reading in the afternoon. Grace before meals.’
Marsaili glanced at Fin, offering him a rueful smile. ‘How could I forget?’
‘A very fair man. Honest, and without prejudice in almost everything except …’
‘I know.’ Marsaili grinned. ‘He hated Catholics. Papes and Fenians, he called them.’
Her mother shook her head. ‘I never approved. My father was Church of England, which is not that different from Catholicism. Without the Pope, of course. But, still, it was an unreasonable hatred he had of them.’
Marsaili shrugged. ‘I was never sure whether or not he was entirely serious.’
‘Oh, he was serious, all right.’
‘So what’s strange, Mrs Macdonald?’ Fin tried to steer her back to her original thought.
She looked at him blankly for a moment before the memory returned. ‘Oh. Yes. I was going through some of his things last night. He’s accumulated a lot of rubbish over the years. I don’t know why he keeps the half of it. In old shoeboxes and cupboards and drawers in the spare room. He used to spend hours in there going through stuff. I have no idea why.’ She sipped her tea. ‘Anyway, I found something at the bottom of one of those shoeboxes that seemed … well, out of character somehow.’
‘What, Mum?’ Marsaili was intrigued.
‘Wait, I’ll show you.’ She got up and left the room, returning less than half a minute later to sit down again between them on the settee. She opened her right hand over the coffee table in front of them, and a silver chain and small, round, tarnished medallion spilled on to the open pages of the wedding album.
Fin and Marsaili leaned closer to get a better look, and Marsaili picked it up, turning it over. ‘Saint Christopher,’ she said. ‘Patron saint of travellers.’
Fin craned and tilted his head to see the worn figure of Saint Christopher leaning on his staff, as he carried the Christ child through storms and troubled waters. Saint Christopher Protect Us was engraved around the edge of it.
‘Of course,’ said Mrs Macdonald, ‘as I understand it, the Catholic Church removed his status as a saint about forty years ago, but it still belongs to a very Catholic tradition. What your father was doing with it is beyond me.’
Fin reached out to take it from Marsaili. ‘Could we borrow this, Mrs Macdonald? It might be interesting to see if it stimulates any memories.’
Mrs Macdonald waved a dismissive hand. ‘Of course. Take it. Keep it. Throw it away if you like. It’s of no use to me.’
Fin dropped a reluctant Marsaili off at the bungalow. He had persuaded her it might be better if she let him talk to Tormod on his own first. The old man would have so many memories associated with Marsaili that it might cloud his recollection. He didn’t tell her that he had other business he wanted to attend to en route.
His car was barely out of sight of the cottage when he turned off the road, and up the narrow asphalt track and over the cattle grid to the sprawling car park in front of Crobost Church. It was a bleak, uncompromising building. No carved stonework or religious friezes, no stained-glass windows, no bell in the bell tower. This was God without distraction. A God who regarded entertainment as sin, art as religious effigy. There was no organ or piano inside. Only the plaintive chanting of the faithful rang around its rafters on the Sabbath.
He parked at the foot of the steps leading to the manse, and climbed to the front door. Sunlight was still washing across the patchwork green and brown of the machair, bog cotton ducking and diving among the scars left by the peat-cutters. It was exposed up here, closer to God, Fin supposed, a constant trial of faith against the elements.
It was almost a full minute after he had rung the bell that the door opened, and Donna’s pale, bloodless face peered out at him from the darkness. He was as shocked now as he had been the first time he set eyes on her. Then, she hadn’t looked old enough to be
Marsaili glanced at Fin, offering him a rueful smile. ‘How could I forget?’
‘A very fair man. Honest, and without prejudice in almost everything except …’
‘I know.’ Marsaili grinned. ‘He hated Catholics. Papes and Fenians, he called them.’
Her mother shook her head. ‘I never approved. My father was Church of England, which is not that different from Catholicism. Without the Pope, of course. But, still, it was an unreasonable hatred he had of them.’
Marsaili shrugged. ‘I was never sure whether or not he was entirely serious.’
‘Oh, he was serious, all right.’
‘So what’s strange, Mrs Macdonald?’ Fin tried to steer her back to her original thought.
She looked at him blankly for a moment before the memory returned. ‘Oh. Yes. I was going through some of his things last night. He’s accumulated a lot of rubbish over the years. I don’t know why he keeps the half of it. In old shoeboxes and cupboards and drawers in the spare room. He used to spend hours in there going through stuff. I have no idea why.’ She sipped her tea. ‘Anyway, I found something at the bottom of one of those shoeboxes that seemed … well, out of character somehow.’
‘What, Mum?’ Marsaili was intrigued.
‘Wait, I’ll show you.’ She got up and left the room, returning less than half a minute later to sit down again between them on the settee. She opened her right hand over the coffee table in front of them, and a silver chain and small, round, tarnished medallion spilled on to the open pages of the wedding album.
Fin and Marsaili leaned closer to get a better look, and Marsaili picked it up, turning it over. ‘Saint Christopher,’ she said. ‘Patron saint of travellers.’
Fin craned and tilted his head to see the worn figure of Saint Christopher leaning on his staff, as he carried the Christ child through storms and troubled waters. Saint Christopher Protect Us was engraved around the edge of it.
‘Of course,’ said Mrs Macdonald, ‘as I understand it, the Catholic Church removed his status as a saint about forty years ago, but it still belongs to a very Catholic tradition. What your father was doing with it is beyond me.’
Fin reached out to take it from Marsaili. ‘Could we borrow this, Mrs Macdonald? It might be interesting to see if it stimulates any memories.’
Mrs Macdonald waved a dismissive hand. ‘Of course. Take it. Keep it. Throw it away if you like. It’s of no use to me.’
Fin dropped a reluctant Marsaili off at the bungalow. He had persuaded her it might be better if she let him talk to Tormod on his own first. The old man would have so many memories associated with Marsaili that it might cloud his recollection. He didn’t tell her that he had other business he wanted to attend to en route.
His car was barely out of sight of the cottage when he turned off the road, and up the narrow asphalt track and over the cattle grid to the sprawling car park in front of Crobost Church. It was a bleak, uncompromising building. No carved stonework or religious friezes, no stained-glass windows, no bell in the bell tower. This was God without distraction. A God who regarded entertainment as sin, art as religious effigy. There was no organ or piano inside. Only the plaintive chanting of the faithful rang around its rafters on the Sabbath.
He parked at the foot of the steps leading to the manse, and climbed to the front door. Sunlight was still washing across the patchwork green and brown of the machair, bog cotton ducking and diving among the scars left by the peat-cutters. It was exposed up here, closer to God, Fin supposed, a constant trial of faith against the elements.
It was almost a full minute after he had rung the bell that the door opened, and Donna’s pale, bloodless face peered out at him from the darkness. He was as shocked now as he had been the first time he set eyes on her. Then, she hadn’t looked old enough to be
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