by Robin Hardy
There were fans crowding in as she got out of the car but, thankfully, Big Bill Marlowe, the guy to whom she (and her father) owed so much, was there to greet her and take charge.
'C'mon guys, give Beth a break,' he said in a voice that was not that loud but nonetheless penetrated the hubbub around them. 'This is a church service, not a gig or a concert, you know. The service will be on your car radio, on TV. Anyone being a regular worshipper at this church will hear Beth inside.' He lowered his voice. 'How many will you sign, Beth?'
'Twelve,' she said. She always said twelve. It was her lucky number.
Two minutes later they were inside the church and she was being greeted by Brother Kenny, the pastor. He took her and Big Bill into his little office. Worshippers were still streaming in to be met by a couple of elders who kept the tally of who was or was not a bona fide member of the congregation. Some serious fundraisers for the President had taken place at this church. He'd even been there himself and said a few words when he was still Governor of Texas. Even so, it was probably not an obvious target for terrorists but, since 9/11, people liked to see real good security wherever they went.
Beth sipped some hot coffee that Brother Kenny had waiting for her and listened to him with the attention she had always given to anyone producing or directing her, whether for a live gig, a music video or a recording.
'Beth, we're real glad you are agreeing to go – and take Steve with you – on this Redeemers' mission. Ever since this church became associated with the Redeemers we've wanted to encourage young people to go out and preach the word of God to heathens everywhere. To have you go to Scotland is such a fine example to other young people. Because you could've just given money – and I know you've done that too.'
Beth felt what he had just said was a tad redundant. She knew all that, so did Big Bill. Where was she to sit? When was she to sing? Where was Holly so she could have a last word about the music? Where was Steve going to be sitting? She wanted him near her. At what time was the Redeemers' bus coming by?
Kenny might have read her mind because he just smiled and produced two photocopied sheets giving the Order of Service and the seating plan of the church. The bus was scheduled to come by in an hour and a half's time. Beth had the grace to look apologetic. She leaned forward and briefly squeezed Brother Kenny's hand. It was a little gesture her mom had taught her. Warm, intimate, friendly, but not in any way sexy. Useful.
'Holly will come and fetch you when it's time for you to sing that hymn of yours,' said Brother Kenny, leaving to start stage-managing the service.
She was alone now in the office with Big Bill, who looked like he had something special he wanted to say to her. He got up to his feet, hesitated, then shut the door, drowning out 'I'm riding down the trail with Jesus, yes I am.' Then he sat down opposite her and looked at her with that special look of his, head on one side like an old hound dog, eyes a little bloodshot but serious, sincere. Although he was no more than forty or so, still he seemed pretty old to Beth, who'd always called him Big Bill, cause her mom had started it to distinguish him from Beth's father, also a Bill. Her Daddy was small and round. Folks called him Fat Billy, though not to his face. Whereas Big Bill was tall and lean and dignified, built like a true cowboy, except he was really a venture capitalist born with more in his trust funds than you'd find in the treasuries of many a foreign country. She respected Big Bill as much as she despised her father.
'Just thought we'd talk about this trip of yours, Beth. Of course, I agree with Brother Kenny. You are doing a wonderful thing here. But I'm not sure you realise the risk you're taking. Sure, I know you got Steve to look out for you, but he's just a kid too.'
'We're not kids, Bill,' said Beth sharply. 'Kids our age are ready to fight for our country.'
'That is my point exactly. There's a war going on out there. I checked with the Redeemer people. They had to admit, valuable as you are to them PR-wise, they do not plan to detail anyone to act as full-time security guard for you like you'd have on a tour.'
'Bill, I discussed all this with them. I do not want a guard. I do not want any publicity once the main gig in Glasgow is over. Steve is my special guy. You know that. He'll take good care of me. We'll just be two young people, me and him, over from Texas with this message of hope for these poor people who have seemingly lost their faith.'
'Have you any idea what Europe is like these days?'
'Sure. The Redeemers gave us a whole lot of info about the Godlessness in Scotland, the strange beliefs they have, like we're all descended from animals and slimy things out of the ocean. A lot of Yankees believe that stuff too you know, even folks in this state. They really do. We know we got a real big hill to climb with these folks.'
'Did they tell you what the Reverend Pat Robertson said about the Scottish people? He said too many of those poor lost souls are gay, wearing those skirts and all… Do you know something? My dear grandma used to sing songs from a book called Gay Ditties. They've stolen that lovely word from us. God help me, I do resent that.'
'They're called kilts. Have you ever been there, Bill? To Europe?'
'I have not. Like President Nixon said: "I don't care what religion a man has, as long as he's got a religion." In Europe religion is mostly dead. They're lost people. To be frank with you, I don't want to spend
any of my precious time on earth with lost people.'
'Bill!' Beth cried. 'You're trying to discourage me? You of all people. You gave me my start. You paid for my dad to take me to Nashville and for those first recordings. I just can't believe this.'
'You're throwing away your career,' said Bill sadly. 'I'm not saying this just because I invested in you. I think you know that. But because you've been doing great. You're on a roll now. Go away for a year and maybe it'll be, "Beth who?" Aren't you at all scared of that?'
Beth wasn't scared at all. Although she had kept this to herself, she had decided to re-invent Beth, the singer, in the service of her voice. Maybe this was the moment to start breaking this to Bill. She leant forward and put her hand over his big hairy paw and squeezed gently before withdrawing it.
'You are a very dear man, Bill. I love you like I was your own daughter. When I come back, after Steve and I get married, I'm going to sing like you'll hear me sing today. Maybe there won't be no more Grammy awards. But I think people will pay to hear my voice. And if they won't then I'll sing for my little old self and Steve and, I hope, you Bill, and my other real good friends.'
The door to the office had opened a little and Holly was peering through.
'Oh, excuse me,' she said and stood there speechless for a moment. She recognised Bill as the rich, legendary drinker and womaniser who had been saved by Jesus some ten years ago and was now seldom out of the society pages of the newspapers. Holly wondered for an instant about him and Beth, and if she was interrupting something.
'I'm supposed to fetch you now, Beth. Is that OK?' she said hurriedly, as if she'd suddenly remembered her errand.
'Sure, we're all through here,' said Big Bill, rising to his feet. It sounded a bit abrupt, although he was smiling. But Beth had remained seated. She tugged for a few seconds at the hand she had squeezed.
'Bill?' her voice had lowered and he turned to her quickly while Holly went back out the door to wait in the passage.
'Yeah, what is it Beth?'
'I don't owe anyone anything, do I? My dad's paid off. You recovered yours some time ago, I guess. The label… Well I fulfilled my contract. The option to continue was open. I've let it go… I told them I'll come back to them if they still want me in a year's time. They didn't like it. But I'd say they were smart, they were cool. They gave me a nice six-figure kiss goodbye. So who do I owe?' She raised her voice: 'I'm coming Holly.'
'No one, Beth. No one I can think of,' said Bill.
'Right, except the Lord. I'm doing this for Him,' said Beth. It sounded melodramatic but Bill recognised that it was true.
Brother Kenny was about to start his address w
hen she sat down just behind him on the stage next to Steve. The band had left their instruments behind, but Holly had already seated herself at the piano. The collection was in progress: two women passing black ten-gallon hats down the rows of worshippers. Beth reflected, not for the first time in this church, that the pastor ought to get up one day and ask the Lord to help him put the whole congregation on a diet. Most of the men out front were dressed in cowboy clothes; boots, silver-decorated belts and hats which they wore on their heads, except of course during the saying of the Lord's prayer. Beth loved them. These people were, for her, the salt of the earth. Good, kind, God-fearing people. Her people and Steve's people. But she thanked God that he was a real cowboy, not just a suburbanite dressed up.
Brother Kenny took the microphone from its stand by the lectern and started to stride across the stage.
'Lord,' he said, 'this is a special day for this church. Because two of our young people, Lord, will go forth from here to do Your work. Like St Paul in the olden times they are goin' forth to preach Your word, Lord…'
Beth only half listened to what Brother Kenny was saying. She, herself, was trying to get used to talking to the Lord as if He was a next-door neighbour, chatting over the hedge from his back yard. Brother Kenny was good at it. But for her it had never been easy. She tried to think of the friendly approachable Jesus, but the vengeful Jehova of the Old Testament tended to materialise. Now, however, Brother Kenny was referring specifically to her and to Steve. She focused her attention on his pacing figure, his slightly theatrical but effective gestures, his lean, expressive face under his cowboy hat.
'We are gathered today to say Godspeed to two of our Redeemers who are going to give a year of their young lives to Jesus,' he was saying. 'They are going to bring His message to the poor people of Scotland. This is the second year the Redeemers Choir have been over to their Christian Music Festival. But I got to tell you folks that our Missionaries, going door to door to bring the good news – they've found it real tough going. Some of these dear Scots don't even believe in angels, and some are hardcore atheists.'
Brother Kenny had stopped by Beth's chair and placed a hand on her shoulder.
'Beth,' he went on, 'I want you to know we are all real proud of you, because we all know you only gotta raise your little pinky to go right on being a truly great singin' star. Steve, you take good care of this lovely lady, d'you hear? You are one lucky son of a gun to be goin' with her, but you know that. God bless you both and bring you back safe and pure to us here, and we will give you the wedding of the year. And that's a promise. Amen.'
The church was suddenly filled with the noise of cheering, clapping, stomping people, which only subsided as Beth stood and signalled to Holly to start playing. A hush fell almost instantly as Beth handed a slightly surprised Brother Kenny the redundant mike, stepped forward to the edge of the stage, and started to sing.
'My soul does magnify the Lord
And my spirit does rejoice
In God, my Saviour
For He has regarded the lowliness Of his handmaiden
For behold, from henceforth
All generations shall call me blessed
For He that is mighty has magnified me
And holy is His name.'
The piano, underscoring her voice, carried the melody that Johan Sebastian Bach had written for this canticle more than two hundred years earlier. But, even he, who must have heard some of the greatest singers of his age, could not have failed to be moved, exalted even, by this wonderful instrument that was Beth's voice.
'For He has shown strength with his arm He has shattered the proud
In the imagination of their hearts
He has put down the mighty from their seat
And He has exalted the humble and meek
He has filled the hungry with good things
And the rich He has sent empty away.'
Steve, who had never heard her sing like this before, was dazed by the beauty and wonder that she had created in the church. He applauded along with the congregation, who not only had never heard a sound like hers before, but had never heard a hymn (let alone a canticle) without the backing of guitars, drums, accordions, xylophones and the like. Steve guessed that Brother Kenny, applauding with the rest, was relieved that Beth's magnificent sound was not going to disrupt the church's traditional cowboy music. At least not for another year.
The bus carrying the Redeemers Choir to the Dallas/Fort Worth Airport stopped to pick them up from the melee of fans and wellwishing members of the congregation. As they emerged from the church, Steve saw his pa being interviewed by Buz Dworkin, a reporter for one of the local TV stations.
'So it's your boy, Steve, is it, going with Beth?'
'Sure is,' said his father proudly. 'They been promised since eighth grade. His ma, she found them playin' "I'll show you mine, you show me yours". Made them promise. Wait till they're wed. She's gone now, rest her soul. Still, before she went, she had them make a commitment. They're members of that – they call it the Silver Ring Thing. The ring says they won't have no screwin' around – just no sex no-how – till the day they're wed…'
Steve was more embarrassed by this revelation of pa's than was Beth. Sitting next to each other on the plane, with the twenty-strong Redeemers Choir all around them, Beth and Steve held hands. Both were lost in their own thoughts as they took off, bound for Great Britain. But both of them were thinking pretty much the same thing. The commitment they had made to avoid sex until marriage had worked pretty well as long as they were both living apart and taken up with their separate busy lives. Now they were going to be together, day in, day out, and all the time they must keep to this commitment. Beth thought it would be very hard. Steve was afraid it would be impossible.
As for the dangers that Big Bill and many others had warned them about in Europe, they had long since discounted these. In addition to service to God, this was an adventure. And what was adventure without some element of risk? People they knew had been to Europe and returned with nothing worse than astonishment at the price of everything.
Pretty soon they slept.
Tressock Castle
SCOTLAND'S SPRING COMES later than England's, but on the Borders between the two nations it is well advanced by mid April. The kitchen gardens in little towns like Kelso, Coldstream and Tressock are already full of fruit blossoms, and the rough winds that blow across the bare, heather strewn countryside do not wait for the darling buds of May but are already scattering a torrent of petals around the sturdy stone houses of these borderland Scots.
Tressock Castle rises like a cliff face from a rocky promontory where the River Sulis, a tributary of the Tweed, provides it with half its moat. Its towering stone flanks are surmounted by an odd jumble of turrets, mansard roofs, domes and pinnacles. It is a Scottish baronial collage of a building. Somewhere its innards are mediaeval, sometime courtyards long since enclosed as great airy Adam-decorated rooms and everywhere, on the lower floors, huge windows have been punched into the cliff-face walls, to let in the precious light, work done in the seventeenth century when the possession of lots of valuable glass was a mark of conspicuous consumption.
On the dry side of the castle, as it were, lawns and parterres, reflecting pools and fountains, immaculate glass houses and a wellstocked, walled kitchen garden all attest to this being the home of people who care about their surroundings and can afford to do so. Only the topiary, which forms a kind of honour guard from the castle's porte cocher, past its stables, to the great gates that lead to the little town of Tressock, is so unusual as to be condemned in local guide books as 'odd'. Foreigners, unused to British English, do not always realise how severe a censure this adjective implies, for the carefully pruned yew trees that parade along each side of the drive suggest rows of jaunty phalluses.
On the comparatively rare occasions when the sun penetrates the grey, purple cloud cover over the Tressock hills, it waits until it has risen high enough for its warmth to seep thr
ough, casting pale shadows on the castle's lawns. But just occasionally it surprises by rising clear and bright over the heathered hills at dawn.
On such a day, Sir Lachlan and Lady Morrison found themselves awakening in their Tressock Castle home to great shafts of blinding sunlight coming through the windows of their bedroom and penetrating the half drawn curtains of their huge four-poster bed. Four broad-bosomed, bearded hermaphrodites, carved in ebony, supported the canopy above the awakening couple. Lady Morrison closed the bed curtains hastily, shutting out the sun, and thought, perhaps for the thousandth time, how she hated the hermaphrodites and how extraordinary it was that Lachlan admired them.
She watched her husband slowly awaken. In the fifteen years of their marriage she had become accustomed to the unexpected from Lachlan, save in a small number of foibles and habits where he was as consistent as a well-oiled chiming clock. Unusually for a Scot, he never took a bath, subjecting himself to freezing showers instead, and he shaved with a cut-throat razor that had belonged to his greatgreat-great-grandfather, Sir John Morrison (VI of Tressock), who had served with the Coldstream Guards at Waterloo under the Duke of Wellington. It lived, this razor – actually there were several – in the long-dead soldier's leather travelling kit. The sound of it being sharpened on its stone slab always put Lady Morrison's teeth on edge. So she had bought Lachlan a state-of-the-art electric razor as a May Day present. He thanked her with his customary civility and suggested she use it on her legs.
But now he was completing what, for him, was the ritual of becoming totally awake. His eyes stared at her, unblinking, unwavering for at least thirty seconds – a long time, at any rate. It was as if some battery inside him was slowly activating and then, suddenly, startlingly, he was again the vivid presence that filled her days, her life. He was speaking to her, speaking urgently.
