The Good Priest

by Gillian Galbraith

  ‘He’s here all right,’ the woman’s nearest neighbour chipped in, slip-sliding in his direction and catching Fiona’s elbow, briefly, to steady her again.

  ‘He’s in the bar preparing himself for the next competition – working out the strategy for next week’s match,’ Virginia said. Her eyes were watery and her nose tinged red with constant blowing.

  ‘With the aid of a little tipple as usual,’ the third woman added, laughing, picking up the granite curling stone beside her as if it weighed no more than a bag of crisps.

  ‘Which bar? The one in here, or do you mean Jock’s Bar in the Hotel?’

  ‘No, the one in here. You’ll find him upstairs annoying Betty as usual. You’d think he had no home to go to.’

  The atmosphere in the bar was lively, chatty, scented with sausage rolls and alcohol, and warmer in every sense than the rink. A middle-aged barmaid stood behind the bar, her chin propped up on her elbow, watching the players through the open expanse of glass overlooking the ice. One of the curlers, sliding on one knee, was just about to release a stone.

  The second it began its leisurely journey towards the house at the opposite end, the barmaid murmured, ‘On you go, on you go, you beauty!’

  ‘Sweep, Enid, sweep!’ another spectator shouted a few moments later, standing up in his frustration, convinced the woman’s stone was going to stop short, unconsciously miming a frenzied sweeping action himself.

  Spectators occupied many of the seats, their glasses on the tables in front of them and their attention divided between their drinking companions and the action going on below them on the ice. As the priest approached the bar, a ruddy-faced farmer who knew him said cheerily, ‘I seen you sliding all over the shop. Can you no’ walk on water then, Father?’

  ‘No, he cannae,’ his drinking partner butted in, ‘but he can drive out demons, so you’d better watch yourself, Davie boy. Is that not right, Father?’

  ‘Haven’t had much practice lately – but I’d happily give it a go.’

  ‘Wish he’d turn that water to wine …’ Davie replied lugubriously, peering into the little water jug on the bar, an empty whisky glass beside it.

  ‘That’s Jesus. Father just does wine to blood, you numpty,’ the man’s wife said, shaking her head at the display of ignorance.

  ‘Have you seen Colin Gifford about, Sue?’ the priest asked her.

  ‘Good to see you back here, Father.’ she replied. ‘He’s over there, behind the newspaper.’

  The man in question was slumped on a bar-stool, an empty pint glass in front of him, pen hovering above his crossword. Defeated by the clue, he had turned to the barmaid for help.

  ‘Four down, Betty. Six blanks and four blanks, OK? “Party food for a donkey”?’

  ‘Mmm … got any letters?’ she asked, nodding at Vincent by way of acknowledgement and adding ‘Father’.

  ‘Father? That’s an “F”. Both words begin with “C”.’

  ‘I know, I know. Crème caramel … cream crackers … chipolatas …’

  ‘Donkeys are vegetarians, woman, for Christ’s sake!’

  ‘Maybe not by choice, Colin?’ the barmaid replied testily. ‘This is party food, remember!’

  ‘What about …’ the priest said, coming and standing beside the man, ‘carrot cake? Would that fit?’

  ‘Mmm, it would,’ Gifford replied, already writing it in, ‘and it goes with “corncrake” and “arrow”, so it’s bound to be right. Well done – give that man a drink, Betty. Make it a double. No, a treble. What’ll you have, Father?’

  ‘I’ll not have anything at the moment, thanks, but I wondered if I could ask you a question about your work? I saw Dougie yesterday, and he told me you’d be here. I just need to know something about the trial polish that the factory produced, the bright pink stuff?’

  ‘Rightio, fire away, I’m with you there,’ Gifford replied, slightly blearily, the pen back in his mouth and all his concentration ostensibly on the crossword once more.

  ‘Did you get any of the stuff?’

  ‘Aye, three jars, but I chucked them all out. I tried it on a wooden chair in the kitchen, but I couldn’t stand the smell. Poofy, if you know what I mean. Tell me, does a dromedary have one hump or two?’

  ‘One,’ Vincent said.

  ‘Right. That’ll be “got the hump”, then.’

  ‘Babs’ll get the hump if you don’t get home for your tea, Colin.’

  ‘I’m off, Betty. Tell the old camel that, if she phones,’ the man replied, slipping off his stool and jamming his rolled-up newspaper into his jacket pocket.

  ‘Before you go,’ the priest asked, ‘did anyone else get the stuff apart from you and Dougie?’

  ‘No. We only made a wee batch. None of them liked it right from the start. The boss said we may as well give it a try but, like I said, I couldn’t hack the smell.’

  ‘Do you know if your boss gave it a try too?’

  ‘He may well have done, aye. Jackie Shand doesn’t do waste. He’s a mean bastard. Counts a’ the pennies. That’s why he’s the boss.’

  The telephone in the bar rang. ‘That’ll be Babs now,’ Betty said, ‘she’s like bloody clockwork that one.’

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Running back to his car, his jacket tented over his head to protect himself from a shower of hail, the priest’s mind was buzzing with Colin Gifford’s words. He knew the manager, and had long pitied the man. Not because he had a marked squint and suffered from psoriasis, although he did. Not even because money was his real god, although it was, but because he was a cuckold, had been cuckolded many times. His wife, Jemima, a woman who perfumed the air of the confessional box with the stifling scent of Opium, availed herself of the sacrament only in certain circumstances. Usually when her latest affair had come to an end, but once when she had shocked herself with a one-night stand involving several Bacardi Breezers and a sales rep. The apparent sincerity of her contrition was, however, undermined by her habit of immediately seeking solace, a fresh distraction, in other arms. He had lost count of the number of times it had happened.

  Putting on his safety belt, he speculated on the identity of her current lover. A Protestant, he hoped, as he jammed the clip into the socket. It seemed no time since she and a recently cast-off lover had met outside the confessional, eyeing each other like hostile dogs, both seeking absolution for their shenanigans together. Only he, in his privileged position as confessor, knew that; and neither of the pair witnessed his wry smile as they confessed all. As always, Barbara Duncan had been ahead of the pack, observing acidly that Jemima seemed to have a very fast turnover amongst her male acquaintances. With effort, he had managed to look suitably uninterested, conscious that every movement of his facial muscles was being watched. No doubt Jemima Shand’s affairs would continue. Unfortunately, she was more likely to understand Einstein’s theory of relativity than to appreciate the necessity for a firm purpose of amendment when making her confession. To her way of thinking, the sacrament was there to be used like a laundrette; only one that cleansed her conscience rather than her dirty clothes.

  Maybe the current lover had received the polish from her? It was not so far-fetched. Jackie Shand was certainly not the sort of man to pick up a dustpan. If he had brought home samples of new lines, it would be his wife who would either use them in the house or dispose of them. Add to that the fact that the stuff had ended up in the possession of a man with a Geordie accent and a deep rumbling voice. How had that happened? The most straightforward answer would be because she had given it to him.

  Now deeply absorbed in this train of thought, he took the wrong turning out of Green Road and, minutes later, found himself on the edge of Kinross, going past the AlphaVet’s surgery and near the turn-off leading to the road around the loch. On impulse, he decided not to retrace his steps to go to the supermarket as he had originally planned, but rather to continue on to Scotlandwell and talk to Barbara Duncan. While he had been away from there, distracted and obsessed by h
is own troubles, she would not have lifted her ear from the ground. It was more likely that a swift would cease to fly. Listening was in her nature. If anyone knew the identity of Mrs Shand’s latest lover, it would be her. Both women played bridge, sometimes in the same four, and, crucially, they shared the same hairdresser. Long ago, Barbara Duncan had explained to him, not disguising her amazement at his ignorance, how much could be learned from an intelligent, personable hairdresser. If Eva Braun had tiptoed out of the bunker for a sneaky perm, she had said, World War II would have been over months earlier. Warming to her theme, she had gone on to explain that while trainees dealt in little more than holiday destination chitchat, the stylists and colourers were in an entirely different category. They, like priests, routinely heard confessions. But, not being bound by the seal of the confessional gave them a significant advantage over their clerical competitors. They usually had ample opportunity to double-check their choice snippets of gossip, testing and refining them as they smiled, reassuringly, in the mirror. That process ensured quality information.

  When Barbara Duncan came to the door she looked frazzled. A stray lock of white hair had fallen over her forehead and her face was flushed. She was wearing her late husband’s blue and white striped pinny, its hem mid-shin on her. At her feet, was a brass coal scuttle, filled to the brim with coal.

  ‘Vincent …’ she exhaled, patting him on the shoulder, ‘thank goodness it’s only you. I thought it was Mr Goodenough, my next B&B person. He’s coming up from Lancashire and isn’t supposed to be arriving for another hour, but I thought for one horrible moment that he’d arrived early. Come in, come in.’

  ‘If it’s not a good time, I could easily come back later?’

  ‘It’s always a good time to see you,’ she said, picking up the scuttle and turning towards the kitchen. ‘Come on, I’m dying for a sit-down and a cup of tea. Mamie said you were back.’

  ‘I’ll take that.’

  ‘No, no. I’ll pick it up on my way back,’ she replied, dropping it to the floor again with a thud.

  Humming to herself, she put the warmed silver teapot on to the table and sat down in front of it, waiting for the tea to infuse. Three minutes later, unable to resist inspecting it again, she opened the lid, only to drop it in fright when the doorbell rang.

  ‘Bugger!’ she whispered to herself, getting up, pushing the strand of hair off her forehead and inadvertently smudging herself with coal dust.

  ‘Hang on, Barbara! You’ve got a black streak!’ Vincent said, touching his own forehead to show her where the mark was. Glancing at her distorted reflection in the side of the teapot, she muttered ‘Bugger’ again and wiped the smut off with a hankie from her sleeve.

  ‘Don’t go away. Help yourself to everything, you know where it is. I want to hear all your news, Vincent, now that you’re back – at last!’

  Fifteen minutes later she returned and sat heavily down on a chair. Pouring herself a cup of tea she said wearily, ‘It was him this time. I’ve left him upstairs in his room. I’m going to suggest that he goes out tonight, either to the Green or the Grouse and Claret. He’s only got one leg, you know. The other’s artificial. I know, because his suitcase clanked against it – it sounded hollow. The leg, I mean. Perhaps he’s a drug-smuggler?’

  ‘Hoping to recruit you as his mule?’

  ‘I’m nobody’s mule, thank you. So, just tell me what’s been happening, Vincent.’

  In between mouthfuls of scone, the priest regaled her with stories about the Retreat, his battle with the Monsignor and the results of the enquiry. For her part, consuming a single finger of shortbread only, somehow managing to make it last a good twenty minutes, she said little but listened intently.

  ‘I wonder what the Monsignor was playing at,’ she said finally.

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Dragging his feet like that, then suddenly treating it as so urgent?’

  ‘Well, when pushed I can be quite forceful …’

  ‘Quite, dear, quite.’

  A head appeared round the kitchen door and a man with too many teeth in his mouth said, ‘So sorry to interrupt, but I can’t find the TV in the room.’

  ‘There isn’t one,’ Barbara Duncan replied, ‘but you’re welcome to watch the set in the sitting-room until you go out.’

  ‘Thank you so much. I’m desperate to catch the news – see if the poor old PM can extricate himself,’ her guest said, waving a hand at them before disappearing.

  ‘Perhaps I will offer him supper here. He’s a widower, on his own. I’ve a loin of pork I could do. What would go with it, d’you think? You could become my wine consultant, unpaid, of course. Neville used to insist on Chianti but, frankly, I don’t think he had much of a palate, nose or whatever.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘After he retired he took up cookery. Not from recipe books, obviously, nothing so mundane. Every dish was created by him, including haddock in cranberry sauce and eggs Neville, like eggs Benedict except instead of spinach, he substituted cabbage, and sprinkled the whole lot with ginger.’

  ‘Maybe no nose but a cast-iron stomach by the sound of things. I’d have the pork with one of the new Australian Viogniers, they’re difficult to better …’

  ‘Where on earth would I get those?’

  ‘You could try my favourite shop on earth, the Markinch Wine Gallery. Now, there is something, Barbara, that I particularly wanted to ask you.’ He came to an unexpected stop, catching her eye, and adding, ‘It’s a bit delicate.’

  The woman grinned and said brightly to him: ‘Snap!’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Me too. I need to ask you something … a bit delicate.’

  ‘If it’s about Sarah Houston,’ he began, disappointed in her, ‘I told you. There’s nothing more to tell.’

  ‘Goodness, no. There’s nothing I don’t know about her,’ she said dismissively. ‘What do you take me for? A rank amateur? Of course it’s not about that odd, odd woman.’

  ‘I hadn’t realised she was so odd.’

  ‘I know that, but, frankly, I’m amazed you were taken in by her. I saw it immediately. No, I’m interested in something else. I’m interested in Father Bell.’

  ‘What do you want to know?’ he enquired as evenly as he was able, pouring another cup of tea for himself and then for her. Her words had both stung and annoyed him, inferring he was naïve, overly susceptible to women.

  ‘It’ll be cold,’ she said, wrinkling her nose as she lifted the teapot lid and looked inside. Then picking the pot up she went towards the sink, saying, ‘Why don’t I make us some more?’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ the priest said, his cup to his lip, ‘I like it as it is. Now, Father Bell?’

  ‘We hear nothing – nothing whatsoever from on high, you’ll appreciate. All everyone knows is that the presbytery’s empty again. Is he coming back or is he off for good or what? Has he gone somewhere else? It’s all very sudden.’

  ‘He’s away for good.’

  ‘Has he gone somewhere else then, within the diocese?’ she asked, emptying the contents of her cup into the sink. ‘Posted elsewhere?’

  ‘No,’ the priest said ‘he hasn’t been shuttled about the diocese. He, like so many others, has decided to leave the priesthood. So he’ll not be back here – or in any parish – as a priest.’

  ‘Would the words “struck off” be appropriate in this context?’

  ‘I don’t know about that.’

  She said nothing, looking at him quizzically.

  ‘Really, I don’t. What I am sure of is that he won’t be anyone’s priest ever again. It’s in the diocese’s hands. In this climate, if anybody’s complained about anything, they’re bound to have alerted … well, the appropriate authorities. They’d have to.’

  ‘I see. Not as much as I’d like to, but I see. Will we get someone new?’

  ‘I suppose so, but I’ve no idea who.’

  ‘OK. Now what can I do for you?’ she asked, cur
iosity lighting up her small grey eyes.

  ‘Jemima Shand, as we both know, has close male friendships …’

  ‘“Close male friendships?”’

  ‘She seems to know men other than her husband – she seems to have men, other than her husband …’

  ‘Oh, spit it out, Vincent, for Heaven’s sake! On second thoughts, I’ll do it, it’ll be quicker. Really, at your age, why can’t you just call a spade a spade? Jemima Shand has affairs – is that it? If so, it’s hardly news.’

  ‘Fine, thank you for that. Has she got a new one?’

  ‘She certainly has one at the moment,’ she replied, finding herself on the defensive purely out of habit, then remembering their agreed bargain she added, ‘So what do you want to know about her?’

  ‘Do you know anything about the present incumbent?’

  ‘I do. Tinker, tailor, shopkeeper, policeman, farmer, rich man, poor man, bank manager, thief – I could go on. Take your pick.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘You’d like to know?’

  ‘Of course, I’d like to know. You know I’d like to know!’

  ‘The latest one is a bit younger than her. That much is obvious. I’ve been told that he’s some kind of specialist in antiques – and that’s not a cruel dig about her, so save your breath. He “does”, sorry, restores Regency furniture. The real stuff, apparently, not your usual jumble. What else? Imogen reckons he comes from Newcastle way, she said he’s got a lovely, deep voice.’

  ‘Do you know his name?’

  ‘No – well, not his full name at least. He’s got a nickname of some sort, but I can’t remember it. Henry’s his Christian name.’

  ‘Where’s his shop?’

  ‘In Milnathort, just along from Robertsons. He moved in, or rather set up shop there, when you were away. He’s got a boy, or is it two? They were in Cove, Helensburgh, somewhere like that, somewhere over on the west. He’s got shops all over, I gather.’

  ‘Our house, I have to say, is much duller without you,’ Sister Monica confided, leading him into the sitting-room where the rest of the community had already gathered. The TV was on but the sound was down.