At the church

John and Bert were only a furlong or two from S. Mary's Church when it started raining. John had kept ahead of Bert all the way there, although Bert had tried a couple of times to talk to his employee. All in vain: John stayed tight-lipped, pissed off.

The muggy damp that had held its breath all the way from John's house now sighed all around them. The sigh, made of a fine spray, lay in the air, and came upon them like a friend coming up to lead them by the arm; as if it had been waiting for them. Father MacFie had certainly been waiting, counting the minutes even, and as they rounded a small hill before the church he moved from the protection of the doorway. He erected a black umbrella and his face, like that of John's mum, had the wrath of God upon it. John wondered if the Father's air, strengthened by his holiness, would be enough to turn the rain to steam as it touched, but the reverend had had to blink the cold mist away.

"Mr Whittle," Father MacFie had begun in soft Edinburgh, "God bless you now you're here, of course, but you're confoundedly late."

"Aye, Father. Reet sorry an' all." The cap had come off immediately, and water dripped out of it between Bert Whittle's fingers. "Saw Paulie soon as knew about it, but 'e was buggered if&#x2014sorry, Father, but 'e wouldn't come for love ner money. Then 'ad ter get ter village and get John outer bed."

Father MacFie nodded. "Yes, I suppose so, Bert. But I can tell you right now that I wouldn't at all be surprised if the diocese wanted to know why we bought that piece of machinery to do our digging, rather than hiring it on a shall we say ad hoc basis when we needed it. We're not a metropolis, after all, and we don't require such tools every day of the week. You will have to tell me again why you were so in favour of us buying it outright, Bert. And remind me off which of your friends we acquired it."

Bert looked miserable, but then it was John's turn. "And you, John Atherton, are late as well. By which I mean you're late for mass. I haven't seen you in church for a good few weeks.

"Uh, aye, Father," John babbled. "I've been busy with t'work for Mr Sinclair. 'E's asked me to do extra for t'scholarship, so I spent me weekends doing that. For 'im. Father," he finished.

"Well, perhaps you ought to consider your priorities, Mr Atherton. Remember that Sunday is our Lord's Day."

"Aye, Father."

"A day of rest."

"Aye, Father."

"A day where we set aside any earthly worries and contemplate the glory of our Lord, and the mystery of the Trinity."

"Aye, Father."

"Well, I'll no doubt be seeing you tomorrow morning, then, will I not? Maybe after the service we can discuss remuneration for the sterling work you will be doing today for God, Mr Whittle, the late Mr Waterworth and myself?"

John nodded, not sure what else to do. Another flaming hole to be dug, he thought. And another bloody ticking off. Nothing ever changed: day in, day out. Only at the end of this one he'd have no pay, all his work for school on Monday still to do, and the prospect of an early morning tomorrow back at S. Mary's.

"Right then, gentlemen," Father MacFie continued, now to the both of them. "You know where the hand tools are. Mr Whittle, you can find the plot again, I take it? Very good. I must go and organise matters in the church, so I will take my leave of you. If you can have the work finished by ten then that would be fine." With that, he turned and walked back to the church, and inside.

Both feeling guilty, the workmen looked at each other for a moment. Then Bert jerked his head towards the lean-to at the side of the priest's lodgings. You go, the nod said to John. Get tools. To make sure John got the message, Bert turned away and began to roll a fag. John took a deep breath, promised to himself that this was the last time he'd do a favour for the old bugger and the young bugger (God save him) both, and headed towards the shed.