If Necessary Alone

by V M Knox

  ‘None taken.’

  Clement sat in the chair by the fire and began to remove his boots feeling uneasy about his unspoken and so easily spotted judgement. He made a mental note to be more guarded.

  ‘Are you hungry, Reverend Wisdom?’

  ‘Please don’t go to any trouble, Reverend Heath.’

  ‘Aidan, I insist. There is no formality here.’

  ‘Clement,’ he said, wriggling his left leg, the scabbard that held his Fairbairn Sykes Commando blade rubbing on his ankle, reminding him why he was in Scotland. He had meant the comment; mealtimes held little pleasure for him now. In fact, if his body didn’t need sustenance for survival, Clement believed he would never eat again.

  Aidan disappeared into the kitchen and Clement heard the sounds of dinner preparation. Standing, he warmed his back and legs, the heat seeping into his limbs. His eyes roamed the room. Black-out curtains covered a long window which, he surmised, overlooked the side of the manse, while bookshelves lined two of the remaining four walls. On every available surface and table were piles of books, magazines and pipes in a partial state of being smoked. He stared at several items of drying underwear hanging over the arms of a velvet upholstered chair. “Personables”, Mary used to call them. Wriggling his ankle, he looked away and wandered towards the bookshelves, the warmth enveloping him. Theological tomes he knew were on one side, but Heath’s evident passion was fishing. Numerous books on the subject filled the shelves and magazines were randomly stacked on ledges and tables. He reached for one as his host entered the room carrying a tray.

  ‘Fish breeding. Those magazines.’ Aidan nodded in the direction of the periodicals on the shelf as he placed a tray on the table in front of the fire. ‘Tiresome really, but they pass the time.’

  Clement replaced the magazine, glancing at its cover. A wide-eyed fish stared back. The lead article, so the cover proclaimed in large type, was on the breeding habits of cod. He couldn’t imagine anything less interesting. Either Heath’s parish was very small or no one much needed his help. Clement chastised himself. Scotland’s winter was formidable and it stood to reason that only an emergency would take the minister from the warmth of his hearth. Leaving the magazine on the bookcase Clement turned to see two bowls of porridge on the table. A large dollop of cream sat on the surface of the thick mixture. Beside the bowls were two plates each with a thick slice of bread spread with lard.

  ‘I’ve been saving the dripping to share with a visitor. I understand you are going to take up St Peter’s on South Ronaldsay?’

  Clement smiled. ‘Have you been to South Ronaldsay?’

  ‘I’ve been most places hereabouts. You will notice the cold more there.’

  ‘Colder than here?’

  Aidan laughed. ‘It’s only about ten miles away, but we have an unusual climate. You will have driven through thicker snow further south than you’ll see here. It’s the warm air currents from the Atlantic that keep the deep snow at bay. Although, this year the winter has been more severe than usual, it is the wind, more than the snow in Caithness that will kill you.’

  Clement smiled, having experienced first-hand the truth of Heath’s remark, but he wanted to steer the conversation onto the people of Canisbay and Huna, not its weather. ‘Do you have a large congregation, Aidan?’

  ‘Not as big as it was, of course, what with all the young people going off to do their bit.’

  ‘Are you still doing an Evensong as well as Matins on Sundays?’

  ‘We are Church of Scotland here, but be that as it may, I only conduct one service on Sundays now. It has more to do with winter than wartime. Most people like to be at their fireside by mid-afternoon.’

  Aidan picked up a bowl and handed it to him. ‘Will you say grace, Clement?’

  ‘For what we are about to receive, may the Lord make us truly thankful.’

  ‘Amen.’

  Clement reached for the spoon. Steam was rising off the thick cereal. He decided to persist with his questions while his supper cooled. ‘Has the war affected many families in the area?’

  ‘Nothing much perturbs them. They are used to privation. Comes with the territory.’

  ‘And they don’t fear invasion?’

  ‘Here?’

  Clement nodded.

  ‘Not something I’ve had to deal with. As I said, they are hardy folk. We have had some air raids, but Wick gets more than we do. I had to assist with quite a few funerals there just before Christmas. Sad business.’

  Clement remembered the bomb damage in Wick. ‘You haven’t had any here?’

  ‘It would appear the Germans are more interested in ports and airfields, neither of which we have in Canisbay. And I can’t see them scaling the cliffs here to invade us.’

  Clement took a spoonful of porridge and gazed into the glowing coals. While he had hoped his questions would have yielded more information, he didn’t wish to make Heath suspicious. The conversation turned to Heath’s favourite subject - fishing - something Clement knew almost nothing about. He was on more familiar ground when Heath introduced the topic of the German cleric, Dietrich Bonhoeffer, and his struggles against Nazi ideologies. For a rural priest, Heath’s knowledge of Bonhoeffer’s theories was impressive, but as Clement had formerly acknowledged, Scotland’s winters were severe and other than tending to one’s laundry, reading was the evening entertainment. Gazing at the well-stocked book shelves Clement had no doubt Heath’s knowledge was wide ranging. Around nine o’clock and pleading genuine tiredness, Clement retired.

  The bedroom on the upper floor was similar to St Clair’s with the same utilitarian furniture, but the room was warm. No need for a pig’un in Aidan Heath’s manse. Clement’s gaze fell on the bed-covers. They had not been turned down, but it didn’t matter. Where St Clair had exhibited his inherent kindness in the small things of life, Aidan’s intellect and engaging conversation had more than compensated.

  Clement closed the door and placed his knife and pistol under the mattress and his pack under the bed. Walking to the window, he drew the curtains then turned up the wick on the bedside lamp. He glanced at the bedroom door. No lock. He thought for a moment. He couldn’t risk any of the weapons in his pack being discovered. Hanging his jacket and coarse weave, woollen shirt over the chair and his greatcoat on a stand in the corner he withdrew the rounds of ammunition from his pack and placed them into his webbing. From now on, whenever he left the house he would need to wear it all.

  Chapter 5

  Wednesday 26th February

  The air in Clement’s room was cold. He guessed the fire must have burnt itself out during the night, yet, despite the firmness of the mattress and his nose feeling like ice, he had slept well. Rising, he walked to the window and lifted the curtain. The view was of the rear garden. Below, he could see the snow-covered roof of a single storey annexe connected to the manse. Beyond the garden, some thirty feet away, was a stone fence with a gate leading into a neighbouring property. The adjacent house was a three storey, stone dwelling of some size with numerous large windows on the lower floors and attic windows set into a high-pitched roof. A large beech tree hugged the southern end of the house.

  Clement watched the scene for some minutes but nothing stirred. He let the curtain fall. Pouring some water from the jug under the washstand, he splashed his face with the icy liquid then reached for his webbing. Placing his knife in its scabbard and his pistol in its holster over his vest, he pulled on his thick shirt and jacket and descended to find Aidan in the kitchen, a tray on the bench beside the oven.

  ‘I trust you slept well, Clement. They tell me it’s a comfortable mattress. Too soft for me.’

  Somehow Aidan’s comment didn’t surprise him.

  ‘I’ll just give my girls their breakfast.’ Aidan disappeared outside with a bucket of kitchen scraps. Clement watched him from the kitchen window. His host was still wearing the cream jersey, but Clement could now see the large holes over the elbows; a true sign
, in his opinion, of bachelorhood. The brown plaid slippers were leaving long stride marks in some fresh snow. Leaning on the windowsill he watched Aidan open the door to the annexe that Clement had seen from his bedroom window. An excited cackle of hens responded. Minutes later, Aidan returned with the empty bucket and four fresh eggs. Despite their arrival however, breakfast still consisted of porridge. Whilst his dislike for it had not diminished, Clement had to admit, porridge warmed the body and didn’t leave one hungry.

  ‘I thought while I was here I would like to take a look around, to see the view from the cliffs. The sky was so beautiful last evening when I arrived. I’m looking forward to seeing the coast in the daylight.’

  Aidan smiled. ‘It’s quite a sight. You forget when you see it on a regular basis. I have to see the lassies, my neighbours, this morning about the rent.’ Aidan nodded in the direction of the large house at the rear. ‘The Frew spinsters are my landladies and the daughters of a previous minister of Canisbay. But afterwards, if you like, I could arrange your crossing with Tom Harris, a local fisherman. He is due back this morning. He could take you to St Margaret’s Hope tomorrow, if the weather is fair.’

  Clement thought fast, a crossing tomorrow was too soon. ‘That would be most kind, although I was hoping to be here on Sunday, to attend your church. If you have no objections?’

  ‘You’d be most welcome, of course. Would you like to preach?’

  ‘I’ve no wish to usurp your pulpit, Aidan, and I’m sure the people of South Ronaldsay will not hold it against me if I am a few days delayed.’

  ‘You will learn, Clement to take advantage of good weather. You never know when it will return, but it’s your decision, of course.’

  Clement closed the door on the manse. He’d felt mildly chastised by Aidan but understood that his host’s advice came from years of experiencing Caithness winters. Clement dismissed it from his mind. Lifting his gaze, his eyes took in the view from the front gate. In the daylight the scene was extraordinary. With so few trees and only low stone walls and hedges that substituted for fences, one could see across the snow-covered paddocks for miles. Low undulating hills rolled away to the west, a mixture of white snow, long grey-green tussock grass and grey rock, dotted by the occasional barn and farm house. Up to his left and about two hundred yards distant he could see the few houses that made up the village of Canisbay. A two storey Victorian building sat at the intersection of two roads overlooking the cluster of dwellings. He surmised it to be a public house. A grey car was parked outside and smoke was billowing from the building’s twin chimneys.

  To his right, starkly isolated from all other dwellings and resolute to the winter gales, was the kirk. The building was painted white and had a green tiled roof. There were no embellishments of any kind to its exterior and it had narrow, perpendicular windows. At the western end was a tall unadorned bell-tower. To the east several tall obelisk-styled headstones were visible above a high stone fence that surrounded the kirk. Standing alone, surrounded by pastures on three sides and the sea to the north, it was a most extraordinary, mesmeric sight and easily the most imposing building of the district. It was also unlike any church Clement had ever seen. Sitting on the very edge of Great Britain with Pentland Firth below it, the kirk would be visible for miles in all directions.

  Clement walked away from the manse in the cold, grey morning air and headed down the road he had taken the previous evening towards the impressive kirk. The wind that had slapped his face then had now dropped to a light tap about the cheeks. He buttoned his greatcoat concealing the rounds of ammunition in the webbing around his waist.

  At the intersection Clement stared at the imposing edifice. Its white painted walls and bell tower were like a beacon in daylight and would serve the local fishermen just as well as any lighthouse. Slowly he turned a full three hundred and sixty degrees, scrutinizing the low undulating hills that surrounded him to the east, south and west. To the north, just off the coast, lay Stroma Island. There he could see a few crofter’s cottages dotted about the hillsides but other than these, the island appeared barren and unremarkable. Feeling his shoulders droop, he pondered the whereabouts of the traitor. In Fearnley Maughton everything and everyone was close by, but here, in this rural setting, he could see it was the reverse. Clement turned and started to walk along the road towards Huna and his meeting with the formidable post mistress.

  Just on ten o’clock Clement opened the door to Crawford’s Post Office and General Shop. Sarah Crawford looked up as he entered. Other than the proprietress, two ladies were in the shop making purchases. A small girl stood beside one of the women while a lanky boy of adolescent years hung around the doorway. Clement heard Sarah Crawford ring up an amount on the cash-register. He also heard her say good-bye to a woman she addressed as Mrs Wallace, and, he believed for his benefit, to the children Billy and Mary. He closed his eyes for one second then dismissed the memory of his beloved late wife. This Mary was no more than ten years old. She was a pretty child, shy and innocent. Billy, the little girl’s older brother, Clement assessed to be neither. Acne had made the young face unattractive, but it wasn’t the physical unsightliness that made Billy sullen. The boy sulked. His pale, furtive eyes seemed to scan the place constantly. Clement surmised he was searching for something to taunt. Within minutes the woman and her children had left.

  ‘I’ll see you later, Sally,’ said the other woman in the shop.

  Clement looked up.

  ‘Yes. Thank you, Joyce.’

  He waited until he heard the shop door close. ‘Sally?’

  ‘If one is on friendly terms.’ Sarah turned and put a few tins back on the self behind her.

  Clement stared at Sarah Crawford’s back. He felt the acerbic comment. While he thought it unnecessary, it was an instant reminder that he was not on any terms with the Special Duties Branch Operative. He felt a smile rising. Small communities and their exclusionist attitudes were the same no matter the county. He cleared his throat. ‘Can we talk here, Mrs Crawford?’

  Sarah glanced at the clock on the wall. ‘In the lorry. It’s safer that way. Just a minute.’ Sarah pushed aside a curtain and reached for the over-large coat he had seen her wearing the previous evening. He waited while she tied a scarf around her neck and tucked it into her coat. Pulling on her boots and red cap, she said, ‘This way.’

  He followed her into the rear of the shop.

  Behind the curtain was a sitting room. In one corner was a desk covered with more papers than were on Johnny’s desk, and in the other corner was a small telephone exchange. A man of advanced years sat on a wooden chair with worn padded arms pulling a telephone cable out of one location and inserting it into another.

  ‘This is my husband. I’ll be about an hour, Donald.’

  The man grunted, ‘Hold the line.’

  Clement glanced at Donald Crawford but the man didn’t lift his head nor make any attempt at any conversation. Clement followed Sarah through the house and out into a yard.

  ‘Get in the other side,’ she said, pointing at the lorry.

  Clement did as instructed. For some minutes Sarah fetched milk churns and bread baskets and bags of provisions and bundles of tied letters.

  ‘Can I help you with anything?’ he called through the open driver’s window.

  ‘Thank you, but no. I’d rather do it myself.’

  The rear doors of the lorry slammed shut and Sarah climbed in behind the steering wheel and backed the vehicle out of the yard.

  ‘I could have helped you, Mrs Crawford.’

  ‘Thank you, but I don’t need the gossip right now.’

  ‘Is that all it takes?’

  ‘You don’t know small places.’

  ‘As it happens, I do. But perhaps not as small as Huna.’

  The lorry pulled onto the road.

  Clement glanced back at the red telephone box opposite Crawford’s shop. ‘How many telephones are there in Huna?’

  ‘
Other than the one outside our shop, there is one at The Bell, the public house in Canisbay. And the Frew sisters have one, but they never use it.’

  ‘No one else?’

  Sarah shook her head.

  They drove in silence for a few minutes. He saw her glance at a stone barn by the edge of the road as they drove west, but she made no comment.

  ‘Why do you do Special Duties work? I would have thought a married woman who runs a shop would have enough to do.’

  The pause lasted several seconds. He had not expected overt friendliness from the Special Duties Operative but he hadn’t anticipated hostility either. He was about to say as much when Sarah Crawford spoke.

  ‘My husband was a signals operator in the Merchant Navy during the last war. The ship he was on sank and he was burned. He is a good man but not easy to live with. He likes his whisky. Sometimes I think it is the only thing that makes him happy. We had a son but he died when he was five years old from diphtheria. I had to have something to stop me going insane, so I volunteered. Besides, I already knew Morse Code and how to operate a wireless. Donald had one, but he had to surrender it when the war came.’

  Clement felt that he had intruded on Sarah’s private life. He changed the subject. ‘Why was the kirk built here and not in either village?’

  ‘I don’t really know. But there has been a church on this site for over a thousand years.’ Sarah looked at her watch. ‘Would you like to see it? I don’t have many deliveries today and we could talk in there.’

  ‘I would. Thank you.’

  Sarah drove the lorry onto the grassy verge and switched off the engine. Leaving the vehicle on the side of the road, they walked towards the great kirk. Opening a large heavy wooden door, they went in, their footsteps echoing on the stone floor. He had been eager to see inside the kirk, but compared to English churches, Clement considered the kirk’s interior plain. Austere even, especially in comparison to his old church of All Saints in Fearnley Maughton.