His family was poor, even for Edinburgh folk, but they had at least indulged themselves in some comforts, such as fat feather beds. The young priest discovered that the bed in his rectory was made of planks of wood on which a straw mattress, prickly and thin, had been laid. The blankets felt like haircloth. He immediately sat down and wrote his mother to send his old feather bed and some blankets. He had another thought; he searched for sheets. There weren’t any. So he added sheets to his list. Towels? Three brown articles resembling sackcloth, so he added towels to the list; he hoped his mother would not be too alarmed for her lamb, so he wrote, “It is not a rich hamlet, and I do like plenty of linens and little comforts.” He hoped his mother would include some of her cakes and that his father, who was a thoughtful man and a past Highlander, would send a bottle of whiskey. He would need it on the raw nights.
His reticent parishioners did not call on him the first night, but Mrs. Logan informed him that they had ‘seen to’ the larder in his honor. Brightening, for he had an excellent appetite, the young priest examined the larder. It contained a smallish ham, a joint of mutton, a bag of brownish oat flour, three glasses of marmalade, a sack of potatoes, another of turnips, and a box of slightly wilted brussels sprouts. There was also a goodly sacking of the perpetual oatmeal, a box of very dry and stiff kippers, a dozen eggs and one fresh fowl, a tin of cheap tea, and a big lump of butter. The parishioners, Mrs. Logan informed the priest with pride, would keep him in groceries — with some prodding from herself — and he ‘wouldna starve’. Thankfully, thinking of his stipend, the priest expressed his gratitude. Then he noticed two fat and handsome bottles of the best Highland whiskey. “Ah, that,” said Mrs. Logan, with more pride. It was a gift from Squire MacVicar, who didna touch the stuff himself, he being a teetotaler; he had bought it from the pub at a handsome price.
Squire MacVicar was taking on exciting and delightful qualities. He would, said the young man, call on the Squire almost immediately. Mrs. Logan shook her head. “I wouldna do that, Faether,” she said. “He doesna like priests and Catholics.” Then why? Mrs. Logan shrugged again, tolerantly. Now the Squire was mysterious, and like all Scots the priest loved mysteries.
“He’s a hard man, but a saint,” said Mrs. Logan, with unusual loquacity. A Scots Presbyterian saint was a unique idea, and the priest pondered on it while he ate his plain but plentiful meal of oat cakes, tea, a slice of ham, marmalade and a bit of seed cake which Mrs. Logan had contributed to the general welfare of the priesthood.
Ten people, all very old men and women and too aged to be very curious, came to Vespers that long evening. If they saw their new priest they gave no sign of it. The priest returned to his cottage. It rained coldly and heavily that night. And the rain came in along the eaves and about the ancient windows and left puddles on the flagged floors.
“There’s nae much ye can do aboot it, Faether,” said Mrs. Logan resignedly. “The cottage is very auld.”
“Why havena the men repaired it?” asked Father Tom, forgetting his self-deprecatory shyness in his indignation.
“Aye, Faether, they have. But it’s an auld hoose. It doesna leak, the roof, but only in the westlin wind.”
Father Tom thought of himself in this cottage all through the howling north winters, with the westlin wind. He had no doubt that winter winds blew steadily from the west in this latitude, with a touch of polar ice added. Mrs. Logan, who had a very snug house indeed, herself, informed him that the men ‘hae been sae busy’ with the sheep and the lambing. Father Tom, feeling unusually in command of a situation, because of this fine new indignation he was experiencing, said, “It’s nonsense you say, Mistress Logan. The lambs are all mutton now.” The men had had plenty of time before he came to mend the roof. He knew what had detained them: the cost. He, Father Weir, had A Chest, and he wouldna die for a’ them, because of a pound or two. The warmth in his cheeks and his body did not diminish and he almost strode to the little tool-house behind the church, searching for a ladder. He found it, brought it to the cottage and climbed it and inspected the steep roof. Ah, just as he had thought! Many thick slates were missing, at least fifteen of them, in strategic places. He examined the others; sound. His father built houses from the ground up, and he had taught his son the art of laying slate as well as mortaring brick walls.
He went down the ladder briskly. It was a fine morning, cold, clear and brilliant, with a touch of autumn in the air — and a cold clear wind blowing sharply. There had been twenty people at Mass, most of them old, but he had said a number of Masses when he and one altar boy and the sacristan had been entirely alone. He literally marched into the kitchen and demanded a barrow and asked where the slate dealer had his shop. Mrs. Logan, who had confided only last night that the new priest was “aye young and no bother, and I’ll manage,” was taken aback by Father Tom’s doughtiness, which was really only as thick as the pastry on a tart.
It seemed that the gentleman who sold slates, bricks, stones and mortars had his shop down Bannoch Road, on which the kirk and the rectory stood. “Take the left turning, Faether,” said Mrs. Logan, rather shocked to see the priest trundling a barrow through the streets. Father Tom set out, the barrow making a wonderful rumbling on the cobbles. There were very few people on the street; the men were at work, the women about their houses, the children helping or playing in the small gardens. Yet Father Tom had the peculiar idea that every stiff lace curtain quivered as he passed each house, and he was quite right. The Presbyterians were startled and shook their heads. The Catholics were embarrassed and curious. The bleak and bare little street was filled with the cold sunlight, and there was a nasty wind whisking about. Father Tom was grateful for his mother’s two pullovers under his habit, and even for the red flannel-saturated with camphor — on his chest. It came to him suddenly that despite the rain last night, and the chill today, he hadn’t coughed since his arrival. He was quite preoccupied at this sign of improvement, so preoccupied in fact that the barrow unseeingly crashed into a bicycle on the road and an alarming cry rose.
Father Tom stopped instantly. He had been staring at his white hands, while he trundled, thankful for the new strength in them, and so he had not been watching. A bicycle now lay on its side on the high kerb and a very small young man, in black, was sitting beside it, having been tossed there at the collision. His black hat had been knocked from his head, and he was now brushing it off with his elbow and regarding its state with dismay.
“I’m very — very s-sorry!” exclaimed Father Tom, who frequently stuttered, especially when encountering strangers. “I didna see you — ” He went to the small man’s rescue, and was greeted by one of the sweetest smiles he had ever seen in his life. The stranger appeared to be about his own age, twenty-two, but much smaller, and even much frailer. He had fine reddish hair, large shy blue eyes, a gentle mouth and the big nose of the true Highlander.
“Nay, it wasna your fault, sir,” he said, kindly, as Father Tom agitatedly swept him off with his handkerchief. “I take it ye are the new priest?”
“Weel, yes,” said Father Tom, blushing. The other young man was blushing, also. “Could ye be one o’ my parishioners?” asked Father Tom.
The other young man blushed even brighter, and, exactly like Father Tom, he stammered. “Nay, nay — it is to say — it is — I am the minister!” he said on a fast burst, as if about to choke.
They stared at each other in their intense shyness, their faces deeply red. Then they laughed, at first faintly, then with relief at recognizing a brother. They shook hands timidly. “Bruce Gregor,” said the minister. “Not MacGregor!” He paused, and the youthful pink face became very firm. “Not the Clan o’ MacGregor!”
His vehemence startled Father Tom. “Oh?” he murmured. “Not — not the Clan o’ MacGregor.”
“Not!” said the minister, folding his short thin arms firmly over his chest and casting a defiant look up into the priest’s higher face.
“I — I see,” said Father Tom, dubiously.
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The minister’s arms unfolded, his face became crimson, his mouth trembled, and he shook a finger at the young priest. “I’d nae be a MacGregor to save me soul!” he said, and did not stammer now. His blue eyes flashed with passion, then seemed to become moist and all the sudden fire went out of him.
“The Clan o’ MacGregor — it — it is a Catholic clan,” said Father Tom, shrinking a little as he thought he had been insulted.
The minister started, then the moisture increased in his eyes. He stammered painfully, “It isna — it — it isna that, laddie! No, not that. It’s ma father-in-law. A MacGregor.”
Father Tom was so surprised his mouth fell open. He had thought the minister to be fresh from a Seminary, and less than twenty. Yet, he was married.
“Your father-in-law — he is Catholic, Mr. Gregor?”
“Not that. I fear he hasna God. He willna come to the kirk at a’, since I married my Betsy.” He stopped, in miserable confusion.
“Dear me,” said Father Tom, aching with sympathy.
The minister tried to smile. He blew his nose on an immaculate handkerchief which was just as darned as the young priest’s own handkerchiefs.
“I wouldna care if it wasna for Betsy, his one lass,” said the minister. “It is the sore heart she has, and she but seventeen.” He colored brightly again and looked aside. “And with a wee wean coming, too.”
“Dear me,” repeated Father Tom.
“Oh, but I’ll not be keeping you, sir,” said the small minister, ashamed of his brief passion. He looked at the barrow.
“Slates,” said Father Tom. “The hoose leaks.”
Mr. Gregor sadly shook his head. “As ours,” he said. “Pots and pans in the bedroom.” He thought he had said something slightly indecent to this celibate brother, and his blush came readily again.
“And there’s nae a one to mend yours?” said Father Tom, who had had a vague impression that most ministers were ‘comfortable’.
“None,” said the minister. “It’s sae hard, the noo, since Betsy and I were married. There’s nae other kirk in the place, and though they come there’s little in the plate — the noo. It’s a’ his fault; he rules the dam — the place. And there’s no leaving here yet; my first congregation. Good Squire MacVicar!”
“Ah!” said Father Tom. “The one that’s put the window in my kirk? And he hae give me the fine whiskey, too!”
The minister nodded. “It’s his way to make a mock of me.” Bruce smiled miserably. “Ask the braw auld lad to put the roof on your hoose and he’ll send his men aknocking before the sun’s up tomorrow. Not that he loves you, but for a mock.”
Father Tom was musing in astonishment. Then he looked at the barrow. “Fifteen slates,” he said. “How many do you need, Mr. Gregor?”
“Aboot the same. And where will ye get the men to do the work?”
“I’ll do it, mesel’.”
“You?” The minister was all one amazement. Father Tom could not help lifting his chin with pride.
“It’s nae hard. My Dada taught me.”
A slight touch of envy shadowed Mr. Gregor’s boyish voice. “A man of parts, is it? Weel, a good morning to you, sir, and perhaps ye’ll have tea with Betsy and me on Sunday?”
“I hae a big ham,” said Father Tom. “I’ll come, if I may bring some ham. It may spoil, for one.”
The young minister looked hungry at once. He got on his bicycle. “My Betsy makes a fine gooseberry tart,” he boasted. “We’ll be expecting you.” He paused. “Auld Bob, there, he’ll be cheating you if you don’t mind. Haggle him doon.”
Every curtain on the street was twitching. The cold sun blazed on polished little windows, and wisps of smoke rose from stone chimneys against a sky fiercely scoured blue by the northern wind. The trundling of the barrow echoed in that shining silence. Father Tom reached Auld Bob’s place at the turn on Bannoch Road, which was the end of the village too. Heaps of slate, piles of lumber and mounds of brick lay on the packed earth, and there was a scent of sawdust in the air and a stench of horse manure. Two horses, in fact, were tethered close by, and Auld Bob, himself, was sitting smoking his pipe in a rocking chair, awaiting customers. He was fat, broad and tall, with white hair and a large white mustache, and he wore a thick tweed jacket and a tweed cap. He had very small and very sharp blue eyes, which he opened in amazement at the sight of the young priest with his barrow. Then he stood up, surlily, pulled his cap reluctantly, and stood back on his heels.
“Ye’ll be the new Roman,” he said, without any other salutation.
Father Tom always winced away from brusqueness, and always blushed at a rude remark. He winced and blushed now. “That I will be,” he said. Suddenly, without any reason he knew of, he straightened his back. “I’m come for slates. Thirty of them.”
“Slates?” said Auld Bob, as if he had never heard the word before.
“Slates,” said Father Tom. “It’s them over there, if ye’ll look.”
The broad and weathered face of the older man darkened, but Father Tom looked him firmly in the eye. “Slates,” said Auld Bob, hurriedly, and stamped off to a pile of them and stood waiting. He puffed with violence on his pipe and a blue cloud half obscured his face.
Father Tom dropped his barrow and examined the slates critically. He shook his head. “Not fit for a doll’s hoose,” he said, rubbing his finger along one edge. “Crumble in the first snow. Hae ye no better?”
“Are ye insulting me slates?” demanded Auld Bob.
“I am, that,” said Father Tom, dumfounded at his new self. “If ye hae no better I’ll go elsewhere.”
Auld Bob muttered something which Father Tom suspected was a profound obscenity. Then he stamped over to another pile. “And will your lordship condescend to look upon these?” he asked.
‘His lordship’ took his time examining the better slates. They were quite good. But Father Tom was a Scotsman and he flexed his mental muscles and prepared for combat. “Not sae good as in Edinburgh,” he said.
“And how would your lordship know that?”
“His lordship knows all aboot slates.”
“Aweel!” said Auld Bob. “I doot it.”
“Thirty slates,” said Father Tom. “That would be six shillings for the lot.”
“Are ye mad?” cried Auld Bob. “I — ”
“Paid that wholesale,” said Father Tom, with an assumption of weariness. “And ye quarried them ye-sel’, too, without doot.”
Auld Bob put his hands akimbo on his thick hips and said menacingly, “If ye were not a wee minister or such I’d brain ye, laddie!”
The two stared inimically at each other. Then Auld Bob said, “Ten shillings.”
“Six, and be quick aboot it or it will be five.”
“Nine!” shouted Auld Bob, turning purple.
“Five,” said Father Tom.
They compromised on seven, and Auld Bob bitterly loaded the thick slates in the barrow. He tried one of the handles and was immediately happy at the weight. The ‘Roman’ would have a job trundling that along the cobbles! Break his damn back. Father Tom counted out the seven shillings from his meager store.
“Ye’re worse than a Jew,” said Auld Bob. “At the haggling.”
“God pity a poor Jew who haggles with a Scotsman,” said Father Tom, sternly. “Ye hae Jews in this hamlet, then?”
“Not a one! I hae never seen one.”
Father Tom nodded. “It is always the stupid who parrot the stupid. A good morning to you, and mind your tongue in the future.”
He was so astounded at this new self he had discovered only today that he did not hear Auld Bob’s imprecations that followed him. He mused on his new self all the strenuous way home. Had God given him a new grace? He was still too young to know that he had become strong on encountering Bruce Gregor, who was even younger, more vulnerable, more shy and timid than himself, and in greater need of protection and sympathy. He was sweating profusely when he trundled the barrow to the cottage and set down
the handles. He wiped his face, fanned himself with his elderly hat, and looked up at the roof. Two hours’ work at the most. He had totally forgotten that he had A Chest. He went into the house for his meal, a fine slice of ham newly baked, mashed potatoes, mashed turnips, oat cakes and butter and tea. He ate with a new heartiness and Mrs. Logan gave him a maternal smile of approval. Then she sighed.
“And who will ye be getting to put the slates on, Faether?”