Angel Harp: A Novel

by Michael Phillips

  I wasn’t sure where we would find Iain. Alasdair wanted to try the church first. Iain wasn’t there, but Alasdair wanted to stay a few minutes. I left him alone. He walked slowly about the churchyard, then all around the building. I knew he was thinking hard about many things.

  What goes through the mind of an Eleanor Rigby when he or she begins to see the church in a new light, and realizes that perhaps it contains life after all, more life than was evident during all the lonely years?

  At length Alasdair returned to the car, serious, quiet, thoughtful. He simply nodded.

  Then we drove to Iain’s house.

  Alasdair was obviously nervous. I would have been, too. I could hardly imagine how much more difficult this must be for him. It was probably one of the hardest things a man ever did, just as Alasdair had said—facing another man in humility, and admitting wrong.

  Probably I could never really understand what such things were like inside a man’s brain. But from where I stood, as a woman, that took more courage than the muscle-and-brawn kind of thing that Hollywood portrayed as courage. Any blowhard could pick a fight. More often than not it was stupidity, not bravery, that did so.

  To humbly admit wrong takes a greater kind of courage, a deeper strength of character.

  I’ve always thought that under the right circumstances, any man—and maybe any woman, too—can summon bravery from within to boldly face a crisis, even to give his or her life for something if it comes to that. That’s probably a good thing, too, when righteous causes and true heroism are involved.

  But I’m not sure whether it takes much character to be brave in that way. Maybe such people are brave, I don’t know. But the courage of humility and character is a different thing altogether.

  What Alasdair was doing was one of the finest examples of real courage I had ever witnessed. As we drove, I knew he would probably rather be on a battlefield at that moment than on his way to see a man he had resented, to whom he was preparing to say, I was wrong, please forgive me. No John Wayne or Clint Eastwood or Arnold Schwarzenegger could match the courage of Alasdair Reidhaven I was seeing unfold before my eyes.

  We arrived at Iain’s. I knew he was home. His car was in the drive.

  Alasdair closed his eyes momentarily, drew in a deep breath, then got out. He bent down and glanced back inside the car window at me.

  “Maybe you’re right,” he said. “I think this is something I need to do alone.”

  I nodded.

  “I will be fine now,” he said. “I won’t back out. There is too much at stake. I have to do this. I want to do it.”

  A funny look came to his face, sheepish yet very serious.

  “You will pray for me, won’t you?” he said. “That I will have the strength to do this.”

  “Of course.” I smiled. “And you will, Alasdair. You already have shown that you have the strength. I am so proud of what you are doing. I will pray that your strength will continue.”

  He nodded and turned toward the house. I remained where I was in the car, but with the tinted window open only an inch. I didn’t want Iain distracted by seeing me.

  Alasdair walked up to the porch. What the observant neighbors might be thinking I could only imagine.

  He stood a moment at the door, then reached out his hand and rang the bell.

  My heart was beating hard. I could not tear my eyes away.

  After several of the longest seconds of my life, I saw the door open. There stood Iain. His wild mop of red hair would have been visible from two hundred yards.

  His face lit up in a great smile.

  “Alasdair!” he exclaimed. The joy in his voice plunged to my very depths. My heart nearly burst with relief. Tears gushed from my eyes in a waterfall.

  Alasdair extended his hand.

  “Hello, Reddy,” he said. “I came to… it has been far too long, too many years.”

  Iain took the hand and the other went around Alasdair’s back.

  “I… I came to apologize,” Alasdair continued “—to ask your forgiveness for the resentments I have held, for believing lies about you… and for cutting off a man I once loved as a brother.”

  The men embraced.

  Iain pulled away with Alasdair’s hand still in his own, and gazed deep into Alasdair’s eyes with the most forgiving expression of love imaginable.

  “My dear friend,” he said in a choking voice, “I have always forgiven you. Come in! Please… come in and let us catch up on—”

  His voice had grown soft. My heart was pounding and I was sniffling so badly that I could make out nothing more of what either man said. All I could see, though my vision was blurry, was Iain, his hand on Alasdair’s shoulder, leading the way into the house.

  When the door closed behind them, I tried to compose myself, no easy task!

  Then I got out of Alasdair’s car and walked slowly home by way of the Scar Nose.

  Chapter Fifty-eight

  Baby Me

  Our bonnie bairn’s there, John, she was baith guid and fair, John.

  And, oh, we grudged her sair to the land o’ the leal.

  But sorrows sel’ wears past, John, and joy’s a-comin’ fast, John,

  The joy that’s aye to last in the land o’ the leal.

  —“The Land o’ the Leal”

  I don’t know what I expected next. I did not really think I would hear from either Alasdair or Iain the rest of that day.

  Nor did I.

  Whatever had taken place, it was between them now.

  Of course I was dying to see them both. But you can’t intrude on holy things. I knew I might never know all that took place between them. I didn’t want to know. Fiona was not part of my story. She was part of their mutual past, just as my husband was of my past. I would not have wanted to talk to them about him either. They had loved her. I had loved him.

  But life moved on.

  Now was now. Life went forward, not back.

  That they were together again was enough for me to know.

  I was also anxious to see Gwendolyn. Yet I didn’t want to rush that either. I knew her condition was fragile.

  Once my tears had subsided and my heart returned to its normal rhythm, the quietest sense of peace and contentment stole over me. Things were right again!

  Healing and reconciliation between people felt so good.

  I didn’t know what would become of Olivia Urquhart, and whether the humility of self-examination would ever enter her heart. But there was nothing I could do about it.

  I felt such gratitude and thankfulness pouring out of me. God had one little part of his family back together. How happy it must make him, too.

  I drove the two or three miles to the castle late the following morning, intending simply to inquire about Gwendolyn’s condition. But Alicia told me to wait and hurried to find Alasdair. He came bounding down the stairs and rushing toward me a couple of minutes later, his face positively aglow. He led me out into the rose garden.

  “Marie, Marie!” he said. “It was wonderful with Iain. He was just like I knew he would be. Why did I wait so long?”

  “You did it, that’s the important thing.”

  “Perhaps, but I feel more a fool than ever. The difficulty of apologizing is greatly overrated. It’s not really that hard. It’s not hard at all. And it feels so good! The burden of estrangement is something you don’t even recognize, until suddenly it is lifted. Suddenly you realize how crushing the weight of it was. I feel so light, so full of energy. It is as if I had been wearing a ten-thousand-pound coat of lead. All I had to say was, I am sorry, will you forgive me, and… poof—it was gone!”

  “Alasdair,” I said, smiling, “I am so pleased. As I said yesterday, I am proud of you.”

  “Don’t be proud of me, be proud of Iain. Forgiveness was always in his heart. He was so warm, so open, so gracious, not a word about the past, not a hint of recrimination. Just complete acceptance. I have always looked down on him for his profession. If ever there was a testi
mony for the truth of what the church preaches, that man is Iain Barclay. I had so many things wrong about him. I am not afraid to admit it. He is a man of character and dignity.”

  I could not help myself. I approached and put my arms around Alasdair and hugged him tightly.

  “I am so happy, Alasdair,” I said. “I know it was hard to do what you did.”

  I glanced up into his face. He was gazing deep into my eyes.

  “Thank you, Marie,” he said softly.

  “How is Gwendolyn?” I asked, stepping back. “How soon do you think I can see her?”

  “You may see her today. I am actually going to meet Iain for lunch in a bit. But first I want to spend some time with Gwendolyn. She has a song she wants to sing to me. It’s ‘Daddy’s Song,’ she says. She thought of it when she was sick. Would you want to come back in a little while, or anytime this afternoon?”

  “I would, very much,” I said.

  We walked back from the garden, Alasdair to the house, me toward my car.

  I returned two hours later. Alasdair was still gone. Alicia led me upstairs to the room where they had put Gwendolyn. I knocked lightly on the door. I didn’t want to disturb her if she was sleeping. Then I poked my head in.

  The moment she saw me, Gwendolyn’s face lit up.

  “Marie!” she exclaimed. “I was hoping you would come! Isn’t my new room wonderful?”

  I walked forward. She looked pale and weak. But as she sat up in bed to embrace me, she did not seem lacking in strength or energy. I sat down beside her and she was full of stories of their yacht voyage and her sickness and being at the hospital and now coming here. There was apparently no question of her returning to the Urquharts. She did not even mention it. This room had clearly been done up in readiness for her long before yesterday, I assumed while she and Alasdair were at sea. She acted like it had been her home for years.

  “Would you like me to bring my harp for you to have in your room?” I asked.

  “Oh, yes, Marie, could I really?”

  “I already have it back from your aunt Olivia’s. I will bring it today. I told your father about your playing. He can’t wait to hear you.”

  “I made up a new song for him. It is a singing song, not a harp song. Would you like to hear it?”

  “Very much. Are you sure you want me to hear it? Is it not just for you and him?”

  “He will not mind. And I want you to hear it. I will sing it for you.”

  She began to sing.

  A baby came to Mummy and Daddy.

  I do not remember—I had just begun to be.

  Mummy and Daddy loved baby.

  That baby was me.

  Her voice was so high and pure I thought the sound must be coming from heaven. The tune was just like those she made up with her fingers—eerily haunting, wild, mystical, almost like the wail of a Highland wind over a barren rocky mountain. It was a voice untamed by convention, free to wander, free to travel up and down the scale without restraint, to wherever it would go.

  “Mummy and Daddy loved baby,” she repeated. “That baby wasme.”

  “Gwendolyn, that was lovely!” I said after a moment. “I am sure your father must like it very much.”

  “He said he did. But he got something in his eye when I was singing it and had to blink very hard. Will you really bring the harp today?”

  “Shall I go get it right now? Would you like to play today? Will the doctor let you get out of bed?”

  “I am only here because I was taking a nap. He says I may get up if I do not run about and get too excited.”

  “Then I shall go now and be back as soon as I can.”

  When I returned, it was not only with my harp, it was also with the microphone and tape recorder. The first thing on my agenda for the day was to get a recording of Gwendolyn’s enchanting voice. All I could think of as I drove back into the village were the magical possibilities of Gwendolyn’s high voice drifting in and out of the vibrations of the harp strings.

  Her music, if anything, now became all the more expressive.

  Chapter Fifty-nine

  Peace

  Oh! haud ye leal and true, John, your day it’s wearin’ through, John,

  And I’ll welcome you to the land o’ the leal.

  Now fare ye weel, my ain John, this warld’s cares are vain, John,

  We’ll meet, and we’ll be fain in the land o’ the leal.

  —“The Land o’ the Leal”

  With Gwendolyn at the castle, I was able to see her whenever and as often as I wanted. I went to the castle every day, ostensibly to give her a harp lesson.

  Obviously I saw a great deal of Alasdair, too. We grew closer than ever.

  Gwendolyn recovered from whatever had been the trouble on board the yacht. But she remained pale and, I thought, not quite as energetic as before.

  When I had first come, she and her aunt went out frequently for walks. Now, whenever I suggested a walk about the castle grounds or in the gardens, or driving to the sea and walking along the promontory, she usually said she was too tired and would rather stay inside.

  Olivia Urquhart did not come up in conversation with either Gwendolyn or Alasdair. She obviously knew that Alasdair and Gwendolyn were home at the castle together. From everything Alasdair had said, she was on more intimate terms with Dr. Mair than he. As Gwendolyn’s legal guardian, it seemed likely that she would have been apprised of Gwendolyn’s condition. But if there were repercussions of her having been taken to the castle, with no apparent plans for a return to town, they had not yet surfaced. I wondered, however, if the solicitor I had seen was helping her even now marshal a strategy to get Gwendolyn back.

  From the beginning, Gwendolyn’s lessons had been a little unusual. I truly believed that she possessed more musical gifting than I did. My collection of recordings of her playing were precious beyond words.

  I now had several hours of very special music, including “Daddy’s Song.” I couldn’t wait until I could figure out a way to edit and make a CD of Gwendolyn’s music, which, now that she had begun experimenting with singing with the harp, took on yet more intriguing dimensions.

  The newness of the harp had worn off. Gwendolyn was now eager to learn all I could teach her. I tried to instruct her in reading music, but it was no use. Nor was it necessary. Her ear was tuned so precisely to the inner music of her soul that she had to hear a thing only once or twice before she could play it from memory.

  I took to teaching her a great variety of Scottish dances and ballads and folk songs. I played them through once myself, she tried it on her own, then I played it a second time. Usually by then she had it.

  Her repertoire, if such it could be called, expanded rapidly. When it came to her own songs, however, she very rarely repeated herself. I don’t know if she even remembered them. They were like sunrises and sunsets, something to be enjoyed for the moment but that never appeared in quite the same way again. I tried to make sure the recorder was always on when she was playing, and kept her freshly supplied with tapes so that she could turn the recorder on herself if she felt a song coming on.

  The following weeks were an interlude of great happiness at Castle Buchan.

  I had never seen Alasdair so relaxed, so content, so happy, so at peace. He and Iain got together, if not daily, at least every other day. The friendship resumed as if no time had passed. They were now men, however, and had much to talk about. Neither divulged their conversations to me. I presumed spiritual things were a topic of regular interest between them.

  Knowing Iain as I did, I would have loved to be a fly on the wall listening to his probing yet pressureless questions!

  And again I began to think about returning to Canada.

  I no longer felt the urge to be pressing as before. It even began to occur to me that I might like to remain in Scotland through the winter. To do so would require immigration permission to remain longer than six months. And I would probably need to rent some other house or flat on a longer-term�
�and cheaper!—basis than a self-catering holiday cottage.

  When I next saw Iain, he, too, was changed, and so appreciative of my involvement both with Alasdair and Gwendolyn. I had not seen him since Alasdair’s visit.

  “I’m not sure I really did anything,” I said. “I think your sermon about the prodigal stirred up many people. I just happened to be one of them.”

  “You may be right,” rejoined Iain. “But Alasdair told me that you challenged him pretty boldly about his need to talk to me.”

  “I suppose I did,” I admitted a little sheepishly.

  “He is very grateful,” said Iain. “As am I. I have missed him all these years. Yet I always knew that I could not force a reconciliation until he was ready.—Hey, it’s a beautiful day… how about a walk to the Salmon Bothy?”

  “It’s one of my favorite walking loops,” I said, “though it’s probably four miles there and back. Don’t you have pastoral duties?”

  “Today is my sermon preparation day,” he said. “I feel the need of inspiration from the sea, the beach, the cliffs, and good company. I guarantee you, by the time we are walking back along the viaduct, something will have sprouted to life. What do you say—would you like to watch next Sunday’s sermon germinate before your very eyes?”

  “I can’t think of anything I’d like better.”

  We set out a few minutes later.

  “Any ideas yet?” I asked.

  “You are an impatient one!” laughed Iain. “The creative process cannot be rushed. You can’t just reach out and latch on to an idea. It has to develop at its own pace. I am, however, struck with something that might be a follow-up to the prodigal sermon, the notion of the joy of reconciliation between brothers and sisters of the human family.”

  “You mentioned that briefly, the father waiting for the two sons to become one again.”

  “I hadn’t given it a lot of thought beforehand, it just came out. But I have been reflecting on it ever since. Can you imagine the joy in God’s heart when two of his children truly come together?”