‘You despicable man,’ I said. ‘You cowardly piece of shit. How dare you say that of her now, when she’s dead. You never breathed a word of it when she was alive. You’re making it up.’
‘Aye, you would say that, you’re cut of the same cloth as her. But we all knew it. You come in here from Edinburgh and you think Monimaskit is a wee, wee place, but let me tell you, Mr Mack, it was a lot wee-er forty years ago. We all knew each other and we all knew what Cathy Craigie was like.’
‘Then whose child was she carrying,’ I said, raising my voice, ‘if you know so much about it?’
‘That,’ Macmurray said, ‘I do not know. I do not know and I do not care.’
‘You liar,’ I said. ‘You do know. I can see it in your eyes.’
‘I do not. And I’ll tell you something else, I doubt that she did either. She didn’t go with just one fellow. She was very free and easy with her favours, that one.’
I said, ‘If there was any substance in what you say, she’d have wiped her feet of the place and never set foot in it again.’
He jerked open the door and stepped into the porch.
‘Ah,’ he said, ‘but she was thrawn and she couldn’t help but come back. She might have left in shame but she was too proud to stay away. She came back a teacher to lord it over us all and she knew there wasn’t a thing we could do about it.’
‘Mr Macmurray,’ I said – I could no longer bring myself to address him by his first name, and I barely managed the ‘mister’ – ‘I thank God that our children are taught by people like Catherine Craigie and not by narrow-minded hypocrites like you. But you’re right about one thing. I’ll be burying her on Monday, and there isn’t a thing you can do to stop me.’
‘No?’ he said. ‘Maybe not. But I’ll be at your informal service on Monday, Mr Mack. I’ll be there as is my right and I’ll be seeing what it is you do. So help me God if you drag my faith any deeper in the gutter I’ll have you deposed and turned out of this manse like the false thief that you are.’
I think he was on the point of spitting on the step, but some twisted sense of propriety restrained him. He stalked off down the drive with his shoulders heaving like a bull’s. I watched him go. He had angered me, but also he had helped to strengthen my resolve. I didn’t believe what he’d said about Catherine but I also knew it might be possible. It didn’t matter either way. It told me more about Macmurray’s tiny mind than it did about her. I didn’t even think it explained her anti-Church opinions. That was too simplistic. But it showed me that the sensible advice of Bill Winnyford, Amelia, Lorna and anybody else who offered it was given to ward off the attacks of people like Peter Macmurray. It was therefore incumbent upon me to ignore that advice. If I was to be stoned and denounced for telling the truth, so be it.
He little knew, when he spoke of ‘silly ideas about devils in caves’, and when he threatened to appear like a recording angel at Catherine’s funeral, what I was shortly to unleash on the world.
XLI
That Sunday, the day before the funeral, I attended kirk for the last time. I knew, deep in myself, that this was what I was doing, but of course I said nothing to anyone about it. I slipped in just before the doors closed, so as not to cause a distraction, and sat at the very back. One or two heads turned, and I received a nod and a smile from those who spotted me. I nodded and smiled back.
Lorna conducted the service in her usual slightly flustered, always hopeful way. She’d brought Jasper in with his own cushion, and after an initial foray round the nearest pews he settled down to sleep at the foot of the pulpit steps. As part of her address, to a reasonable turn-out – ‘I’m an optimist,’ she declared at the start, ‘and I’m delighted to see that the church is not half-empty, but half-full,’ – she made reference to Jasper and his recent close shave with death.
‘If you didn’t know already,’ she said, ‘you’ll know now that I am very fond of my dog. I’m very fond of most animals in fact, and I’ve often wondered if there are animals in heaven. It’s one of these questions that theologians have debated at great length – it’s not quite as abstruse as how many angels can you get on the head of a pin, but in the end it’s about as useful. For some people, a heaven full of dogs is their worst nightmare. The thing is, we don’t really know what it will be like in heaven. Heaven as a place is far beyond our ability to imagine. When Jesus talks about it, he puts it into human terms to help us understand. “In my Father’s house are many mansions,” he said. “If it were not so, I would have told you.” He doesn’t mean, of course, that heaven is an estate of executive mansions. He means that there is room for everybody, and that the life we will lead there will be of the highest quality. And when he goes on to say, “I go to prepare a place for you”, he means that the needs of each and every one of us will be individually catered for. Now that doesn’t mean that people like me are going to be reunited with our pets. I think heaven will be so wonderful, so restful and glorious, that those kinds of desires will be completely subsumed in its loveliness. But, and I’ve said this to some of you before, from where I am now I find it hard to think of everlasting life without a dog. That’s why I sometimes stamp my foot and say I won’t go there if there are no dogs. I don’t think God minds this. He knows I’m not entirely serious. God has a sense of humour. And he also knows the limitations of the human imagination.’
She paused for a moment and seemed to look straight at me. This was odd because I hadn’t thought she could see me. I had been listening to her in a strange, half-awake state, lulled by the cotton-wool cosiness of what she was saying. It all seemed totally pleasant, and totally unimportant. But what she said next jerked me out of my reverie.
‘But, you know, this isn’t really about Jasper at all. It’s about Gideon Mack, your minister, who saved Jasper’s life and in doing so endangered his own. That’s why I’m here in his place. He’s been keeping to himself this last week or so, and I’m sure you can understand why after such an ordeal. People have been saying his survival is a miracle, and I don’t think that’s too strong a word. God was looking after him, and brought him safely back to us. In fact, he’s here with us today, sitting quietly at the back of this kirk, his kirk, and joining in our worship. And I have to say how marvellous it is to see him here.’
More heads, whole pews full of them, turned to search me out. More smiles and nods and waves came in my direction. There was even a smattering of applause. I was furious with Lorna, but at the same time I couldn’t help but be moved.
‘I’ve been speaking to Gideon since he got home from hospital, and he has told me a little of what he remembers,’ Lorna went on. ‘The thing that struck me most forcefully was the way he described the moments just before he lost consciousness, as he was being swept down the river. He spoke of being in a tunnel, of an incredibly bright shining light at the end of this tunnel, growing ever brighter, and of a feeling of great contentment and ease. He wasn’t frightened any more, he wasn’t fighting against death. He was being welcomed by God. That bright light was the light of heaven, and Gideon was heading towards it. There was nothing to be fearful of on the other side of death, there was only the beautiful bright light of God’s mercy.
‘But Gideon didn’t die, as you all know. He’s here among us today. Why? Because God sent him back to us. He gave him a glimpse of heaven but Gideon still has work to do here on earth. So God sent him back. He sent him to tell us the good news, that there really is a light at the end of the tunnel, that there really is a life to come, better than anything we might experience on earth, better than anything we can imagine.
‘Isn’t that the most wonderful example of how close we are to God, how much he cares for each and every one of us? For each and every one of us there is a right moment when God will take us into his arms for ever. Last week wasn’t the moment for Gideon, but the moment will come. It will come for all of us, a glorious, happy moment.’
I couldn’t stand any more of this. Lorna had betrayed me, exploited what I
had told her for her own purposes. I could see what was behind it: she had concocted some bizarre plan that if she could somehow set this ball rolling she could prevent me from telling the truth of what had happened. I stood up and walked from the kirk.
Later, she came round to the manse. I knew it would be her when the bell rang. She started calling to me even before I could get the door open. I let her in, but only as far as the hall.
‘Lorna,’ I said, ‘you had no right to say what you said. You used me. You made up a story based on what I told you that’s a travesty of the truth.’
I had never spoken to her like that before. She looked horrified.
‘I’m sorry, Gideon, I just… I was going to say something, I wasn’t sure what, and then when I saw you there it seemed so appropriate to follow on from what I’d said about Jasper, and I took a leaf out of your own book.’
‘What on earth do you mean?’
‘You’ve talked about speaking off the cuff when you give a sermon, about letting the words take you wherever they’re going, about trusting your instincts. You know me, I usually have the prayers jotted down too, and the whole sermon typed up and I tell myself, “Thou shalt not deviate.” I’d get so tongue-tied otherwise. But today I felt inspired. I really felt that God was speaking through me, that he wanted me to say what I said.’
‘It wasn’t inspired, Lorna,’ I said. ‘It was a downright lie.’
‘Gideon!’
‘You chose to disregard everything you heard on the tape. You deliberately misrepresented me.’
‘But you weren’t well when you told me all that other stuff. Surely you don’t still believe it? You can’t expect me to believe it.’
‘You have chosen to believe the bits you want to believe, and you broadcast them to my congregation without any problem. But you can’t pick and choose what to believe, Lorna, none of us can. I can’t anyway, not after what’s happened. If I’d been in the pulpit today instead of you, I’d have told the truth.’
‘You can’t still intend to tell people about… what you told me?’
‘About meeting the Devil? I do, and I will. I’m burying Catherine Craigie tomorrow. There’ll be a big crowd. I’ll make a start with them.’
‘You can’t, Gideon,’ she said again. ‘You simply mustn’t.’
I opened the door for her. ‘It’s exactly what I must do. Goodbye, Lorna.’
‘Gideon…’
‘Goodbye, Lorna.’
She tried to touch me, but I shrank back. I could see the pain she was in, but she had brought it on herself. I looked away from her, and felt her pass by me into the porch.
‘Gideon,’ she said, ‘I shall pray for you all day and all night if necessary. I’ll pray that God makes you come to your senses. If you don’t, if you persist in going down this insane path, then there’s nothing more I can do for you. I won’t even be able to defend you as a friend. You seem to have no regard for our friendship anyway. If you say the things in public that are on that tape, then you’ll be on your own. The only possible thing in your defence will be that you are mentally ill. You certainly won’t be fit to continue as a minister.’
Once again she was right, but she was right in such a wrong way. I closed the storm-doors against her or any further visitors, closed the inner door and went into my study to think through my plans for the morning.
XLII
The funeral was set for eleven o’clock. I was up early, carrying boxes and bags over to the church by eight. The day was warm, the sky clear except for some high white clouds which didn’t seem to threaten rain, and there was a decent breeze blowing, for which I was grateful. The council gravediggers were already at work, opening up the Craigie lair. They use a wee mechanical digger these days, at least for the bulk of the task. It is less gracious, somehow less respectful than men working with spades, but more efficient. A big heap of earth was piling up to one side. There was a roll of fake grass lying ready, and boards and straps for lowering the coffin.
I’d ordered flowers from the best florist in town and they were delivered to the church at nine o’clock. The undertakers came with Catherine at ten-thirty. Some other flowers had been sent to the funeral parlour and were in the hearse. By that time I had laid out the various things I needed for the funeral to go as she’d wanted. All I was waiting for were the mourners, although I didn’t think of them as mourners.
I didn’t doubt for a second that she would get a good crowd. She was of one Monimaskit generation and had taught another two, and had left her mark on the town in many other ways. People would turn out for her.
At twenty-to-eleven the school party of twelve-year-olds arrived, escorted by several teachers, Gregor Wishaw and John Moffat among them. We shook hands. Gregor asked after my health. John looked awkward, said it was a sad day for Monimaskit. They went on into the church. Elsie appeared too, on her own. She slipped by me without a word while I was speaking to somebody else. Amelia came. So did Alan Straiton from the museum. Most people who had known Catherine appeared. By the time we were ready to start, there must have been nearly 200 in the kirk.
Shortly before eleven a tall, elegant man with silver hair, wearing an elegant black coat over an expensive-looking three-piece suit, approached me with his hand held out and introduced himself as Catherine’s solicitor, Finlay Stewart.
‘I must say, I’m looking forward to this,’ he said. ‘Rather typical of Miss Craigie to keep something up her sleeve till the end. You don’t have a problem with it?’
‘None,’ I said. ‘We were good friends. We didn’t agree on everything, but…’
‘No, I imagine you wouldn’t. But I’m surprised you agreed on this.’
‘I’m a very open-minded person, Mr Stewart,’ I said. ‘As you will find out in the next hour or so.’
‘Jolly good,’ he said, and passed on into the church.
The last person marching up the red gravel to the kirk door was Peter Macmurray. We did not acknowledge each other as he went in.
I took a last look towards the grave, now open to receive Catherine’s remains, raised a hand to the gravediggers, who were having a cup of tea, and limped into the church and up the aisle to the coffin resting on its wheeled carriage. There were sprays of roses and chrysanthemums, her favourite flowers, spread on the coffin. I didn’t go into the pulpit. I stood beside the coffin and from there I began my farewell to Catherine, and what would be my farewell to the Church – both this one and the wider one (the ‘Church without walls’, to use a phrase coined by the modernisers in the Kirk) – to friends and enemies, to the world. I remember precisely what I said that day, and this is it.
‘I welcome you all,’ I said. ‘We are here to remember Catherine Craigie, to celebrate life, not just hers but all life, and to consign her body to the earth. I thank you for coming, even those of you, and there are one or two, who are here with bitterness in your hearts and malice in your minds.
‘You will have noticed that you were not handed hymn books as you came in. You will have noticed that I have not begun with any mention of the Christ in whose name we usually gather in this place. You may also be wondering about the collection of objects laid out here at the front of the church. I’ll come to them in a while.
‘I very nearly didn’t wear my dog-collar today. Catherine and I used to have arguments about it. She called me a hypocrite for wearing it. But this morning of all mornings I thought, why stop now? If I’d left it off she would have thought me a hypocrite for that too. She was a difficult person, whether by choice or by nature I’m not sure. She is well summed up by that good old Scots word “thrawn”.
‘If you knew Catherine you’ll know why this is not going to be a religious service. The question you may be asking is, why is it happening here at all? Why did Catherine Craigie, who for the whole of her adult life had no time for the Kirk, no time for organised religion, no time for any kind of religion at all, why did she want her funeral to happen here, conducted by a minister inside a church?
‘I can only tell you what she told me. We were friends for about ten years. We had our differences of opinion, but our friendship rose above them. We could argue for a whole evening and still like each other just as much at the end. Like each other more, in fact. And I admired her because she refused to give in to the illness which afflicted her for so long. When we discussed her death and her funeral, she said that she had a very deep feeling of being a part of Monimaskit, the town of her birth and her childhood, the place where she worked for thirty years as a teacher, the place whose history she researched, wrote and spoke about all her life. History was everything to her. It was a solid thing, a real thing, and she felt part of it. She didn’t want to disappear from it. History, she believed, would outlive and outlast religion, but religion was also part of history. So, although she rejected the Church, she also understood its significance. Her family are buried here at the Old Kirk. She wanted to stay here too. Which is why we’re here today.
‘She liked graveyards a lot. She studied archaeology. She was interested in what humans built, and what they left behind – remains of all kinds, from standing stones to old buildings to gravestones. She told me she’d spent a lot of time having conversations with dead people in graveyards, and that she’d learned a lot from them. Don’t think this is macabre or spooky. Don’t think this is about ghosts. This is about real people like you and me, who lived and loved and died here and whose remains are all around us. Catherine didn’t think we should tiptoe around them. She thought we should chat to them, find out who they were and what they did. It’s not a bad idea. Next time you’ve got a spare ten minutes, walk round the outside of the kirk and read the names and dates of the people on the stones. You might be surprised what you find out.
‘Catherine once said to me that she didn’t want a eulogy. A eulogy, she said, is when one person brushes another’s bad points under the carpet and makes out that they were a saint. Catherine wasn’t a saint, she didn’t believe in sainthood. Somebody who is here in this church told me something about her the other day. I don’t know whether it was true or not and I don’t care. It was said out of spite because the person who said it didn’t like Catherine or her views on religion. The implication was that she was a wicked woman, a terrible sinner. But even if what I was told was true, it would mean only that Catherine was human. As Jesus said when the Pharisees brought an adulterous woman before him, “He that is without sin, let him first cast a stone at her.” So if the individual in this church today has anything further to say on this matter, let him speak now.’
The Testament of Gideon Mack Page 37