Glens of Stone, Day Eight

Occasionally an almost imperceptible nod, a sign of recognition, would pass between them

Duncan McAllan looked puzzled. “I still can’t understand why Ellie Chalmers was ordered to leave the castle kitchens by that captain fellow, Marshall. Seems she was as surprised as anyone.” “I’ve heard the girl caused a bit of trouble. Made slanderous remarks. I did say she was outspoken.” “I see. I trust she’ll not cause trouble here?” “Gracious, no! Indeed there was likely a deal of truth in what she said.” “Then why was she...?”

“For another reason, perhaps,” John said. “The dashing captain’s a good-looking fellow and her confidante, a maidservant by the name of Jean Forbes, has indicated the girl Ellie was quite taken with him. That could not be allowed.”

They had reached the kitchen. Agnes Porteous and Ellie were stirring the steaming contents of two vast pots, occasionally sipping from ladles and adding pinches of salt. Kirsty and Alison wielded large knives to slice up great loaves of bread.

As the two men entered, Agnes smiled in greeting. “Watch out, girls,” she cried, “here’s the men to make sure we’re hard at work.”

Ladle in hand, she marched threateningly towards the two men. “Out!” she commanded. “Away and attend to the spiritual wellbeing of our visitors and leave us to cater for their hunger.” Flapping her hands and apron she added, “Go on, shoo!”

Success

For the past hour Malcolm Porteous had stood at the Mission’s doorway greeting those who timidly entered. As the numbers rose so did his spirits. He was happy for Kirsty and her father, knowing how they longed for the success of this new challenge.

As folk appeared, Malcolm mentally categorised them. Those without hope or homes – they’d come for warmth and succour with little thought for religion.

Those who were lonely and sought the company of others. Those who were staunch worshippers and believers, clasping well-worn psalters.

Then, and this puzzled him, there were those who seemed out of place. Men mostly, well-dressed and quietly spoken. At the Grassmarket Mission house which he and his family had attended, there had regularly been 10 or 12 of such people. They would sit together, talk quietly among themselves during suppers and act respectfully towards all around them.

Once, Malcolm had voiced his puzzlement to his father. “They are model worshippers,’ he’d said, “but they seem false, as if they’re here under some pretence.’

His father had airily dismissed his doubts. “Many answer the Lord’s call and varied are their reasons for so doing. Let’s leave judgement of their intent to he who knows all,” he’d intoned solemnly.

Malcolm tiptoed to the door of the meeting room and studied the seated worshippers. He spotted at least a dozen “strange ones”, as he’d come to call them, seated in groups of two or three. Occasionally an almost imperceptible nod, a sign of recognition, would pass between them. “Odd,” he murmured. “Very odd.” Promptly on the hour, Duncan McAllan entered the meeting hall, gratified at the numbers which had swelled to nearly 70. He made his way, psalter and bible in hand, to the lectern.

He bowed his head in silent prayer, and when he raised his eyes Kirsty and Alison had entered at the rear of the room. The girls had removed their aprons, and now wore simple white dresses which enhanced their youthful beauty.

Encouraged

He gripped the edges of the lectern and spoke in clear ringing tones.

“Welcome, my friends! God and we, his servants, bid you all welcome to this Mission house. May you find peace, comfort, companionship and grace within these walls.”

“Amen to that!” John cried from the back of the room. Duncan went on to explain that the Mission would be open each evening for worship and supper and that shortly, with God’s help, resources would be such that food could also be supplied each noon for the poor and needy.

Duncan felt his audience warming to him and he was encouraged by the occasional smiles and nods.

“Now let us join together in singing that old psalm, number 33 in the books my young friend Malcolm has passed out among you. ‘Ye Righteous In The Lord Rejoice’.”

He waited, watching as the worshippers turned the pages. Some looked embarrassed and confused and he guessed they couldn’t read.

“Over the years I’ve learned there are many who do not wish to sing,” he said. “Rather they prefer to listen to the words. Rest assured the Lord will not criticise. Feel free to worship as ye wish!

“In this psalm,” he went on, “reference is made to ‘a 10-string’d instrument making sweet melody.’ Well, my friends, we have a multi-stringed instrument.”

He pointed at the spinet and Alison taking her seat at it. “It will, I’m sure, render a sweet melody indeed through the skilful fingers of Miss Alison Porteous.”

Alison played a short introduction. At Duncan’s signal the worshippers rose to their feet and began to sing. At first their voices were faint and faltering but, with growing confidence, the singing grew louder and more melodic.

The rest of the service proceeded as successfully as the opening moments. Prayers and a short sermon were received with rapt attention and further singing, as Duncan was to say later, “came close to bringing the rafters down.”

A highlight of the service, however, took place near the end when Kirsty sang the 23rd psalm, accompanied by Alison. As her pure, clear voice rang through the room the worshippers sat spellbound. Malcolm noted that some of the women were dabbing their eyes.

Silence

When they finished there was a brief moment of silence then, with one accord, the assembly rose to their feet and applauded. The man next to Malcolm turned to him.

“It’s not often you hear handclapping in a place like this,” he said.

“True enough,” Malcolm agreed, “but it’s not often you hear such a lovely voice and such playing, either.” He’d heard his father talk of Kirsty’s singing but this was the first time he’d heard her.

As he watched Kirsty and Alison standing together, he spotted Ellie Chalmers sidling in at the far door. Idly he let his gaze travel between the three girls.

They were all so different in temperament and colouring but they were all most attractive.

Once it became known that they were here at the Mission house, the attendance would be such that folk would have to be turned away.

His thoughts were interrupted by the scraping of chairs as the worshippers began to leave for the kitchen.

The “strange ones” had come together as a single group but intriguing though he found this, there was nothing sinister about their behaviour.

Later, though, something else nagged at him. Something he’d noticed. But the implications were so ridiculous that he dismissed them immediately. It couldn’t be, he thought, it simply could not be...

More tomorrow.

Glens of Stone was previously a serial in The People’s Friend. There’s more great fiction in The People’s Friend every week, £1.30 from newsagents and supermarkets.

Artwork: Mandy Dixon