Lament for a Maker by Michael Innes Read Free Book Online

that run round a Scottish village it lost nothing in the telling; it got about that wee Isa had been forced to hide behind the dowps of two great idols and that syne Guthrie had come and prayed before them stark naked – idols he’d dug up from the camps of the coarse Romans, no doubt, and prayers that he’d had of his study of heathen runes. Or if it wasn’t Guthrie was naked it was Tammas – Isa’s story, though unco surely, being not quite scandalous enough to please some. It must be said that Isa herself behaved douce and decent considering the fuss was made over her; she told her tale readily enough, but without, as you might expect, a bit fresh embroidery each time. There were but two additions she made that might have been fact or fancy. She minded, she said, like as if she had heard it in a dream, Guthrie calling out something about America and Newfoundland, and that was mixed in her head with two names: Walter Kennedy and Robert Henderson – fient the idea she had of who they were, nor Kinkeig either except Will Saunders said he minded there had once been a Walter Kennedy, a crofter, away down the loch, but long since departed he was, and like enough to America or Newfoundland. And the other thing she thought she minded in some half-conscious moment after her swoon was Guthrie crouched down over a table and poring over something, book or paper belike, she had no memory of what. That was the sum of Isa’s tale. Kinkeig chewed on it a whole week, and I won’t say I didn’t chew on it myself: it’s a catching thing gossip and little comes in to sutor when there’s snow on the ground.
    Isa’s leaving the meikle house was almost the end of news from up the glen. Two–three times in the thaw that followed the first snows the creature Hardcastle came down about his business, and once he went on to the junction and shut himself up in the wee telephone box there. The news of that fair affronted the postmistress, Mistress Johnstone, it was as much as to say anything he put through from her bit office she’d sure go claiking round with, her sworn to secrecy by the king as she was. Right aggravating she felt it, for didn’t folk ever think they had a right to a bit news from the postmistress over their cup tea and blame her unreasonably for an uncompanionable body when there was none to give? Howsoever, Jock Yule the station lad, who had never a thing to do all day but sweep out what he called the waiting-room and whiles help truck a few sheep, got a keek at Hardcastle in the box; he was reading from a pack papers into the mouth of the thing, and that meant, certain, he was sending telegrams direct through the Dunwinnie exchange. The laverocks might be in fear of the skies falling, folk said, if those at the meikle house were taking to spend their silver like that.
    The next thing was that when the week’s freight came in Jock found he had half a lorry-load of cases to get up to the castle, hampers and the like from Mackie’s and Gibson’s and two-three other great shops in Edinburgh. It seemed fell clear that Guthrie, who sent down once a year to Kinkeig, folk said, for a pound of tea and a packet of kitchen salt, had taken final leave of his senses at last. Jock himself was that scunnered he wouldn’t have been surprised had the laird tipped him half a crown on delivery and offered him a dram forbye. But all the laird did, after Jock had had an unco time getting his lorry up the glen in the thaw, was himself to check the cases into the house against an invoice and then haggle a bit over the cartage; not so daft, in fact, after all. And Jock said that, unthanked as his task had been, he felt half sorry for the man: sleepless he looked and old – and forbye bewildered, like a man in two minds.
    Well, it was as good as a Christmas box to many in Kinkeig to hear that Guthrie was in a right fash; if the laird was fretting folk were real content to hear it, whether they could plumb to the reason of it or no. But