Иэн Рэнкин - The Flood

‘Couldn’t have asked for a nicer day,’ said Mr Ancram.

‘Very true,’ said Iain Darroch. He crossed the busy road. ‘Where does this road go?’ he asked.

‘Kirkcaldy that way,’ said the elder, ‘and Lochgelly the other. Which way did you come in?’

‘I think I misread my directions. I came in through Lochgelly, but then ended up coming through Dundell.’

‘Yes, that’s a long road round all right. Still, it’s the only way to find your way around, isn’t it?’

‘True, very true.’ Iain Darroch was aware that, in his attempt to impress Mr Ancram, he was sounding boringly ministerial, very self-righteous. He sounded like his minister at Oxgangs. He rebuked himself again for that cruel thought. The Devil was afoot today.

The manse was a small detached house. ‘Used to belong to one of the pits,’ explained Mr Ancram. ‘One of the foremen or something used to stay in it. Belonged to St Cuthbert’s since about 1965,I suppose. A nice little place. Maybe a bit roomy for a bachelor. The Reverend Davidson and his poor wife liked it well enough.’

Ancram looked at him. It was the first hint. They liked their ministers to be married, thought Darroch. He said, ‘Yes, I saw it when I was here on Monday. Do you remember? Yes, it is a nice house.’

Mr Ancram opened the door with a small batch of keys, then handed the whole bunch to the minister. ‘All yours, Mr Darroch. You’ll find out what they’re for.’ He smiled. The minister smiled back. He felt thankful for his beard. It could be used as a defence against the outside world. He hid behind it now as one would have hidden behind a clump of gorse. He entered his home, his new home. It smelled of past occupants. He blessed it silently when he entered, hoping that the past occupants would take the hint and skedaddle with their aromas of old beds and polished dressers. He opened the doors and some of the windows that would actually open. He looked in drawers and cupboards and was pleased to find that, as promised, the house boasted sufficient linen, cutlery and crockery for his immediate needs. He brought in some of the boxes from his car, aided by Mr Ancram. From the first of these he took an electric kettle. He let the tap in the kitchen run for a full minute, then filled the kettle and plugged it in to a handy socket. From the same box he took a jar of coffee and a plastic container of dried milk. Mr Ancram came in from the toilet, shaking his hands to show, perhaps, that he had washed them.

‘A cup of coffee, Mr Ancram?’ asked Darroch, proud of his efficiency in the matter. Mr Ancram shook his head, still wafting his hands.

‘I don’t drink the stuff,’ he informed the minister. ‘It is an irritant.’ Darroch looked at the man, making a mental note that Mr Ancram had not yet invited the new minister to address him by his Christian name, whatever that might be. Mr Ancram looked at his watch. ‘Actually, I’d better be off,’ he said. ‘I’ve to pick up my wife from the supermarket in Kirkcaldy. She’s doing the month’s shopping.’ Darroch nodded, spooning one of milk and two of coffee (just to spite the man) into a cup. ‘I’m sorry I won’t be here to help you move in the rest of your belongings,’ Mr Ancram apologised. ‘I’ll drop round later and see how you’re managing. Bye now.’

‘Goodbye, Mr Ancram,’ said Darroch, ‘and thanks for your help.’ He ignored the man’s exit and rummaged in another, smaller box until he found the packet of cream biscuits. He smiled to himself. Luxury. He went through to the living room and sat in the large fireside chair. A wind was blowing through the open window. It was a good breeze. Darroch sat and drank his coffee. It was far too strong. He considered his new surroundings. It did not really matter where he was Crail, Oxgangs, Carsden — the situation and the realities were the same. The Church was in a state of acute decay, which seemed to run hand in hand with the decay of the communities. Which came first? Did either? It seemed to him that a larger, much more potent force was at work, and it was a force of evil. He could not feel God in this town. It would be his job to bring God back to these people, who were more walking shadows than real flesh and blood. The Church had become lazy. Aching gashes had opened up which now needed filling. God, let him do his job well enough. He sucked crumbs from his fingers and prayed.

Every summer, Andy Wallace began reading Cervantes’ Don Quixote, and every summer he failed to finish it. He saw no reason why this summer should be any different. He had been reading the book for about three hours when he felt his eyes and his mind falling from the page. He read two pages more, but could not, having read them, remember the slightest detail of their content. He put the book down and sat staring into space. He was thinking about Mary. He was thinking about the problem he must help her surmount. There were sex manuals in his house, little more than masturbation fodder, but he had reread them anyway. They threw little light on the dilemma. He sat in his study, which had now become almost his whole existence. He had work to do. Apart from the Cervantes book, there were exercises to be set, essays and exam papers to be marked, and the part completed novel which had been sitting untouched in a drawer for three months. It was a bad novel, amateurish, but just to finish it would be achievement enough, even if it was the worst novel in the world, read by no one save himself. He had given it none of his time since he had begun to see Mary. She was still on his mind. That Saturday afternoon on the hillside played again and again like a bad song on popular radio. He caught its melody again and again. There was no escape. What to do about Mary. Mary, Mary, quite contrary, how does your garden grow? He shook his head clear of the reverie and sat down at his desk. He removed the lid from the typewriter. He began to type his thoughts down on to the black rubber carriage. He could see the ink wet and bluey-black against the fainter black. He pressed his finger to a word and examined the imprint. Mirror writing. He smudged it, wetted the finger, and the word vanished completely. It was as easy as that on a typewriter carriage.

Dear Mary,

Yes, it’s that time again — a letter from your ageing brother. How’s tricks? How’s life with old Andy Schoolmaster? I hope he’s treating you in the style to which etc etc. And how is my little Sandy? His exams must be long over by now (?). I hope he’s enjoying his vacation. I’m planning on going north to the wilder parts of this fine country in a few weeks. Tell him that he doesn’t know what he’s missing, not coming across to see his long-lost Unc. I see from a recent correspondence with my bank manager and yours that you haven’t touched the account yet. Like I said, sis, I’m not touching it, so it’s all yours. Should you need it. I know that I bring this up every letter, but it is important to me. Okay? Looks like I’m being shifted to our Toronto office. I don’t know what this means. I think it probably means that Old Emerson has got tired of having someone efficient and trustworthy around here. Still, joking apart, it means I’m in with the really big boys (oh goody-goody!). I’m earning so much it’s embarrassing. In fact, I’m earning so much I can afford to take a girl out every now and again. I’ve been seeing quite a few ladies recently, one of whom I can even stand. Maybe things are looking up. (There might be a bad joke hidden in there somewhere, but I’m not saying where.)

Well, Mary, I’ve not written a very long letter, but I know that you will, as always, understand. I get very little time to myself these days. It’s all company this and company that, not forgetting female company. God, if I got the boot from Emerson maybe I could make it as a professional comedian. What do you say? Listen, tell Sandy he gets no Christmas pressie this year if he doesn’t put pen to paper pronto and write to Santa Tom. Okay? The office beckons. Och aye the noo. Take best care.