‘The collection,’ he said, ‘will now be taken.’ The organist began some unassuming dirge. Iain Darroch sat himself down and did some thinking.
He went all the same, drawn by her irresistible magnet. He walked around the perimeter of the mansion, hoping that she would somehow sense his presence and come down from her high prison to see him. He whistled and kicked some stones at imaginary goalposts on the walls of the house. He hacked out interminable thistles with his heel. There was no sign of life around the mansion, only the distant shouts and curses from the golf course.
He suddenly felt very afraid. What was he doing there, and what could he say to Robbie or Rian should he encounter them? He felt like the dog tied up outside the butcher’s shop.
He crept away from the house and climbed on to the wall adjoining the field of barley. He looked up at the boarded windows, behind which might lie either his girlfriend or else an empty and moaning puzzle. His girlfriend? The word seemed unfit for their strange, queasy relationship. Internecine was a word he had found quite recently in a novel. He had jotted it down in his list of unusual words and had found its meaning in a dictionary. It seemed to fit his situation. Internecine. It had a vague sound like nectar and intercourse, and like nectarine. Internectarine. He smiled, still looking at the house. He would write a poem and call it “Internectarine”, and it would be about two lovers and a peach. He had only the vaguest idea of how to link the two concepts, but then that hardly mattered in poetry.
He slid from the wall into the crumbly earth of the field. He worked his way around its edge, stroking his face with a ripe and broken beard of barley. He might go to the café if it were open. He had a little money. He could go to the newsagent’s. He remembered with guilt that he had not washed the breakfast dishes, such as they were. His mother would be home from church, fresh and humming, in a little while. He jogged to the far wall, climbed over, and ran all the way home.
1985
The Flood
1
‘Come in, come in.’
The Reverend Walker was older than Darroch had imagined. Middle age had waved him goodbye and he was settling into a slow, steady pre-retirement stage. He gestured for the young man to go through to the sitting room, then closed the front door with a nervous cough.
Darroch disliked people’s nervous coughs. They made him feel awkward. He studied the elderly man’s back. It had been strong and straight once, perhaps as recently as ten years ago. Now, however, it was stooped as if in a constant prayer for forgiveness. Death, Darroch supposed, was a preeminent concern of the old. He thought about it himself often enough with just the slightest tingling of foreboding. What price then old age and the clutching of fragile straws?
‘Sit yourself down. I’m sorry we’ve not been able to meet sooner. I’ve been in hospital for some tests. Gracious, these days there’s not a part of the body that’s left sacrosanct after a visit to the hospital. These doctors think they know it all. They think they have some kind of divine secular right when it comes to poking and prodding the flesh.’ The old man scratched at his rich, whitened hair. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘We have much to suffer in the ministry in this age. Wouldn’t you agree?’ Darroch nodded. ‘We have to explain divinity,’ continued the minister, ‘to people who are more and more susceptible to the apparent truths of science. Joseph Conrad once called science “the sacrosanct fetish”. An interesting juxtaposition, but a wise phrase, and he was talking in the earliest years of the century. A wise phrase. Have you read Conrad?’
Darroch was allowed the chance of speaking. He merely shook his head.
‘Nor I. I found that quote in a dictionary of quotations. I love reading through books like that. It makes you seem astonishingly well read when you meet anyone.’ Reverend Walker giggled like a child. ‘I even read dictionaries, you know, and send the editors lists of words that have been missed out. You’d be surprised at the words some dictionaries omit. I think I have a list somewhere that I’ve just finished preparing.’ He walked with effort to a writing desk in one corner of the room. It was closed, and when he opened the lid sheets of foolscap slid gracefully to the floor. Darroch rushed over to help. The sheets were full of scribbles from a shaky blue fountain pen: notes for a sermon or something similar. There were no paginations, so Darroch shuffled them into a random pile and placed them on top of the bureau. The old minister was still hunting in the desk for his list. He mumbled as he looked, peering closely at scraps of paper before dismissing them. He appeared to have forgotten that Darroch was there, so the young minister, hands behind his back in a suitable pose, examined the glass bookcases which filled one complete wall of the room. The books were old, some with spines faded to obscurity. He saw many theological works, of course, but there were also books of Scottish and English literature and some historical works. He saw two big books concerning the history of central Fife.
‘No, I can’t find the blessed thing. What a nuisance.’ The Reverend Walker closed the bureau sharply, catching many corners of foolscap in the edges of the desk as he did so.
Darroch smiled. It was like a scene from an Ealing comedy. The old man peered at him. ‘A cup of tea? No, something a little stronger I think, in order to celebrate your first parish proper. My goodness, how I remember my first parish, and that wasn’t yesterday.’ He shuffled over to a large cupboard and opened it, producing two crystal glasses from within. In another, smaller cupboard he finally found the whisky. Ice and water would not be necessary: he was of the traditional school. ‘Nor the day before,’ he said, chuckling as he filled the glasses, his hand shaking. He did not spill a drop. Darroch was still standing by the bookcases, hands behind back, face a blur to the old man. ‘Come away and sit down,’ he said. ‘I can’t see you over there. Sit here.’
Iain Darroch sat on the proffered settee. The Reverend Walker handed him a glass before slumping into an armchair, his breath heavy, his tongue glancing around his pale lips.
‘Oh dear,’ he said. He put his glass to his lips, paused, and toasted his visitor. ‘Slainte.’
‘Tour very good health, sir,’ said Darroch, biting on the whisky before it could bite him.
There was a reflective silence. It was a good malt. The aroma of thick peat told Darroch that it came from the west coast, probably one of the Isles, rather than from the Highland glens. There was a good drop still left in his glass, and the old minister did not look particularly mean. Darroch took another sip.
‘And how are you enjoying Carsden so far?’ asked Reverend Walker. Darroch cleared his throat.
‘Very much, sir. Yes, very much. The parishioners seem nice. A bit dour, perhaps, but I think that has a lot to do with economics.’ Reverend Walker nodded.
‘You are quite right. Economics. This used to be a thriving industrial town. Miners settled here from the Lothians and Lanarkshire when coal was discovered. Villages grew from nothing. The pit-owners built rows of houses which became miners’ rows. These streets did not have names, only numbers. There was no room for imagination, you see. I believe some areas of Belfast still operate along the same lines. I was born.in Thirteenth Street.’ The old man spoke as a schoolmaster to an intelligent pupil. ‘I’ve been coming back ever since, watching the village grow, then crumble. Watching decay set in like sugar on a tooth. It has not been pleasant, and the Church has been pretty powerless throughout. The best we’ve managed so far is to write a history of the parish. That was done by one of my predecessors at Cardell. I’ve a copy here somewhere. I must lend it to you. It tells how St Cuthbert settled here for a time and set up his church. It should interest you.’