The meal he was given was, he thought, the best he had eaten in his whole life. The bread was rough and full of flavour, spread with thick creamy butter. With it they ate with their fingers venison cut into wafer-thin portions by Gartnaits razor-sharp knife, mountain trout, cooked on slender twigs above the fire, and wedges of crumbling white cheese. Then there was more bread to mop up the rich gravy. To drink they had something which Adam, who had never touched alcohol in his life, suspected was some kind of heather ale. Mesmerised by the fire and the food and by his smiling though silent companions he drank heavily and within minutes, leaning back against a log, he was fast asleep.
He was awakened by Brids hand on his knee. For a moment he couldnt think where he was, then he realised he was still outside. To his surprise he found he was lying warmly wrapped in a heavy woollen blanket. The fuzz of the wool was soaked with dew as he sat up and began to unwrap himself, but inside he was warm and dry.
A-dam. He loved the way she pronounced his name, carefully, liltingly, a little as though it were a French word. She pointed up at the sky. To his horror he could see the streaks of dawn above the hill. He had been out all night. His father would kill him if he found out. Frightened, he began to scramble to his feet.
Behind Brid her mother was bending over a brightly burning fire. Something was simmering in the pot suspended above it. He sniffed and Brid clapped her hands. She nodded and, taking a pottery bowl from her mother, spooned some sort of thin porridge into it. Taking it from her he sniffed, tasted, and burned his tongue. As breakfasts went it was pretty tasteless, not nearly as nice as the meal the night before, but it filled his stomach and when at last Brid led him back the way they had come he was feeling comparatively cheerful.
The cross-slab was wrapped once more in mist as they passed close beside it and he walked onto the hillside and stood looking down at his own valley, still wrapped in darkness. Brid pointed, with a little smile, and Adam stepped away from her. Goodbye, he said. And thanks.
Goodbye and thanks. The girl repeated the words softly. With a wave she turned and vanished into the mist.
The manse looked bleak in the cold dawn light. There was still no smoke coming from the chimneys and the front door was locked. Biting his lip nervously Adam ran soundlessly round the side, praying under his breath that the kitchen door would be open. It wasnt. He stood there for a moment undecided, looking up at the blank windows at the back of the house. The awful misery was returning. Swallowing it down he turned and headed back into the street.
The manse might still be asleep but the village was stirring. The sweet smell of woodsmoke filled the air as he turned up Bridge Street and into Jeannie Barrons gate and knocked tentatively at the door. The sound was greeted by a frenzy of wild barking.
The door was opened seconds later by Jeannies burly husband, Ken. A pretty sheltie was leaping round his heels, plainly delighted to see Adam, who stooped to give her a hug. The dog had been his once. But for some reason Adam had never understood his father had disapproved of his son having a pet and the puppy had been given to Jeannie. Ken stared down at Adam with a surprised frown and then turned and called over his shoulder, Jeannie, its the ministers lad.
Jeannies kindly pink-cheeked face appeared behind him. She was wearing her overall just as she always did at the manse.
Hello, Mrs Barron. Adam looked at her and to his intense embarrassment his eyes flooded with tears.
Adam. She pushed past her husband and enveloped the boy in a huge plump hug. Oh, my poor wee boy. He was almost as tall as she was but for the moment he was a small child again, seeking comfort and warmth and affection in her arms.
She ushered him into her kitchen, pushed her husband outside and sat Adam down at her table. A mug of milky tea and a thick wedge of bread and jam later she stood looking down at him. His pale face had regained its colour and the tears had dried but there was no disguising the misery in the boys face. The dog was sitting pressed against his legs.
Now, do you understand whats happened? She sat down opposite him and reached for the large brown teapot.
He shrugged. Father said Mother has gone. The tears were very near. He said she had sinned.
Shes not sinned! The strength of her voice helped him control the sob which was lurking in his throat. Your mother is a decent, beautiful, good woman. But shes been driven to the end of the road by that man.
Adam frowned. Not recognising her metaphor he pictured a car, driven by a stranger.
Jeannie Barron scowled. Her fair hair leaped round her head in coiled springs as she wielded her pot and filled both their mugs again. How she put up with him so long, Ill never know. I only hope shell find happiness where shes gone.
Where has she gone? He looked at her desperately.
She shook her head. I dont know, Adam, and thats the truth.
But shed tell you? Adam was biting his lip.
She shook her head again. She told no one that I know.
But why did she leave me behind? It was the bewildered cry of a small child. Why didnt she take me with her?
Jeannie pursed her lips. I dont know. She sighed unhappily. Its not because she doesnt love you. You must believe that. Perhaps she didnt know herself where she was going. Perhaps shell send for you a wee bit later.
Do you think so? His huge brown eyes were pleading.
Meeting them she couldnt lie to him and give him the reassurance he wanted. All she could say was, I hope so, Adam, I do hope so. Susan Craig had been her friend but not her confidante. To confide too much in another was not in her nature. It was enough that she knew that Jeannie would be there for Adam.
It was as he was standing up to leave he remembered why they were here in her kitchen and not in the manse. Do you really not work for us any more?
She shook her head. Im sorry, Adam. Your father doesnt want me there.
She would never tell anyone, never mind the boy, the vile, furious words the distraught man had flung at her when she had tried to defend and then excuse his wifes decision to leave. She put her hands on Adams shoulders, her heart aching for the boy. With her own family long gone and scattered round Scotland and one of them in Canada she had always thought of Adam privately as the child of her middle years. Listen, Adam. I want you to remember Im here if you need me. You can come to me any time. She held his gaze firmly. Any time, Adam.
She had a shrewd idea what the boy was going back to and she didnt envy him. But he had courage, she had always admired him for that.
When he turned into the gate and approached the house this time the front door was open. He hesitated in the hall. The door to his fathers study was shut and he glanced at the stairs, wondering if he could reach them in time on his silent rubber soles. He was almost there when he heard the door behind him open. Panic flooded into his throat. For a moment he thought, as he turned to face his father, that he was going to be sick.
Thomas Craig stood back, gesturing the boy into his study with a sharp jerk of his head. The mans face was grey and he was unshaven. As he closed the door behind his son, he reached up to the hook on the back of it and brought down the broad leather belt which hung there.
She had a shrewd idea what the boy was going back to and she didnt envy him. But he had courage, she had always admired him for that.
When he turned into the gate and approached the house this time the front door was open. He hesitated in the hall. The door to his fathers study was shut and he glanced at the stairs, wondering if he could reach them in time on his silent rubber soles. He was almost there when he heard the door behind him open. Panic flooded into his throat. For a moment he thought, as he turned to face his father, that he was going to be sick.
Thomas Craig stood back, gesturing the boy into his study with a sharp jerk of his head. The mans face was grey and he was unshaven. As he closed the door behind his son, he reached up to the hook on the back of it and brought down the broad leather belt which hung there.
Adam whimpered, the ice of fear pouring over his shoulders and down his back, his skin already taut with terror at the beating that was coming. Father
Where were you last night?
On the hill, Father. Im sorry. I got lost in the mist.
You disobeyed me. I told you to go to your room. I had to look for you. I searched the village. And the riverbank, I didnt know what had happened to you!
Im sorry, Father. He was ashamed of himself for being so afraid but he couldnt help it. I was upset. His words were very quiet.
Upset? His father echoed them. He pulled the leather strap through his hand and doubled it into his fist. You think that excuses disobedience?
No, Father. Adam clutched his hands together to stop them shaking.
And you accept that God would want you punished?
No, he was screaming inside himself. No. Mummy says God is theGod of love. He forgives. He wouldnt want me beaten.
Well? Thomass voice came out as a hiss.
Yes, Father, Adam whispered.
His father stood for a moment in silence, looking at him, then he pulled an upright wooden chair out from the wall and placing it in front of his desk he pointed at it.
Adam was trembling. Please, Father
Not another word.
Father
God is waiting, Adam! The ministers voice roared suddenly above his sons whispered plea.
Adam gave up. His legs shaking so much he could hardly move he went to the chair and bent over it, stuffing one fist miserably into his mouth.
Thomas Craig was a just man in his way, sincere in the austere, hard religion which he preached. He knew in some part of himself that the boys misery at losing his mother must be as great, perhaps greater, than his own at losing his wife, but as he started to swing the leather strap down onto the childs defenceless back something inside him snapped. Again and again he swung the belt, seeing, not the narrow hips and scruffy shirt and shorts of a fourteen-year-old boy, but the figure of his beautiful, provocative, unruly wife. It was not until the boy slid into an ungainly heap at his feet that he stopped, appalled, staring down in disbelief.
Adam? He dropped the belt. He knelt beside the boy and stared in horror at the oozing welts which were appearing on the back of the boys thighs, the long bloody stains soaking through his shorts.
Adam? He reached out his hand to his sons awkwardly angled head and drew back, afraid suddenly to touch him. What have I done?
Swallowing hard, he backed away and moving blindly to his desk he sat down at it and picked up his Bible. Clutching it to his chest he sat without moving for a long time. On the blotter before him, torn into small pieces, lay the note Susan Craig had left for her son, a note Adam would never see.
In the hall outside, the long case clock ticked slowly on. It struck the half hour and then the hour and as the long sonorous notes echoed into silence Thomas stirred at last.
Lifting the unconscious boy he carried him upstairs and laid him tenderly on the bed and only then did he find the strength to walk into his own bedroom for the first time since Susan had left him. He stood looking round. Her brushes and comb lay on the table in the window. Otherwise there was no sign of her in the room. But there never had been. He had always discouraged ornaments and fripperies. He did not permit flowers in the house.
He hesitated for a moment then he walked over to the huge old mahogany wardrobe. The righthand door concealed his own meagre selection of black suits; the lefthand door her clothes. More than his, but not many more: the two suits, one navy and one black, the two black hats which sat on the shelf above them and the three cotton dresses, washed and ironed again and again, with the high necks and the long sleeves and sober autumnal colours which he considered suitable for her summer wear. She had two pairs of black lace-up shoes. He pulled open the door, steeling himself to find the clothes gone, but they were there. All of them. He was not prepared to see them, not prepared for his own reaction. The wave of grief and love and loss which swept over him shook him to the core. Unable to stop himself he pulled one of the dresses from its wooden hanger and, hugging it in his arms, he buried his face in it and wept.
It was a long time before he stopped crying.
He looked down at the dress in his arms in disgust. It smelled of her. It smelled of woman, of sweat, of lust. He did not immediately recognise the lust as his own. Throwing the dress on the floor he pulled the rest of the clothes out of the cupboard into a heap, then he descended on the bed. He tore off one of the heavy linen sheets and bundled it around her clothes and shoes and even the two hats. He pulled open the drawers which contained her meagre collection of much-darned underwear and threw them in the pile, then he carried it all out of the room. The tangle of rusty wires and the iron frame which was all that was left of Susan Craigs beloved piano was still there in the garden behind the neat lines of vegetables. Her clothes were thrown down there and Thomas poured paraffin all over them before setting them alight. He waited until the last thick lisle stocking had turned to ash, then he walked back into the house.
He did not climb the stairs to see how Adam was. Instead he walked into his study and stood looking down at the chair over which the boy had bent. He was full of self-loathing. The anger, the misery, the love which he mistook for lust which he had felt for his wife, were evil. They were sins. The most terrible sins. How could he tend his flock and rebuke them for their backsliding when he could not control his own? Walking blindly to the desk he picked up the strap which he had dropped there after he had given the boy the thrashing and he stood looking down at it as it lay across his hand. He knew what he must do.
He locked the door of the old kirk behind him and stepped down into the shadowy nave, looking round the grey stone building with its neat lines of chairs and the bare table at the east end. A church had stood on this site for over a thousand years, or so it was believed, and sometimes in spite of himself, when he was alone in the building, as now, he could feel the special sacredness of the place. He was shocked to find this superstition in himself but could do nothing to rid himself of it. Enough light filtered in through the windows for him to see clearly as he walked halfway along the aisle and sat slowly down. In his right hand he carried the strap with which he had beaten his son.
He sat for a long time upright, rigid, his hands clenched, his eyes shut in prayer to the Lord. But he knew the Lord wanted more than this. He wanted punishment for Thomass weakness. As the last rays of light died in the sky outside, throwing pale streaks through the windows onto the ancient stone of the walls and floor, he stood up. He walked to the front of the lines of chairs and slowly he began to remove his jacket and then his tie and his shirt. He folded them neatly, shivering as the cold air played over his pale shoulders. He hesitated for a minute, then he went on: shoes, socks, trousers, all meticulously stowed on the pile. He wondered for a minute if he should remove his long woollen underpants but the male body naked, like the female, was an abomination before the Lord.