Angel Harp: A Novel

by Michael Phillips

  Even though I was technically booked only from twelve to one, I thought it best under the circumstances not to have two engagements, so to speak, back-to-back. Though playing when I was by myself energized me, I found that playing for others exacted an emotional, even a physical, toll. I always needed some downtime afterward to mentally relax and regroup.

  Later that afternoon I went through my music notebook to gather together and brush up on an hour’s program of music. I had no idea what kind of an audience I would be playing for the next day—the duke and a few friends, the duke alone, in a formal setting or providing informal background music for a garden party. So I selected an assortment, mostly Scottish dances and ballads, a few familiar classical pieces, and two or three pop tunes that always seemed to liven up an audience, either from the Beatles’ repertoire or Hollywood themes. I put together about an hour and a half’s assortment of music, knowing that I would make my final selections as I felt suited the occasion.

  By eleven the following morning I was sitting in the living room at the window, in my nicest shoes and dress, my hair styled as neatly as was possible, my harp tuned and in its case, waiting for the black BMW to arrive. I didn’t want to waste any time once the chauffeur appeared. I didn’t know if Mrs. Gauld took her duties as “auld wife” seriously enough to spread word of the invitation around the village. I had fantasies of people standing behind curtains watching my little cottage from every window up and down the street! I had a good idea Mrs. Gauld herself would be watching. No doubt the duke’s car was instantly recognized wherever it went.

  The black BMW limo came into view and stopped on the street in front of my house at eleven-thirty. The chauffeur wasn’t halfway to the house before I was out the door with my harp. I wanted to give the neighbors as little opportunity for gawking as possible.

  He nodded as he saw me, then turned halfway up the walk and led me back to the car without a word. He opened the trunk, or boot as they call it, and helped me set the harp and my bag of music and supplies inside. Then he opened the back door for me, I got in, he returned to the front seat behind the wheel, and we were off.

  We drove down the street, then he turned and made his way through the village and out toward the main road. Of all the routes we might have taken, with chagrin I saw that we were driving right past Mrs. Gauld’s bed-and-breakfast! As I expected, there she stood in her yard at the gate.

  I shrank down in the seat even though the windows were tinted. As we passed I could almost feel her eyes squinting at the duke’s car. From the direction it was going, I knew she knew I was inside.

  I hadn’t taken her advice. I had the feeling I would hear about it sooner or later.

  From the route we followed, I would never have expected to wind up within miles of the Deskmill Parish Church. Our way led out of town, along the main road a short distance, then off on a single-track road through fields where pigs were rooting or grazing or whatever it is pigs do. On the other side of the road stretched lush green fields of growing grain of some kind.

  We passed the buildings of a large farm, continued to wind through planted fields and pastureland, the pigs giving way at some point to cows. We crossed a stone bridge, turned sharply and entered a dense wood. We wound through trees for perhaps a quarter mile before the gardens and parkland I had seen from the other side of the stone fence opened in front of us. There stood the castle majestically in the midst of the grounds.

  The sight was all the more stunning from this direction. That we were anywhere near the church I found remarkable. Yet to my right I saw the stone wall bordering the castle grounds. I could just make out the familiar steeple of the church through the trees on the other side.

  The car pulled into a gravel entryway, the tires crunching like the footsteps I had heard on Sunday afternoon. We came to a stop directly in front of the castle. The chauffeur got out, walked around and helped me from the car, got my harp from the boot and, carrying it for me, led me toward the huge oak front door.

  I glanced about feeling entirely awed. Up close the castle seemed even more from a fairy tale than it had from over the fence a hundred yards away.

  As the door opened we were met by a woman about my own age. As her eyes rested on my face, for the briefest moment I saw a flicker of what almost looked like relief. But just as quickly she pulled it back inside and it was gone.

  “This way, miss,” she said in a friendly though reserved voice. “I will show you where you may put your things and set up your instrument.”

  She led the way and I followed, with the chauffeur and my harp bringing up the rear. I found myself walking through a wide entryway that alone would have swallowed my little self-catering cottage, up a wide and majestic circular wood staircase, then left into an expansive corridor running the length of the first floor. We passed a set of ornate oak double doors on my left, then slowed as we approached another similar set of doors to my right. The lady opened them and showed me into a grand room that looked like it might have served as library and lounge or even a music room. Two walls were lined from floor to ceiling with books. All about the room were couches and easy chairs, various desks and lamps and settees, and a grand piano. It was a long rectangular room, at one end of which a series of tapestried dividers were spread across the width of the room, dividing the far quarter from the main room. What was on the other side I could not tell, though several enormous tapestries were hanging on the walls above the height of the dividers. I could only make out the tops of them.

  “You may put your harp here, miss,” said the woman, indicating a straight-backed chair next to a lamp and a small wooden table where sat a pitcher of water and a glass. “Is there anything else you need?”

  “I don’t think so,” I replied. “Will I be playing here?”

  “Yes,” she answered, then glanced at a large grandfather clock against one wall. “You may begin playing as soon as you are ready.”

  The chauffeur had set down my harp on the carpet, handling it with uncharacteristic gentleness, I thought, for a man who, I presumed, had had no experience with harps. He then left the room. The woman now left me also, and I was alone.

  I found myself a little intimidated as I glanced about. I couldn’t help staring. The place was absolutely stunning, every bit the equal of anything I had seen in the few castles I had toured during my first week in Scotland. The paintings and tapestries and books and antique furniture, not to mention the grand piano, in this room alone must have been worth a million pounds!

  It was silent as a tomb. Yet what a setting to play my harp in.

  I still had no idea who I would be playing for. But I had been in similar situations before where they wanted music in progress as the first guests began to enter. So I got out Journey and put on the legs and set up my music stand and set the notebook I had put together for the day on it. Then I set about tuning.

  When at last I was ready I glanced at my watch. It was five minutes till noon.

  I started with “The Road to the Isles.” I realized I was just playing to myself for the moment, but I wanted to be well into the rhythm and flow of it when people started coming in.

  During my second time through it, I paused while the grandfather clock went through its Westminster sequence, then emitted twelve somber chimes. I continued, then followed my first selection with “The Dark Island” and “Will Ye No Come Back Again.” There was still no sign of anyone.

  This was a little strange, I thought. But I kept going.

  Fifteen minutes later came the quarter-hour Westminster tune and I was more bewildered than ever.

  By twelve-thirty I was thinking that it was more than a little strange… it was really strange. I was playing to an empty house!

  I went through my songs one by one. At least it was a good practice session, although I hardly needed to get dressed up in my nicest outfit for this. By quarter till one I was seriously wondering what was going on, whether I’d misunderstood something. But I knew I had the time right, and the
lady had told me to start playing. So I kept on.

  At one o’clock on the dot, I heard a door open and close somewhere. I glanced toward the sound as I kept playing. It had come from the end of the room screened off with the tapestry dividers.

  Almost the next instant, the door I had come through opened and the lady walked in. She waited until I had finished “Eleanor Rigby,” hardly an appropriate song to end with, and difficult enough on a lever harp with all its accidentals, but that’s what I was playing at the time. Then she walked toward me.

  “The duke thanks you very much,” she said. “You may gather your things. Nicholls will be with you in a moment to help you down to the car and take you home.”

  She turned and left without another word. I saw nothing more of her.

  A minute or two later the chauffeur came in and picked up my harp case, and I followed him with my bag from the room and downstairs and outside.

  Three minutes later I was again riding along the wooded drive, this time away from the castle, wondering what this had all been about, and if I would ever see the place again.

  I had come to Scotland to have an adventure. This certainly qualified! I would be able to get a lot of mileage out of this story. But whoever this duke was, I was more irritated at him now than ever.

  Nicholls—it was nice to be able to call someone connected with the castle by name—stopped in front of my cottage. He got out, carried my harp to the front door, set it down, and handed me an envelope. I waited until he was gone and I was inside before opening it. It contained two one-hundred-pound notes.

  Whatever it had been about, it was certainly the best-paying gig I’d ever had.

  This was three times my going rate!

  Chapter Seventeen

  Wakings

  I love a lassie, a bonnie, bonnie lassie,

  She’s as pure as the lily in the dell,

  She’s as sweet as the heather,

  The bonnie bloomin’ heather,

  Mary, ma’ Scotch Bluebell.

  —“I Love a Lassie”

  I half anticipated seeing Mrs. Gauld walking along the pavement as we drove up, descending upon me like a stern mother-priestess of rebuke. Even after I was safely inside, I kept expecting to hear her at the door any minute wanting a full report. But no inquisitorial visit came.

  I sat down in an easy chair and sighed, trying to take in what had happened. Even though I had had no audience, at least not one I had seen, I still felt drained. Uncertainty and confusion can be as taxing as physical exercise. Gradually I dozed off.

  When I woke up I was ready to get out into the fresh air and put the morning behind me. I changed my clothes, munched down a couple of oatcakes, then grabbed my harp and set out. I hadn’t been to the bench on the bluff for almost a week. I drove to the edge of town and from there set out along the familiar path.

  Strange to say, as I played I felt soothed, the familiar peace of this place returning to me. No Gwendolyn appeared. No red-haired curate popped up from out of nowhere. Just the fragrant sea breeze and gulls and the North Sea spreading out before me.

  I could not be in this spot, however, without thinking of Iain Barclay. This was Wednesday. I hadn’t seen him since Friday. I wanted to see him. I wanted to ask him about Gwendolyn and the duke. I wanted to tell him about my strange experience at the castle.

  He was not the kind of man from whom you could hide things or keep secrets. I knew that if I saw him I would feel compelled also to tell him that I had gone to the church on Sunday afternoon, had played in the cemetery, and had had the odd sensation that I was being listened to—by God or dead spirits or somebody. For some reason, I was shy about telling him all that. It would open up too many of my own uncertainties about where I stood with God. I wasn’t ready for that.

  After playing for a while, then taking a drive along the coast toward Fraserburgh, I had barely reached my cottage when the doorbell rang.

  Oh, no, I thought. Mrs. Gauld! Here comes the third degree about my jaunt out to the castle.

  I drew in a deep breath and went to the door.

  “Iain!” I exclaimed when I saw him standing there. The relief and delight on my face must have been obvious.

  A smile spread across his lips. “Wow!” he said. “That is quite a greeting, more than I expected!”

  “What do you mean?” I said, laughing lightly.

  “I thought maybe you were upset with me.”

  “Why would I possibly be upset with you?”

  “I don’t know—I haven’t seen you for so long. Here,” he said,handing me a tiny bouquet of white and purple, so small I hadn’t even noticed him holding it. “I brought you this as a peace offering.”

  I took it and held it close. “They’re lovely, thank you,” I said. “It looks like… is it heather?”

  “The genuine article—erica calluna vulgaris.”

  “But it’s so early, it’s only July. I’ve seen no hint of the hills blooming yet.”

  “True, mostly it’s a month or two away. But if you know where to look, and get down on your hands and knees, a few early varieties are beginning to poke their shy heads out. That’s why the bouquet is so small—there isn’t much of it.”

  “That makes it all the more special. Thank you! But what do you mean, a peace offering?”

  “I just hadn’t seen you. I didn’t know what to think.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I wasn’t upset about anything, believe me. I was a little embarrassed about not going to church. I felt funny, like I should have. I thought you might be disappointed with me. Then—”

  I stopped and sighed.

  “—Then something came up and… it’s a long story. I’ve been distracted for a few days. But come in. Would you like some tea?”

  “That sounds great. So, what has been going on, anything you’d care to tell a friend about?”

  He followed me into the house and on toward the small kitchen. I put water on to boil.

  “I suppose I would,” I said in reply to his question. “Mrs. Gauld would probably like me to tell her. But I think I’m in her doghouse.”

  Iain roared. “In the doghouse with one of the locals. Ha, ha! That is hilarious!”

  “Why hilarious?”

  “It just struck me as funny. In a place like this—where half the population lives within a few miles of where they were born, you’re always bound to be stepping on someone’s toes. The roots of everything go deeper than meet the eye. Wheels within wheels, you know. I’m always in somebody’s doghouse.”

  “You’re a minister, that’s different. I’m just a visitor.”

  “Not anymore. If you’ve managed to offend one of the stalwarts of the village like Mrs. Gauld, you’ve graduated beyond visitor to the status of incomer. But please, it’s my turn to set the record straight, too. I was not disappointed with you for not playing or attending church.”

  “I knew you weren’t, not really,” I said, glancing down, embarrassed now that I had said anything. “You… well, I just knew that you wouldn’t be. Yet I couldn’t help feeling that way. You know how sometimes you feel things that you know logically aren’t true?”

  “Sure, it happens all the time. But just so you will know beyond any doubt—whether someone goes to church or not, I cannot tell you of how little consequence that is to me. Especially if I am preaching.”

  “I’m not sure I understand what you mean. Why when you’re preaching?”

  “Only that I’ve never been overly impressed with my own importance,” replied Iain. “As a minister, my job is to serve. What do I think, that my golden words are so important that people have to come every Sunday and hang on my every word? I don’t take myself that seriously! Mostly I just want to be there for people—like I said, to serve.”

  “Serve… how do you mean that exactly?” I asked.

  “A good question,” Iain replied. “I might have to think about that one for a while. Off the top, I would say that my desire is to help people in their o
wn personal spiritual journeys. Of course, service has its practical element—cups of cold water to the thirsty, blankets and clothes and food for the needy. That is an integral part of the church’s role, too. But I have always found the greater challenge is waking people’s spirits to seek God for themselves. Waking people out of spiritual lethargy—that is no easy matter. If I can help do that, then to me that is true service.”

  If I let them, his words could hit close to home. I knew he wasn’t directing them at me, but I could hardly help making the connection.

  “In doing that,” I said, “aren’t the words you speak in church important?”

  “To a degree, of course. But a sermon Sunday morning in a church has to be one of the worst possible settings for helping people come awake. Overall, I rate my sermons just about at the bottom of the list of important things about my job. My expectations in church itself are limited. If I can plant a few seeds that stick, I will be pleased.”

  “What would be a better setting than church?”

  “It’s different for everyone. Growth within the human heart is completely individual. God is in the business of waking people up. It’s all about finding truth, walking in integrity, becoming who we’re meant to be, discovering who God is. Those are the things that matter, not whether we’re in church from Sunday to Sunday. If church helps someone get there, if anything I happen to say or do helps someone get there, then I am happy. Getting there is the goal, not the particular pathway one person or another happens to take along the way.

  “Of course,” he continued, “I would love to have you play for services again. But as far as the rest, your own journey of faith or belief, or whatever you want to call it, I respect that individual process too much to interfere with it. I am honored that you have shared with me what you have. You have allowed me to be part of that journey with you. I hope you will never think of me as a minister who is urging anything upon you. I hope you will think of me only as a friend.”

  I did not know how to reply. This man continued to surprise me! That he was sharing so personally about his own perspectives on belief, when I had as good as told him I didn’t believe in any of it, was remarkable. I hadn’t thought about these kinds of things for a long time. And I certainly hadn’t talked so much to anyone in years—especially a man. But it felt good to talk and think. I suppose in a way I was emerging from the fog I had been in for the last six years.