Heather Song (32 page)

E
ven as I boarded the plane for London, I was still convincing myself that I was doing this for Alasdair, for the friendship, for the past, to tell Iain that his friend was now with God…that it was my duty to bring all things full circle, including the relationship that had been so pivotal in my life and Alasdair’s.

By the time I landed at Gatwick, however, I was far more keyed up and excited than duty as a widow could account for. After all the fuss I had made over packing for the trip, the little glances at my hair in the airport bathroom, wondering what dress would be best to wear, those were not the signs of someone on an errand motivated by a sense of duty!

London was big, loud, overwhelming, confusing, tumultuous. As I really did not know much of the city, I thought about trying to do a little sightseeing. Alasdair and I had come down once for a play, but that was my only visit. Now that I was here, I was far too distracted about what I had come for to be able to enjoy even so much as a bus tour. I walked a little that afternoon, gathering my courage, and spent the whole evening in my room pretending to read. But all I could do was think about what awaited me.

Over and over I rehearsed what I would say:

“
Hello, Reverend Barclay
,” I would begin, preserving the formal note and extending my hand.

“
Why, Mrs. Reidhaven
,” he would say, “
what brings you to London?
”

“Some sad news, I am afraid. I have come to inform you of the passing of my husband. You and he were such good friends, I felt you deserved to hear it from me.”

“Thank you. That is very kind of you. May I extend my deepest condolences.”

“Thank you.”

“Would you come in and have tea?…I would like you to meet my wife…”

And so it went as I played out every possible scenario in my mind, so that I would not act like an idiot and fumble over my words when the big moment actually came.

As I left my B and B the next day, I took a good long look in the mirror, adjusted a few strands of hair, then sprinkled on a dash of perfume. I hesitated, then went back into the bathroom, wet a washcloth, and gave my face and neck a quick scrub to remove it.

Perfume…This wasn’t a date! What was I thinking?! Get a grip, girl!

The address I gave to the cabdriver supplied by Tavia landed me in front of a row of old but respectable brick flats on a pleasant and quiet street in Holborn. Once I had the street located, I asked the man to drive slowly by number 716, then drop me a block away.

Slowly I got out and began to walk toward it.

A postman was coming along in the opposite direction, stopping at each house in succession. I watched as he made deliveries to 714, 716, 718, and 720. As he then approached, I walked toward him.

“Excuse me,” I said, “that house you left back there, number 716—is that the Barclay home?”

“Yez, mum, ’at’s right,” he replied in thick Cockney.

“Iain Barclay?”

“Yez, ’at’s it, mum—Mr. Barclay an’ Miz Barclay.”

“
Mrs.?
” I repeated.

“’At’s right, Miz.”

I had expected it, assumed it, planned on it. Yet suddenly knowing it stopped me in my tracks. I stood like a block of granite as the postman continued down the pavement on his appointed rounds. I had tried to prepare myself for every contingency. I told myself over and over that Iain was
sure
to be married. Yet somehow I had not quite managed to thoroughly convince myself. Suddenly all my energy drained away.

This had all been a mistake! What a fool I was. I couldn’t go through with it!

I turned and began to walk away.

I had taken only half a dozen steps when I heard a door open behind me. A rush of adrenaline surged through me. My heart began to pound. What if it was
him
?!

I stopped, and slowly looked back. Huge disappointment dashed my momentary hope.

A woman was coming down the steps of number 716. She turned onto the pavement and began walking toward me. I stood where I was, staring as she came. She approached. I tried to speak but could find no words.

She glanced at me with a questioning expression, then continued along the pavement.

“Please…excuse me,” I said after her. “Are you Mrs. Barclay?”

She turned back toward me.

“I am
Miss
Barclay,” she answered. I thought I detected a hint of the Scots tongue.

“I don’t…I mean,” I said, fumbling for words, “is Iain Barclay your husband…Rev. Iain Barclay?”

“He’s not a reverend just now.” She laughed lightly. “I’m sorry for laughing, but it always sounds funny in my ear to hear him called that. And no, he’s not my husband…he’s my brother.”

“Your brother!”

“I have been living with him since my husband passed away. I went back to my maiden name.”

“Is your brother…married?”

“No,” replied Miss Barclay, then hesitated. “He says he once met an angel,” she added. “After that, he said, he had no interest in marrying.”

The dormant seed suddenly exploded into flower as a full-​blossoming plant!

“Go in and see him if you like, ma’am,” she said. “He’s home. He’s just working on his book.”

She turned and walked on, leaving me standing on the pavement gasping for breath. At last my legs began to move. I numbly walked toward the house, turned from the pavement, and climbed the steps.

How long I stood in front of the door—five minutes, ten, two hours. All proportion of time lost its meaning.

Finally I raised my hand, then lifted the brass knocker. The sharp echo as it dropped sounded like a gunshot in my ear.

After an interminable wait, steps approached. The handle turned…the door swung open—

Suddenly there he was!

Orange hair…wild and gloriously uncombed…those pale blue eyes just like I remembered them…his face uncharacteristically stubbly and unshaven.

He stared at me as if gazing upon a specter…expressionless, stunned, awestruck. I stood trembling, mouth half open in an agony of joyful terror, afraid to utter a peep.

His head slowly began to shake…his lips quivering for speech. He blinked several times. His eyes, now red, flooded with tears.

“
Marie! 
” he whispered in disbelief. “I can’t believe…Is it really you?!”

At the sound of his voice an electric tingle swept from my head to my toes.

He opened his arms. I rushed forward, bursting into sobs, and fell into his embrace.

Time stood still. My eyes gushed a river of pent-up release and relief. Iain trembled as he held me. I knew he was crying, too.

I was the first to speak.

“Alasdair is dead, Iain,” I said in what was scarcely more than a whisper.

“Yes, I know,” replied Iain softly. “I am so sorry, Marie.”

I nodded, my head still leaning against his chest.

“The dear, dear man,” he went on. “Did he…Was it prolonged? Did he suffer?”

“I don’t think so,” I answered. “It was slow but peaceful—exactly like dear Gwendolyn. He was listening to her harp music when he went.”

“How wonderful—the music of the angels…and his own little red-haired angel.”

A moment more we stood. At last Iain stepped back and gazed deeply into my eyes. His face was wet but aglow. He wiped several times at his eyes, then chuckled.

“I forgot I hadn’t shaved for two days!” he said as his hand passed over his face. “A luxury I allow myself on my days off—not a very presentable picture for a reunion. Oh, but it is
so
wonderful to see you! As often as I have played out this day in my mind, it is even better than my imaginings. You look so beautiful, Marie—radiant, at peace. Marriage to Alasdair obviously agreed with you.”

I nodded. “Oh, I have so much to tell you,” I babbled, “about Alasdair…about everything. You won’t believe all that’s gone on with Olivia. And I have been back to America…My father was also dying and I took care of him, too.”

“Is it over…Is he gone?”

I nodded. “He died about eight months ago,” I said with a quiet smile.

“Oh, Marie, I
am
sorry,” he said tenderly. “You have had to face much grief.”

“Yes, but I think I am stronger for it. I hope so. It is all still fresh. It takes time to put it into perspective.”

“Tell me everything. I want to hear it all, every detail, though it take days! Come in— Oh, this is so wonderful! I still cannot believe you are here—Angel Marie in my home again!”

I laughed at his exuberance. I couldn’t believe it either!

I
followed Iain inside and into the kitchen.

“I don’t know if this will be quite the same as having tea in your house in Scotland,” I said, glancing about, “and having water from the kettle poured down my back, but it is charming in its own way.”

Iain laughed. “You would bring that up!”

“Whenever I think of you making tea—what else would come to my mind?!”

“Maybe you’re right—clumsiness…my cross to bear! But you’re right about the flat—everything in central London is old. Housing here is unbelievably expensive. You can’t be particularly choosy.”

“Do you own this house?” I asked.

“No, just rent. You’ve got to be independently wealthy to
own
in London.”

“Your sister—” I began.

“You met my sister?”

“Yes, outside on the street. I thought she was your wife. I was so afraid. I almost left.”

He laughed. “She told you about losing her husband?”

“Only briefly. It is good of you to take her in.”

“She is great. We are good friends. It’s wonderful to have someone to share the house with…and share expenses with.”

“Where does she work?”

“She’s a clerical assistant for one of the banks in the city. Nothing fancy, but it helps keep bread and potatoes on the table. We grew up in humble circumstances and both have simple tastes. We manage fine.”

“Does she have children?”

“No. Her husband died young and they never got around to it. She’s only thirty-eight.”

“She’s attractive. Do you think she’ll marry again?”

“Possibly. She’s not ‘looking,’ but you’re right, she’s an attractive, capable girl—er, woman, I mean. Once a younger sister, always a younger sister.”

“What did her husband do?”

“He was involved in finances, though I was never sure in exactly what kind of role. That whole world remains a mystery to me.”

“For me, too,” I said. “Though I am learning. I had to take care of my father’s estate—I’ve got his house up for sale now in Oregon. My house in Calgary is in limbo…and now Alasdair’s huge holdings are apparently mine to administrate. I’m still pretty overwhelmed. As a Nashville song might put it, I’m just a simple country girl!”

“I doubt if you’re really all that simple,” said Iain. “You may find you like being a tycoon.”

“A tycoon? That’s hardly how I would describe it!”

“You’re a duchess.”

“A reluctant one.”

“You will grow into it, of that I have no doubt.”

“What about you?” I asked. “I understand you are no longer in the ministry?”

Iain nodded as he poured boiling water into a pot and gathered a few things onto a tray. He carried it across the room and we sat down at the small kitchen table.

“Is it permanent?” I asked. “Have you, I don’t know, had some change of belief or—”

“No, no, nothing like that,” replied Iain. “If anything my faith is stronger than ever. As to the duration of my present circumstance, one never knows about such things. I think of it as a season of recharging my spiritual batteries, to live awhile in the real world working for a living, which all pastors and clergymen ought to have to do at least one month of every year.”

“A radical idea,” I said. “But then as I recall, you rather thrived on finding the unusual edges of gospel practicality to make your Christianity real.”

Iain roared with delight. “You have me pegged to perfection—the gospel’s unusual edges…Well put!”

“It’s true. That’s exactly what you do.”

“I just hate stale, rote, formula religion. Jesus employed none of that in his methods. If those who attach themselves to his name don’t wake up eventually to the imperative of being real
followers
, not zombies parroting back the clichés of their pastors and priests, or fractious political and theological zealots bickering with those of differing outlook, Christianity as a spiritual force in the world is finished.”

“No wonder you are not in a church,” I said with a laugh. “No church would have you!”

“You’re probably not far wrong.”

“But what does all that have to do with working?” I asked.

“Because the professional clergy, so called, is an enormous part of the problem. Have you ever seen such antithesis to the lifestyle of Christlikeness or the example of the apostle Paul than as represented by the Catholic priesthood or the Evangelical ministry? The thing is positively a joke. Jesus wearing robes or waving incense about…Paul wearing gold jewelry and expensive suits and motoring about in luxury cars! That’s why I say that one of the qualifications for any form of the pastorate or priesthood ought to be the ability to work and make a living doing something
else
. Any man or woman who cannot sweat and groan hard alongside the working class is not fit for ministry. Otherwise they get completely insulated from life. They ought to have to
work
. Depending on donations from
other
people for your salary—it’s such an artificial means of supporting oneself. A man ought to be able to make a living by the sweat of his brow. Only if he can do that does he deserve periodically to take donations so that he can minister more effectively. But to enter the so-called
ministry
as a lifetime vocation and
career
, to me seems a travesty against truth, profit-mongering from the gospel.”

“Will you go back into the church, that is, on the assumption that anyone would have such a radical?”

“I don’t know,” replied Iain reflectively. “I think so…I hope so. But I am in no hurry.”

“I can just hear Ranald saying that. He told me not so long ago that God is never in a hurry.”

“Oh, dear Ranald!” he exclaimed with affection in his tone. “I can hear the exact words from his mouth. How is the precious man?”

“Well…very well. I now know why you revere him so.”

“I take it that you and he have become well acquainted?”

“I would say
very
well acquainted,” I said, nodding. “As you say—what a precious man. He has become for me exactly what he was for you—a spiritual mentor. And for Alasdair toward the end as well. They had amazing talks at Alasdair’s bedside. I only heard bits and pieces, but it brings tears to my eyes whenever I think of it.”

“I am so glad. Among all the reasons for my leaving, that was primary among them—the hope that those two men would draw together in a way I do not think could have happened while I was present.”

Iain’s words rubbed open my own perplexity about his leaving. But I did not pursue it.

“What
are
you doing in the real world, then?”

“You see before you a humble construction laborer…pouring cement and framing new buildings. See?” he added, lifting his palms toward me. “I’ve got the rough, blistered hands to prove it!”

“Your sister said you were writing a book. That’s great. I always thought you should.”

“It’s slow going,” said Iain. “I am not a natural writer, but I am writing about something I feel strongly about. So I try to give quality time to it on my days off, which usually come in two- to three-day chunks. That helps me achieve a little continuity.”

“What is it about?” I asked.

A sheepish look came over Iain’s face. “It’s funny you should ask,” he said. “Actually, this whole thing is amazingly coincidental.”

“Why?”

“Because it is a book about Alasdair, about his life, about the principle of growth and change and regeneration in the human heart.”

“That is amazing. I would never have guessed it, given, you know, how we completely lost touch with you.”

“Don’t read too much into that, Marie. My deep affection for you both remained unchanged. Indeed, my admiration for my friend has grown so mightily since I last saw the two of you that finally I had no choice but to try to write about it. People don’t usually change. Alasdair did. He changed because he wanted to
grow
, to become
better
than he was. I just find his story amazingly inspirational. I’m thinking of calling it—I hope you won’t mind, I took the word
song
from
your
musical talents—
Alasdair’s Song
.”

“I don’t mind at all.” I smiled. “I think it’s a lovely title. I can’t wait to read it.”

Iain’s words warmed my heart and set so many things to rest. I was so proud of
both
men I loved.

“How long are you staying?” asked Iain. “What else brought you to London—do you have business, or—”

“No, nothing else,” I said, “only to tell you about Alasdair. I would have come or written sooner—but I didn’t know how to find you.”

Iain nodded. “I know, I am sorry— I’m sure it must have been confusing for you at first. Hopefully I will have the chance to explain one day, if and when the time is right. But right now…I can still hardly believe you are here. It is just so great to see you! We can do London together—that is, if you have time. If not, of course…I mean, I understand. I’m sure you are busy. You are a duchess, after all…an important lady now—many responsibilities, people depending on you—places to go, things to do, people to see, situations to evaluate.”

I couldn’t help laughing at his characterization of my life. I couldn’t believe how refreshingly good it felt to bask in Iain’s zestful, energetic outlook, his sense of humor, his exuberance for life.

“Have no worry about intruding,” I said. “There is nothing I would love so much as to have you intrude on my time as much as
you
have time for. I have so much to tell you!” I said.

“And I want to hear it all,” rejoined Iain. “I told you—every detail.”

As we walked through Kensington Gardens two days later, the initial mood of excited and exhilarating reacquaintance had given way to a quiet sense of contentment merely to be in each other’s presence. I think we both felt the same. It was different than it had ever been between us. There were no issues to contend with, no distractions, no people to worry about, no village gossip, no reminders of the past, no church politics or disputes or personalities, no watching eyes, not even any spiritual issues.

Just us.

Two people walking along. Two friends…a man and a woman.

We must have walked an hour without a word. All around bustled the life of London—horns and traffic in the distance, ducks and families and lovers scattered throughout the massive park. In the midst of it all we walked in peaceful silence.

We
had
talked. Almost nonstop for two days as we could find the time, late into both evenings, till almost midnight the first, till ten-thirty the second after Iain had been at work all day. Then today he had taken off from his job. If they fired him, he said, so be it. Being with me was a higher priority. We had talked about everything that had taken place in our two lives during the past four years.

Everything. Thus the silence between us now was the silence of
fullness
, not the silence of emptiness.

We had spoken of everything…except the one thing.

At length Iain broke the silence.

“When will you go?” he asked softly.

The question dropped like an anvil of inevitability on my head. In that instant I realized that what I had come to London for had been accomplished. To prolong it now could only lead in directions I wasn’t sure it was supposed to go.

I drew in a long sigh and slowly exhaled.

“I think probably tomorrow,” I replied.

He nodded.

“I had a feeling,” he said…then said no more.

As my plane lifted off from Gatwick the following morning and slowly banked north, I felt quietly at peace. Sad but at peace.

Whole.

Full circle.

Duties discharged.

Friendships fulfilled.

A good, quiet, melancholy sense of completion.

I didn’t know whether I would ever see Iain Barclay again.