‘A cup of coffee, Mr Ancram?’ asked Darroch, proud of his efficiency in the matter. Mr Ancram shook his head, still wafting his hands.
‘I don’t drink the stuff,’ he informed the minister. ‘It is an irritant.’ Darroch looked at the man, making a mental note that Mr Ancram had not yet invited the new minister to address him by his Christian name, whatever that might be. Mr Ancram looked at his watch. ‘Actually, I’d better be off,’ he said. ‘I’ve to pick up my wife from the supermarket in Kirkcaldy. She’s doing the month’s shopping.’ Darroch nodded, spooning one of milk and two of coffee (just to spite the man) into a cup. ‘I’m sorry I won’t be here to help you move in the rest of your belongings,’ Mr Ancram apologised. ‘I’ll drop round later and see how you’re managing. Bye now.’
‘Goodbye, Mr Ancram,’ said Darroch, ‘and thanks for your help.’ He ignored the man’s exit and rummaged in another, smaller box until he found the packet of cream biscuits. He smiled to himself. Luxury. He went through to the living room and sat in the large fireside chair. A wind was blowing through the open window. It was a good breeze. Darroch sat and drank his coffee. It was far too strong. He considered his new surroundings. It did not really matter where he was Crail, Oxgangs, Carsden — the situation and the realities were the same. The Church was in a state of acute decay, which seemed to run hand in hand with the decay of the communities. Which came first? Did either? It seemed to him that a larger, much more potent force was at work, and it was a force of evil. He could not feel God in this town. It would be his job to bring God back to these people, who were more walking shadows than real flesh and blood. The Church had become lazy. Aching gashes had opened up which now needed filling. God, let him do his job well enough. He sucked crumbs from his fingers and prayed.
Every summer, Andy Wallace began reading Cervantes’ Don Quixote, and every summer he failed to finish it. He saw no reason why this summer should be any different. He had been reading the book for about three hours when he felt his eyes and his mind falling from the page. He read two pages more, but could not, having read them, remember the slightest detail of their content. He put the book down and sat staring into space. He was thinking about Mary. He was thinking about the problem he must help her surmount. There were sex manuals in his house, little more than masturbation fodder, but he had reread them anyway. They threw little light on the dilemma. He sat in his study, which had now become almost his whole existence. He had work to do. Apart from the Cervantes book, there were exercises to be set, essays and exam papers to be marked, and the part completed novel which had been sitting untouched in a drawer for three months. It was a bad novel, amateurish, but just to finish it would be achievement enough, even if it was the worst novel in the world, read by no one save himself. He had given it none of his time since he had begun to see Mary. She was still on his mind. That Saturday afternoon on the hillside played again and again like a bad song on popular radio. He caught its melody again and again. There was no escape. What to do about Mary. Mary, Mary, quite contrary, how does your garden grow? He shook his head clear of the reverie and sat down at his desk. He removed the lid from the typewriter. He began to type his thoughts down on to the black rubber carriage. He could see the ink wet and bluey-black against the fainter black. He pressed his finger to a word and examined the imprint. Mirror writing. He smudged it, wetted the finger, and the word vanished completely. It was as easy as that on a typewriter carriage.
Dear Mary,
Yes, it’s that time again — a letter from your ageing brother. How’s tricks? How’s life with old Andy Schoolmaster? I hope he’s treating you in the style to which etc etc. And how is my little Sandy? His exams must be long over by now (?). I hope he’s enjoying his vacation. I’m planning on going north to the wilder parts of this fine country in a few weeks. Tell him that he doesn’t know what he’s missing, not coming across to see his long-lost Unc. I see from a recent correspondence with my bank manager and yours that you haven’t touched the account yet. Like I said, sis, I’m not touching it, so it’s all yours. Should you need it. I know that I bring this up every letter, but it is important to me. Okay? Looks like I’m being shifted to our Toronto office. I don’t know what this means. I think it probably means that Old Emerson has got tired of having someone efficient and trustworthy around here. Still, joking apart, it means I’m in with the really big boys (oh goody-goody!). I’m earning so much it’s embarrassing. In fact, I’m earning so much I can afford to take a girl out every now and again. I’ve been seeing quite a few ladies recently, one of whom I can even stand. Maybe things are looking up. (There might be a bad joke hidden in there somewhere, but I’m not saying where.)
Well, Mary, I’ve not written a very long letter, but I know that you will, as always, understand. I get very little time to myself these days. It’s all company this and company that, not forgetting female company. God, if I got the boot from Emerson maybe I could make it as a professional comedian. What do you say? Listen, tell Sandy he gets no Christmas pressie this year if he doesn’t put pen to paper pronto and write to Santa Tom. Okay? The office beckons. Och aye the noo. Take best care.
10
She was drowning. There were weeds above and around her. They twisted themselves sinuously around her arms and legs, embracing her. She could not find the bottom. There was no bottom. Bubbles of precious air escaped from her nostrils. Her lungs ached. Her brain told her one thing, but her heart was telling her another. Eventually her heart won. She opened her mouth and felt the water gushing in. The choking commenced. Her eyes began to darken. Then the pain hit her, centred in her head, right at the scalp. She began painfully to rise towards what looked like the surface. She was a long way beneath the glittering pool of light, but slowly she floated towards it. She broke the surface with a choke from her mouth and water dribbling down her chin, as if she were some badly fed baby. She roared. The pain was in her stomach now, as if her belly was distending with some quickening foetus. She wiped her face and cried out at the injustice. Andy was there to comfort her. Some of her hair had come out at the roots and he wiped it from his hands. He settled her back on the wet grass. Her dress was clinging to her. She was almost naked. Her body was clearly visible through the saturated cotton, as if she were a dancer behind the silkiest of veils. She lay back to rest, but Andy’s fingers were touching her. He was towering over her. He was peaking, but the water still rushed in her ears. The word she could make out was “reward”. He was tugging at her dress, lying across her now. All at once she realised what he was about to do. She pushed at him, her arms weak. She wanted to tell him that she was already pregnant. She tried to shout, but only water gurgled from her throat. She had become a fish, flailing on land, the line still holding her. She gurgled in protest. There was a shadowy figure behind Andy now. Then two shadowy figures, watching interestedly, their hands behind their backs. She beat at Andy with her fists. She cleared the water from her lungs and screamed...
The pillow was over her head. She shook herself free of it, drew back the bedcovers, and sat up. She was damp with sweat. It was light behind the blue curtains. She fumbled for the clock, brought it to her, and found that it was five thirty. The birds were singing outside. What a nightmare. She shook her hair, crumpling it into place. Patting the sheets, she found that she had wet the bed.