“I’m afraid we must decline. Kathy has her Sunday School class at three. And it’s after half-past two.”
“Good gracious,” said Mrs Fotheringay. “How time has flown. And so very agreeably too. We’re most indebted to our new friend. Come, dear, we’ll leave the men for a wee minute.” She rose and took Kathy’s arm, adding with her usual directness, “Miss Carmichael will show us where to tidy up.”
Left alone with the parson, who had also risen and was standing by the window viewing the sea, Moray seized the opportunity to take his cheque book from his inside pocket. A few strokes of his ballpoint pen and he got to his feet.
“As a token of friendship and good will, permit me to offer you this so that your congregation may be summoned fittingly.”
Fotheringay turned sharply. A dejected little stick of a man, with more bile than blood in his veins, he was now completely overcome. Staring at the cheque, all taken aback, he stammered:
“My dear sir . . . this is more than generous . . . it’s . . . it’s munificent.”
“Not at all. It’s a pleasure. One I can well afford.” Moray placed a finger on his lips. “And please—not a word to the others.”
As he spoke the two ladies returned and Mrs Fotheringay, struck by her husband’s attitude, cried out:
“Matthew! What on earth’s the matter?”
He took a deep breath, swallowed the dry lump in his throat.
“I cannot help it. I must speak. Mr Moray has just given me the eighty pounds to recast our bell!”
There was a sharp silence. A deeper colour had rushed into his wife’s cheeks, already flushed by the substantial meal.
“Well, I never,” she said in a low voice. “That is most extraordinar’ handsome.” She came slowly towards Moray and took his hand tightly in both of hers. “That wretched bell has had my poor old man worried near out of his wits. I just cannot thank you enough. But there, I hadn’t been five minutes in your company before I kenned ye were one of the best.”
He was not often at a loss but now the genuine feeling in her voice unexpectedly embarrassed him.
“Nothing . . . nothing,” he said awkwardly. “If I’m to get you back in time we ought to be on our way.”
Ignoring their protests he insisted on taking them back in the little car. This time the Fotheringays were in the rear seat, Kathy beside him. During the short run she did not speak, but as he said goodbye outside the manse she remained behind the others to thank him—quickly, shyly, but with unmistakable sincerity.
Chapter Six
On Monday afternoon his golf clubs and two valises arrived by special delivery van from Prestwick Airport: he had known that the good Arturo would not fail him. The sight of his beautiful leather bag and shining true-temper clubs stimulated him, and although it was late in the day he went to the clubhouse, introduced himself to the secretary, and arranged for a temporary membership. Then he got hold of the professional and had just time to play twelve holes with him. The open, rolling course suited Moray, he was in excellent form, and when fading light forced them to stop he was actually one up on his opponent, a dour and stocky Scot, who had started with all the expert’s disdain of the amateur, but rapidly and rather comically changed his views.
“Ye hit a verra sweet ball, sir,” he conceded, as they walked back to the clubhouse for a drink. “It’s not often I come up against a visitor that can beat me. Would ye care for a return tomorrow?”
Moray accepted.
“Ten o’clock sharp,” he said, slipping a pound note to the other. “And perhaps we’ll go out again in the afternoon.”
Firmly, he was controlling his persistent wish to go to Markinch. Not only was discretion imperative, lest his motives be misconstrued; he well knew the wisdom of delay, the advantage of an interlude in which expectation could develop and recollection could have its way.
He took no action until noon on Wednesday, when he wrote a note, which he dispatched by the hotel boots, a lad of seventeen.
My dear Kathy,
I have to go to Edinburgh to do some shopping tomorrow. As I believe you are off duty that afternoon, if you have nothing better to do would you care to come with me? Unless I hear to the contrary I will call for you at two o’clock.
Most sincerely yours, David Moray.
His fear that she might not be free was quickly removed; a verbal message of acceptance was brought back by the boy, and on the following afternoon when he drew up at the dispensary she was waiting for him outside, dressed in a clean white blouse, a speckled grey Harris tweed skirt which, at a glance, he decided she had made herself, and, as the breeze was keen, the rather shabby coat in which he had first seen her. Though her fresh young face redeemed everything, exhaling an innocent smell of brown soap, it was an unbecoming outfit, little better than that of a country maidservant on her day out. Nevertheless it pleased him, especially the worn coat, since it might present the opportunity he sought. She would be difficult to convince, but he meant to try.
How delightful it was to find her beside him after those three days of self-enforced abstinence. Not only had she been glad to see him, her mood was lighter than before, she seemed full of expectation for their expedition. He sensed that she was becoming less shy of him. After they had driven for some time in silence, she said:
“This is much nicer than the bus. It was good of you to ask me. And convenient, too. It so happens I have an errand in Edinburgh.”
“Then we’ll do it whenever we arrive,” he said heartily. “Just tell me where you want to go.”
“Number 10a George Street,” she told him. “The offices of the Central African Missionary Society.”
He glanced at her quickly. Their eyes met for only an instant before he returned his gaze to the road ahead, yet she had caught the blankness of his expression, and with a smile she said:
“Did you not know? Uncle Willie is out there for the Society? It’s my fault for not showing you the photographs, but I thought you surely understood. He’s been working for years in the foreign missionary field.”
It took him a few moments to overcome his surprise.
“No . . . I didn’t quite realise . . .”.
“Well, he is. And doing wonderfully under the most difficult conditions. You’ve no idea of what he’s been through.”
In spite of himself, and his lack of sympathy for Willie’s spiritual objectives, he was impressed by her glowing and ingenuous tone. A sentimental recollection of the bright-eyed little boy in Ardfillan thirty years ago came over him.
“Well, well. Come to think of it, it’s just the thing I would have expected of Willie. I honour him for it.”
“I knew you would,” she said in a low voice.
“I must admit . . .”. They were now in the outskirts of Edinburgh and a momentary difficulty in negotiating the traffic caused him to pause, before resuming. “Yes, I admit I was puzzled at your asking me to take you to the—to George Street. But I see it now. I suppose they keep you in touch with Willie’s movements.”
“Indeed they do. And besides, the least I can do is to send him regular parcels. I arrange it through the Society. They know what he needs and are able to buy the right things at reasonable prices.”
“You go in and leave the money?”
“Why not?” she answered light-heartedly. “It’s little enough. Uncle Willie’s worth more than that. Besides, he’s the only relative I’ve got.”
He saw then the reason for her cheap clothes, poor lodging and indifferent food, saw the purpose of her sparing way of life. This devotion touched him, yet his main sensation was one of indignation that she should be denied the things that were due her, and he had a sudden impulse to speak of the resources at his command, of all that he could, and would, do for her. But his instinct warned him—no, no, he thought, not yet; above all he must avoid too sudden, too startling an advance.