The Road to Hell (21 page)

After he had breakfasted and fed the dog, he strode into his study feeling ready for the day’s work. His diary lay open on his desk, and reaching for his spectacles on the cord around his
neck, he read the entry for Tuesday 8 February. A funeral, and for a second his heart missed a beat. Who on earth was Matilda McEwan? Then he saw in brackets the word ‘Parish’ after her
name and breathed easily again. Not a member of the congregation, so Jim would be dealing with that one.

Further down the page, in blue biro and in his own neat hand, there was another entry: ‘School Assembly – Garstone Secondary – 2 p.m.’ That would be a doddle. He would
use the usual text, so all that he needed to do by way of preparation was to find the appropriate prop. The Tate & Lyle syrup tin with its picture of the dead lion and the bees, and
Samson’s riddle printed on it, ‘Out of the strong came forth sweetness’. And if, God forbid, Juliet had finally thrown out the tin, then he could rely on his old standby, the Old
Testament tale of the Burning Bush, the image of which was on his lapel badge, and the significance of the Call. That sermon too, known by heart, required no further thought, and as the
headmistress had suggested spending no more than thirty minutes on the whole shebang, that would fit perfectly with the rest of his timetable. It would give him plenty of time for a haircut before
the Church and Society Council meeting at 4 p.m. at 121 George Street.

The phone rang, and with one eye still on his diary, he picked up the receiver.

‘Hello. Reverend Duncan McPhee speaking.’

‘Good morning, Reverend, it’s Donald Cartwright. It’s just to let you know that my wife’s out of hospital, she came out yesterday. It may not be for very long, but it was
to tell you that she’s home now, out of hospital for the moment at least.’

‘Splendid news, Donald,’ the minister replied, switching on his computer and cringing at the sudden notes of the Windows theme. Would Donald recognise it? Too old and too much of a
fuddy-duddy, with luck.

He opened the first of his emails. It looked dull enough, a communication from Christian Aid Scotland, no doubt seeking further donations. The second, however, caught his eye, and reading it, he
almost cried out in his excitement. The subject field read ‘Nomination Committee – Membership’. Thrilled at these magical words he longed to open it, and became newly determined
to get his caller off the line.

‘I was wondering,’ Donald Cartwright said, ‘while she’s here, in bed at home, whether you’d be able to come out and see her? I know how busy you are, I really do,
and she does too, but if you had a minute to spare it would make a huge difference to her. She wants to speak to you . . . she wants to talk to you.’

‘But of course, Donald. If I can make it, I will. If for any reason I can’t, then my assistant, Jim, will come instead. You know him well. So, don’t you worry. One way or
another we’ll see Mary at home. Now, was that everything?’

‘You’ll see her, Reverend?’ The man was not to be fobbed off so easily.

‘Me . . . or Jim.’ Jim had plenty of time on his hands. He could do it.

‘She’d love to see you. It would make her day and, to be honest, I don’t think she’s got that many more of them. She especially asked to see you.’

‘As I say, it’ll be me or Jim. I’m sorry, Donald . . .’ the minister said, knocking with his knuckles on his desk and watching with delight as the dog ran out of the
room, barking wildly, ‘but I’ve got to go. There’s someone at the front door. The dog’s going bananas. But don’t you worry. Jim – or I – will be around in
the next day or two.’

Putting down the phone, he clicked on the email. As he scrolled down it, he felt his heart almost burst with joy. It was a three-line message from the Secretary requesting that his name be put
forward to the Assembly to be considered for inclusion in the membership of the Select Forty-four. ‘Thou hast anointed my head with oil and truly, my cup runneth over,’ he murmured into
the silence.

For a single second, he contemplated picking up the phone and calling his wife, letting her know that all that he had been predicting for so long was finally coming to pass. Had he, or had he
not, told her that the invitation to dinner with the Moderator in Charlotte Square had presaged great things? Oh, the doubting Thomasina would be confounded now!

Granted, it had not been the same as an invitation to Holyrood with the Lord High Commissioner, but it was the next best thing. All those years of drudgery – the school chaplaincies, the
convenorship of dull and powerless committees, hours spent in obscure working groups – were finally paying off. He might have started his days in a small Lanarkshire village with no hope for
the future but, by his own efforts, he had confounded them all now.

No one had expected a McPhee to become the Dux of the school, or get a scholarship to university. But he had done it, and in his probationary period he had, at last, washed away the traces of
coal dust clinging to his name. Even within his charges he had made steady progress, moving from Carstairs to Coalburn, and then eastwards and upwards to Carrick Knowe and Colinton. All the Cs.

No, he would not phone her and have his hopes dampened, could not bear that. Instead, he would leave a printout of the email on the kitchen table. Its significance would not be lost on the
daughter of a former Moderator, and even the children’s horrid jibe, calling him ‘the Reverend I. M. A. Loser’, might be forgotten for good when he added ‘The Right
Reverend’ to his name.

The grandmother clock in the corridor outside chimed eleven and, deliberately trying to quell his excitement and concentrate, he turned his attention to the day’s post. The first envelope
was a small brown one and was, he thought, probably more Ecumenical Relations Committee papers. Sure enough, it contained a report prepared by the minister from Carnbo who had been deputed to
attend the conference in Grand Rapids, USA. Topics covered included ‘Peace amongst All Peoples’, a contribution to the Ecumenical Decade to Overcome Violence. Overall, the correspondent
noted, there had been inadequate time for any proper dialogue about joint-ministry, oversight or evangelism due to a terrorist bomb scare, fortunately false, which had resulted in the premature
termination of proceedings. The next envelope contained a number of fabric samples sent by Wippells, for him to consider for his new preaching gown. That was Juliet’s department, so she could
choose for him, he decided, putting it on one side.

Opening the third envelope, he found a crumpled note from the organist, Mrs Tyrell, written as usual on lined paper and in red biro. Someone had, she complained, smeared superglue on one of the
organ pedals and she suspected an ‘inside job’. Who but a member of the congregation would be aware that she always operated the pedals in her stocking feet? In the privacy of his
office, Duncan McPhee rolled his eyes heavenwards and gave an exasperated growl. This was not the woman’s first accusation against the culprit whom she named. They were legion. Following her
first complaint he had, foolishly, taken it at face value and confronted the child’s parents, only to emerge with egg all over his face. The boy had, both his parents assured him, never owned
a pet mouse, far less incarcerated one within the organ stool. No. This time Mrs Tyrell could pursue her own vendettas, be her own investigator and judge. He crumpled the note into a ball and
tossed it into the wastepaper basket, making a mental note to tell her so himself, face to face, after the first service on Sunday.

His lunch consisted of little more than a chunk of bread with some pickle and grated cheese. The Irish stew that his wife had left for him in the fridge remained untouched, congealing in its
bowl. He did not need it. A good meal could be expected from Ellie that evening whatever happened, and allowing, encouraging even, one’s waistline to expand beyond thirty-six inches was,
according to modern science, no less than a slow form of suicide. His trouser buttons, his early warning system, should not be ignored.

Two hours later the school assembly was well under way. In the chilly central hall, there had been no interruptions or heckles and his homily, equating the dead lion with evil itself, seemed to
have held the pupils spellbound, or at least speechless. Only one girl put her hand up to ask a question. She was over six feet tall and seemed to be wearing only a pelmet over her flesh-coloured
tights. In an innocent tone she asked: ‘But, Sir, what about Aslan? He was a good lion, wasn’t he?’

Where do I begin? the minister thought, his mind racing, confounded by the surreal quality of the query. But before he had opened his mouth to reply, the headmistress said in an irritated
whisper, ‘Ignore her, Reverend. It’s the McGonagall girl, a well-known troublemaker.’

This remark was picked up by his radio microphone and broadcast to the assembled children. Prolonged and loud laughter ensued, and the tall girl stood up and took several bows, acknowledging the
applause and smiling at the headmistress who looked on, impotently, unwilling to hazard another word.

Driving away from the barber towards 121 George Street and the Church and Society Council Meeting, Duncan McPhee enjoyed himself, contemplating to whom, among the membership, he would impart his
good news. Graham would, undoubtedly, take it well and be genuinely pleased for him, but Susan’s expression would be worth watching. Horror, masquerading as joy, a difficult one to pull
off.

Entering the meeting room a couple of minutes late, he felt all eyes upon him. Nodding to all and sundry he took his place at the long table. His antennae twitched, picking up a definite frisson
in the air. So the word must already be out, and dwelling amongst them.

As had become customary, by the time the tray of drinks was brought into the meeting the coffee in the jug was tepid. No one seemed to have remembered about biscuits. A female minister moved to
fill up the cups, then, seeing that none of the males present was going to help, withdrew her arm. No one else stirred.

A paper on ‘The Ministry: Current Day Celebrity Culture and the Church’ was being delivered by a Gaelic-speaking minister from the Outer Isles, and he had already taken up most of
the two hours allocated. ‘The Church has its own X-factor,’ he explained earnestly, ‘the cross of Jesus . . .’

Duncan McPhee heard nothing of the talk. His mind was elsewhere, going over the changes in his life that he would have to make now that the Nomination Committee membership was on the horizon.
All those loose ends would have to be tied up, otherwise he himself might become tangled up in them. Things must be simplified, whatever the cost.

‘Have you any views on this, Duncan?’ the Vice-Convenor asked.

‘About?’ he replied, emerging from his meditation and playing for time. He had no idea what ‘this’ might be.

‘About the “Britney” effect?’

‘No,’ he said, truthfully, looking round the room and braving the surprised glances that his uncharacteristic brevity had provoked. To make no contribution to the debate was a first
for him. Ten minutes later, and bobbing his head cordially to all once more, he gathered up his papers and joined the queue that was forming to leave the building.

Back at home, now standing in front of the mirror, he brushed the hair-trimmings off the shoulders of his black jacket. He straightened his badge and sucked in his belly,
admiring his own reflection. Surveying it for a second time, he saw himself in the garb of the Moderator and in those robes he seemed, in his own eyes at least, literally to have grown in stature.
Beside him he imagined his mother, alive once more, dressed as for church, accompanying him to some official function, a garden party, perhaps, or an official dinner. But he could not maintain the
fiction for long. It became too alarming. What might she say? What might she do? So he readjusted the fantasy, conjuring her up in her front room as she watched him on television, her pride and
delight undisguised as he opened the General Assembly.

For the short walk ahead the dog would stay by his side on the pavement, so he did not bother to search for the lead. Had it been a Labrador or a collie, he would not have had even to consider
such a precaution, but Juliet had always been drawn to unintelligent breeds. Except me, of course, he mused, I’m the exception to that rule.

As he was going through the hall, he caught sight of a photograph of his wife. It was a head-and-shoulders portrait, showing her in her graduation gown. Looking into her familiar eyes, for a
split-second he felt a pang of guilt. Here he was, betraying her again with another woman. How could he do it to her, his spouse of over thirty years?

But that was the answer, of course. Familiarity had long since doused their fires. At some level, she must know about Ellie, he reflected, comforting himself with the thought. How could she not?
And, knowing, she could not have minded. Could she? Otherwise she would have said something, done something. It was not part of her fiery nature to keep quiet about something like that. So, in its
way, that was all right then, wasn’t it? No one had been hurt. And if by some odd fluke, some strange chance, she had never known, then that would be fine too – better, because what she
did not know could not hurt her.