The Good Priest

by Gillian Galbraith

  Along it, a couple of giggling pedestrians were returning home from the pub, The Salutation, their arms linked companionably at the elbow, just managing to dodge the lamp posts that punctuated their route and remain, mostly, on the pavement. He knew and liked them both. High above his head, the full, white moon looked down from the sky, illuminating their path, and everything around, including the parklands of Kinross House, the ancient clock tower of the town hall and the glassy waters of the loch. Magically, it had turned the War memorial opposite the county buildings to silver. Some of the names inscribed on it were those of businesses still flourishing in the town: Anderson, Beveridge, Drysdale, Stark and Wilson. Beyond the black-and-white nineteenth-century frontage of the Green Hotel, in The Muirs, the descendants of a few of them lived in substantial stone villas behind high privet or lonicera hedges, as far from the only industry left in the town as they could make it. At the Bottom End, quarter of a mile away, the woollen mill’s high chimneys puffed away, steam from them sometimes drifting lazily across the waters of the loch like an early morning mist.

  From his second floor eyrie, Father Vincent was conscious that he could see, at a glance, much of his domain. The prosperous county town of Kinross stretched out in front of him, and its smallness did not trouble him. On the contrary, it comforted him, reassured him, because in the sparsely populated little place, he felt he was someone. No better respected than the local bank manager, doctor or lawyer, perhaps, but a recognisable face nonetheless, a well-kent one even.

  Thinking about it, nowadays ‘respect’ might not be the word that first came to mind at the mention of those professions. Bankers and priests were routinely reviled, pariahs both, and any respect for those practising the law, in his experience, bordered too often on fear. There were other differences too. Dr Hume, the only untainted one of the quartet, genuinely did cater for all ages, cradle to grave and everything in between, whereas most of his own flock had lost their teeth. At least three-quarters of them were old enough to remember the words of the Latin Mass and were uneasy eating anything but fish on Fridays. They still thought of him as young, despite his four-plus decades on the earth. His roots in the place went deep, had mingled, become inextricably linked to all those Andersons, Beveridges, Drysdales and the rest of them. Having no close family left apart from a rarely seen brother, they were the nearest thing he had to one.

  Hearing the town clock striking eleven, he tossed his cigarette butt out of the window and shut his thick blue curtains. The cat lay occupying the very centre of the duvet, its long, creamy body stretched to its full length as he basked in the warmth of the electric blanket. Its master, now in a T-shirt and striped pyjama trousers, climbed onto the bed, snuggled under the cover and, careful not to disturb the drowsy animal, spooned his body around its tiny form. Taking one hand out from beneath the cover, he stroked its burnt umber-coloured ears, listening to the low rumble of its purr in the silence of the room. As he did so he smiled in the dark, imagining the sneer on his own youthful lips at such a picture, at the thought that any human being could be so reliant on the company of a clawed, whiskered creature. Still less that he should one day turn into such a one.

  Yawning, he settled himself more cosily round the cat, adjusting the pillow beneath his head to make himself more comfortable. Tonight, for some reason or none, he felt oddly anxious, ill at ease. Maybe it was the weather, or something he had eaten, like Barbara Duncan’s Stilton and broccoli soup. Or that second black coffee. Or the antics of the fork-tongued actress? She had brought his blood to boiling point. Whatever it was, it had robbed him of his equilibrium and left him instead with some vague feeling of dread. A premonition that some unwelcome change was in the offing, was in the air. Something that he would be powerless to resist, and would be malign in its effect. The feeling reminded him of how he had felt as a young trainee lawyer, waiting to appear before a crusty sheriff, knowing little about the case he had been allocated and praying that decree would be granted with no more than a nod. Yes, dread was not too strong a word to describe it.

  As sleep begins to overtake the priest, a young man, quiet as a cat, pushes open the door of a familiar sitting-room and looks inside. The place is lit only by candles. Lying on the sofa, unaware of his presence, is the person he has come to meet. He has his eyes closed, headphones on, and is smiling, not at the Chopin nocturne which is working its usual calming magic, but at the thought of this very visitor. Seeing him, the young man advances on tiptoes across the brown carpet until he is standing inches away from the man’s head, which, as he studies it, suddenly seems fragile as an eggshell. He looks back towards the doorway and signals for his companion to join him. But the only response is an emphatic shake of the head. Unmoved, he shrugs his shoulders and turns his attention back to the figure on the bed. In the silence, he can hear the man breathe: in and out, in and out. As he stands there, transfixed by the steady rise and fall of the man’s chest, he becomes aware, with a strange, unexpected intensity, of his own physicality, his own flesh; his heart seems to have abandoned its customary rhythm, now forcing the blood into his arteries as if to burst them, making his temples throb and his hands tremble. This excitement is better, more energising, than any drug he has ever taken and, in the half-light, he exults in himself, in his power. He could do anything; needs no help from anybody. Clutching the claw-hammer in both hands, he raises it above his head and then smashes it down onto the man’s upright, flexed kneecap.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The next day at the five o’clock Mass in St John’s, Father Vincent stood facing the congregation in the church, took the host and broke it over the paten, whispering the words of the prayer. As he watched the stream of his own breath in the cold air, he was glad of the warmth provided by his alb and the long red chasuble that reached almost to his feet.

  At that moment, a loud wail emanated from the only baby in the building and his attention was caught by the sight of its mother bending over it, trying to coax it to be quiet by donning a monkey glove puppet and playing with it. Unfortunately, the woman’s ploy failed, and for the next few minutes, until it was finally bundled out of the building, the air was filled by the baby’s high-pitched, frightened cries. Smiling broadly at the departing woman, determined to signal to her that he was not upset by the noise, he advanced towards the line of people waiting to be given Communion.

  At the head of the queue, tongue extended in readiness, stood Lady Lindsay, the old guard made flesh. She was as well-dressed as ever, with a silk Hermès scarf partially covering her blue-grey helmet of permed hair. Tanned and broken-veined, she looked every inch the countrywoman with her muscled calves and padded waistcoat, dog hairs trapped in the seams. Most, including her husband, were accustomed to obeying her orders, and she only attended St John’s Church as there was nothing grander nearby. On first being introduced to Father Vincent she had explained that she came from an ‘Old Catholic’ family, looked him beadily in the eye as if to subordinate him too and when that had failed, she had flashed her ace. Her uncle, she explained, had been the Provost of the Brompton Oratory in London. ‘Really?’ he had replied evenly, trumping her with his joker: ‘Mine was the Provost of Musselburgh.’ St George killed his dragon; he had tamed his with a combination of charm and steel.

  Now, open-mouthed before him, she fixed him in the eye, frowned, and unsubtly inclined her head towards the empty pew from which the child’s crying had emanated. She had let him know many times before that she did not approve of babies in God’s house. ‘Something,’ she had said in her loud, martial voice at their last meeting, ‘must be done.’ Meeting her eyes with his own ones of forget-me-not blue, he ignored her mime and, adopting a beatific expression, shut her up by laying the host on her tongue.

  As she moved away, head bowed modestly and unable to berate him, he found himself faced with Elizabeth Templeton and, seeing her, he had to make a conscious effort to stop himself from smiling. It would not be proper to do so here and now, and it would likely disconc
ert her. But the sight of the librarian invariably made him feel happy, and that feeling was difficult to hide. She usually came only to Sunday Mass. Today, he had not expected to see her.

  Over the years he had considered the effect that she had upon him and puzzled over it, but he still could not work out exactly why he was so susceptible to her. It was not as if she was a conventional beauty; on the contrary, she was as big-boned as an ox, big-bosomed too, and stood a good six inches taller than him. Her clothes reflected her personality; large, generous and free-flowing.

  But her appearance did have a part to play in the attraction; he recognised that. Whenever he looked at her face he knew that whatever expression it showed would be entirely genuine. Like a young child, she appeared to be incapable of dissembling. Nothing was produced for effect. And while such a trait could, at times, be slightly alarming, it also meant that when she did smile, the warmth of it set the world alight and him with it. Sometimes he would borrow books from the library just to see her.

  As she was still unaware of his scrutiny, eyes downcast, he allowed himself the luxury of gazing at her for a moment longer. She had such a generous, upturned mouth and fine, high cheekbones. He knew, with an unshakeable conviction, that his high regard for her was fully reciprocated. Alone in his house, when he was unable to get to sleep, he sometimes amused himself by wondering how his life might have panned out if he had taken a different path. If, instead, he had married her, and become a partner, a Writer of the Signet in some dusty Edinburgh firm. In his mind’s eye he had created a whole life together for the pair of them. It was all too ordinary, too dull for most people, but to him it was exotic beyond compare.

  As she opened her hazel eyes in surprise, seconds having passed and finding that nothing was placed in her hands, he said quickly, ‘The body of Christ’, as if by gabbling the words the delay could be made up.

  While he was speaking to one of his parishioners after the service, Mamie Bryce edged the startled pensioner out of the way, accosted him and tried to revisit the telephone conversation of the night before.

  ‘Mamie,’ he said reproachfully, looking at her and at the retreating back of Mr Munro.

  ‘Veronica’s not answering her phone, Father,’ she said, ignoring his implied rebuke, ‘but it’s not right that I do the brass lamps myself week in week out. Either you or Veronica will have to sort this out, for once and for all.’

  Faced with all the woman’s pent-up annoyance he found himself, momentarily, at a loss for words. How could those blessed brasses be so important? Elizabeth must be somewhere nearby, and he did not want to miss her. Maybe he should just give in to Mamie, tell her to leave the matter with him to sort out? No, she would still refuse to move and her demands would multiply, become more strident.

  ‘I told you last night, Veronica’s in charge,’ he said implacably.

  ‘And she’s over there, Mamie, talking to Lady Lindsay,’ a low voice interjected. Elizabeth Templeton helpfully pointed at a group near the gate, the square body of the rota-organiser obscuring many of the slimmer frames of her companions.

  ‘Right. I’ll catch her the now,’ Mamie Bryce exclaimed, moving off and determined to corner her quarry before anyone else did. Past experience suggested that she would be a much softer target than the priest. She had crumbled instantly over the hoovering.

  ‘Thanks, Elizabeth,’ Father Vincent said, smiling broadly and showing his even white teeth, ‘but she’ll be back, you’ll see.’

  Elizabeth simply nodded by way of reply, and he added as an afterthought: ‘How’s Michael doing?’

  Michael, her only child, suffered from attention deficit disorder and Tourette’s syndrome, and these had ensured that she had not had a good night’s sleep for many years. The last two decades of her life had been spent explaining the world to him and him to the world. The boy’s father could not cope and had left them both, seeking solace for his loss in other arms.

  ‘Not as well as I’d like,’ she said. ‘As you know, after that silly incident with the motorbike, his card’s been marked. He still hasn’t found a job. Whenever anything happens here that community policewoman comes straight to my door, determined he’ll be involved.’

  ‘You mean Effie?’

  ‘Is that what she’s called? So far it’s been nothing to do with him, and he’s infuriated at the injustice of it, so he argues with her and things go from bad to worse.’

  ‘Where’s he now?’

  ‘He’s spending the night with his dad; they’re going together to the rugby at Murrayfield tomorrow afternoon. So I’ve no worries for the moment. I know exactly where he is for the next forty-eight hours. He’ll love it. He needed a man’s hand in his life, but he’s had precious little of it. And you, how’s life with you?’

  ‘Fine,’ he said, sounding suddenly and uncharacteristically guarded. Mamie was approaching them, and once in range, she slipped in front of Elizabeth and exclaimed loudly, ‘Ronnie says that you’re to sort it out. It’s favouritism. I told her that I’m not putting up with it. She said I’d a brass neck. You’re to decide who’s to do the big vase this week. So, is it to be me or Ann-Marie?’

  ‘You,’ he shot back, annoyed at the interruption.

  Re-entering the empty and echoing church, the squeaking noises made by his new rubber-soled shoes on the parquet flooring sounded shrill, like a gathering of angry mice. So, for the fun of it, he started to take exaggeratedly large strides, placing his feet gingerly on the floor as if it was made of thin ice. Filling the ensuing silence, his tummy let out a loud rumble. With only five minutes to go before the confession hour, there had been no time for the cup of tea and slice of fruit cake that had filled his imagination so recently. Mamie’s furious rant had seen to that. Still, in the face of her barrage he had not relented, and if she resigned from the rota so be it. Catherine Forbes might volunteer, others too; plenty of them had been put off by Mamie’s involvement. No doubt it would prove an empty threat like the last time.

  Now seated in the confessional, he leaned back against the wooden panelling, luxuriating in the silence after the woman’s tirade. How wonderfully peaceful it seemed. He tried to stretch out his short legs but was unable to do so, due to a collection of broken vases, brushes and hoovers that had appeared from nowhere. The place now seemed to be being used as an overflow broom cupboard. Perhaps it was part of the vendetta between the various cleaning factions? Some point or other was probably being made by someone about something. Was he simply being caught in the crossfire? Tomorrow, he would convene a summit and, if necessary, knock some heads together.

  Without thinking, he nudged one of the vases to one side with his foot, appalled when it toppled over with a loud crash. The noise was quickly replaced by complete silence once more. Sitting back, relishing the quiet, he basked in it until something told him that it was wrong. All wrong. Hell’s bells! Where was the music? Without it, the making of confession became a public act rather than a private one, the penitent’s words easily audible to those in the nearby pews. Others, further away too, if they strained to hear hard enough. The whole thing became more like The Jeremy Kyle Show than one of the blessed sacraments. Peering out of his door, he saw that the church was still empty, and hurried into the sacristy in his squeaking shoes. In seconds the building resonated to a Latin chant intoned by an all-woman Bulgarian choir.

  ‘You just try and do your homework when your mum tells you, eh?’ he said to the child, yawning silently. The tediousness and predictability of the sins on parade were acting as a soporific on him. So far there had been three mumbled accounts of using swear words, a brace of ‘entertaining’ bad thoughts, their content remaining unspecified despite a little prurient prodding by him, and one young woman’s confession of lying to her spouse about her use of birth control. It was like being pecked to death by ducks. The sharper stab of some more inventive sinner would be almost welcome, wake him up at the very least.

  The girl left and was replaced, quickly, by the next penit
ent. The newcomer was breathing heavily, every inhalation and exhalation audible until, suddenly, he wheezed, gasping for air and making a strange hollow, crackling sound. Instantly, the priest knew who was sitting behind the grille. He sighed wearily, having been expecting just such a visit. His friend, Barbara Duncan, had tipped him the wink that there had been a spate of thefts from washing lines in Sandport. Apparently the thief had been very selective, pilfering only ladies’ pants, bras and tights. Inevitably, given the man’s record, George Lumsden’s name had been on her lips, on most people’s lips. If only, Vincent thought, George had a little more grey matter encased in that strange, bullet-shaped skull of his, he would realise that such a haul could only be taken from the same place once, if he valued his liberty. Everyone in the town knew of his weakness; gossip was, after all, the lifeblood of the place. One missing Wonderbra and he would be the prime suspect. But, unless he was apprehended, that is all there could be, suspicion. But, after this latest confession, Vincent would know. If anyone had their finger on the pulse of the place it was him.

  Later that same evening, he looked along the packed supermarket shelf, yearning to pick up a couple of bottles of the Saint-Émilion Grand Cru. But on seeing the price of them, he turned to the Lussac-Saint-Émilion, a poor substitute but drinkable. With over half the month gone, woefully little of his salary remained and there were only a couple more anniversary Masses still to be said. Worse, the McKinnons were notoriously late payers and, unfortunately, the Cockburns had not a bean between them. A baptismal fee was a possibility, but that could not be relied upon nowadays. Half the infants practically walked to the font, and a few could have made their own responses. The Argentinian Cabernet Franc might be a good compromise – it was both on offer and well-rated.

  To his disquiet the woman at the till, a Baptist married to one of his flock, gave him a wink as he began stowing the bottles into their carrier bag. Disconcerted, he resolved to avoid her in future. He could feel his cheeks reddening, blushing from the neck upwards. But, he reminded himself, the only vow he had given was one of celibacy, not abstinence from all the other good things of life. So he was not some sort of rogue as no doubt she fondly imagined. Alcohol was not forbidden to him. Trying to get across that he had nothing to hide, he looked her straight in the eye as he opened his wallet. She winked at him again, three times, and he relaxed, realising that she had a facial tic.