The Good Provider (41 page)

‘Why is he so upset?’

‘Did your husband not tell you of it, lass?’

‘Tell me what?’

‘Two days ago there was a girl who – well, she died, poor soul. Constable Stewart was present.’

‘And Craig?’

‘Yes, he was also there.’

‘Why did he not tell me himself?’

‘Some men—’ said Hector Drummond; he paused. ‘I’m thinking that the best thing is for me to take them back to my lodgings for a wee drink. We had better not go to a place of public refreshment since we are in uniform. But my landlady will not object, I’m sure.’

‘Come to Walbrook Street, if you like.’

‘That,’ said the sergeant, ‘would not fill the bill.’

Kirsty looked at her husband. ‘Craig?’

He gave no sign that he had heard her. He sucked in smoke and let it seep through his nostrils, hands in pockets. In the corner Hugh Affleck was talking quietly and intently to Peter Stewart who had stopped sobbing and was nodding his head.

She wanted Craig to tell her what had happened, to explain why he had kept it from her; yet she had a vague understanding of the system to which Craig now belonged and of his need to be among his own kind.

‘I’ll go home with Mrs Frew,’ said Kirsty.

‘I’ll see to it that he’s not late,’ said the sergeant. ‘Leave it to us. There is nothing at all to worry about.’

The pleasure of the evening had been dissipated. Kirsty turned on her heel, returned to the hall and, caring not for the
tuts
of annoyance, pushed past the knees and took her seat. She looked up at the little figure on the stage in his over-long kilt and enormous sporran; everything exaggerated. She tried to concentrate on the words, to pick up on the waves of laughter that swept the audience but it was too late. She was glad when the concert came to an end.

As the curtain fell, Mrs Frew turned to her.

‘He was much affected,’ she said. ‘I suppose there was a death?’

In the seat by her side Archie Flynn shuffled restlessly. He might have slunk off without a word if Mrs Frew had not stayed him with a hand on his arm.

‘Was there, Archibald?’ she demanded.

‘Er – aye.’

‘How bad was it?’

‘They never told me much about it.’

‘Archie, what happened?’

‘A wee lassie died; scalded wi’ boilin’ water.’

‘Was it murder?’ said Mrs Frew.

‘Naw, pure accident.’

Mrs Frew sighed. ‘I suppose they’ll be going for a drink somewhere.’

Kirsty said, ‘Yes.’

‘Oh,’ said Archie. ‘Where?’

‘Sergeant Drummond’s house.’

‘Right,’ said Archie. ‘I know where that is,’ and, with a gruff goodnight, detached himself from the widow and hurried off into the crowd by the door.

She lay awake as long as she could, propped comfortably against the pillows and big bolster with a hot-water bottle against her feet. She sipped warm cocoa and, by the light of the oil-lamp, flipped over the pages of the book on China that Mrs Frew had loaned her. Anxiety, guilt and a faint irritating sense of having been shut out of Craig’s life were soothed in the quiet bedroom with its solid mahogany furnishings.

She turned the pages, the quarto volume resting against her tummy, her knees raised. She looked at the funny Chinese names, the postcard-sized photographs and engraved plates that appeared on every page. There was a wall that stretched for a thousand miles; a wall that, in the photograph, looked unimpressively like the dyke that straggled over the Straitons from Hawkhead. She tried to imagine what the Great China Wall was really like, its size, its scale. But she could not make that leap. She was hampered by lack of experience. She turned to another page, saw the face of a Chinese pirate that reminded her so much of Mr Clegg that he might have been a long-lost brother.

Reaping the Rice Harvest: As soon as a boy grows old enough he learns to stand for long hours in the rice field, bent over to plant the seedlings in the ooze
. Bare legs and a bowed back; only the broad straw hat added a touch of the exotic to the picture.

The Temple of Heaven, Peking
. It was a bit like the bandstand in the Groveries, really. Feeling better, Kirsty snuggled down with a little grunt of amusement. The Temple of Heaven was nothing like the Kelvin bandstand. But she preferred to pretend that it was. She felt no desire at all, no itch in the legs, to travel, to see these strange and wonderful sights for herself. She had had all the novelty she could cope with, thank you, in this past year and in the year to come would have more of it, no doubt. For all that, it was nice to lie against the big wooden bedhead with the oil-lamp purring and the taste of sweet cocoa in her mouth and muse on the mystery of foreign lands. In her tummy her baby blew a little bubble that made her wince and change position.

The book fell shut.

She opened it again not at pictures or text – at the beginning, at the flyleaf, at the inscription.

She put her fingertips lightly against the paper and, closing her eyes, imagined that she could feel the writing against her skin, as a blind girl would.
With All My Love, From David
. She could not imagine him in overcoat and scarf in a flooded rice field or standing by the Temple of Heaven or walking along the Great Wall. She could only imagine him here and, with a little impatient
huh
at her silliness, closed the book again and put it firmly to one side.

She opened the door cautiously, for Craig had made her aware that, even in broad daylight, you could not be too careful.

‘Well,’ David said, ‘I see you’re still here.’

‘For another fortnight,’ said Kirsty.

‘And then you’ll be off to a home of your own.’

‘Did Mrs Frew tell you all that?’

‘She mentioned it in a letter, I believe.’

‘How long will you be stayin’?’

‘Overnight.’

‘I’ll make your room ready.’

‘Wait.’

‘What is it, Mr Lockhart?’

‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘Where is Aunt Nessie?’

‘Shoppin’.’

‘It’s not inconvenient, is it, my dropping in without prior notice?’

‘Oh, no. She’ll be pleased to see you. It’s been very quiet since the New Year.’

‘I – I didn’t know that I would be in Glasgow, you see. It was rather an impulse, to call on my brother unexpectedly.’

‘John Knox?’

‘The very same; you remembered.’

‘It’s an uncommon name,’ said Kirsty. ‘Let me take your portmanteau up to your room.’

‘In your condition; certainly not.’

‘I’m not—’

‘Take no chances, Mrs Nicholson, no chances at all.’

‘I keep forgettin’ that you’re a doctor.’

‘Well, after a fashion.’

‘You mean you’re not—’

‘Oh, yes, trained and qualified. I’ve done my stint of mending broken legs and curbing fevers but I don’t really feel like a doctor.’

‘What should a doctor feel like?’

‘Confident, in command of everything.’

‘And you aren’t?’

‘I’ve had no opportunity to cultivate that aspect of the healing art. Straight from the ward to the lecture room again. One minute, it seemed, I was lancing a carbuncle and the next I was debating Adoration, Confession and Supplication with a German-born professor with an accent like Scotch broth. Perhaps, Kirsty,’ he said, ‘you should close the outside door.’

‘What?’

‘The door,’ said David.

‘Aye,’ said Kirsty, and closed it.

‘Do you know what I’d like, Kirsty?’ David said.

‘No, what?’

‘A nice hot cup of coffee, if such a thing can be arranged.’

‘Will it do in the kitchen?’

‘Perfectly.’

‘Come on then,’ said Kirsty.

David said, ‘You’ll miss that young woman when she goes, Aunt.’

‘I admit it. I will,’ said Mrs Frew.

‘You’ll be on your own again.’

‘I’ve been on my own before.’

‘Why don’t you employ some other girl, a resident?’

‘It wouldn’t be the same.’

‘No,’ David said. ‘I can understand that.’

‘David, why are you here?’ said Nessie Frew.

‘I came to see Jack.’

‘You didn’t spend much time with him,’ said Nessie Frew, glancing pointedly at the clock on the mantelshelf above the parlour fire.

‘We had supper together,’ David said. ‘But he’s a wee bit under the weather since we came back from Inverness and I didn’t want to keep him late.’

‘He’s not ill, is he?’

‘Heavens, no,’ said David. ‘The course of study has intensified, that’s all. He’s an obsessive worrier, our Jack. He believes that he might fail his examinations.’

‘Didn’t you?’

‘Oh, it crossed my mind,’ said David, ‘from time to time.’

‘You still haven’t answered my question,’ said Nessie Frew.

‘I thought I had.’

‘I may be old, David, but I’m not senile. What do you have to say to me?’

David hesitated. He sat back in the small overstuffed armchair, trying, it seemed, to find a comfortable position for his hips. He had a tumbler of whisky and soda-water in his hand for he had no stomach for sherry, and brandy, for some reason, made his lips swell.

‘Out with it,’ said Mrs Frew.

‘I’m – I’m considering – just considering, mind you – not going back to China,’ David said; he squinted at the woman anxiously. ‘I thought that I should – I mean, seek the benefit of your advice.’

‘What did your Uncle George say?’

‘I haven’t mentioned it to him yet.’

‘Jack?’

‘Jack is, as you may imagine, aghast,’ David said. ‘He can’t believe that the thought even crossed my mind. Everything is clear-cut for our Jack, always has been. The whole weary business of getting an education has only been a prelude to “real life”, to returning to China and taking up the work.’

‘Have you lost interest in the work, David?’

‘It’s not that. No, I haven’t, of course not.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘No, I’m not sure, not at all sure.’

Neither approval nor censure showed in Aunt Nessie’s expression. She seemed wary, as if he had put her on the spot, had forced upon her a responsibility which she could not shoulder lightly.

She rose, poured herself another inch of sherry from the decanter on the occasional table and returned to her seat. She put her knees together, her ankles together, straightened her spine and tucked in her chin.

‘Have you lost your belief, David? Answer truthfully.’

‘It isn’t a crisis of that kind, Aunt Nessie.’

‘Do you not have faith?’

‘I ask myself – and this is the nub of it – “How best can I serve?”’

‘And what’s your answer?’

‘There are more sick bodies in Glasgow than in Fanshi.’

‘Sick souls too, David?’

‘Yes, sick souls too.’

‘What’s led you to this profound conclusion?’

‘Observation.’

‘Is there a girl involved?’

He was taken aback. ‘No. No, I assure you –’

‘What about Miss – what is her name?’

‘Miss Dickie; Sarah Dickie.’

‘Won’t she go with you to China, is that it?’

‘No,’ said David vehemently. ‘That is
not
it. There was never anything serious – anything at all, in fact – between Sarah and me. My uncle and her father promoted a childhood friendship into something much more than it was. Sarah is infatuated with a farmer’s son.’

‘And are you jealous?’

‘She loves him,’ said David. ‘He’s a pleasant chap with excellent prospects; a good God-fearing young man too. Perfect for Sarah Dickie. She could never be wife to a missionary, could never settle in China.’

‘You don’t care for Miss Dickie, in other words.’

‘I don’t – don’t love her.’

‘No other?’

‘No other.’ David shook his head. ‘It isn’t that.’

‘David, what
do
you want; to doctor, to administer to the sick?’

‘I truly do not know. It was a mistake, Aunt, I see that now. Being both doctor and minister – it’s a different sort of thing.’

‘In a civilised country like our own, perhaps, but—’

‘China is not uncivilised. Far from it. It’s different, incomprehensibly different.’

‘Full of heathens parched for the living water of the Word. Jesus Christ cannot be hidden, David.’

‘Dozens of societies plough men and money into the work. The Baptists, the Friends, the Danes, the Americans. Heavens, Aunt Nessie, it’s almost a hundred years since the LMS took a hold on mainland China.’