The Good Provider by Jessica Stirling Page B

collect their parcels and follow him back to Walbrook Street and the shelter of Number 19.
     
    It appeared that the Reverend Vass was a frequent guest at Mrs Frew’s establishment. He was treated more like a first-born son than a man of the cloth and was attended throughout the meal not by Cissie, the maid, but by Mrs Frew in person.
    If Kirsty and Craig were somewhat in awe of the religious gentleman from Edinburgh the same could not be said for the fourth dinner guest, Hugh Affleck, Mrs Frew’s brother. He was a tall, red-cheeked man of about fifty, clean-shaven and dry, with merriment, as well as a trace of slyness, in his bright blue eyes.
    Kirsty was fascinated by the ebb and flow of conversation between the gentlemen but, at first, took no part in it. By certain remarks made by Mr Affleck she gathered that Mr Vass was a scholar and orator who had travelled from Edinburgh to address the Society of Biblical Research in one of the University buildings that very evening.
    ‘Will old Stewart be there?’ Mr Affleck asked the minister.
    ‘Professor Stewart will be in the chair.’
    ‘Oh, so there’s to be a debate afterwards, is there?’
    ‘The meeting is not open to the public,’ said Mr Vass quickly, evidently to forestall any mischief that Mr Affleck may have had in mind.
    ‘I see,’ said Hugh Affleck. ‘It’ll not be much of a debate in that case since all of you there will be of one mind.’
    To Craig Mrs Frew said, ‘Did you enjoy that, young man?’
    ‘Aye, I did.’
    ‘Custard?’ said Mrs Frew.
    ‘Aye,’ said Craig. ‘I like custard, thanks.’
    Kirsty watched the ladle dip into the glass bowl. She wondered how such a thickness had been achieved. She could never get custard to stand like that and even Mr Clegg, no epicure, had complained that it was more like lentil soup than a decent pudding. But out it came, standing firm on the ladle, and held shape when it was put into the plate, like a mountain floating in a lake of apple juice.
    ‘Here,’ said Mrs Frew, dumping a pudding-plate before her brother. ‘See if that’ll shut you up.’
    ‘Full cream, I see,’ said Hugh Affleck. ‘My, my! You should be honoured, Mr Vass. Only very special guests get the full-cream treatment.’
    The Reverend Vass did not deign to acknowledge the remark and made no comment concerning the richness of the pudding which he put away with great efficiency in two or three mouthfuls. Like Hugh Affleck, Kirsty allowed the custard to melt in her mouth, savouring its blend of sweetness and sharpness. Glancing at her, Hugh Affleck held her gaze and winked.
    ‘Positively sinful, ain’t it?’ he murmured.
    Kirsty chuckled and nodded while Mr Vass and Mrs Frew regarded her with a hint of condescension.
    Without preliminary Hugh Affleck said, ‘Now, it’s a pity you hadn’t been orating on the benefits of Christian marriage, Mr Vass. You could have taken an eager pair for your audience, unless I’m much mistaken.’
    Craig flushed, pretended that he had not heard. Kirsty, however, was flattered to learn that she had acquired a ‘bridal look’. The new powder-blue costume had obviously given Mr Affleck his clue.
    ‘I’m not married yet, Mr Affleck,’ she said.
    ‘’Deed you’re not,’ Hugh Affleck said. ‘My sister does not take “doubles”. She’s no more keen on havin’ married couples under her roof than she is on Lascars or travellin’ salesmen.’
    ‘Hughie,’ Mrs Frew warned, ‘I’ll not stand for that talk.’
    ‘What talk? By God, Nessie, there are times when you carry decorum too far. I mean, we’re all married here, or have been. I didn’t notice that you barred the door against randy old Andy when he was alive and kicking.’
    For a moment Kirsty thought that Mrs Frew was about to pitch the custard-dish at her outspoken brother’s head.
    Mr Vass prudently intervened. ‘May I have a drop of tea, Mrs Frew, if you will be so kind? I see that the enemy has caught up with me and I must