â€œAnd the other one? Try it on,” he suggested.
    â€œIf I was ten years younger maybe.” She smiled—a faint weary smile.
    Oh, my love —he looked away, scared she might read his thoughts— since when did you think like that?
    That evening, after supper, after Mrs. Ross senior had gone home, and after the girls had done their homework, they were all sitting around reading or, in Jean’s case, drawing with her new pencil set McAllister had brought from Glasgow, when Joanne said, “McAllister bought me a dress.”
    â€œCan I see it, Mum?” Jean asked.
    â€œIt’s upstairs on my bed.”
    Jean ran upstairs, brought it down, saying, “I like the material, it’s lovely and soft.”
    Annie looked at it, picked it up, and held it against herself.McAllister was taken aback to see how tall she was growing, how soon she would be near her mother’s height.
    â€œGranny Ross will approve.” And with that Annie put the dress on the sofa and went back to her book.
    Joanne agreed. “It’s lovely. And just right for church.”
    McAllister agreed. Just right for church.
    It was late, after eleven. The house was quiet, Joanne and the girls in bed. McAllister was reading, the decanter of whisky on a table beside his chair. He heard the sound of the letterbox flap. And the sound of footsteps receding quickly. He put down the book and went to the front door. Picking up a piece of folded paper, he took it into the sitting room and the light.
    It was printed on lined notepaper. Tomorrow night. Six o’clock sharp. The bar. He knew it was from Jenny McPhee. He knew he would be there.
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    Next evening, McAllister drove across the Black Bridge, noticing that at low tide and with an unusual lack of rain, the river was low. On the pebbled