A Kind of Grief by A. D. Scott Read Free Book Online Page A

allusions to his sexual preferences were immediately joked about. In mixed company, the speaker chose to comment on his clothes. Or his shoes. Even Calum, a reporter supposedly trained not to use adjectives, couldn’t help returning again and again to Forsythe’s appearance and gestures, using the word “colorful.” When he’d asked Mrs. Galloway for an opinion, she’d said Forsythe was “full o’ himself,” an expression Joanne loved, it was so apt.
    Calum was unable to recall the essence of the man’s testimony. The disruption Forsythe caused to the flow of the case and the time wasting, with the sheriff constantly telling the witness to stick to the point, irritated the sheriff. It also, Calum thought, made him hurry his verdict.
    â€œI do remember one part clearly,” Calum told her.
    He recounted how the sheriff had asked, “Mr. Forsythe, are you are saying that anatomical drawings, including this exhibit . . .” He had held up and then quickly turned down the drawing of a fetus in the womb, as though the subject of pregnancy was distasteful. “That these are usual subjects for art students to study?”
    â€œLife drawing is an essential part of an artist’s education,” Forsythe had replied.
    The sheriff, who had never seen anyone naked, not even his wife of thirty-two years, had shuddered. “What you are saying is that this is a normal course of study at an institute of art?”
    â€œJust so. The great classical traditions of art, from the Greeks onwards—”
    â€œThank you. That will be all.”
    It had taken some moments to dislodge Dougald Forsythe from the witness box. When he was gone from the courthouse, disgruntled because he was not allowed to give his speech on Scottish Philistinism, and when the atmosphere had returned to the solemnity expected in a court of law, the sheriff had summed up.
    â€œTaking the testimony of Nurse Ogilvie, an experienced midwife, plus the plaintiff’s medical history, and disregarding the prejudices of some in the medical community against more traditional remedies”—he was referring to the procurator fiscal, who had pressed the charges against Alice Ramsay—“I find no connection between a cup of herbal tea and the subsequent miscarriage.” He had not mentioned that the ointment his wife had persuaded Alice to concoct for his arthritis was, in his estimation, a miracle. “As for the art, I find no connection between Miss Ramsay’s work and the charges brought against her.” He could not bring himself to mention Dougald Forsythe’s name. “I therefore find the defendant not guilty.”
    â€œSo,” Joanne now asked Calum Mackenzie, “what did you make of the trial? How did it go down with the locals?”
    â€œThe trial was right interesting,” he replied, “Most locals thought the charges ridiculous. But some . . .” Mostly my mother and her friends. “They were not happy she ‘got away with it.’ ” Again a direct quote from his mum.
    â€œIt must have been a big story,” Joanne commented.
    â€œOh, aye. For months.”
    When she put down the phone, she was wishing she’d been there or that Highland Gazette reporter Rob McLean had covered the trial. Extracting information was a slow process with Calum.
    Plus, she was frustrated. There seemed to be no way into a longer story, one she could use as a plot.

    A few days later, when Dougald Forsythe telephoned, Joanne was surprised. And wary. But after the long phone call, she felt enchanted.
    â€œHello, the McAllister household.”
    â€œMay I speak to Joanne Ross?”
    â€œSpeaking.”
    â€œDougald Forsythe, Glasgow College of Art and the Glasgow Herald here.”
    â€œOh. Hello. I’ve heard about you.”
    â€œAye, people who are educated know of my work.” He laughed, and she thought he might be