The Keys of the Kingdom Read Free Page A

mother was a grand cook, a woman who earned – with her thrift, her knack of management and homely skill – the grudging panegyric of a Scots community: ‘Elizabeth Chisholm is a well-doing woman!’
    Now, as he finished his brose, he became conscious that she was speaking, with a look across the breakfast table towards his father.
    ‘You’ll mind to be home early tonight, Alex, for the Burgess.’
    There was a pause. He could see that his father, preoccupied, – perhaps by the flooded river and the indifferent salmon season, – was caught unawares, recalled to the annual formality of the Burgess Concert which they must sustain that evening.
    ‘You’re set on going, woman?’ With a faint smile.
    She flushed slightly; Francis wondered why she should seem so queer. ‘It’s one of the few things I look forward to in the year. After all you are a Burgess of the town. It’s … it’s right for you to take your seat on the platform with your family and your friends.’
    His smile deepened, setting lines of kindness about his eyes – it was a smile Francis would have died to win. ‘Then it looks like we maun gang, Lisbeth.’ He had always disliked ‘ the Burgess’ as he disliked teacups, stiff collars, and his squeaky Sunday boots. But he did not dislike this woman who wanted him to go.
    ‘I’m relying on you. Alex. You see,’ her voice, striving to be casual, sounded an odd note of relief, ‘I have asked Polly and Nora up from Tynecastle – unfortunately it seems Ned cannot get away.’ She paused. ‘You’ll have to send someone else to Ettal with the tallies.’
    He straightened with a quick look which seemed to see through her, right to the bottom of her tender subterfuge. At first, in his delight, Francis noticed nothing. His father’s sister, now dead, had married Ned Bannon, proprietor of the Union Tavern in Tynecastle, a bustling city some sixty miles due South. Polly, Ned’s sister and Nora, his ten-year-old orphan niece, were not exactly close relations. Yet their visits could always be counted occasions of joy.
    Suddenly he heard his father say in a quiet voice: ‘I’ll have to go to Ettal all the same.’
    A sharp and throbbing silence. Francis saw that his mother had turned white.
    ‘It isn’t as if you had to … Sam Mirlees, any of the men, would be glad to row up for you.’
    He did not answer, still gazing at her quietly, touched on his pride, his proud exclusiveness of race. Her agitation increased. She dropped all pretence of concealment, bent forward, placed nervous fingers upon his sleeve.
    ‘To please me, Alex. You know what happened last time. Things are bad again there – awful bad, I hear.’
    He put his big hand over hers, warmly, reassuringly.
    ‘You wouldn’t have me run away, would you, woman?’ He smiled and rose abruptly. ‘I’ll go early and be back early … in plenty time for you, our daft friends, and your precious concert to the bargain.’
    Defeated, that strained look fixed upon her face, she watched him pull on his hip-boots. Francis, chilled and downcast, had a dreadful premonition of what must come. And indeed, when his father straightened it was towards him he turned, mildly, and with rare compunction.
    ‘Come to think of it, boy, you’d better bide home today. Your mother could do with you about the house. There’ll be plenty to see to before our visitors arrive.’
    Blind with disappointment, Francis made no protest. He felt his mother’s arm tensely, detainingly about his shoulders.
    His father stood a moment at the door, with that deep contained affection in his eyes, then he silently went out.
    Though the rain ceased at noon the hours dragged dismally for Francis. While pretending not to see his mother’s worried frown, he was racked by the full awareness of their situation. Here in this quiet burgh they were known for what they were – unmolested, even warily esteemed. But in Ettal, the market town four miles away where, at the Fisheries Head