“I’ve been hearing about you from Hamish,” said Priscilla.
The minister gave her a tortured look. “Ah, yes,” he said with a weary sigh, “about my loss of faith.”
“I am more concerned about you losing your marbles,” said Priscilla incisively.
He turned his head away. “There is so much suffering in the world,” he moaned, “and what can I do about it?”
“You could do something with your own parish. If everyone did some good about themselves, their family and their neighbours, the ripples might begin to spread outwards. I spoke to several of the village women before I came here. The place is riddled with spite. Instead of being sunk in self-absorption and self-pity, you might get off your bum and write a sermon to change the horrible spite and gossip of your parishioners. If you want your faith to come back to you, then you might start by acting as if you’ve got a heart and soul!”
Mr Wellington’s head jerked round and he glared at Priscilla. “There has often been talk that you might marry Hamish Macbeth,” he said, “but now I think I know why the man is so reluctant to propose.”
“Why, you old horror!” said Priscilla, quite unruffled.
He rose to his feet. “How dare you attack a minister of the Church!”
“Take a look at yourself in the mirror,” said Priscilla. “Take a good hard look and then ask yourself if you are not looking at the most selfish man in the whole of Lochdubh. Forget about your lost faith. If it’s such a terrible thing, don’t you think you might try instilling some thoughts of faith, charity, and goodness into your flock? Why should they lose their faith, just because you’ve lost yours? I am going to hear your sermon on Sunday and I warn you, if you start reading out one of those old sermons, I will get to my feet and attack you in the middle of the church for being a fraud.”
She marched out. Hamish was strolling along the waterfront. He came up to her. “How did you get on?” he asked.
“All right. I think a few gentle words were all that was needed.”
♦
The church was crowded as usual on Sunday. Priscilla and Hamish managed to find space in a pew at the back. “Look,” said Priscilla, nudging Hamish. “There’s your devil.”
Sean Gourlay was standing beside a pillar at the side of the church but where he could command a good view of the pulpit. He was wearing a black shirt and black cords. His odd green eyes glittered strangely in the light.
“Come to see his handiwork,” muttered Hamish.
There were hymns, a reading from the New Testament, and then the minister leaned forward over the pulpit.
A rustle of papers as peppermints were popped in mouths and then the congregation settled back to enjoy what Archie Maclean called ‘a guid blasting’.
In a quiet, carrying voice, the minister began to talk of the theft of the funds. Sean crossed his arms and looked amused. The minister went on to say that this had caused malice and gossip in the village, turning one family against the other. His voice rose as he begged them to love their neighbour as themselves. His whole sermon seemed to be spoken directly to Sean. He spoke of the suffering in the world and reminded them that Jesus Christ had died on the cross for them. He said that the suffering in the village had been brought about by themselves. They had let one common theft poison their lives. “There is no place for evil in this village,” he said. “Look into your hearts and pray for charity, pray for kindness, and pray to the Good Lord for forgiveness for your sins. Let us pray together.”
Before he bent his head; Hamish noticed Sean walking quickly out of the church. It was silly, he told himself, to be so worried about one mere mortal, to be so superstitious, but somehow the minister’s confrontation with Sean, and that was surely what it had been, reminded him of old tales he had heard when he was small in the long dark winter evenings of the black devil in man’s form, walking into a Highland village one day and causing ruin and disaster.
A very subdued congregation shuffled out of the church. Mrs Gunn shook hands with Mrs Wellington and said they must think up a scheme to raise money to restore what had been taken and another woman patted Mrs Battersby on the back and said she had been doing a grand job as treasurer and hoped she would go on doing so. Groups of people were standing around the graveyard outside, talking to each other.
Hamish shook Mr Wellington’s hand and said, “A grand sermon.”
“Thank you,” said the minister. Then he suddenly added, “Do not worry about Sean. I have a feeling he will be leaving us.”
“And what was that supposed to mean?” asked Hamish over lunch. “Knowledge or the second sight?”
“I think, like you, he’s decided Sean is the real reason for all the misery. When you think of it, who else could have taken that money?”
“But he and Cheryl weren’t even here!”
“They could have slipped back during the night. It’s a simple matter to find the key and open up the village hall.”
“Well, let’s hope the minister’s right. If Sean doesnae move on, I’ll need to think of some way to get him moving! What did you say to Mr Wellington to get him to see sense?”
“Just a few gentle and womanly words,” said Priscilla.
Hamish looked at her with admiration. “Aye, it’s a grand thing, a woman’s touch,” he said. “I must have been ower-blunt.”
♦
Mr Wellington returned to the manse after evening service feeling comforted. By next week, he knew, his congregation would have dwindled to the usual small number, but instead of giving them what they wanted, he had given them what they sorely needed to hear. His wife had taken sleeping pills and gone to bed. He stared at the bulk of her sleeping form uneasily. She was taking a lot of sleeping pills these days.
He slept restlessly that night. At two in the morning, he got up to go to the bathroom. On his way, he peered out of a passage window which overlooked the manse field at the back. All the lights in the bus were blazing. He gave a little sigh. Supplying Sean with free electricity had been his wife’s idea. She would have to tell Sean that they could do it no longer. He would speak to her in the morning, although it would be a difficult scene. Hamish had told her, he knew, about Sean’s criminal record, but she had refused to take it seriously.
In the morning, on his way to the bathroom to shave, he once more looked out. It was a dark rainy morning and the lights were still blazing in the bus.
So when his wife tottered to the breakfast table, he snapped at her. “Get dressed and tell that young hooligan that you befriended that he is no longer to use our electricity. In fact, while you are at it, you can tell him to go. I am not letting him use the field any more.”
“But you said you were in sympathy with these travellers,” she protested.
“I’ve been a fool, but no longer. Go and give that young man his marching orders.”
“I c-can’t!”
His normally domineering wife was looking grey and crumpled.
Worry for her made him, like most husbands, angry instead of sympathetic.
“Don’t be silly. If it makes you feel any better, tell him I am ordering him to go!”
Mrs Wellington eventually, encased in a voluminous waxed coat and rain-hat and Wellington boots, walked across the wet field to the bus.
She could hear the chatter from the television set inside. She knocked at the door and waited.
“Sean,” she called tremulously, and knocked again.
No answer.
She longed to turn away, to forget about the whole thing, but her husband would want to know why. She knocked loudly this time and then, in sudden desperation, sudden longing to get the whole distasteful business over with, she rattled the handle of the door. It swung open.
“Look here, Sean…” she began, heaving her bulk inside.