Benefit of the Doubt

by Les Cowan

  David arrived promptly but found Paco already there, already nursing a caña.

  “Just keeping it company,” he beamed. “What do you want?”

  “Well, since we’re being cool and sophisticated, I’ll have a malt.”

  “How very Scottish. Bowmore?”

  “Laphroaig. Ten years old if they have it.”

  “Of course. An evening of sophistication. Let’s make it two.”

  Paco shuffled along, letting David into a space as the waiter came over, scribbled their order, then continued his progress round the tables as the seats filled up.

  “I discovered jazz when I was working in Maidenhead,” Paco reminisced as they waited for their drinks. “And whiskey too. Equally unlikely but both true. Chet Baker came to the local town hall. Past his best by then of course and in and out of jail more often than the mafia. But still quality. Absolute quality. A bit like the Laphroaig, if you like. Baker is a specific taste. Not everyone’s cup of tea. That’s to say, not if you’re into light speed changes and the more notes you can fit in the bar the better. Nothing against Dizzy and Bird of course, but as I get older I seem to like the more reflective style. So I went to see Chet with an English girl I was dating. She was tasty too. Before I met Marisa of course. It’s sometimes not healthy to reminisce too much.”

  David looked down, trying not to smile. Paco was so not the model of an earnest evangelical pastor you might imagine if all you had to go on was what you heard on the metro or watched on American TV.

  “And that was that. One night – two love affairs. Good value eh?”

  “Cheers Paco,” David said as the drinks arrived, “since we’re being Britanicos this evening.”

  “Cheers.” Paco rolled the spirit around in his mouth. David wasn’t sure if he was savouring the flavour of the whiskey, the memory of Chet Baker’s cool, educated trumpet style, or thinking about the English girl from Maidenhead. Better not to enquire.

  “So, David. Much as I enjoy a good malt and cool jazz, we’d didn’t come here just for that. You’re confused. What about?”

  David hardly paused. He had his pitch ready.

  “You, for one,” he said. “You’re an educated man yet you believe things educated people think are nonsense. You must be well paid but you live in the backstreets of Vallacas with the gypsies and the junkies. You have sophisticated tastes,” David raised his glass and Paco reciprocated smiling, “but you spend all your free time with gullible people who seem to have swapped one set of superstitions for another. I just can’t make it out.”

  “And now your girlfriend has made a deal with the devil and joined up with the legions of the gullible. Is that it?”

  “Well, I wasn’t going to put it that way, but yes. That is it. What is it all about. Where’s the sense?”

  Paco took another sip from his glass, rolling it around. He took his time and seemed to be savouring the question as well as the spirit.

  “Gullible,” he said at last just as David was wondering if he’d overdone it. “Uneducated. Superstitious. Strong words, my friend.” He paused again, looking round the clientele as the café was beginning to fill and waving to a couple just taking their seats across the room. “Tell me, what do you think of Miles Davis’s later work? Say, On the Corner or Big Fun compared with Kind of Blue or Birth of the Cool?”

  Now David was stumped.

  “I’ve no idea. I know Kind of Blue of course but the others, not so much.”

  “Well, everyone has their opinion and Miles is the master, so who are we to criticize, but there are some that say there was a marvellous simplicity in the earlier work that he lost later on. Studio tracks that were never actually played complete. Stockhausen and funk and a group of musicians who didn’t even play jazz. Maybe it was all bold and adventurous, but maybe on the other hand he lost something as well. Do you know he hasn’t played in public now for the last six years?”

  “And your point, Paco?”

  “Just that education and sophistication might be a bit overrated, don’t you think? The words of our founder have been changing lives for two thousand years now. Sometimes simple words. Why should you need a higher degree to understand ‘love your enemies and do good to those that hate you’ or ‘render to Caesar what is Caesar’s and to God what is God’s’? My congregation are simple people on the whole, I agree. But their stories aren’t simple. Pablo spent three years in prison for his faith under Franco. When Daniel and Rosa married, the church wouldn’t recognize a Protestant ceremony, so they were thought to be living in sin and their children were all called ‘bastards’ at school. Do you know that when they lost the youngest, the church wouldn’t even let them bury the body in the town cemetery? That was holy ground and they were all heretics. Javier wouldn’t take an oath of allegiance to the Virgin when he was called up for national service so he did his entire mili digging ditches and cleaning sewers. Simple people, yes. But not gullible. Not deceived. Not to be pitied or patronized.” Paco’s tone had taken on an edge David hadn’t heard before.

  “You know the parable of the pearl merchant, I suppose?” he continued. David nodded, hesitant now to say more. “Well, it’s about what we most value in life. Javier, Pablo, and the others – every one of these uneducated people has a story. They would say they found something better – the perfect pearl. So in a sense they couldn’t be intimidated any more. And you could never say they were in it for the money or the popularity or the fashion. So what about Spain today? All the education and sophistication. We’ve seen the corruption of the last fifty years and every week we hear something new. Now it’s priests who’ve been abusing children and babies stolen from unmarried mothers and passed on to good, respectable Catholic families. The church is a human institution. The Catholic church. My church. Whatever. But God’s church isn’t a matter of cardinals and conclaves, or the membership role in Vallecas for that matter. It’s those who have a relationship – a personal connection – with something bigger than themselves. Something that rescues, renovates, reinstates.”

  “Or someone, I suppose?” David muttered. Paco inclined his head.

  “Or someone, indeed. That’s our belief. And our experience. The universe has a voice. It has a personality. However unlikely it may seem, there is someone seeking us, wooing us. Do you know the Englishman Francis Thompson? He was addicted to opium, lived as a tramp in London, then died of TB before he was fifty. But he also wrote The Hound of Heaven.” Paco cast his eyes up to the ceiling and recited, “‘I fled Him, down the nights and down the days; I fled Him, down the arches of the years; I fled Him, down the labyrinthine ways’. He was writing about what our ‘gullible’ congregation have themselves experienced. What he’s saying is that God is seeking those who are honest enough to listen and brave enough to respond. Education and sophistication don’t have any bearing on that.”

  Paco seemed to have said his piece. He sat back, dabbed his brow with a large white handkerchief with saxophone motifs, and took another sip.

  “And Rocío,” David said, tentatively. “I just feel confused about where we are as a couple. We’ve always more or less seen things the same way. Forgive me, Paco, but this is something new. It’s something we don’t share and I can’t imagine we will. It worries me.”

  Paco half turned and put his hand on David’s arm.

  “David. My friend. Son of my best friend. Please forgive me.”

  “What for?”

  “I’ve been talking about other people’s experience. That doesn’t matter to you. Nor should it. This is personal. The one you love – can I say that?” David nodded. “She’s taken a turn in the road you feel you can’t follow. Correct? And the question is, what happens if there are further bends ahead and you lose sight of each other. That’s the issue, no?”

  “Of course. And what happens then? It’s like I’ve just got her back and she’s about to slip through my fingers al
l over again.” David felt something worryingly like pricking in his eyes.

  The café was filling up in earnest now. One of the waiters had started going round with one hand full of tickets and a biscuit tin of cash in the other.

  “We’re staying?” Paco asked.

  “Of course. Why not?”

  “Well. We haven’t long then. I’ll just say this. Do you prefer the new Rocío or the old?”

  “You mean over the past few years? Well, the new, of course.”

  “Ok. Let that be enough for now. Let her follow her own journey. And you follow yours. But don’t let a prejudice get in your way. Be open – to me or others. Open the window and let in some fresh air. Open a door and see who’s behind it. Read, think, study, talk. Now, here’s what we’ve been waiting for!”

  A middle-aged man in a white shirt, black waistcoat, thick black beard, and a scrappy note in his hand hopped up onto the stage.

  “Señores y Señoras. The moment you’ve been waiting for. For your listening pleasure. Please, a warm welcome for – Johnny Griffin and friends!” There was a warm round of applause while a diminutive African American with a large tenor saxophone round his neck and three significantly larger companions tiptoed out of the back room. A brief acknowledgment of the applause. A word of thanks in careful Spanish, then one at the piano, one on drums, and the third picking up a double bass left on the stage and they were off.

  “‘Hush a Bye’ – my favourite!” Paco whispered, still clapping.

  Chapter 7

  Morningside

  When ladies from Morningside phone their minister late in the evening it can mean a variety of things. One, that they won’t manage Sunday school in the morning because their sister from Winnipeg is visiting and they’re going to take a picnic to the Botanical Gardens. Two, would the minister mind announcing that more names are needed for the flower rota which is due to expire next month? Or three (in some cases), that Auntie Jessie has just died and would it be all right if something appropriate goes in the notice sheet? Ladies from Morningside are brisk, businesslike, and self-reliant and obtain what spiritual comfort they need from Songs of Praise, not late-night pastoral visits. So it was with considerable embarrassment and confusion that Irene MacInnes was pacing the floor fully ten minutes after eleven o’clock waiting for the doorbell to ring. It wasn’t just “what would the neighbours think”; she had no idea what to make of it herself. It had never happened before to her or anyone she knew. Dealing with troublesome tradesmen was one thing, but the minister? At ten minutes past eleven? Think of it. In this case, however, a lack of anywhere else to turn had overcome Morningside respectability. The doorbell chimed softly and she ran to answer it.

  “Oh, Mr Hidalgo. I mean Señor David. Thank you so much for coming. I didn’t know who else to speak to. Come away in. Would you like a cup of tea?”

  “That would be lovely, but perhaps you should tell me what’s happened first and why you think there’s anything wrong.”

  “Of course, of course. And so late at night too. Taking you out of your way. I just want you to know I don’t make a habit of this.”

  The calm, totally-in-control woman of practical affairs and the resolving of problems seemed quite distant from the troubled elderly lady David had before him now.

  “I’m sure you don’t. Now what’s going on?”

  They made their way up the hall and into the front room. It was dominated by heavy red drapes, firm upright furniture, and such a combination of clashing wallpaper, cushions, carpet, and rugs as to make anyone of more modern tastes feel giddy and need to sit down for a bit. David sat down.

  “Well, as I said it’s about my daughter Alison. You’ve met her I think. She came on the Sunday school trip to Dunbar last August. You know, when it rained all day and we couldn’t have the races or anything?”

  “I think that was before I came, but yes, I’ve been told. What about her?”

  “Well she has a daughter, Jennifer. My granddaughter. Well, that’s obvious I imagine. You know, this has just got me all upset.” She perched on the edge of an upright chair, took a deep breath and carried on. “Well, Jennifer – that’s Jen, that’s what she calls herself, though Jennifer is a perfectly lovely name if she would just use it. Anyway, Jen is not quite sixteen and she’s been keeping some quite unsavoury company.” David nodded. “You know Alison and her husband split up two years ago now and what with having to divide the house and everything she had to take a council flat, down in Muirhouse. Terrible. I would have had her here of course but you know I just don’t have the room and Jennifer wouldn’t have liked it at all. Why she couldn’t keep the house and have that man of hers live in a council flat I don’t know but there you are. You’ve got to keep your nose out of it. That’s what I always say. I say that to Mrs Buchanan all the time you know. You’ve just got to bite your tongue and keep your nose out of it and let the young ones get on with it. Now, where on earth was I?”

  “Jen…” David prompted, wondering how long it would take to get to the point and why it couldn’t just have waited till morning.

  “Yes indeed. Jen. That’s right. Well. Did I say she had been keeping some not very suitable company?”

  “You did.”

  “Well, it turns out it’s not just the company. She’s actually been taking… well… taking the drugs… actually. Yes. The drugs, I’m afraid.” Mrs MacInnes had lowered her voice as if the neighbours might be listening and saying it in a whisper might yet keep her reputation intact.

  “What sort of drugs?” David asked in a normal tone, to Mrs MacInnes’s obvious discomfort.

  “Well, I don’t entirely know. But Alison thinks it started with that stuff you smoke, what’s it called – Margarina?”

  “Marijuana.”

  “That’s it. About two years ago. Not long after the break-up. But then she’s been going on to stronger stuff. I don’t know what you would call it all but her mother was finding teaspoons, matches, silver paper… even a syringe in her room, and seemed to think it was all connected. Though what you would do with a teaspoon, matches, and silver paper I can’t imagine.” David could imagine perfectly well and was beginning to feel there might be something to worry about after all.

  “You said she had gone missing.”

  “Yes, I was just coming to that. It wasn’t just the drugs and the company, but she’d been coming home later and later. Then she’d started not coming in at all and saying she was with a friend. What do they call it nowadays – a sleepover? Yes, that’s it, she kept having these sleepovers and not coming in at all. Then last weekend she didn’t come in on the Saturday night. Or the Sunday. Now she’s been gone the whole week and Alison doesn’t know where she is at all.”

  “And how did you find this out?”

  “Well I was over there at teatime today. It’s Alison’s birthday on Tuesday so I got her a wee something and I went over there on the bus. She tries to keep up appearances, you know, but I could tell. I can always tell with Alison. So I just asked her straight out. I said, ‘What’s the matter Alison? There’s something upsetting you and you’d be better just to tell your mother, whatever it is.’ And then she just broke down entirely. Just about screamed the house down in fact. Like a banshee, she was. I suppose they’re maybe used to that sort of thing in Muirhouse, but I can tell you Señor David, I wasn’t prepared for it at all.”

  “And what does Alison think has happened? Has she heard from her at all?”

  “Not a dicky bird. Alison thinks she’s run away but I think she’s been abducted. Mrs Buchanan thinks she’s probably taken an overdose and ended up in a coma at the Western General but I said they’d have had something in the Evening News if that had happened and I would have seen it. No, you can rest assured, she’s been abducted by someone. One of her druggy cronies I’ll be bound.”

  “And what do you think I might be able to do… exa
ctly?”

  “Well I don’t rightly know, Señor David. But I do remember you telling us at the vacancy committee, and when we were speaking the other day – I remember you saying you used to help young people who were using drugs and things. I just thought you might be able to do something.”

  “That was in Spain, Mrs MacInnes. Really I have no connections in Edinburgh at all. I don’t think there’s anything I can do that the police and the social work department aren’t doing already.” Mrs MacInnes looked at David in silence for a second then leaned forward and lowered her voice still further.

  “That’s just it. I’m not allowed to tell the police. Or the social people. Alison made me promise. She says we can’t let anybody know or Jennifer might be in danger. I don’t know what to do. You’ve got to help us, Pastor David. I don’t know where else to turn.”

  By the time David had calmed her down, assured her that everything would probably work out ok, that it was probably nothing more than a bit of teenage rebellion and made her promise to try to bring Alison along to church in the morning, it was late. However, to the anxious Mrs MacInnes’s credit, by this time all she wanted was her granddaughter back in one piece and what the neighbours might think didn’t seem as important as it had an hour before. Finally, well after midnight, David managed to excuse himself and Mrs MacInnes managed to get her cup of Ovaltine before tucking herself up in bed and dreaming of Rudolph Valentino. Señor David would surely take care of everything.

  The snowfall had come to an end by the time David came out. The sky was studded with stars and a full moon made everything sparkle and glisten. Late-night partygoers crunched home and such traffic as there was crept along, engines, gears, and tyres muffled by the dampening effect of the fall. In the moonlight glow it was tempting to think that life was beautiful, people were kind, intentions were good, and things that went wrong were unfortunate misunderstandings – like the missing Jen – to be cleared up in the morning. But for David the illusion held no significance. Despite all his assurances, a vulnerable teenage girl plus drugs, users, and dealers was never a good combination. Worse still it brought the past crashing back into his present again like a railway wagon hitting the buffers. Far too often he had seen youngsters with everything to live for gobbled up and sucked dry of all their hope and humanity. He had also seen a supernatural power transforming lives, but the monster rarely seemed to be entirely slain. It was a perfect fit for the apostle Peter’s vision of the devil prowling around like a roaring lion seeking whom he might devour. Did he have his jaws gripped round Jen right now? No doubt they would soon find out.