The Wicker Tree Read online

  Steve, dressed now in jeans and a T-shirt, laughed at her slightly incoherent babble. 'You're just used to kids, honey. Fans that are kids and teens.' He was looking at the television showing the milling crowd, and a presenter interviewing Lachlan and Delia. 'Those dudes are old.

  But boy did they love you. Wow!'

  'So how about you, cowboy? That singin' gal is the new me. D'you still love me?'

  For answer he grabbed an open bottle of champagne he had been drinking and took a gulp of it from the neck. He put his mouth to hers, letting the champagne flow in. Beth went slightly pop-eyed as she tried to gulp it down, and they were both spluttering and laughing and falling on the bed, Steve on top of Beth. Suddenly they were both following their strong instinct to make love to each other, his hands on her thighs, her open mouth hungrily seeking his. Steve whispered teasingly: 'I loved you when you had braces on your teeth. And I love you now you're the most beautiful and talented woman in Scotland.'

  Beth's dress was up to her waist now. She suddenly wrenched herself away from him, sitting bolt upright, stretching her legs to plant her feet firmly on the floor again. She grabbed his silver ringed hand in her silver ringed hand, and thrust them close to his face.

  'Silver ring, Steve!' cried Beth. 'Silver ring, honey!'

  Breathless, Steve's response came slowly.

  'Sometimes I don't think I'm ever – ever goin' to get used to…'

  'Abstainin'?' Beth whispered, distracted, because in the backgound she could now hear her own voice singing in the cathedral.

  They both leaned forward to watch the television as the presenter wrapped up the programme against a clip of Beth finishing her performance.

  'Well that was the new Beth Boothby bringing the Word of the Lord to us sinful Scots. Now let's take a last look at the old familiar Beth singing her greatest hit…'

  Another clip of Beth filled the screen. This time she was dressed in hot pants and in the full pop princess costume. Her body undulating, she was making love to the microphone as she sang a breathy, sexy ballad.

  Beth grabbed the TV control gizmo and tried to switch herself off, but pushed the wrong button and the image kept bouncing back. Furious, she pointed the gizmo at her image like a gun.

  'I just hate her!' she cried.

  'But she's you, baby,' said Steve.

  'Not any more she isn't.' Beth finally achieved a blank screen. Meanwhile Steve had gathered up his sneakers and was heading for the door. Beth darted in front of him.

  'Where you goin' Steve?' she asked sharply. She put her arms round him and gave him a languorous kiss on the mouth, to which Steve,

  sulky and frustrated, only half responded.

  'My room, honey,' he said.The telephone by the bed started to ring. Beth hesitated, her attention on Steve. She suddenly sounded very serious and earnest.

  'I promise that – when we're wed – you're goin' to know you married a real lil' ole Jezebel.'

  She turned away to pick up the telephone while Steve waited an instant to see who was calling.

  'Delia!' Beth assumed her best, socially-friendly tone. 'Yeah, that reception was so wonderful. You and Lachlan were so kind… No… Steve has gotten a whole lot of maps. But thank you. Yeah, we got your numbers. If anything comes up we'll call… Sure. We'll let you know how it went… Really appreciate it, Delia… Good night.'

  While Beth was talking Steve snuck up behind her and kissed the nape of her neck and immediately left the room. Beth turned to see Steve had gone. She touched the back of her neck, sighed and smiled a little ruefully.

  The Mission

  THE MORNING BROUGHT the news on both Beth and Steve's bedside phones that their chauffeur, Mr Beame, was waiting for them as soon as they were ready. The further news that it was ten o'clock in the morning made them both leap from their beds, shower, dress, gather up some of the pamphlets Terry had given them and hurry down to meet him. To their relief, he had entrusted the Rolls Royce to the kilted doorman, and was enjoying a hearty breakfast.

  'It is maybe the only true good reason to have a Rolls Royce,' he told them in his rich Glaswegian accent. 'No doorman can resist looking after it for you. You double park outside their hotel, throw them the keys and tell them if they play their cards right you may allow them to clean it.'

  They drove first to a section of the city called the Gorbals.

  'When I was a bairn this was my home. Mordaunt Street. You'll find more honest to God sinners here than in any other part of town. But now it's all changing. See, over there? Big new blocks of flats for nobs. Pricey.'

  'Nobs?' asked Steve.

  'Aye. Solicitors, insurance salesmen, doctors. That class of person. One of the best known taxidermists in Scotland lives in that block.'

  'Taxidermists?' Beth was curious this time.

  'They stuff… well animals. I do a bit of it myself. Stags, foxes, rare owls. You know what I mean?'

  'Oh sure,' said Steve. 'My pa's got an old stuffed mountain lion my grandaddy shot up in Arkansas. My ma, she hated that thing. Said it was full of vermin.'

  Beame made no comment on this revelation. To his mind it sounded typically American. No respect for a science and art form that was as old as the pyramids of Egypt, or so the Laird had once told him. But his wife had given him his orders and he was almost as frightened of her as he was in awe of her husband. These young Yanks had to be handled just right.

  When Beame dropped them off where his native Mordaunt Street met the avenue of smart new blocks of flats, they had agreed a plan. First the flats, then Mordaunt Street. They found a nice familiar Starbucks on the corner and, having decided their opening strategy, settled down to discuss tactics.

  'I thought Terry was a tad pessimistic about how folks will receive us,' said Beth. 'We got to go to each door thinking – these people are going to be real pleased to see us and when they hear what we have to say why they'll just be one hundred per cent receptive and interested. Don't you think?'

  'Are you forgetting that march yesterday?' Steve reminded her. 'All those folks dumping on the war, and on the President. I guess they're goin' to know real quick that we're Americans. I never knew that I had an accent till I realised that Mr Beame has as hard a time understanding us as we do listenin' to him. That's one fence we're goin' to have to climb wherever we go.'

  'Folks back home, Big Bill for one, think these Europeans – they're anti-American. That's wrong. They just hate Bush.' Beth was all sweet reason. 'I've met a whole lot of Yankees who hate Bush too. They just don't understand what a great Christian the guy is. He came back from being an alcoholic, and some real doubtful business deals. Then he found the Lord. He gave himself to God and that's all I need to know about him. He's a genuine born-again Christian gentleman and our President. But whatever these folks think of him, haven't they shown us nothing but kindness? If we can teach them that God loves them, each and every one of them, they may start to think of our President as like their big brother in Christ. 'Cause that's what he is. God bless him. Know what I mean?' Beth remained sunnily optimistic.

  They were lucky in that their first call to a homely little lady with a Pekinese went well. She lived in the first block of apartments where there seemed to be no doorman, just a row of bells and an entry phone. It turned out she'd seen the concert on the local TV and couldn't wait to make them tea. It helped that her normally fierce little dog, which answered to the name of Chang, seemed to like Steve. It allowed him to rub its tummy while Beth helped make the tea and talked about the Lord. The woman kept their pamphlet and asked Beth to sign her schoolgirl daughter's autograph book.

  So far, so successful. But they knew that recognition of Beth had helped. It wasn't to happen again. School was in and the few kids they were to meet were playing hooky. The next apartment where someone answered the bell was probably the janitor's because it was on the ground floor and smelt of cats' piss and disinfectant. A very old man opened the door. At first he didn't seem to notice them, but that was because he was ben
ding to pick up some milk bottles. Then he looked up and saw them. He seemed nervous but he smiled at them nevertheless, showing a large expanse of badly-fitting false teeth.

  'Good morning, friend,' said Steve. 'Do you believe in Jesus?' He handed the old man a pamphlet, which was accepted by a trembling, liver spotted hand.

  'I'm Labour, old Labour and proud of it,' he said. 'My wife, she doesn't vote. Doesn't hold with it. Says you're all liars.' He cackled with laughter at what he had said and peered at them through weak, red-rimmed eyes to see how they were taking it.

  An old woman in a pinafore had appeared behind him, taking the milk from his hand, steering him away from the door.

  'Not today. Not today. Thank you very much,' she almost shouted. 'There's no election, dad. They're just a couple of Jesus freaks. I'm sorry but that's what we call you round here,' she added shrilly, as she shut the door in their faces.

  Disappointing. But the man had held on to the pamphlet, and Steve thought that mildly encouraging.

  'Suppose he keeps the pamphlet in the toilet. Reads a bit every time he's spending some time in there. One day he gets the message. Then he's telling her about the Lord all day long till she just like gives up, falls on her knees and is saved. Hallelujah!'

  'You've got an amazing imagination, Steve,' said Beth admiringly. 'For a cowboy,' she added teasingly.

  The next bell that responded was for the penthouse apartment of a building that overlooked the river and had been well converted from a warehouse. The middle-aged woman who came to the door this time was wearing an expensive looking robe and looked as if she was not long out of bed.

  'If you could spare us a few minutes, lady. We'd like to talk to you about Jesus,' said Steve, holding his pamphlets prominently in his hands. Beth gave her winning smile.

  The woman took a perceptibly long time to answer during which her face was a blank. Then she suddenly summoned up a bleak smile.

  'Actually I'm a Buddhist,' she said. 'You would be too if you knew anything about it. Anyway, why don't you come in and give me your spiel? Maybe I can critique it for you. I know the market round here pretty well.'

  Steve and Beth followed her into the apartment, a huge, luxurious loft conversion which was largely open plan, the kitchen-dining area being closest to the front door. On an island kitchen counter, a bottle, newly opened by the look of it, sat next to a half full glass of white wine. The woman took two glasses from an overhead rack and placed them beside the bottle.

  'My name is Constance,' she said.

  'Constance, my name's Beth and this is Steve, and we don't drink, don't normally drink alcohol. At least I don't.'

  'Well poor old you, Beth. Anyway here's some for scrumptious Steve.' Constance was already handing him a well-filled glass and looking him up and down. Beth had never seen a woman undress a man with her eyes like that. Of course men did it all the time to women. God made men that way. Admiring a neat pair of buns from the rear was OK in her book, but this was embarrassing.

  'We're here to talk about Jesus, Constance,' said Steve firmly. 'And it's real kind of you to offer. But I never drink when I'm…' He paused. Was this work, he was wondering.

  He returned the full wine glass, sliding it across the counter back to Constance. She stared at it for what seemed an unnaturally long time. Then she stretched forward awkwardly to take the glass, knocking it over, so that it spilled, rolled and smashed on the floor. She surveyed the mess, but made no move towards it. Instead, she stared at Beth, managing the wintry smile. Steve had stooped to pick up the pieces.

  'You're wrong Beth,' said Constance at last, speaking carefully in her posh Scottish accent, as if at an elocution class. 'Quite wrong. Wrong technique. You want to get people's attention? What you should be saying is: "My name is Beth." Then you turn to him… you introduce him. "This is JESUS," you say. Now you've got their attention. So here is the grabber… now you say: "I want to talk about YOU." Who wants to talk about anyone else?'

  Beth had a visceral dislike of anyone who revived memories of her father's alcoholism.

  'Steve,' she said quite sharply, 'I think we are intruding on this lady. Let's just leave our little pamphlet with her. Food for thought, Constance! When you're not too busy, honey. OK?'

  Constance's nervous system was already in delayed-action mode. Surprise now completely immobilised it. She just stood there, her wintry smile still painted upon her face. As Steve made to follow Beth, she reached out to touch him but – missed. She staggered but did not quite fall. They closed the door behind them.

  'I guess she's very lonesome,' said Steve as they hurried on to Mordaunt Street, the next target on their map. 'I feel sorry for her.'

  'So go back and comfort her,' snapped Beth.

  'Are you kidding?' Steve was appalled, not so much at Beth's words as at her tone.

  It took a little while for Beth to examine what she had been feeling when she said that. It was just so un-Christian, she knew that. She told herself that Jesus loved Constance and, God help Him, loved even her shit-faced Daddy. So somehow, she would never understand how, she must love them too. Meanwhile she was walking as fast as she could. It had started to rain. Steve, trying to check their position on the wet, wind-tossed map, had a hard time keeping up with her. Suddenly Beth stopped and flung her arms around him.

  'I am so sorry Steve. I can be such a bitch sometimes. You are right. Of course she's lonely. She could have been pretty once. Now she's all puffy and blotchy, smelling of booze and borderline crazy. Who would want to spend any time with her?'

  'Beth, are we here to try and help people like her? You tell me! I mean all those guys with couches charging a hundred dollars an hour, don't they do that?'

  'They don't tell people that Jesus is the answer. Sure we could have maybe helped her. But I just couldn't stand to spend one more minute with her. That's my problem, Steve. I admit it. She was reminding me of my Daddy.'

  It was Steve's turn to pause and take this admission in.

  'Well that sure is a human reaction,' he said finally, and deciding that was as judgemental as he was prepared to be, went on: 'Mr Beame suggested we start on the right-hand side of this street. Thought we might find some likely prospects there.'

  The owners or tenants of the first eight houses they tried didn't answer their bells or knockers. The ninth was opened by a big beerbellied man in a T-shirt and jeans. He laughed when Steve asked if he believed in Jesus.

  'If she'll come and sit on my face I'll give it a go, mate,' he said with a lascivious chuckle.

  They hurried on down the street, missing out three doors in order to be well away from the further genial obscenities the man was aiming at Beth.

  The next house had a freshly-painted front door and clean glass in the fanlight above it. The man who opened the door was polite and friendly. He shook hands when they offered theirs and said it was Jenny, his wife, they should be after.

  'I'll take a pamphlet for her,' he said. 'She believes but I don't. I once said to her, "Do you really think the world was created in seven days?" She said, "Well the Bible says so." So I said, "What about the dinosaurs?" "What about them?" she said. So now we just let it go. But I'll give her this,' he added, putting the pamphlet on the hall table.

  'Thank you sir,' said Beth. If a man had heard or read the word of God and didn't believe it, what more was there to say? But she gave him her special smile. To their surprise, as she and Steve were just turning to go on up the street they heard him say: 'Stop!'

  Looking back to see what was the matter, they saw that he had stepped back into his doorway and was gesturing for them to come closer.

  'I wouldn't go no further up this street if I was you,' he said, keeping his voice low, although there was no one else around to hear him. 'I think someone's planning to take the piss, big time.'

  'You mean someone who knows we're comin'?' asked Steve, astonished.

  'No comment. Isn't that what they say? Listen. Unless you got some magic tricks for dealing with
dogs I wouldn't go no further.'

  'Dogs?' Steve was as used to them as to horses. He'd had gun dogs for hunting all his life. 'You got a back yard? I could use a stick.'

  'You haven't seen this dog,' said the man. 'But be my guest,' he added, pointing the way to the back of the house and the yard.

  While Steve was looking for a suitable stick among the bushes in the tiny but well kept garden, Beth vented her curiosity about what made some people in this street so hostile. The man hesitated. She wondered if he was feeling guilty about tipping them off about the dog and felt to say more would make him really treacherous.

  'You're foreign,' he said thoughtfully. 'There are some people here, in this street – not all by any means – but some – who hate foreign. Yanks, yes I'm sorry, but they do. English too, oh particularly English. If there weren't English there to hate, we'd have to invent them. I'm sorry but you got a fleesome task ahead of you.'

  'But, Jesus?' she asked. 'What is there to hate about him?'

  'Ah, that's territorial. Jesus can invade their territory. To let him in makes them look soft to their mates. They're mortally afraid of that. I'll be frank with you. I know the feeling.'

  Steve had come back with a good stout stick about three feet long. He thanked the man, who went inside and shut his front door. Steve rang or knocked at the next three doors, telling Beth to stay well behind him.

  At the fourth door, number 94A Taggart Street, there was a voice answering from within. Beside the voice there was the sound of a dog giving a deep growling bark followed by a curiously high pitched growl.

  'Yeah? Whatisit?' A deep, glottal slur of a voice it was.

  'We're Redeemers, sir,' said Steve. 'We'd like to talk to you about Jesus.'

  For a couple of instants Steve and Beth stood waiting, with Steve trying to push Beth behind him. Then just audibly the voice hissed, 'Gettem Tyson!' The door opened with a bang and a huge mastiff came hurtling out with one snarling leap, straight at the stick held out for him. Unfortunately, just behind the stick Beth, turning away, inadvertently presented her rear and he bit into it before Steve managed to force the stick into his jaws, getting him to bite deep into the wood. The moment his teeth had sunk into the stick Steve was swinging him into the air and hurling him back through the door, where a burly, tattooed man with arms like lamp posts tried to catch him but got the full force of the flying mastiff in his face, knocking him to the ground. From behind the shouting, whining mass of dog and man writhing on the hall floor, a fierce little woman in an apron darted out into the street, closing the door behind her.