On the Edge of Darkness. Barbara Erskine

Brid her mother was bending over a brightly burning fire. Something was simmering in the pot suspended above it. He sniffed and Brid clapped her hands. She nodded and, taking a pottery bowl from her mother, spooned some sort of thin porridge into it. Taking it from her he sniffed, tasted, and burned his tongue. As breakfasts went it was pretty tasteless, not nearly as nice as the meal the night before, but it filled his stomach and when at last Brid led him back the way they had come he was feeling comparatively cheerful.

      The cross-slab was wrapped once more in mist as they passed close beside it and he walked onto the hillside and stood looking down at his own valley, still wrapped in darkness. Brid pointed, with a little smile, and Adam stepped away from her. ‘Goodbye,’ he said. ‘And thanks.’

      ‘Goodbye and thanks.’ The girl repeated the words softly. With a wave she turned and vanished into the mist.

      The manse looked bleak in the cold dawn light. There was still no smoke coming from the chimneys and the front door was locked. Biting his lip nervously Adam ran soundlessly round the side, praying under his breath that the kitchen door would be open. It wasn’t. He stood there for a moment undecided, looking up at the blank windows at the back of the house. The awful misery was returning. Swallowing it down he turned and headed back into the street.

      The manse might still be asleep but the village was stirring. The sweet smell of woodsmoke filled the air as he turned up Bridge Street and into Jeannie Barron’s gate and knocked tentatively at the door. The sound was greeted by a frenzy of wild barking.

      The door was opened seconds later by Jeannie’s burly husband, Ken. A pretty sheltie was leaping round his heels, plainly delighted to see Adam, who stooped to give her a hug. The dog had been his once. But for some reason Adam had never understood his father had disapproved of his son having a pet and the puppy had been given to Jeannie. Ken stared down at Adam with a surprised frown and then turned and called over his shoulder, ‘Jeannie, it’s the minister’s lad.’

      Jeannie’s kindly pink-cheeked face appeared behind him. She was wearing her overall just as she always did at the manse.

      ‘Hello, Mrs Barron.’ Adam looked at her and to his intense embarrassment his eyes flooded with tears.

      ‘Adam.’ She pushed past her husband and enveloped the boy in a huge plump hug. ‘Oh, my poor wee boy.’ He was almost as tall as she was but for the moment he was a small child again, seeking comfort and warmth and affection in her arms.

      She ushered him into her kitchen, pushed her husband outside and sat Adam down at her table. A mug of milky tea and a thick wedge of bread and jam later she stood looking down at him. His pale face had regained its colour and the tears had dried but there was no disguising the misery in the boy’s face. The dog was sitting pressed against his legs.

      ‘Now, do you understand what’s happened?’ She sat down opposite him and reached for the large brown teapot.

      He shrugged. ‘Father said Mother has gone.’ The tears were very near. ‘He said she had sinned.’

      ‘She’s not sinned!’ The strength of her voice helped him control the sob which was lurking in his throat. ‘Your mother is a decent, beautiful, good woman. But she’s been driven to the end of the road by that man.’

      Adam frowned. Not recognising her metaphor he pictured a car, driven by a stranger.

      Jeannie Barron scowled. Her fair hair leaped round her head in coiled springs as she wielded her pot and filled both their mugs again. ‘How she put up with him so long, I’ll never know. I only hope she’ll find happiness where she’s gone.’

      ‘Where has she gone?’ He looked at her desperately.

      She shook her head. ‘I don’t know, Adam, and that’s the truth.’

      ‘But she’d tell you?’ Adam was biting his lip.

      She shook her head again. ‘She told no one that I know.’

      ‘But why did she leave me behind?’ It was the bewildered cry of a small child. ‘Why didn’t she take me with her?’

      Jeannie pursed her lips. ‘I don’t know.’ She sighed unhappily. ‘It’s not because she doesn’t love you. You must believe that. Perhaps she didn’t know herself where she was going. Perhaps she’ll send for you a wee bit later.’

      ‘Do you think so?’ His huge brown eyes were pleading.

      Meeting them she couldn’t lie to him and give him the reassurance he wanted. All she could say was, ‘I hope so, Adam, I do hope so.’ Susan Craig had been her friend but not her confidante. To confide too much in another was not in her nature. It was enough that she knew that Jeannie would be there for Adam.

      It was as he was standing up to leave he remembered why they were here in her kitchen and not in the manse. ‘Do you really not work for us any more?’

      She shook her head. ‘I’m sorry, Adam. Your father doesn’t want me there.’

      She would never tell anyone, never mind the boy, the vile, furious words the distraught man had flung at her when she had tried to defend and then excuse his wife’s decision to leave. She put her hands on Adam’s shoulders, her heart aching for the boy. With her own family long gone and scattered round Scotland and one of them in Canada she had always thought of Adam privately as the child of her middle years. ‘Listen, Adam. I want you to remember I’m here if you need me. You can come to me any time.’ She held his gaze firmly. ‘Any time, Adam.’

      She had a shrewd idea what the boy was going back to and she didn’t envy him. But he had courage, she had always admired him for that.

      When he turned into the gate and approached the house this time the front door was open. He hesitated in the hall. The door to his father’s study was shut and he glanced at the stairs, wondering if he could reach them in time on his silent rubber soles. He was almost there when he heard the door behind him open. Panic flooded into his throat. For a moment he thought, as he turned to face his father, that he was going to be sick.

      Thomas Craig stood back, gesturing the boy into his study with a sharp jerk of his head. The man’s face was grey and he was unshaven. As he closed the door behind his son, he reached up to the hook on the back of it and brought down the broad leather belt which hung there.

      Adam whimpered, the ice of fear pouring over his shoulders and down his back, his skin already taut with terror at the beating that was coming. ‘Father –’

      ‘Where were you last night?’

      ‘On the hill, Father. I’m sorry. I got lost in the mist.’

      ‘You disobeyed me. I told you to go to your room. I had to look for you. I searched the village. And the riverbank, I didn’t know what had happened to you!’

      ‘I’m sorry, Father.’ He was ashamed of himself for being so afraid but he couldn’t help it. ‘I was upset.’ His words were very quiet.

      ‘Upset?’ His father echoed them. He pulled the leather strap through his hand and doubled it into his fist. ‘You think that excuses disobedience?’

      ‘No, Father.’ Adam clutched his hands together to stop them shaking.

      ‘And you accept that God would want you punished?’

      No, he was screaming inside himself. No. Mummy says God is the God of love. He forgives. He wouldn’t want me beaten.

      ‘Well?’ Thomas’s voice came out as a hiss.

      ‘Yes, Father,’ Adam whispered.

      His father stood for a moment in silence, looking at him, then he pulled an upright wooden chair out from the wall and placing it in front of his desk he pointed at it.

      Adam was trembling. ‘Please, Father –’

      ‘Not another word.’

      ‘Father –’

      ‘God