Read Online The Low Road by A. D. Scott - Free Book Online Page B

customary cigarette, “but I’ll be back at lunchtime. Then I thought we might go shopping.”
    â€œShopping?” Joanne looked at him in amazement. Then at Mrs. Ross, who shrugged. Neither had ever known McAllister to shop. He ordered his clothes from a tailor in Glasgow, which were delivered once a year in a large parcel, everything being exactly the same as the previous model.
    â€œIt’s summer,” he declared as though they hadn’t noticed the sun coming in through the open kitchen door, the violent blue heavens above the distant Ben Wyvis, and a nearer, but distant, outline of the Black Isle filling the kitchen windows. A scent of fresh-cut grass and a rare warm wind came up through the long garden that stretched down to a high stone wall and a drop over a cliff to the town and Eastgate below. It was soothing. Delightful. Even McAllister felt the spell.
    â€œIt’s summer,” he repeated, “and I am going to buy you a summer dress. Maybe two if you’re good.” He teased.
    â€œBut the girls need . . .” Joanne was shifting in her chair as though sitting on horsehair, not a gingham cushion. Going shopping for herself was not something she did. Her treadle sewing machine was her wardrobe mistress.
    â€œWheesht, the girls are a’ right. You go and get yerself a nice treat,” Granny Ross told her. “You deserve it.”
    Leaving the house, this time walking, McAllister headed down the hill and found himself fearful of what awaited himat the Gazette . The lift he had experienced as Joanne smiled at him, saying, “I’d like that,” in answer to his suggestion that they go shopping, had evaporated and left behind a mild discomfort, much like indigestion.
    In this newspaper, this town, this Highland community, he knew the news before it was written. It went something like this: arguments in council over health services; disagreements over road-widening plans; discussions on raising council rates; a cat down a well and the gallant rescue; the Boy Scouts’ bob-a-job week; the Salvation Army’s blankets-for-homeless-servicemen drive. These, and variations thereof, were stories that were the grist of everyday journalism on a local newspaper—stories that bored him, if not to tears, then to whisky.
    He had transformed the Highland Gazette . Radically. Changed it from broadsheet to tabloid, pursued investigative journalism when it was warranted, altered the layout, instituted new columns, introduced photographs, introduced a sports section, and, the biggest change of all, banned advertising on the front page.
    There had been resistance from some, but approval from most of the readers; the increased advertising revenue reflected that. There had been difficult times, especially when the staff of the Gazette had become involved in the stories they were investigating, yet the newspaper had been published, every deadline reached, every copy distributed, read, and digested and argued over—although it had been a close call on occasion.
    And now, all was back to normal. He knew, as editor, he was needed but not absolutely necessary. The Gazette would continue for another ninety-odd years with or without Mr. John McAllister—so he was telling himself as he climbed Castle Wynd, turning right to another Monday at the office, albeit three hours late.
    â€œIt’s yourself,” Don McLeod greeted him as he came into the reporters’ room.
    There was no answer to that. And none expected. “Anything I should know?” McAllister asked.
    â€œYou’ve only been gone three days and one o’ them the Sabbath,” Don reminded him. “How was Glasgow?” He was watching his colleague, looking to see if there was anything amiss, but unable, for once, to read the editor.
    â€œMy mother’s a lot brighter than I’ve seen her in years.”
    â€œAny news of Jimmy?”
    â€œHe did thirty days in