Anna of Strathallan (9 page)

A memory of what Maggie had said when she'd thought her uncle had been drunk: 'What'll Miss Kirkpatrick say?' came to her. They were probably engaged, or near-engaged. Maggie didn't call her by her Christian name yet. Miss Kirkpatrick must be strait-laced. Anna frowned at her own thoughts. In a permissive society like today's, it was good sometimes to meet someone a little strait-laced. She wouldn't ask about her. No doubt in time she would meet her.

S
HE
certainly did meet Miss Kirkpatrick very soon, that is, if you could call it a meeting, gazing at the Crannog pulpit on Sunday morning as the Reverend Sophy Kirkpatrick came in, following the beadle with the Scriptures, complete in her Geneva gown. Anna hadn't by then got over the surprise of seeing that name on the church notice-board as she'd come in.

She'd been behind the others, with Maggie, and said, 'Have you got a woman minister? Was that who you meant would have told Calum off if he'd been drunk?'

Maggie was so precise. Anna just loved her. She said, 'Oh, no, Anna. She wouldn't have told him off. She's too fond of him. But she'd have been disappointed in him. And looked sad.'

Therefore Anna had come into church expecting to see a middle-aged woman whom Calum wouldn't want to shock. Now she was gazing at - at a - well, there was no other word for it, at a ravishing red-head! And she wouldn't be a day over thirty, if that. And Calum must be thirty-three.

The Reverend Sophy had a curious blend of serenity coupled with a dynamic personality. Even Anna, whose thoughts were chaotic, could appreciate that. Her voice was delightful, crisp, with an inflection of humour and gaiety, yet you couldn't doubt she was dedicated to her work, and in spite of that dedication you had to recognize that she wasn't a bit other-worldly or too holy. In fact, she was down-to- earth.

Anna was conscious of a mixture of emotions. Perhaps one ought not to feel this way in church. Perhaps one should think only of worship, but - she knew a gladness in her heart not known before, that she was sitting between her grandparents, kin not known before, and who were almost swelling with pleasure in having their son's girl in the pew with them.

The prayer of thanksgiving, when the Reverend Sophy said, 'And for all those secret fulfilments that have come our way, O God, we give Thee thanks...' made Anna offer up aprayer of sheer thankfulness that her mother, who had walked a lonely way for so long, in a manless world, now knew a great love and was happed about with the rugged strength of Magnus Randal's devotion.

She must write her this very afternoon, tell her of her inlaws, say that she would just love them even as Anna did. The time would be ripe now. Mother would have had her honeymoon, undisturbed by thoughts of the past and would be settled in to their new quarters. Anna would tell them that she would fly. up to Auckland often to see them when they returned next year, and that it would be even more wonderful for them to be on their own.

She was conscious of other things too ... of the pleasing sound of Calum's baritone from where he sat, strategically placed between the twins. They rose for the hymn before the sermon, Horatius Bonar's hymn of praise. Anna had last heard it sung in a little mission church on one of the more remote islands, with palms waving outside and tropical scents hanging heavily on the hot still air. She loved the second verse, it fitted her changed life

'Praise in the common words I speak, Life's common looks and tones;

In intercourse at hearth or board With my beloved ones.

Not in the temple crowd alone, Where holy voices chime;

But in the silent paths of earth, The quiet rooms of time.'

The Reverend Sophy preached a compelling, warmhearted sermon. Her turn of phrase was delightful. At times it wag sheer poetry. At others she hit hard. And she told a story against herself with twinkling humour.

During the singing of the last hymn Anna was vibrantly aware of the happiness of the two people beside her. No wonder ... perhaps of everyone in that church, it meant most to them to sing, so joyously, their voices not sounding in the least old,

'Praise, my soul, the King of Heaven;

... Who like thee His praise should sing?'

For a moment the words on the page wavered in front of Anna's eyes and she almost felt afraid of her grandparents' happiness. It was such a responsibility. She must never let them down. In a sudden revealing and forgiving moment she understood how Calum had felt. She felt cleansed and restored. Animosity was foreign to her nature. From now on she would be on a different footing with him. Time was on her side. She, and only she, could know she had little or none of her father in her, that she wouldn't be here today and gone tomorrow.

It was with a feeling of utter peace that she moved out into the aisle. As they emerged into the stone vestibule, in this rugged but beautifully designed church the pioneers of more than a century ago had raised, it became the happiest of occasions for the Drummonds, as the people crowded round to meet their new granddaughter, so recently found for them.

She was glad she didn't have her father's colouring, for people to remark on. Instead they kept saying how anyone would have known her for a Drummond, that she was the living image of her grandfather and of his twin sister, the long-gone Anna. But she was still more glad when someone said, 'But you have your grandmother's dimples.' She wanted Kitty to have some share in her.

The minister was outside, shaking hands. It was a proud moment when the Drummonds presented Anna. Sophy sparkled. 'What a wonderful thing it was that Mr. and Mrs. Forbes went to Fiji and met you! I so hoped and prayed that you'd come and be able to stay - Mrs. Drummond told me all about it over the phone. Sorry I've not yet been out, but I was away in Dunedin for a committee meeting at the Hall, and when I got home there was a lot of sick visiting to catch up on. But I'll be out tomorrow.'

Calum was behind them. 'I should hope so! I feel neglected. I've never been sick enough to warrant a duty visit, and when I am, what happens? You're away. I looked really fetching in my capelline bandage... now I'm down to a piece of sticking-plaster it's not half as romantic.'

Sophy's sapphire eyes sparkled. 'From what I heard you weren't exactly a cot case. The lambing continued just the same. I thought Philip would have had to have done double duty there, but apparently not. Besides which, chump, you know I have to be careful not to favour one lot of parishioners more than the other, and I'd not blame anyone for thinking Strathallan got more than its fair share.'

Calum chuckled, 'Well, under the circumstances it's no more than any member of your flock ought to expect.' Anna looked keenly at him. What did he mean? Yes, his glance to Sophy was pointed, affectionate. She looked quickly at Sophy. Her colour had risen a little.

All of a sudden it seemed to Anna that a cloud must have passed over the sun. She glanced up instinctively. There wasn't as much as a feather of cloud in all that blue. She became involved in more introductions, and, just before they left for home, saw Elizabeth and Rossiter Forbes coming towards them.

They both kissed her. Elizabeth said, 'Oh, welcome home ... I'd have been over before, but right in the middle of lambing I had to hive off to Dunedin to speak at a florists' conference. Their speaker couldn't come. Anna, you look as if you are already part and parcel of the community. Or so I hear ... rescuing old Barney and Calum. What an introduction! Still, it pitchforked you in. I heard from the hospital that they thought you were just spot on for a Drummond granddaughter. Oh, hullo, Philip, wasn't that a marvellous sermon? Aren't we lucky to have Sophy? I do hope we have her for a long, long time.'

Philip grinned. 'Don't be too sure of that. Women ministers are at risk, you know.'

Again Anna felt the touch of a shadow. What on earth was the matter with her? Though she was pretty sure what they all meant. Calum had said at the hospital he wasn't going to the Ball as his lady-love was away. And what on earth could it matter to her?

It was a busy day. Sheep didn't observe a five, or even a six-day week. It was a case of off with Sabbath finery and back into the worse-for-wear trews. The Cannog church didn't have an evening service. It took its turn with the other smaller churches of the parish.

They came in, finally, scrubbed up, had their tea. Sunday tea was always a relaxed one, they told Anna. They sat in a half-moon round the television set, watched Walt Disney's programme for the children, ate wedges of bacon-and-egg pie, hot sausage rolls, a variety of cakes and cookies and everyone had his or her favourite drink, from passion-fruit milk-shakes and hot chocolate, to tea or coffee.

Philip hadn't come in when he left his final tasks in the mothering shed. Calum left him at the door, and looked in at the group to say, 'Start without me, I want to ring Sophy.'

Mrs. Drummond looked surprised, 'Won't she be at her tea, Calum?'

He grinned. 'I don't reckon she'll have much tea tonight. She's a bit worked up over that innovation they're trying out at the Balloch service. I just wanted to wish her well - didn't get round to it this morning.'

He was almost out of earshot when Gilbert called, 'Calum, tell her there could be ice on the Pass Road, so to watch out for it. And tell her I dinna think she should stay to take supper with any of them out there. Best to get back here before the roads ice up too much. After all, she's nobbut a lass, even if she is ordained and all!'

Calum retraced a few steps, stuck his head round the door, said, 'Not to worry. Philip and I yarned about that. He's driving her there and back. He's more experienced in Central conditions than she is. I know she was here last winter, but it was much milder than this. Of course she's so damned independent. Doesn't like to think anything might daunt her that wouldn't daunt a brother of the cloth. Silly wench!'

He was soon back. No doubt he didn't want to hold her up too long. And Sophy must've given in about Philip driving her. He looked at Gilbert and said, 'She told me to tell you she's got gumption as well as an ordination certificate and not worry about her. That if women wanted to become ministers, they had to take the rigours of the back-country same as the men.'

Gilbert chuckled. 'Aye, she's a well-plucked 'un that. And it's no' just physical courage either. Hope she doesn't defy Philip over it, that's all.'

Calum laughed. 'Not a hope! My advice to him was pick her up and dump her in his car. She wouldn't dare struggle for fear of letting the dignity of the cloth down.'

When Calum had taken the children upstairs to supervise his nephews' baths and tell all three a story, and Kitty and Anna were washing up, Anna, compelled by something she knew not what, said, 'It's a wonder Calum didn't want to go over to Balloch with her.'Kitty hurriedly sloshed some more plates through for Anna to dry. 'Lcsh, lassie, I canna keep up wi' you, and I've always prided myself on being a fast one. Yes, he'd have * gone all right if it hadn't been for his head. He actually confessed it was sore tonight. Third day is always the worst. Sophy is a wonderful girl. Hope she doesn't mind Philip going with her.'

Anna knew she was wonderful. What she didn't know was why she should feel envy for the first time in her life. First, that is, apart from that wistfulness she'd known as a child when she had watched other little girls playing with fun- loving fathers, tossing balls to them, teaching them to surf, to swim. ...

She said, 'Why did Grandfather mention her two kinds of courage? I expect he meant because she'd tackle the icy roads of Central and not turn a hair, but the other—'

'Oh, because of what she'd come through. She always had a leaning towards some kind of Christian service, so took social welfare training and became engaged to a very fine divinity student. He left the Theological Hall in the November and came straight here to be our minister, Roderick Knight. They planned to be married the next year when Sophy would have finished her course. In the June he was struck down by leukaemia. If ever a girl broke her heart, it was Sophy. They were so suited. We knew her extremely well, because when she came up for week-ends when they were engaged she always stayed at Strathallan.

'She pulled herself together, decided to carry on with his work - there are quite a few women ministers in the Presbyterian Kirk in New Zealand - and she entered for the ministry. We had an older minister for a few years till he retired, and as it coincided with Sophy's ordination, the parish called her. Even the old die-hards who didn't fancy a woman minister have changed their minds by now. She said to me recently that at least she didn't face bereaved people with the emptiness of inexperience. Her gallant acceptance of something that must have been hard for her to understand, has made other people accept sorrow more easily, not to question it so much, to kick against the pricks.'

Something in Anna's heart eased. That inexplicable envy! She felt a little shame.

Kitty went on, 'But grief can't continue for aye and we're told it's foolish, even wrong, to sit up late to eat the bread of sorrow. Rod told her himself, just before he died, that life was for getting on with. And lately I'm pretty sure healing is setting in. She's fighting against the attraction because it's quite evident that if she married a farmer she'd not be able to carry on a full parish work. At least not once she had a family. But there are other spheres of service ... and other ministers. But life, and time, has a way of working these things out. Only men aren't noted for patience. She oughtn't to take too long to decide. Some other girl could dawn on his horizon. Mightn't be a bad idea at that. Might wake her up.'

M'm. Anna couldn't imagine Calum being a patient lover. And at his age, if a man was the marrying sort, he wanted to settle down. Perhaps this situation had added to his irascibility about the Drummonds' newly-found granddaughter coming in to disrupt their lives. She was still ashamed of the envy she had known. Not that she wanted to analyse it. It was probably just a natural wistfulness. Never in all her twenty-four years had Anna met anyone with whom she'd really want to spend the rest of her life. She'd had plenty of partners, had liked several very much, but it had stopped there. How wonderful it must be, she thought, to find someone like that. To know that ahead of you wifehood and motherhood lay. Not that it was everything, but how complete life would be if that relationship could enhance the other achievements.