A Boy A Book A Story

‘The Lord kens,' said Mrs MacNaughton, 'That I'm a good woman.'

‘Even if you don’t,’ she added under her breath.

She moved the teaspoon to the other side of her saucer, and studied it. Mrs Smith remained silent. Outside, a car passed the open window, its tyres hissing on the hot tarmac. Sweet William and lilies in the manse garden trickled fragrance into the room, mingling with the scents of polish and clean fabric. Mrs MacNaughton took a big mouthful of tea, wiping her lips on the lace hanky in her watch bracelet. She had forgotten her teeth.

‘And He will reward me,’ she concluded.

There was a bump and clatter on the landing. The door burst open and Mrs Smith’s small son tumbled in. The women turned to him with smiles.

The child ran to his mother and threw his arms round her neck, burying his face in her hair. Then he withdrew and paused, aware of the older woman’s presence, uncertain what to do.

‘Say “hello” nicely to Mrs MacNaughton, Sam,’ his mother prompted gently.

The visitor laid her cup and saucer on the fender and leaned forward, arms open, face creased into a smile.

‘Hello Sam,’ she said, ‘do you remember me?’

The boy hesitated then, like a freed spring, ran across and leapt on to the broad lap. The two of them held position for a moment, smiling at each other.

‘Mrs MacNaughton’s got something for you.’

The boy’s face showed wonder. Without taking her eyes from the child’s face, the older woman reached down for her bag, setting it on her lap by his knees. Slowly, she drew out a slim brown book and handed it to him.

‘I think you said you liked engines,’ she said.

Entranced, the boy turned the pages. Each bore three pictures of railway engines – mighty ‘Kings,’ business-like ‘Castles,’ stubby goods. His eyes looked into Mrs MacNaughton’s and a shy smile twitched the edges of his agape lips.

‘You won’t see these engines in Glasgow.’ She nodded for emphasis at the word ‘these’. ‘These are Great Western ones.’

The minister’s wife had risen from her seat and was examining the book over her son’s shoulder.

‘Say “thank-you” to Mrs MacNaughton, Sam, for such a lovely present. You didn’t know Mr MacNaughton was an engine driver, did you? He sometimes drives trains all the way from Glasgow to London.’

‘Does he drive the ‘Royal Scot’ Mummy?’ enquired Sam, craning round.

Mrs MacNaughton laughed. ‘No, laddie, only goods trains. Would you like a trip on one some time, on the engine?’

The boy’s face was blank with amazement. ‘Can I really?’ he said, ‘Can I really go on a engine with Mr MacNaughton?’

His mother lifted him firmly from the other woman’s lap. ‘Only if you’re good,’ she said, with the air of closing the subject.

‘I’m sure he’s always very good,’ Mrs MacNaughton beamed fondly at Sam. The minister’s wife did likewise, crooking her head right over so that her left ear touched her shoulder.

Somewhere around the boy’s head their eyes met. There was a pause.

‘Mrs Urquhart tells me he was very good on Saturday,’ said Mrs MacNaughton eventually.

The child felt the hands supporting him stiffen. Then he found himself very gently set down on an upholstered stool. Mrs MacNaughton continued to address his mother.

‘I called on Mrs Urqhuart after the Guild meeting yesterday. You know how she can’t get out much these days, not even to church on Sunday mornings. I just wanted to find out how she was.’

‘And how is Mrs Urquhart?’ asked Mrs Smith quickly.

The boy, sensing tension, felt uneasy.

‘Oh fine, just fine,’ said Mrs MacNaughton brightly. She took her glasses off and began to polish them. ‘She said it fairly cheered her up having wee Sam there to let you go to Conference. Such good company he was, quite a wee chatterbox.’

Sam shut his eyes, and tried to recall the events of last Saturday. He pictured the homely clutter of the council-house sitting-room, the piled table, and Mrs Urquhart herself, black-clad, cheery, and sly, plying him with fritters, and asking him questions.

‘Does she still bake?’ Mrs Smith was saying. ‘She used to be such a fine baker, always trying new things and winning competitions. Of course, a woman confined to the house like that must have something to keep her mind occupied.’

‘She made me fritters,’ put in Sam, ‘and pancakes.’ He looked at his mother for reassurance but her eyes were on the hearthrug.

Fearfully he recalled her parting words as she pressed the door bell. Nothing he may have overheard at home must be repeated to Mrs Urquhart or her daughter Jessie, who were notorious gossips. He knew too that his memory of this instruction had faded as cream bun followed pancake followed fritter.

But it had returned when Mrs Urquhart, grinning into her frying pan, had said, 'So your mummy likes me, does she Sam?'

Earlier she had asked how his mother was. And he had told her, honestly, ‘very well, but tired.’ With all the church women’s work, Mrs Urquhart had supposed. The last minister had been a widower and the females of the congregation had run their organisations by themselves. It must have been hard for a new person to take over from such an established team?

But no, Mummy had enjoyed it, Sam assured her. Folk had been helpful had they? Oh aye, most of them, but you know how it is, there’s always someone who’s – well – just a wee bit of a nuisance. At this point Sam had felt obliged to assure his hostesses (untruthfully) that his parents did not so consider them. In the rapturous approval that followed, he had flung prudence to the winds.

The chief culprit and troublemaker, both Sam’s parents agreed, was yon sanctimonious besom Jennie MacNaughton. Sam’s father, the minister, had said so in these very words. Just who did she think she was, forever calling herself a ‘guid wumman’ as if she was the only one? Did Mrs Urquhart ken that if Burns was living in the here and now, and not 18th century Ayr, he’d have written Holy Jennie’s Prayer not Holy Willie’s? Would she credit that Jen MacNaughton had had the cheek, the sheer birse – here Sam’s father lapsed into Scots to make indignation more indignant – to tell folks that Mrs Scoular couldn’t be a truly Saved woman because she didn’t dust behind the clock where God sees and Jennie MacNaughton, prying during a visit, had looked? Especially as the whole kirk ken’t Minnie Scoular had mair of the Holy Ghost in her wee pinkie-finger than Jen would have in her whole big body, even if she spent the rest of her days on her knees and held her tongue except to pray the Lord to forgive her her trespasses. Not that she ever forgave those who trespassed against her - Sam’s father had never ken’t anyone who held and kept grudges like Jennie MacNaughton did.

All this Sam excitedly related to Jessie and Mrs Urqhart. It was when Jessie had sniggered, and the glow of her mother’s grin crawled round the kitchen like the smell of her cooking fat, that Sam realised he had said too much.

Mrs MacNaughton’s lace hanky darted to and fro across her horn-rimmed pebble lenses. ‘It did Mrs Urqhuart at power of good to know the minister’s wife likes her, and that she’s not a nuisance like some women,’ she said. 'Yes, it did her more good than a chemist’s shopful of medicines to hear that.’

Mrs Smith smiled at her son through a palisade of meaning. ‘He’s just a wee blether,’ she said.

‘Funny, isn’t it,’ Mrs MacNaughton put on her glasses and looked straight at Mrs Smith, ‘how bairns never remember names?’ She paused. ‘That’s why I always say we should never heed their chatter.’

There was a long silence, The child gazed fearfully at his new book, dreading even to turn a page. Then his mother picked him up and hugged him warmly.

‘That is a lovely book Mrs MacNaughton’s given you,’ she said, ‘You mustn’t expect one every time she comes.’

‘We’ll arrange that engine trip next time,’ said Mrs MacNaughton.


	[Jim Scott] [A Boy A Book A Story] [Darkness] [Pat from Lancashire] [The Quaker Oats Man] [A Matter of Conscience] [Picnic] [Incident at a Railway Station] [Cauld Comfort Kail] [Moral Uplift] [The Soldier] [Madonna] [Hero of the Revolution] [The Messenger] [Tramlines] [Innocents] [Unlucky Dip]