Page 13 of Walk on the Wildsyde

“Papa!” Clara whispered urgently, taking her father’s arm. “This kind of scene is unbecoming in a man of God. Surely, another tactic is called for.”

“When they wave such instruments of the devil under my very nose?” her father raged. “Indeed, I have stayed silent long enough.”

“Ye have nae been silent since the moment ye arrived,” the first fellow said indignantly. “This is nae the first time ye have interfered with us, and we are just honest working men. I dinnae drink myself, ye ken, saving for a wee dram on special occasions, or if I’m feeling a bit chilled. I’m just earning my wages. Now, let us by, Reverend.”

“I would be failing in my duty as the voice of God in this town if I did not make a stand and tell you that you have fallen. Ye are empty of the Christ, whosoever of you that justify yourselves by the law; ye are fallen from grace –Galatians five, verse four!”

“Papa!” Clara said, tugging at his arm. “Truly, this is not the way. Please let the men go about their work.”

“Let go of me, child!” her father said urgently. “You do not understand that this is a war against evil, against the demon drink that has taken a hold of this town and—”

“And can I help ye, Reverend?” the cheerful voice cut through her father’s rant and the relief on the men’s faces was almost comical as Mr Anderson arrived on the scene.

“Who are you?” her father demanded suspiciously.

“I’m Hamilton Anderson, Reverend, and I’m pleased to make ye acquaintance at last. I hear we have riled ye up a wee bit. Jock, Hamish, what are ye doing standing about in the street carrying that? Get it inside now. Excuse me, Reverend, I wouldnae want ye to get crushed. ’Tis a heavy piece, that,” Mr Anderson said, sounding most solicitous as he deftly manoeuvred her father from the road.

Her father was not a small man, but his bulk was mostly fat, and it was immediately clear that Mr Anderson could lift him from the men’s path without breaking a sweat if he chose to do so. The reverend could do little other than bluster his indignation as Mr Anderson gently but firmly forced him from the road and the two men hefted the heavy piece of oak towards the building site.

“There, now. We can have a proper chat with them gone, aye?” Mr Anderson said cordially, though Clara saw the challenging glint in his eyes well enough.

“Sir! You are impudent. How dare you lay hands on a man of God?” the reverend demanded, glaring at Mr Anderson.

“I didnae lay hands on ye, only stopped ye getting yerself crushed by a heavy piece of wood. Jock and Hamish are fine strong lads, but they couldnae hold that piece forever, ye ken. At best, it would have flattened yer toes if they let it slip.”

“Are you threatening me with violence, sir?”

Mr Anderson gave a choked laugh. “I am nae. I just told ye I got ye out the way afore ye were harmed. It’s nae in my nature to go about beating up men of God, ye ken. Lord, big as I am, my ma would skelp me good if she heard I so much as raised my voice to ye. I promise ye are quite safe,” he added with that charming grin that laid waste to so many ladies' sensibilities.

Clara told herself sternly that she was made of sterner stuff and was not among them.

With any other man, she did not doubt he could have cajoled them into a good-natured discussion and come to terms, but sadly her father was driven by forces Mr Anderson did not understand. Clara didn’t either if she were honest, but there was no denying her father seemed to have discovered the thing that motivated him to work. Never before had she seen him so passionate about writing his sermons, staying up late into the night and rising early. Never before had she seen the light of religious fervour shining in his eyes as she did now, and it rather frightened her.

“No man, woman or child is safe from your influence,” her father shouted furiously, squaring his shoulders. “Do you deny your distillery is the largest in the town? Do you deny that the men of Wick are nightly inebriated, out of their senses with strong liquor whilst their wives and children go hungry?”

“Just ye hold on a moment,” Mr Anderson said, and while her father’s voice got louder with rage, Mr Anderson’s seemed to do the reverse, but there was no denying he was heard well enough. To Clara’s eternal humiliation, many of the neighbours had come out to stand on the doorstep to watch the entertaining scene. “Aye, my distillery is the largest, but it’s also the most expensive. Little of it is drunk in these parts, but sent to Edinburgh and England, and exported too. I dinnae hold the men down and pour the stuff down their throats, ye ken. Every man is free to choose his fate, and aye, there’s a good many that would rather drink than pay their bills and buy shoes for their bairns, but ye would do well to speak to them and understand why that is. Life is hard, aye, and men have demons of their own to wrestle with. Surely a man of God ought to listen to their troubles and discover what he can do to help them rather than putting the blame on one man’s shoulders. I’ll nae be your scapegoat, Reverend Halliday, and ye had best understand that at once.”

Despite herself, Clara could not help but regard Mr Anderson with something approaching admiration, for he had voiced sentiments that she had not dared speak aloud to her father. Not that it would do him a whit of good, she realised with a sinking heart.

“‘For such men are false apostles, deceitful workmen, disguising themselves as apostles of Christ. And no wonder, for even Satan disguises himself as an angel of light. So, it is no surprise if his servants, also, disguise themselves as servants of righteousness. Their end will correspond to their deeds,’”Reverend Halliday said coldly. “You may deny your sins to your last breath, sir, but God knows all, sees all, and you will be judged.”

With that, he turned and stalked away, leaving Clara standing in the street with half the neighbourhood all agog. She did not dare look at Mr Anderson, but kept her head down, and hurried after her father.

“Miss Halliday.”

She winced at the sound of her name, knowing she could not cut him in front of everyone. Steeling her nerve, Clara straightened her spine and raised her head.

“Yes, Mr Anderson?”

“I’m sorry, lassie,” he said, his expression one of contrition. “If I caused ye any embarrassment, I apologise unreservedly. It was nae my intention, ye ken. I was about to tell ye my name, I swear it, only I was enjoying our conversation and I didnae want ye to stop speaking to me.”

“That’s quite all right,” Clara said stiffly, not daring to believe him. Mrs Macready had warned her once more to guard herself against Mr Anderson’s coaxing ways, lest people should gossip about her being yet another lovelorn female who’d given her heart to the fellow.

“I’m sorry too that yer da holds me in such dislike. I spoke true, though. I ken well enough there are men who think of nothing but the drink, but it’s nae my doing. I pity them and if I could help them, I would. They were drinking themselves stupid long before I bought the distillery, though, and they’d keep doing it even if I were to close the business this instant. Ye understand me?”

Clara nodded but was too worried about her father to continue the conversation, nevermind giving the neighbours more to gossip about. “If you would excuse me, Mr Anderson, I ought to see to the reverend—Oh, Miss Fleming!” she exclaimed, having entirely forgotten her guest in all the excitement. “I do beg your pardon. How can you forgive me for abandoning you so rudely?”

“Do not consider it for a moment, my dear Miss Halliday,” the lady said gently. “Miss Macready fed me the most delicious shortbread and in truth I was rather entertained by the spectacle, for I confess we watched from the window,” she admitted, casting a shy look at Mr Anderson.