North Sea Requiem Read Online Free

managed, just, not to choke, she began to enjoy herself and the conversation. The widow of Robert John Bell was exotic, funny, sophisticated, and clever; Joanne liked the woman immensely. And after the food and the martinis—two for Mae Bell—Joanne was surprised how fast time had vanished; how little time it had taken for Mrs. Bell to endear herself to Joanne.
    Joanne Ross knew many people and was liked by many but had only one close friend, Chiara Kowalski—a woman who, like Joanne, was a newcomer to the town. Joanne always thought itwas the shame of her violent marriage that made friendships difficult. In moments of introspection, when she considered how small was her circle of true friends, she acknowledged she appeared self-sufficient; her outward image was of a woman in full control, whilst inwardly she had the self-confidence of a caged wild bird.
    Mae put a cigarette into a holder, lit it, blew the smoke towards the ceiling, and came to the point of their meeting. “Thank you for agreeing to write about Robert.”
    Joanne could not recall agreeing to any such thing, but a single martini had made her think she would agree to almost anything on a drink that strong. And at lunchtime too!
    â€œWhen the telegram came, I couldn’t open it. I called Charlie, my husband Robert’s brother.” Mae was speaking as though their conversation had been taking place over a week, not just the last hour, as though Joanne was aware of all the protagonists, the background, the time and place. “He came immediately, read it, and it was as I feared: Robert, my husband, my love, had gone down with his aircraft in the middle of the North Sea. There were no survivors. And the aeroplane was never found. No bits of wreckage surfaced. No explanation ever given. Even after a full inquiry, where the experts had so many theories but no facts, the verdict was ‘cause unknown.’ Not easy to live with—‘cause unknown.’ No body, no funeral, no final farewell . . .” Her voice trailed off. She stubbed her cigarette into the ashtray, causing it to tilt and almost spill onto the whiter-than-white tablecloth. Mae didn’t notice.
    â€œBut we sure had a wake. In Paris.” She closed her eyes. Whether to remember or to hide her emotions, Joanne couldn’t tell.
    â€œYep, three days and nights, and the music . . .” She sighed. “After that—shock, grief, I couldn’t sing. For the first time ever . . . since I was a little girl, I’ve always been singing, humming, but after Robert disappeared, it was nearly three years before Icould sing again.” Mae recalled the little bird in a gilded cage; one of the Frenchmen who adored Mae Bell bought it at the market and presented it to her and it sang all day long, and before long she was singing with the little bird, to the little bird, harmonies, trills, arpeggios, repetitious phrases where she and the bird competed to outdo each other.
    Joanne was quiet, hearing the words and listening between the lines.
    â€œSo this is a pilgrimage for me,” Mae continued. “I want to visit the places he wrote to me about. See the cathedral in Elgin, the places he described in his letters, and the river there. I want to walk where he walked. To see what he saw. He loved Findhorn, near where he was stationed, thought it an almost perfect place if only the temperature were twenty degrees warmer.”
    Joanne laughed. “I agree. But ten degrees warmer. Scottish people couldn’t survive the heat.” She was wondering how to raise the subject of the note, but no need; Mae Bell was ahead of her.
    Taking the note from her handbag, Mae smoothed it out on the table. “This is interesting.” She touched the paper and traced the writing with a perfectly manicured finger, the polish a sinful shade of red. “A woman wrote this, don’t you agree?”
    â€œIt’s neatly