Books and Borrowing 1750-1830

More New Creative Work Inspired by Books and Borrowing Materials

This week, we are happy to present Moira McPartlin’s story ‘The Missionary’. Moira’s story uses names from our Borrowers’ Registers. Moira has been writing for over twenty-five years. Her debut novel The Incomers, published by Fledgling Press in 2012, was shortlisted for the Saltire Society First Book of the Year Award. Over the next seven years Moira wrote her speculative fiction Sun Song Trilogy novels (also published by Fledgling Press). The novels, set in 2089, reflect many issues we face today. Moira’s latest novel, Before Now: Memoir of a Toerag, is written entirely in the Fife dialect and was published by her own imprint, Trilleachan Press, in May 2021.

In 2021 she became a writing fellow at Hawthornden Castle and in 2022 she was appointed the Scriever for The Federation of Writers (Scotland). She has been widely published in literary magazines and anthologies.

The Missionary is part of a thing so delicate… a hybrid project Moira is working on with her husband that includes nonfiction, prose, poetry, and photography. You can find more details @a_thing_so_delicate on Instagram and www.moiramcpartlin.com

She lives in Stirling.

The Missionary

The Navvy’s Rest – This place of recreation and instruction is being nightly patronised by a large number of railway labourers, who seemingly appreciate the comforts placed at their disposal. The committee of management are entitled to much praise for their labours and successful exertions. Might we venture to suggest that the “Rest” may be still further popularised by the addition of a penny read or other entertainment every fortnight or so? An attraction of this sort would, we are confident, induce many to frequent the place who have hither to remained strangers to its walls. Oban Telegraph, 1878

 The Navvy’s Mission – The Established Church Assembly discussed an overture on Saturday as to the spiritual instruction of navvies and it was intimated that the Home Mission Committee would consider all applications for grants on behalf of missions to navvies when the same were attested by the parish minister and the presbytery of the bounds. Sympathy was extended with the ladies who had been working so earnestly for the welfare of the navvies. Oban Telegraph, 1878

They don’t have much, but they have obstinance. I tried to persuade them to come to the Easter Service but most of them walked off the site on Thursday. Their excuse? They must worship on Good Friday. Their ‘mammies’ would never forgive them if they missed The Passion. I informed them it wasn’t necessary because we have a perfectly good Scottish Service on Sunday, which, after all is their normal day of rest. But even the Highland and Islanders among them agreed they would be having Good Friday in the Roman Catholic Church.

‘Let them go, Mr Johnston,’ our honourable Transport Manager, Mr Anderson advised me.

For truth I am the poor missionary here and the Irish have rules of their own.

I’ve been in my post almost one year. There was no disruption at Christmas, the navvies were all happy to come and receive their knitted socks, presented to them by that kind and compassionate woman Mrs MacGregor, the minister’s wife. Oh yes, they were happy then, but Easter it seems is different, with their Lent, where they must deprive themselves of something for six whole weeks. Well, there was certainly no sign of them depriving themselves of the demon drink.

Mrs MacGregor, that saint of a woman, has been round the town collecting eggs. She has enlisted the help of good wives of the members of the Scientific and Literary Society.  I myself have been accepted into that illustrious society but alas I have no wife, as yet, to contribute to this most charitable work. I pray that domestic situation may change very soon. Eighteen gentlewomen of this parish have spent their leisure time working, when they should be sewing and embroidering or practising their delightful singing. But no, they have been boiling, painting and decorating hundreds of eggs to present to the workmen. Their delicate hands have been suffering. Poor Miss Duff, a young lady I have a personal interest in, so gentle yet brave, had to attend Dr Campbell for cream to soothe her chapped hands. I believe Miss Duff to be strong in constitution and would be most suited to the role of a missionary’s wife, even in the heathen depths of India or Africa. I often visit the Navvies’ Rest where she can be found helping with the penny library, (although this selfless act is unnecessary, given that the draper’s wife has undertaken the task of organising the Navvies’ Rest). Miss Duff is inordinately fond of poetry so I believe she may be aspiring to educate these wretches in this finer form of literature. It never ceases to amaze me the number of men who use this exemplary facility. They huddle around the fire, their grubby hands clutching the latest subscription from the penny library, and yet where are they when we need them to show some gratitude? All this feminine hard labour has been carried out with such joy and chatter among the noble women. How could these men have the audacity to walk off the site and at such a crucial time? The gaffer, Mr Hugh Campbell, told me they are nearing completion of the railway line. The men have been working longer hours to make up for the time lost during the last three weeks of heavy snow, gales and floods. Progress remains slow. There is no guarantee they will turn up to the service on Sunday and the labours of these poor gentle women will go to waste. I only thank goodness that it isn’t pay week otherwise the public houses would be swilling in the uisge beatha and ringing with sentimental ballads from the Emerald Isle and the misty islands of Highlands.

Mrs Macgregor sent a boy to the site office this morning to enquire when the men will arrive. She was most anxious that all the ladies who helped with the decorating of the eggs can present their work and receive their due praise and thanks from these wretched workmen. She has often told me that she has them in her prayers when the lights have been trimmed and the dogs put out for the night. If she feels the chill wafting in from the door left open a little too wide by the maid, she cannot imagine what it must be like for these creatures in the camp up the line. I have assured her on numerous occasions, when I have been invited to sup at the manse, that the men’s needs are well catered for. They have food a plenty and are well looked after by their fine employer and by the generosity of the kind people of this parish.

I ventured into town to witness the men falling out of the Dalmally coach. I must give them credit – they looked smart in their ragged best suits, reclaimed from the pawn shop for the holiday, no doubt. I beckoned to Tierney, one of their leaders. ‘I trust you will come to town for the service on Sunday?’ I politely enquired.

The man doffed his hat. ‘Sure sir, we know well what the gentle ladies of the town have been planning.’

I was astonished. ‘How do you know? They have been most keen to make it a surprise.’

The man Tierney chuckled. ‘Well now, as you know, some of the men are awful keen readers.’

‘I don’t understand,’ I said, although I could feel an ominous claw crawling in my belly.

‘Many of the young ladies are kind to the men. They share a love of song and poetry. One of our poets has taken a shine to a lovely lassie, Flora, I believe her name is. She let slip about the Easter eggs.’

‘Flora Duff?’ The words rasped my throat.

‘That’s the one. Now Mr Johnston, don’t you be giving the game away. Young Flora would be mortified to let the women down. Have no fear, the men will do her proud. They will act surprised.’

I was aware my mouth was gaping as Mr Tierney walked towards the new station. He turned and held a finger to his lips.

‘Now don’t you be telling anyone about the love-struck poets either. They are young and a mixed marriage is never well received.’