Some Rain Must Fall by Michel Faber

the opportunity to ring his old friend Alistair at Glasgow Cemetery Supplies and asked him what he had knocking around in the religious statues line.
    ‘I’ve got quite a few graveyard angels, all sizes,’ offered Alistair.
    ‘Any that could do for a Virgin Mary?’
    ‘I dunno. The Virgin Mary hasnae got wings, has she?’
    ‘Wings could be knocked off. The important thing is the dimensions and … em … the expression.’
    ‘What sort of expression?’
    McNair thought hard.
    ‘Like … like those women in advertisements for instant coffee, just when they get to sit down and have their first sip. Except more serious.’
    ‘I’m with you, I’m with you,’ Alistair assured him.
    Months went by. Painfully slowly but impressively surely, St Hilda’s began to come good. Sealing and retiling the roof made a big difference, of course, especially to what was left of the half-million pounds.
    Meanwhile, in the outside world, Robbie met the girl from the disco again in the Invergordon supermarket. She worked there as a checkout assistant.
    ‘How’s the church coming along?’ she asked him as she scanned his paltry basketful of bachelor groceries.
    This time he didn’t downrate himself or St Hilda’s, but told her a little about the challenges and how he was solving them. The girl had a lovely smile and looked quite pretty even in a supermarket uniform. Her name was Catriona. Unfortunately, she finished scanning Robbie’s groceries in hardly any time at all, and had to ask him if he was saving coupons for the tartan teddy bears. He said no and before he knew it he was outside on the street. A good problem-solver when it came to stonemasonry, Robbie was at a loss here: he couldn’t very well buy his groceries twice, could he? He supposed that meant it was all over between him and Catriona.
    Back at the church, a stone angel had arrived which Robbie was turning into a Virgin Mary. He’d knocked the wings off no bother, sanded and polished her back, fixed her firmly to the pedestal. The angel had come without a few of Mary’s trademark features, but Robbie was adding these himself.
    The missing cord around her waist was easy: Robbie merely cut a length of thin rope, soaked it in cement fondue, tied it on and let it dry. Adding a veil to the angel’s bare head was more difficult. Despite several attempts involving underwiring and gauze to give the cement-soaked fabric a full and flowing shape, it still looked as if the Virgin Maryhad been flipping a freshly rolled pizza base in the air and it had landed on her head. Every few weeks Robbie had to admit his veil was rubbish, knock it off the statue’s head and try again. All around the Virgin, the church of St Hilda was emerging from the rubble, but the veil refused to come good. Evaluating his latest attempt with a frown, Robbie wondered: how would a real Italian like Michelangelo have done it?
    It turned out that Catriona was a bit of an expert on Michelangelo. Robbie knew this because … well, he’d seen her a few times lately. At the supermarket, and also at her mum’s house. Catriona’s dad was actually an artist but, due to lack of work opportunities in the Highlands, he’d moved to Edinburgh, and seemed to have forgotten to take his wife and daughter with him. He’d left his art books behind, though, and Catriona knew these intimately. With eyes closed, she could picture the Sistine Chapel ceiling better than her own bedroom, she said, then blushed.
    In time, Catriona asked if she could come and see him working at St Hilda’s some time. He said he’d discuss it with his boss, though in truth it was his own shyness which prevented him taking her along right away. There was a particular expression workmates had told him he wore when he was concentrating, a sort of dumb intensity, which he wasn’t sure he wanted her to see. Also, he’d be covered in dust and glue and God knows what else, whereas when he visited her he always spruced himself up.
    And so,