The Low Road by A. D. Scott Page A

at the fly-clouded ceiling. “Gerry Dochery doesn’t do the dirty work, he has men for that, but I’ve heard he takes contracts. So maybe this is business, not personal.” She stubbed out a half-smoked cigarette and contorted her mouth as though disgusted with the taste. “Tell me about this McPhee fellow.”
    He wasn’t sure where to begin. Travelers and middle-class, middle-aged men like himself seldom had close friendships with the likes of Jimmy McPhee. Professional relationships—yes. But his relationship with Jimmy? Good reporters had to have good sources. Mary obviously had. Was that what Jimmy McPhee was? He couldn’t answer his own questions. So he started by lightinganother cigarette and telling her about Jenny McPhee, Jimmy’s mother, Traveler, singer, matriarch, a woman said to have the second sight, a woman feared, respected, and a woman never to be underestimated. He told her of the Travelers’ encampment, his respect for Jenny McPhee, his helping her in the past, and vice versa. “And Jimmy, her second son, is her right-hand man.”
    Mary was listening intently, and from her face he could see she understood his fascination with Jenny McPhee. “Would all this”—she waved her hand in a circle encompassing not just the table, the café, but the whole of Glasgow—“would it be to do with the Highland tinkers? A clan dispute? A blood feud?”
    â€œNo. If that was it, Jenny would have sorted it out herself. I’ve been thinking, why ask me? And I feel it has to do with this city. Jimmy lived here once, occasionally on the wrong side of the law, but nothing serious. He was a boxer in his youth, going places, so I hear . . .”
    â€œJimmy McPhee! I knew I knew the name. I saw him once when he was one of the young hopefuls of that Gorbals boxing club.”
    â€œHow come you went to a boxing match? You couldn’t have been more than a bairn.” The surprise on McAllister’s face was evident.
    â€œMy father was a fan. But a Marquis of Queensberry rules boxing fan. He took me to a couple of matches at the Kelvin Hall. That was before the war. And you’re right, I was nine. When my mother found out she was furious.” She was grinning at the memory.
    It was only when a gaggle of bus drivers came in together looking for a table that McAllister glanced at the clock. An hour had passed.
    â€œListen,” he said, “I’m catching the overnight train but have the afternoon free. Fancy a trip to the Art Gallery?”
    â€œYou sound like my dad. He thought every Sunday should be spent at a museum or the Art Gallery.” She saw him flinch but didn’t apologize. He was, after all, old enough to be her father.
    â€œMy mother is the same. I’m going anyhow. I have the afternoon free and I want to see the Salvador Dalí Christ of St. John of the Cross .”
    â€œIt’s a brilliant painting, McAllister, you don’t have to be religious to appreciate it.”
    Her private-schoolgirl-prim-and-proper voice made him look at her to see if she was teasing. She wasn’t. The chasm between them in age, in education, in class, was clear. He almost changed his mind about the invitation. She sensed his hesitation.
    â€œTell you what, McAllister, it’s rare we have such days of sunshine. Let’s wander through Kelvingrove Park. We can decide about the Art Gallery after.”
    So they did. They walked. They talked. They laughed. They shared Glasgow childhood stories until the sun was at three o’clock. They took a quick trip into the Art Gallery, admired the painting before being hustled out by the attendants a minute before closing time. They parted, him to have supper with his mother before the train, her to do the same.
    â€œYes,” she had said earlier, “still in my childhood home, still with my mother. We rub along no problem and it’s rent free—a real