Heather Song

by Michael Phillips

Alasdair’s Song

  I think of thee when spring wakes smiling nature,

  When birds sing sweetly and when flowers are bright,

  When pleasure gladdens every living creature,

  And sunshine bathes the earth and sea in light.

  And when the rainbow springs, its glory throwing

  O’er cloud and storm, to bid their darkness flee;

  And all is bright and beautiful and glowing,

  Like one that I could name—I think of thee.

  —Alexander Hume, “I Think of Thee”

  I followed Iain inside and into the kitchen.

  “I don’t know if this will be quite the same as having tea in your house in Scotland,” I said, glancing about, “and having water from the kettle poured down my back, but it is charming in its own way.”

  Iain laughed. “You would bring that up!”

  “Whenever I think of you making tea—what else would come to my mind?!”

  “Maybe you’re right—clumsiness…my cross to bear! But you’re right about the flat—everything in central London is old. Housing here is unbelievably expensive. You can’t be particularly choosy.”

  “Do you own this house?” I asked.

  “No, just rent. You’ve got to be independently wealthy to own in London.”

  “Your sister—” I began.

  “You met my sister?”

  “Yes, outside on the street. I thought she was your wife. I was so afraid. I almost left.”

  He laughed. “She told you about losing her husband?”

  “Only briefly. It is good of you to take her in.”

  “She is great. We are good friends. It’s wonderful to have someone to share the house with…and share expenses with.”

  “Where does she work?”

  “She’s a clerical assistant for one of the banks in the city. Nothing fancy, but it helps keep bread and potatoes on the table. We grew up in humble circumstances and both have simple tastes. We manage fine.”

  “Does she have children?”

  “No. Her husband died young and they never got around to it. She’s only thirty-eight.”

  “She’s attractive. Do you think she’ll marry again?”

  “Possibly. She’s not ‘looking,’ but you’re right, she’s an attractive, capable girl—er, woman, I mean. Once a younger sister, always a younger sister.”

  “What did her husband do?”

  “He was involved in finances, though I was never sure in exactly what kind of role. That whole world remains a mystery to me.”

  “For me, too,” I said. “Though I am learning. I had to take care of my father’s estate—I’ve got his house up for sale now in Oregon. My house in Calgary is in limbo…and now Alasdair’s huge holdings are apparently mine to administrate. I’m still pretty overwhelmed. As a Nashville song might put it, I’m just a simple country girl!”

  “I doubt if you’re really all that simple,” said Iain. “You may find you like being a tycoon.”

  “A tycoon? That’s hardly how I would describe it!”

  “You’re a duchess.”

  “A reluctant one.”

  “You will grow into it, of that I have no doubt.”

  “What about you?” I asked. “I understand you are no longer in the ministry?”

  Iain nodded as he poured boiling water into a pot and gathered a few things onto a tray. He carried it across the room and we sat down at the small kitchen table.

  “Is it permanent?” I asked. “Have you, I don’t know, had some change of belief or—”

  “No, no, nothing like that,” replied Iain. “If anything my faith is stronger than ever. As to the duration of my present circumstance, one never knows about such things. I think of it as a season of recharging my spiritual batteries, to live awhile in the real world working for a living, which all pastors and clergymen ought to have to do at least one month of every year.”

  “A radical idea,” I said. “But then as I recall, you rather thrived on finding the unusual edges of gospel practicality to make your Christianity real.”

  Iain roared with delight. “You have me pegged to perfection—the gospel’s unusual edges…Well put!”

  “It’s true. That’s exactly what you do.”

  “I just hate stale, rote, formula religion. Jesus employed none of that in his methods. If those who attach themselves to his name don’t wake up eventually to the imperative of being real followers, not zombies parroting back the clichés of their pastors and priests, or fractious political and theological zealots bickering with those of differing outlook, Christianity as a spiritual force in the world is finished.”

  “No wonder you are not in a church,” I said with a laugh. “No church would have you!”

  “You’re probably not far wrong.”

  “But what does all that have to do with working?” I asked.

  “Because the professional clergy, so called, is an enormous part of the problem. Have you ever seen such antithesis to the lifestyle of Christlikeness or the example of the apostle Paul than as represented by the Catholic priesthood or the Evangelical ministry? The thing is positively a joke. Jesus wearing robes or waving incense about…Paul wearing gold jewelry and expensive suits and motoring about in luxury cars! That’s why I say that one of the qualifications for any form of the pastorate or priesthood ought to be the ability to work and make a living doing something else. Any man or woman who cannot sweat and groan hard alongside the working class is not fit for ministry. Otherwise they get completely insulated from life. They ought to have to work. Depending on donations from other people for your salary—it’s such an artificial means of supporting oneself. A man ought to be able to make a living by the sweat of his brow. Only if he can do that does he deserve periodically to take donations so that he can minister more effectively. But to enter the so-called ministry as a lifetime vocation and career, to me seems a travesty against truth, profit-mongering from the gospel.”

  “Will you go back into the church, that is, on the assumption that anyone would have such a radical?”

  “I don’t know,” replied Iain reflectively. “I think so…I hope so. But I am in no hurry.”

  “I can just hear Ranald saying that. He told me not so long ago that God is never in a hurry.”

  “Oh, dear Ranald!” he exclaimed with affection in his tone. “I can hear the exact words from his mouth. How is the precious man?”

  “Well…very well. I now know why you revere him so.”

  “I take it that you and he have become well acquainted?”

  “I would say very well acquainted,” I said, nodding. “As you say—what a precious man. He has become for me exactly what he was for you—a spiritual mentor. And for Alasdair toward the end as well. They had amazing talks at Alasdair’s bedside. I only heard bits and pieces, but it brings tears to my eyes whenever I think of it.”

  “I am so glad. Among all the reasons for my leaving, that was primary among them—the hope that those two men would draw together in a way I do not think could have happened while I was present.”

  Iain’s words rubbed open my own perplexity about his leaving. But I did not pursue it.

  “What are you doing in the real world, then?”

  “You see before you a humble construction laborer…pouring cement and framing new buildings. See?” he added, lifting his palms toward me. “I’ve got the rough, blistered hands to prove it!”

  “Your sister said you were writing a book. That’s great. I always thought you should.”

  “It’s slow going,” said Iain. “I am not a natural writer, but I am writing about something I feel strongly about. So I try to give quality time to it on my days off, which usually come in two- to three-day chunks. That helps me achieve a little continuity.”

  “What is it about?” I asked.

  A sheepish look came over Iain’s face. “It’s funny you should ask,” he said. “Actually, this whole thing is amazingly coincidental.”

  “Why?�
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  “Because it is a book about Alasdair, about his life, about the principle of growth and change and regeneration in the human heart.”

  “That is amazing. I would never have guessed it, given, you know, how we completely lost touch with you.”

  “Don’t read too much into that, Marie. My deep affection for you both remained unchanged. Indeed, my admiration for my friend has grown so mightily since I last saw the two of you that finally I had no choice but to try to write about it. People don’t usually change. Alasdair did. He changed because he wanted to grow, to become better than he was. I just find his story amazingly inspirational. I’m thinking of calling it—I hope you won’t mind, I took the word song from your musical talents—Alasdair’s Song.”

  “I don’t mind at all.” I smiled. “I think it’s a lovely title. I can’t wait to read it.”

  Iain’s words warmed my heart and set so many things to rest. I was so proud of both men I loved.

  “How long are you staying?” asked Iain. “What else brought you to London—do you have business, or—”

  “No, nothing else,” I said, “only to tell you about Alasdair. I would have come or written sooner—but I didn’t know how to find you.”

  Iain nodded. “I know, I am sorry— I’m sure it must have been confusing for you at first. Hopefully I will have the chance to explain one day, if and when the time is right. But right now…I can still hardly believe you are here. It is just so great to see you! We can do London together—that is, if you have time. If not, of course…I mean, I understand. I’m sure you are busy. You are a duchess, after all…an important lady now—many responsibilities, people depending on you—places to go, things to do, people to see, situations to evaluate.”

  I couldn’t help laughing at his characterization of my life. I couldn’t believe how refreshingly good it felt to bask in Iain’s zestful, energetic outlook, his sense of humor, his exuberance for life.

  “Have no worry about intruding,” I said. “There is nothing I would love so much as to have you intrude on my time as much as you have time for. I have so much to tell you!” I said.

  “And I want to hear it all,” rejoined Iain. “I told you—every detail.”

  As we walked through Kensington Gardens two days later, the initial mood of excited and exhilarating reacquaintance had given way to a quiet sense of contentment merely to be in each other’s presence. I think we both felt the same. It was different than it had ever been between us. There were no issues to contend with, no distractions, no people to worry about, no village gossip, no reminders of the past, no church politics or disputes or personalities, no watching eyes, not even any spiritual issues.

  Just us.

  Two people walking along. Two friends…a man and a woman.

  We must have walked an hour without a word. All around bustled the life of London—horns and traffic in the distance, ducks and families and lovers scattered throughout the massive park. In the midst of it all we walked in peaceful silence.

  We had talked. Almost nonstop for two days as we could find the time, late into both evenings, till almost midnight the first, till ten-thirty the second after Iain had been at work all day. Then today he had taken off from his job. If they fired him, he said, so be it. Being with me was a higher priority. We had talked about everything that had taken place in our two lives during the past four years.

  Everything. Thus the silence between us now was the silence of fullness, not the silence of emptiness.

  We had spoken of everything…except the one thing.

  At length Iain broke the silence.

  “When will you go?” he asked softly.

  The question dropped like an anvil of inevitability on my head. In that instant I realized that what I had come to London for had been accomplished. To prolong it now could only lead in directions I wasn’t sure it was supposed to go.

  I drew in a long sigh and slowly exhaled.

  “I think probably tomorrow,” I replied.

  He nodded.

  “I had a feeling,” he said…then said no more.

  As my plane lifted off from Gatwick the following morning and slowly banked north, I felt quietly at peace. Sad but at peace.

  Whole.

  Full circle.

  Duties discharged.

  Friendships fulfilled.

  A good, quiet, melancholy sense of completion.

  I didn’t know whether I would ever see Iain Barclay again.

  Chapter Fifty-one

  Uncertain Return

  There lives a young lassie far down in yon glen;

  And I lo’e that lassie as nae ane may ken!

  O! a saint’s faith may vary, but faithfu’ I’ll be;

  For weel I lo’e Mary, and Mary lo’es me.

  —John Imlah, “There Lives a Young Lassie”

  Now began one of the difficult interludes of my life since first coming to Scotland.

  Suddenly I had nothing to look forward to. Truly now everything was wrapped up, every loose end tied off. All I could think was, Now what?

  Did my future at this point consist solely of becoming a businesswoman and administering the affairs of the Buchan estate? I can’t say the prospect thrilled me.

  I would begin adding harp students, of course. But was that all…Was that enough?

  What did I have to hope for, to look forward to? What new challenges, adventures, opportunities awaited me? I could think of none. It was a little depressing.

  I had even put the disappearance of my pedal harp behind me and filed an insurance claim. I wasn’t particularly hopeful that I would receive anything. Its theft couldn’t be proven, and in all likelihood Olivia had contributed to it, too—sort of an “inside job,” as they say. But in a way filing the claim was my way of bringing proverbial closure to Olivia’s tenure in the castle. Of course I could afford to buy a new pedal harp. But a harp studio is like a library—you can’t just go out and blindly purchase a collection of harps any more than you can a collection of books. Both have to grow and develop over time. A library is built on love of books that are obtained one at a time, savored as their truths make unique contributions to the whole. My little collection of harps had come into my life the same way, one at a time, each unique in both appearance and tone, each adding something special to the studio family. I had bright-sounding harps, mellow-sounding harps, some with incredibly rich bass notes. There were those with light airy tones, others with subdued mysterious timbres. In Canada I had needed a pedal harp for the symphony and for weddings. But in Scotland the clarsach, or folk harp, was the harp of choice. Therefore, I couldn’t know if another pedal harp would ever join the family again. At the right time, perhaps. Only time would tell.

  For some of my friends, on the other hand, the next few months were gloriously exciting. Alicia and Nigel Crathie were now seeing each other seriously. I had a pretty good idea where that relationship would lead. The romance between Tavia and Harvey Nicholls, while a little slower to develop, had also nevertheless begun to attract the notice of many of the village auld wives. I thought it was absolutely delightful.

  Alicia had a birthday coming up and I planned a day together, with a surprise present to climax the day’s outing. When the morning arrived, we left about ten. We drove to Nairn first, then to Logie Steddings south of Nairn where we visited their bookstore, which specialized in books of interest to the northeast of Scotland. After spending a hundred pounds on books, we lunched at the Logie Steddings Tearoom. From there we drove the rest of the way into Inverness, walked the river, went into some of the shops, then spent an hour in the magnificent Leakey’s used-book store and spent more money than we should have there, too. For all Alicia knew, when we drove out of the city on the A98 about three in the afternoon, we were on our way home. But I had one more stop planned. As I turned into the Inverness airport, Alicia asked where we were going.

  “I thought you said you liked airplanes,” I said.

  “I do.”

 
“Did you know they give private flying lessons here?”

  “You remembered!” Alicia exclaimed. “This is brilliant—I’ll go in and find out what the procedure is. I’ve been wanting to look into it anyway. Thank you, Marie.”

  “You don’t understand, Alicia,” I said. “You’re going to do more than find out about it.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Your first lesson starts in fifteen minutes.”

  Alicia gasped in astonishment.

  “You don’t…you really—”

  “It’s all arranged. You’re paid up for ten lessons. All you have to do is go into the office and sign a few papers. Happy birthday, Alicia.”

  Beside herself with excitement, it was all I could do to bring the Volvo to a complete stop before she was out of the car and running toward the private hangars.

  “The office is this way, Alicia!” I laughed after her.

  Twenty-five minutes later I stood watching Alicia, excited beyond words, taxiing away in the passenger seat of a little Piper Cub. They took off as I watched from the ground. After about fifteen minutes circling around and flying back and forth in the general vicinity of the airport, I saw the plane take a sudden dip. My heart leaped up into my throat. The pilot must have given Alicia the controls! Almost immediately the plane righted itself, then flew straight again for a while, then dipped again, though not so badly, then leveled off, then suddenly arced upward sharply.

  Alicia! I said to myself. What are you doing up there?!

  But all ended well. The little blue Piper finally swooped down for a smooth landing. Alicia got out and ran toward me, absolutely radiant and more thrilled than I had ever seen her. She gave me a great hug and thanked me at least twenty times before we were back at Port Scarnose.

  “That was so fun!” she said over and over. “That was so absolutely entirely fun! Can we stop by Nigel’s office in Elgin?” she said. “I’ve just got to tell him!”

  “It’s your birthday!” I laughed. “We can do anything you like.”

  That evening we gathered with a group of Alicia’s friends, including Nigel Crathie, of course, and Harvey Nicholls at Tavia’s for fish-and-chips. Alicia even invited crusty old Farquharson, whom I had kept on at the castle and who was gradually warming to the rest of us. Alicia regaled everyone with tales of her exploits over the airfield in Inverness, as if she had been flying a dangerous mission with a secret military cargo onboard. The two of us had all the others laughing so hard tears were flowing even from the men.