A Place Called Freedom Read Free Page B

with thinning hair. He spoke hesitantly, unnerved by the magnificence of the visitors. His sermon was about truth. How would he react to Mack’s reading out the letter? His instinct would be to take the side of the mine owner. He was probably going to dine at the castle after the service. But he was a clergyman: he would be obliged to speak out for justice, regardless of what Sir George might say, wouldn’t he?
    The plain stone walls of the church were bare. There was no fire, of course, and Mack’s breath clouded in the cold air. He studied the castle folk. He recognized most of the Jamisson family. When Mack was a boy they had spent much of their time here. Sir George was unmistakable, with his red face and fat belly. His wife was beside him, in a frilly pink dress that might have looked pretty on a younger woman. There was Robert, the elder son, hard eyed and humorless, twenty-six years old and just beginning to develop the round-bellied look of his father. Next to him was a handsome fair-haired man of about Mack’s age: he had to be Jay, the younger son. The summer Mack was six years old he had played with Jay every day in the woods around Castle Jamisson, and both had thought they would be friends for life. But that winter Mack had started work in the pit, and then there was no more time for play.
    He recognized some of the Jamissons’ guests. Lady Hallim and her daughter, Lizzie, were familiar. Lizzie Hallim had long been a source of sensation and scandal in the glen. People said she roamed around in men’s clothing, with a gun over her shoulder. She would give her boots to a barefoot child then berate its mother for not scrubbing her doorstep. Mack had not set eyes on her for years. The Hallim estate had its own church, so they did not come here every Sunday, but they visited when the Jamissons were in residence, and Mack recalled seeing Lizzie on the last occasion, when she had been about fifteen; dressed as a fine lady, but throwing stones at squirrels just like a boy.
    Mack’s mother had once been a ladies’ maid at High Glen House, the Hallim mansion, and after she married she had sometimes gone back, on a Sunday afternoon, to see her old friends and show off her twin babies. Mack and Esther had played with Lizzie on those visits—probably without the knowledge of Lady Hallim. Lizzie had been a little minx: bossy, selfish and spoiled. Mack had kissed her once, and she had pulled his hair and made him cry. She looked as though she had not changed much. She had a small impish face, curly dark hair and very dark eyes that suggested mischief. Her mouth was like a pink bow. Staring at her, Mack thought I’d like to kiss her now . Just as the notion crossed his mind she caught his eye. He looked away, embarrassed, as if she might have read his mind.
    The sermon came to an end. In addition to the usual Presbyterian service there was to be a christening today: Mack’s cousin Jen had given birth to her fourth child. Her eldest, Wullie, was already working down the pit. Mack had decided that the most appropriate time for his announcement was during the christening. As the moment drew near he felt a watery sensation in his stomach. Then he told himself not to be foolish: he risked his life every day down a mine—why should he be nervous about defying a fat merchant?
    Jen stood at the font, looking weary. She was only thirty but she had borne four children and worked down the pit for twenty-three years and she was worn out. Mr. York sprinkled water on her baby’s head. Then her husband, Saul, repeated the form of words that made a slave of every Scottish miner’s son. “I pledge this child to work in Sir George Jamisson’s mines, boy and man, for as long as he is able, or until he die.”
    This was the moment Mack had decided on.
    He stood up.
    At this point in the ceremony the viewer, Harry Ratchett, would normally step up to the font and hand over to Saul the “arles,” the traditional payment for pledging