bothered to approach them. After their experiences trying to get something out of the
villagers and failing, they probably summed up the small population as a waste of time.
Elspeth and Hamish caught up with the line of villagers making their way to the church.
‘Now,’ said Hamish, ‘let’s see what the preaching is like.’
The interior of the church was small and whitewashed. There were no religious statues, no crosses. There wasn’t even an organ. A chanter, a man who struck a tuning fork on one of the front
pews and sang the first note, started off the hymn singing.
They sang, ‘There is a green hill far away without a city wall.’
‘I used to think that meant a city that didn’t have a wall,’ whispered Elspeth. ‘Then I learned it meant outside the city wall.’
‘Shhh!’ said an old lady waspishly.
The hymn was followed by two readings from the Bible, and then the minister rose to deliver his sermon. Hamish listened in surprise. Whatever had caused this religious fervour in Stoyre, it
could hardly be the preachings of Fergus Mackenzie. Hamish and Elspeth were seated at the back of the church and they had to strain to hear what the minister was saying. His soft voice did not
carry well. There was no passion or threat of hell-fire in his sermon. He said the villagers all knew that they were chosen by God and must live up to this privilege. He talked of Moses and the
burning bush and then of the leading of the Israelites to the promised land. His soft voice and the heat of all the bodies in the church and from the sun, now blazing in through the windows, had a
soporific effect on Hamish, and his head began to droop. Elspeth nudged him in the ribs. ‘Pay attention.’
The service ended with the Twenty-third Psalm.
Elspeth and Hamish waited outside by the church door to see if any of the villagers said anything of interest to the minister, but all they could hear were murmurs of ‘Grand service’
or replies to the minister’s occasional questions about health or children.
Hamish saw Mrs MacBean, who ran the general store, and taking Elspeth’s arm, he fell into step beside her. ‘Bad business about the major’s cottage,’ he remarked.
‘We should not be discussing such things on the Sabbath,’ said Mrs MacBean primly. ‘We have our minds on higher things.’ This reminded Hamish that it was a peculiarity
among some Presbyterians to not even hail their best friend on a Sunday. As Mrs MacBean had said, the mind was supposed to be on higher things. They had strict observance of the Lord’s Day.
There would even be a member of the congregation whose duty it was to ‘police’ the village on a Sunday to make sure no one was doing anything sinful like watching television or hanging
out their clothes.
She hurried on down the hill.
‘I brought a bit of a picnic,’ said Hamish to Elspeth. ‘We may as well have something to eat and drink. Let’s sit on the harbour wall. It should be dry by now.’
He opened the Land Rover and lifted out a basket. ‘You’re very domesticated,’ commented Elspeth. Hamish felt a stab of irritation and wondered why even the smallest thing
Elspeth said to him sounded like criticism.
Hamish had brought fruit and sandwiches and a flask of coffee. ‘Now,’ he said between bites of sandwich, ‘what have we got?’
‘Bugger all,’ said Elspeth, looking dreamily over the sea.
‘Think!’ commanded Hamish sharply. ‘Maybe the boys up the hill have found evidence of an IRA visit and so we can forget about the whole thing because whoever did it will
probably be back in Ireland by now.’
‘Okay, I’ll think,’ said Elspeth. ‘At first they were afraid. Something threatened them. Then they lost that fear. Something reassured them. Let’s go off on a
flight of fancy. The minister talked of Moses and the burning bush. He said they were the chosen people – not the Israelites, but the people of Stoyre. They’re very superstitious up
here. I
villagers and failing, they probably summed up the small population as a waste of time.
Elspeth and Hamish caught up with the line of villagers making their way to the church.
‘Now,’ said Hamish, ‘let’s see what the preaching is like.’
The interior of the church was small and whitewashed. There were no religious statues, no crosses. There wasn’t even an organ. A chanter, a man who struck a tuning fork on one of the front
pews and sang the first note, started off the hymn singing.
They sang, ‘There is a green hill far away without a city wall.’
‘I used to think that meant a city that didn’t have a wall,’ whispered Elspeth. ‘Then I learned it meant outside the city wall.’
‘Shhh!’ said an old lady waspishly.
The hymn was followed by two readings from the Bible, and then the minister rose to deliver his sermon. Hamish listened in surprise. Whatever had caused this religious fervour in Stoyre, it
could hardly be the preachings of Fergus Mackenzie. Hamish and Elspeth were seated at the back of the church and they had to strain to hear what the minister was saying. His soft voice did not
carry well. There was no passion or threat of hell-fire in his sermon. He said the villagers all knew that they were chosen by God and must live up to this privilege. He talked of Moses and the
burning bush and then of the leading of the Israelites to the promised land. His soft voice and the heat of all the bodies in the church and from the sun, now blazing in through the windows, had a
soporific effect on Hamish, and his head began to droop. Elspeth nudged him in the ribs. ‘Pay attention.’
The service ended with the Twenty-third Psalm.
Elspeth and Hamish waited outside by the church door to see if any of the villagers said anything of interest to the minister, but all they could hear were murmurs of ‘Grand service’
or replies to the minister’s occasional questions about health or children.
Hamish saw Mrs MacBean, who ran the general store, and taking Elspeth’s arm, he fell into step beside her. ‘Bad business about the major’s cottage,’ he remarked.
‘We should not be discussing such things on the Sabbath,’ said Mrs MacBean primly. ‘We have our minds on higher things.’ This reminded Hamish that it was a peculiarity
among some Presbyterians to not even hail their best friend on a Sunday. As Mrs MacBean had said, the mind was supposed to be on higher things. They had strict observance of the Lord’s Day.
There would even be a member of the congregation whose duty it was to ‘police’ the village on a Sunday to make sure no one was doing anything sinful like watching television or hanging
out their clothes.
She hurried on down the hill.
‘I brought a bit of a picnic,’ said Hamish to Elspeth. ‘We may as well have something to eat and drink. Let’s sit on the harbour wall. It should be dry by now.’
He opened the Land Rover and lifted out a basket. ‘You’re very domesticated,’ commented Elspeth. Hamish felt a stab of irritation and wondered why even the smallest thing
Elspeth said to him sounded like criticism.
Hamish had brought fruit and sandwiches and a flask of coffee. ‘Now,’ he said between bites of sandwich, ‘what have we got?’
‘Bugger all,’ said Elspeth, looking dreamily over the sea.
‘Think!’ commanded Hamish sharply. ‘Maybe the boys up the hill have found evidence of an IRA visit and so we can forget about the whole thing because whoever did it will
probably be back in Ireland by now.’
‘Okay, I’ll think,’ said Elspeth. ‘At first they were afraid. Something threatened them. Then they lost that fear. Something reassured them. Let’s go off on a
flight of fancy. The minister talked of Moses and the burning bush. He said they were the chosen people – not the Israelites, but the people of Stoyre. They’re very superstitious up
here. I
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