drills.
He would need to make up his mind soon and perfect his plans else he might find himself feed to John MacMeechan.
David did not know his father had already made his plans for him. There could be no question of college now: there could be no question of the sea. But there was one farmer Andrew Ramsay respected: William MacGeoch of Cortorfin. Now that William’s old father had died he was in indisputable right of the farm and free to work the place as he thought best. William MacGeoch and Andrew Ramsay had run about as boys together and there had been a friendship between their fathers. Though their paths had diverged since boyhood they still met and rejoiced in their friendship.
William had many sons but his favourite was Peter, a boy of similar age to David Ramsay: a keen intelligent lad with much of the devil in him. Andrew confessed his love for David and asked Cortorfin if he could fee him as soon as he was fit to be feed. William agreed readily enough. He had watched David and knew him to have all the makings of a good worker. But he agreed the more readily for the sake of friendship and auld lang syne. A hard-headed and practical farmer, Cortorfin was at heart a sentimentalist: he found Andrew’s plea irresistible.
‘I’ll look after the boy, Andra. I’m thinking o’ putting on an extra pair o’ horse. I’m putting Peter in charge of a pair for a year or two. It’ll steady him up and make a man o’ him. Afterwards I ettle to put him to the cheese-making. In time, if he shapes well, I’ll put him into a dairy farm of his own. They can have a pair o’ horse each – but your boy will get a third ploughman’s benefit the same as mine. I would like to turn over a bit more fallow now that the auld fellow’s at rest. He could never agree to that. What about the term after next – November?’
They shook hands on it.
‘November would do bravely, William. But I’ll no’ let on to him yet. I know his mind’s made up on the sea. But I couldna bear to think o’ that – after Richard!’
‘Aye, man. Richard was a sair blow. What age would the boy be, coming Martinmas? Ten? Aye, just what I thought. I think they’re both October? Aye, man: you’ve had a hard life o’ it too, Andra. You can lippen on me to do what I can for him. I suppose I should be thankful: I’ve never known want. If I’ve had to work, at least I’ve had the pleasure o’ working for myself. But man, Andra, I wanted something that I havena got. I just don’t exactly know what it is that’s lacking – the family’s like the world and the wife and me get on as well as the next – but damn it, there’s no great satisfaction about life. Sometimes I feel I mucked the best days o’ my life about Cortorfin – working and grubbing a’ the time – the same bit, day in and day out. I get stodged a bit: stale … Auld age maybe … I’d hae liked a trip round the world … but what wi’ seeing the boys into farms o’ their own, I’ll have harder work than ever. No’ that I’ll get any thanks: damn’ the fear o’ that. You know, Andra: it’s a damned thankless job bringing up a family, damned thankless – and heartbreaking forbye.’
‘Aye: it’s all that, William. We had great hopes when we started out on life. But the hopes get fainter and fainter. But there’s little good in mourning. I’ve nobody to blame but myself. I made a mess o’ my life and I’ve had to pay for it. You see: I thought I knew better than anybody: wouldn’t take advice from anybody: got the bit between my teeth and went ahead. No’ that I was offered much advice. I sometimes think my father could have cautioned me … but maybe he didn’t see the dangers I was running into.’
‘That’s true enough. Man, Andra: there’s no two doubts about it: the happiest days were when we were running about the shore and the heughs. Well, to hell: there’s no purpose in mourning about it now: we can’t put the knock back: the hands go round whether we like it or no’… aye: even when we’re sleeping… What d’ye say: we’ll across to MacHaffie’s and have a dram? What’s the good o’ hoarding money when you can drink it … and forget in the drinking?’
DEATH AND TRANSFIGURATION
Sam MacKitteroch died peacefully in his sleep. His death was not discovered till late in the afternoon. The news spread quickly. Sam had given offence to no one and many had cause to be grateful to his memory. For an old man without kith or kin the turn-out at his funeral was one of the largest that had ever foregathered in the parish of Kirkcolm. Sir Thomas MacCready who was held up in his carriage by the cortege was indignant when he found out how socially unimportant the corpse was.
Sam’s death was felt most keenly by Andrew Ramsay and the Reverend John Ross. Many remarked that the minister had never preached a better sermon in his life. But Sam’s death disturbed the minister more deeply than any one suspected. It brought him face to face with his own personal problems. So much so that, in less than a month, he was buried beside his old cronie.
It was late one night in the autumn when he had rung for the maid, Mary Sloan, and requested her to go to MacHaffie’s for a bottle of rum. The minister had been more than usually gloomy during the past few days but the maid did not worry overmuch. She was well used to his moods. When he came round from a bout of drinking his liverish ill-temper was something to be avoided. Mary knew that he had been drinking continuously for three days: no doubt the rum was intended to bring him round.
Nothing unusual happened on the outward journey. The night was oppressively dark and sultry. Mary felt difficulty in breathing. She was glad to be out in the open for it was dreadfully stuffy in the manse.
Bob MacHaffie had his joke with Mary: he managed a kiss and a cuddle in the shadow of the back door. But Mary could not stay. The minister was in a black mood: she would need to hurry back… maybe if Bob could come round later …
Bob MacHaffie winked.
‘So the auld beggar thinks the rum will put a lining on his guts, does he? Well, we’ll see. Hold on and I’ll get him a bottle.’
Bob retired to his pantry and mixed some five gills of rum – his eyelid came down in a heavy wink. If this rum didn’t put a lining on his stomach at least it would put him to sleep …
‘Aye …. so he’s been salving his conscience, has he?’
‘He’s hardly tasted a bite for three days.’
‘Fine! I’ll be round in an hour. You’ll no’ need to worry much about the Reverend John to-night.’
Mary was very lonesome in the manse. There was no one to speak to and there was little pleasure in cooking food that was never eaten. There was the constant dread of the minister breaking out into one of his violent abusive fits …
She had just turned into the narrow winding lane that led to the manse when a huge ball of fire shot past her and disappeared.
Mary Sloan felt the strength leave her limbs. She could not cry out: her throat muscles were paralysed. She managed to get to the door of the manse and close it behind her. Her breathing came in spasmodic gasps and she clutched the bottle tightly to her bosom.
She had scarcely recovered her breathing when the minister called to her from the study. Somehow she was glad to hear the sound of his voice. Instinctively she stumbled forward to answer the summons.
She found the Reverend John Ross standing at the window looking out towards the Loch. He did not seem to hear her as she entered the room. She waited for a moment and then coughed discreetly. She noticed how untidy were the papers on his desk and how books were piled everywhere – many of them open. It was a dirty untidy room; but he would not allow her to redd it and she could only dust it in his presence.
The minister seemed transfixed. She could see by the cast of his head that he was looking into the distance. What could he see in the darkness?
When she could bear the tension no longer she blurted out:
‘Here’s your bottle, sir.’
The minister turned sharply. His eyes seemed to burn and glow.
‘Ah, my bottle! What kept you?’
‘Kept