A Kind of Grief by A. D. Scott

called beautiful—a few inches taller than Calum, also caught the wave. Joanne smiled back. With a flutter of a raised hand, Elaine introduced herself as Calum’s fiancée.
    â€œHow are you, Joanne?” Calum asked when at last she made it over to them.
    â€œWhere’s your manners, Calum?” his mother hissed. “It’s Mrs. Ross to you.”
    â€œActually, it’s Mrs. McAllister.” Joanne smiled. “But as Calum is a friend, I told him to call me Joanne.”
    To Mrs. Mackenzie the idea of friendship between a man and a woman of differing ages and differing social status was outside of her understanding. Therefore somehow wrong. She said nothing, but Elaine, who’d overheard the exchange, knew that later much would be made of Joanne Ross McAllister.
    â€œElaine.” Calum’s fiancée formally introduced herself. “Calum’s told me a lot about you.”
    â€œAnd you. He’s really proud of you,” Joanne said. “This is McAllister.”
    â€œYour husband?” Mrs. Mackenzie asked. She looked up at him. Seeing no indication of status, she was about to dismiss him. Then she remembered he was the editor of a newspaper. “I’m Calum’s mother,” she said. “My Calum’s done right well for himself. When he was at school, he passed all his exams wi’ top marks. An’ one o’ his essays was printed in the paper an’ him only fifteen. Then he was champion o’ the junior golf team. That’s before he was made chief reporter and—”
    â€œNext lot, number ninety-seven, cameras and equipment,” the auctioneer announced.
    Hector pulled at the editor’s sleeve as if he were a wee boy trying to get the attention of his granddad. “Will you bid for me? I’m scared I’ll mess it up.”
    Thanks, Hec, for saving me from that woman , McAllister was thinking.
    Calum spoke up. “I’ll bid. None o’ the locals will go against me. What’s your limit?”
    â€œWho’ll offer me five pounds?” the auctioneer asked.
    â€œFive pounds is fine,” Hec said.
    â€œWait,” Calum told him.
    â€œCome on, ladies and gentlemen. An excellent wee camera, German-made. And lots of equipment, extra lenses. Three pounds? No? Who’ll start me at one pound?”
    â€œTen shillings!” Calum shouted.
    â€œCome on, the bag’s worth more than that.” Still no reply. And the sound of rain on car roofs drumming a tattoo made the auctioneer want to finish before the pubs closed. “Ten shillings. Sold to Calum. Now, this nice mirror, antique, looks like . . . five shillings?”
    â€œTen shillings?” Hector’s eyes were popping.
    â€œWheesht,” Joanne told him. But she could see him trembling and the raindrops coming off his mackintosh like a dog shaking off the rain. “Maybe you should bid for me too, Calum.”
    â€œWhat do you want?”
    â€œThe drawing of the bird skeleton, the one in the plain wood frame.”
    â€œThe one used in evidence in court?”
    â€œWas it?”
    â€œNasty old thing, thon,” Mrs. Mackenzie muttered. Calum nudged her with his elbow. “But there’s no accounting for taste,” she added.
    â€œI’ll bid for it,” McAllister said.
    They waited as a few more items were presented—an Edwardian water jug and bowl, brass fire tongs and dustpan set, a half tea set. “Royal Doulton,” the auctioneer said, but still couldn’t raise more than five shillings. “Sold to Nurse Ogilvie,” he announced.
    A prosecution witness at Alice’s trial, Joanne was thinking. She watched as the nurse made her way to the bookkeeper to pay for the china. With her was a young man, tall and very thin, his skin white in a redhead way. She sensed a nervousness about him, reminding her of a highly strung greyhound, one that had been overraced and was now on its