Grandmother and the Priests (39 page)

“None,” said the minister. “It’s sae hard, the noo, since Betsy and I were married. There’s nae other kirk in the place, and though they come there’s little in the plate — the noo. It’s a’ his fault; he rules the dam — the place. And there’s no leaving here yet; my first congregation. Good Squire MacVicar!”

“Ah!” said Father Tom. “The one that’s put the window in my kirk? And he hae give me the fine whiskey, too!”

The minister nodded. “It’s his way to make a mock of me.” Bruce smiled miserably. “Ask the braw auld lad to put the roof on your hoose and he’ll send his men aknocking before the sun’s up tomorrow. Not that he loves you, but for a mock.”

Father Tom was musing in astonishment. Then he looked at the barrow. “Fifteen slates,” he said. “How many do you need, Mr. Gregor?”

“Aboot the same. And where will ye get the men to do the work?”

“I’ll do it, mesel’.”

“You?” The minister was all one amazement. Father Tom could not help lifting his chin with pride.

“It’s nae hard. My Dada taught me.”

A slight touch of envy shadowed Mr. Gregor’s boyish voice. “A man of parts, is it? Weel, a good morning to you, sir, and perhaps ye’ll have tea with Betsy and me on Sunday?”

“I hae a big ham,” said Father Tom. “I’ll come, if I may bring some ham. It may spoil, for one.”

The young minister looked hungry at once. He got on his bicycle. “My Betsy makes a fine gooseberry tart,” he boasted. “We’ll be expecting you.” He paused. “Auld Bob, there, he’ll be cheating you if you don’t mind. Haggle him doon.”

Every curtain on the street was twitching. The cold sun blazed on polished little windows, and wisps of smoke rose from stone chimneys against a sky fiercely scoured blue by the northern wind. The trundling of the barrow echoed in that shining silence. Father Tom reached Auld Bob’s place at the turn on Bannoch Road, which was the end of the village too. Heaps of slate, piles of lumber and mounds of brick lay on the packed earth, and there was a scent of sawdust in the air and a stench of horse manure. Two horses, in fact, were tethered close by, and Auld Bob, himself, was sitting smoking his pipe in a rocking chair, awaiting customers. He was fat, broad and tall, with white hair and a large white mustache, and he wore a thick tweed jacket and a tweed cap. He had very small and very sharp blue eyes, which he opened in amazement at the sight of the young priest with his barrow. Then he stood up, surlily, pulled his cap reluctantly, and stood back on his heels.

“Ye’ll be the new Roman,” he said, without any other salutation.

Father Tom always winced away from brusqueness, and always blushed at a rude remark. He winced and blushed now. “That I will be,” he said. Suddenly, without any reason he knew of, he straightened his back. “I’m come for slates. Thirty of them.”

“Slates?” said Auld Bob, as if he had never heard the word before.

“Slates,” said Father Tom. “It’s them over there, if ye’ll look.”

The broad and weathered face of the older man darkened, but Father Tom looked him firmly in the eye. “Slates,” said Auld Bob, hurriedly, and stamped off to a pile of them and stood waiting. He puffed with violence on his pipe and a blue cloud half obscured his face.

Father Tom dropped his barrow and examined the slates critically. He shook his head. “Not fit for a doll’s hoose,” he said, rubbing his finger along one edge. “Crumble in the first snow. Hae ye no better?”

“Are ye insulting me slates?” demanded Auld Bob.

“I am, that,” said Father Tom, dumfounded at his new self. “If ye hae no better I’ll go elsewhere.”

Auld Bob muttered something which Father Tom suspected was a profound obscenity. Then he stamped over to another pile. “And will your lordship condescend to look upon these?” he asked.

‘His lordship’ took his time examining the better slates. They were quite good. But Father Tom was a Scotsman and he flexed his mental muscles and prepared for combat. “Not sae good as in Edinburgh,” he said.

“And how would your lordship know that?”

“His lordship knows all aboot slates.”

“Aweel!” said Auld Bob. “I doot it.”

“Thirty slates,” said Father Tom. “That would be six shillings for the lot.”

“Are ye mad?” cried Auld Bob. “I — ”

“Paid that wholesale,” said Father Tom, with an assumption of weariness. “And ye quarried them ye-sel’, too, without doot.”

Auld Bob put his hands akimbo on his thick hips and said menacingly, “If ye were not a wee minister or such I’d brain ye, laddie!”

The two stared inimically at each other. Then Auld Bob said, “Ten shillings.”

“Six, and be quick aboot it or it will be five.”

“Nine!” shouted Auld Bob, turning purple.

“Five,” said Father Tom.

They compromised on seven, and Auld Bob bitterly loaded the thick slates in the barrow. He tried one of the handles and was immediately happy at the weight. The ‘Roman’ would have a job trundling that along the cobbles! Break his damn back. Father Tom counted out the seven shillings from his meager store.

“Ye’re worse than a Jew,” said Auld Bob. “At the haggling.”

“God pity a poor Jew who haggles with a Scotsman,” said Father Tom, sternly. “Ye hae Jews in this hamlet, then?”

“Not a one! I hae never seen one.”

Father Tom nodded. “It is always the stupid who parrot the stupid. A good morning to you, and mind your tongue in the future.”

He was so astounded at this new self he had discovered only today that he did not hear Auld Bob’s imprecations that followed him. He mused on his new self all the strenuous way home. Had God given him a new grace? He was still too young to know that he had become strong on encountering Bruce Gregor, who was even younger, more vulnerable, more shy and timid than himself, and in greater need of protection and sympathy. He was sweating profusely when he trundled the barrow to the cottage and set down the handles. He wiped his face, fanned himself with his elderly hat, and looked up at the roof. Two hours’ work at the most. He had totally forgotten that he had A Chest. He went into the house for his meal, a fine slice of ham newly baked, mashed potatoes, mashed turnips, oat cakes and butter and tea. He ate with a new heartiness and Mrs. Logan gave him a maternal smile of approval. Then she sighed.

“And who will ye be getting to put the slates on, Faether?”

Father Tom took a large draught of tea. “Mesel’,” he said.

“Ye-sel’!”

“Aye.”

Mrs. Logan was scandalized. “Ye’ll be jesting, Faether!”

“I’ll not be jesting,” he said. “I can do a good job. My Dada taught me.”

Mrs. Logan threw up her hands. “But Faether! The scandal!”

“There is nothing scandalous aboot honest work, Mistress Logan,” said Father Tom. He drew a deep breath. “And I’ll be damned if I live under a roof that leaks.” He was freshly amazed at himself, and at his profanity. He rose severely to his full height, which was very tall indeed.

“Our Lord did nae ask the great ones in the cities to do His work,” he said. “And He was a carpenter, Himsel’.”

He was pleasantly tired and went for a nap in his tiny cell of a bedroom and slept more deeply and sweetly than he had ever remembered. When he awoke there were four old gentlemen waiting to see him to discuss kirk matters, and to brief him about the hamlet. He gave them some of Squire MacVicar’s whiskey, to their delight and shy pleasure, and drank a tot himself. He could not recall having felt so vigorous since his early boyhood.

“That Squire MacVicar,” said one old gentleman, shaking his head proudly. “He is a fair one. A saint.”

Now Father Tom could satisfy his curiosity. Squire MacVicar had the finest sheep in the country, and many flocks of them, and employed many shepherds. He was also the landlord of half the hamlet. He owned the rich meadows three miles distant, and had a revenue from the pubs of six villages. He was also ‘invested’, which Father Tom took, rightly, to mean that he had property and money and bonds in Edinburgh, his original home. He had come here when a young man because he, too, had had A Chest. Now he was practically lord of the hamlet and its vicinity, and was lordly in appearance, too.

He had founded and set up a fine free school, and had been, until very recently — the old gentleman coughed — almost the entire support of his kirk. He kept his houses ‘up’, and had established a fund for the support of the old folk, another for the sick and temporarily indigent, and supplied all the hamlet’s geese on Christmas and all its hams or young lamb for Easter Sunday. He made no difference between Presbyterians and Catholics. Though it must be admitted, another old gentleman said, that he had no love for those he called ‘Romans’. Quite the contrary. But he was a just man, merciful, provident and charitable, though with a temper when crossed. “If there was ever a man without sin, Faether,” said an old gentleman, “that one be Squire MacVicar.” The Squire did not smoke or drink; he lived plainly in a house ‘doon the road’ not distinguishable from its neighbors except for its large garden, and its furniture and curtains. His life was austere, almost rigorous. He paid uncommonly large wages, and expected and received good work in return. He was ‘down’ on the sinful, the slothful, the heavy drinkers and smokers. He demanded that others live as purely as he did, except for the Catholics, whom he had long ago decided were residents of the Outer Darkness. Nevertheless, he ‘did’ for the Catholics as he ‘did for ‘his ain folk’. Just. Firm. Severe. Blameless. All the old gentlemen agreed.

“And his lady?” asked Father Tom, with an innocent face.

They shook their heads. The poor lady died ten years ago. There was a housekeeper in the house, and there was a gardener for the garden and jobs outside.

“And nae bairns?” said Father Tom, more innocent than ever.

Only one child. The old gentlemen did not move in their stiff chairs but they subtly seemed to draw together as if in defense of the Squire. Betsy MacVicar, a lovely lass, but she had not married well.

“Sad, that,” said Father Tom, encouragingly, and deftly refilling the glasses. The old gentlemen exchanged eloquent glances, and sipped the whiskey and did not speak for a little. Then the most loquacious, his ancient face flushed with the whiskey, spoke. The daughter of Squire MacVicar had married the wee minister of the Presbyterian kirk. They had run off together to Gretna Green, when the Squire had refused his consent.

“And what had he against the minister?” asked Father Tom.

They all looked at each other uneasily. Well, it seems that the Squire had not liked the minister from the very beginning, when he had come here less than two years ago. “A soft lad,” the Squire had called him, and the Squire did not like soft lads. Moreover, the minister was ‘sae poor’, with no private means, and he could never bring himself to ‘speak up’ even to the most cantankerous of his congregation. (And when a Scotsman is cantankerous, thought Father Tom, he can make the devil, himself, nod enviously.) The wee minister did not come of gentry, as did Squire MacVicar, who had inherited considerable money. His father had a poor shoe shop in Glasgow, and he was a Borderlander, which meant, of course, that there was more than a suspicion of Sassenach blood in the family. The wee minister protested that he was pure Highlander, and it was only misfortune which had sent his parents to Glasgow, but the Squire did not believe him and so the hamlet did not believe him, either. It was evident that what the Squire disliked all his neighbors disliked automatically.

Even before the marriage the Squire had attempted to have Mr. Gregor removed. But the authorities in Edinburgh were as adamant as himself, and every bit as stubborn. The hamlet was small, and Mr. Gregor was a young man of impeccable character, said the authorities, sternly. It was his first parish, and the authorities intimated bluntly that if he survived this hamlet he would survive anywhere. In short, they had not too high an opinion of the Squire and the hamlet, which was very cruel of them. (Father Tom took a sudden liking for ‘the authorities’ in Edinburgh, whoever they might be.)

So, under all these circumstances, said the old gentlemen, the Squire was not to be blamed for withdrawing support from the Presbyterian kirk, and the congregation gave as little as possible for the support of the kirk and the wee minister and Betsy. She had made her bed, had Betsy, and she could lie in it. The old gentlemen nodded solemnly.

Father Tom was very young and very gentle; he felt almost the first wrath of his life against Squire MacVicar. Had he not met Mr. Gregor that morning he might have been as censorious as these old folk, and would have spoken of disobedience to parents and such like. But he had met Mr. Gregor, and in those moments he had felt a fraternal fondness for him and a vague desire to help him in some way.

The Squire had intended to build a new manse for the minister, but when he had met Mr. Gregor he immediately withdrew his offer. His money would not go to house a lad without visible character and family and funds. The Squire was of the Clan of MacGregor on his mother’s side. Father Tom lifted his head alertly. His father had been a true Highlander, with a vague relationship to the Clan, himself. Father Tom felt his thin cheeks beginning to burn warmly with excitement.

“The Squire’s mother, then, was Catholic?” he said.

The old gentlemen looked vague. Well, now, they had never known the Squire’s parents. He was not very young when he had come here. He had been thirty at least. After he had established himself in the hamlet, which had taken five years, he had gone to Edinburgh for a wife and had brought his lady home. “A lovely lass, like Betsy,” said one old gentleman. “And little more than half his age. He was fair to die when she died.” The Squire, who had doted on Betsy before his wife’s death — his only child — had become obsessed with her afterwards. There was nothing too good for Betsy. She had gone to school, a fine school, in Edinburgh, and had lived with the Squire’s sister-in-law, her aunt, a widow of much wealth, herself. The Squire had brought the lass home when she had done with her school, and had intended to take her abroad two months later. Then she had fallen in love with the wee minister, and they had married in great haste. The Squire, said the old gentlemen, had been quite mad for a while. Then he had begun his revenge against his daughter and her husband.

“Sich a good man,” said Father Tom, with irony.

But the old gentlemen took him seriously, and nodded in chorus, and said “Aye” in chorus. Had he been a Catholic he would inevitably have been called a saint, and probably canonized in the future. Sad that he wasna Catholic.

“I think,” said Father Tom, dropping his Scots caution, “that the Church will survive, not having him as a communicant.”

This startled and confused three of the old gentlemen, but the fourth looked at the young priest shrewdly. Not sae soft as he seemed, but what did he mean by that sly remark? There was a nasty look in his eye, too. The old gentleman began to smile. He liked a lad with spirit, and he had thought, originally, that the young priest sadly lacked that commendable virtue.

Had the Squire liked the minister before Mr. Gregor? the priest asked. The old men again exchanged uneasy glances. Well, no. The Squire had not liked that one, nor the one before him. Nor the other. He had fair broken their spirits, too, but it was their fault, not the Squire’s. Weak lads. Feckless. No character. Father Tom nodded grimly to himself. He was beginning to have a very good idea of the Squire.