of their lives.”
“Theresa, believe me, to an outsider looking in, this is not only a great story, but a wonderful love story. Somebody will make a film about it one day but, first, the book has to be written.”
“Oh, Mr Hamilton, I wouldn’t want my name in print. Besides, who would want to write it?”
“I would, Theresa. I have a little secret too. I’ve published a few novels using a nom de plume, which I won’t divulge. The profits go to my parish, so Gags, I mean Father Gallagher, doesn’t have it all his own way. He makes records and helps the Micks while I write books to help the Prods. To be honest, I’ve already started writing your story but I’ve changed the names of the characters. When it’s finished, you’ll be the first to read it and, if it meets with your approval, we’ll get it published. It’ll be better as a work of fiction, because I can change a few things to dramatise it more. What do you think?”
“I can see you’re a man of many parts, Mr Hamilton. Your secret is safe with me and I’ll look forward to reading the book. By the way, what will be the title?”
“I thought I’d call it Forbidden Love.”
Left on her own, Theresa pondered over that. “Our Mr Hamilton is a deep one, right enough.”
Gavin Hamilton was a quiet, unassuming gentleman, beloved by his parishioners in Lochside. They knew little about him, except that he had taken over St Andrew’s Presbyterian Church from The Reverend Donald Leishman, who had been minister for 25 years, preaching fire and brimstone. Mr Leishman had hated Catholicism, calling the Catholic Church the ‘Scarlet Woman of Rome’. This approach had done little to foster good relations in Lochside. By contrast, Gavin became a personal friend of ‘Gags’ Gallagher, playing golf with him weekly. He had been a brilliant student, graduating from Glasgow University with a first-class degree in English. With no real idea of his goal in life, he had gone down to London, working as a journalist for the Times. He drank a lot of whisky and played jazz piano till all hours of the morning in Soho clubs. One Sunday morning, he woke up in bed with a strange woman in a sleazy Paddington flat. Badly hungover, he left quietly and wandered the London streets aimlessly. Tired and dispirited, he entered a church and sat down. There was a young minister in the pulpit giving a sermon on brotherly love. The logical reasoning and the poetic language appealed to Gavin rather than the subject matter and he left that chapel with an idea about his future path. He had been a keen boxer at university. He started going to the gym again and gave up the alcohol. When he was back to peak fitness, he gave notice at the Times and went back to Scotland. He went to Edinburgh and obtained a journalist’s interview with the Moderator of the Church of Scotland. It became obvious to the Moderator that the questions were more personal than those for a normal newspaper article. “Why are you really here, Mr Hamilton?”
“I’m sorry, sir. Is it that obvious?” Gavin then told him about his cathartic experience in London. “I think I want to be a minister but I’m not sure. I don’t really know enough about it. I thought if I talked to the top man I might find the answer. I’m sorry if I’ve misled you.”
The Moderator smiled. “Mr Hamilton, I’ve been a minister for 45 years and there’s not a day passes without me doubting my decision. I’m afraid I can’t make up your mind for you, but I’ll tell you what I can do. We run a school in Togo, West Africa. The minister in charge there is severely overworked. There’s a job there as his assistant. We can’t pay much but the experience may just prove to be your ‘road to Damascus’. A year there, then you either become one of us or resume your journalism with no hard feelings. What do you say?”
That was 10 years ago. The year in Africa convinced him to become a man of the cloth. He came home to Glasgow,
“Theresa, believe me, to an outsider looking in, this is not only a great story, but a wonderful love story. Somebody will make a film about it one day but, first, the book has to be written.”
“Oh, Mr Hamilton, I wouldn’t want my name in print. Besides, who would want to write it?”
“I would, Theresa. I have a little secret too. I’ve published a few novels using a nom de plume, which I won’t divulge. The profits go to my parish, so Gags, I mean Father Gallagher, doesn’t have it all his own way. He makes records and helps the Micks while I write books to help the Prods. To be honest, I’ve already started writing your story but I’ve changed the names of the characters. When it’s finished, you’ll be the first to read it and, if it meets with your approval, we’ll get it published. It’ll be better as a work of fiction, because I can change a few things to dramatise it more. What do you think?”
“I can see you’re a man of many parts, Mr Hamilton. Your secret is safe with me and I’ll look forward to reading the book. By the way, what will be the title?”
“I thought I’d call it Forbidden Love.”
Left on her own, Theresa pondered over that. “Our Mr Hamilton is a deep one, right enough.”
Gavin Hamilton was a quiet, unassuming gentleman, beloved by his parishioners in Lochside. They knew little about him, except that he had taken over St Andrew’s Presbyterian Church from The Reverend Donald Leishman, who had been minister for 25 years, preaching fire and brimstone. Mr Leishman had hated Catholicism, calling the Catholic Church the ‘Scarlet Woman of Rome’. This approach had done little to foster good relations in Lochside. By contrast, Gavin became a personal friend of ‘Gags’ Gallagher, playing golf with him weekly. He had been a brilliant student, graduating from Glasgow University with a first-class degree in English. With no real idea of his goal in life, he had gone down to London, working as a journalist for the Times. He drank a lot of whisky and played jazz piano till all hours of the morning in Soho clubs. One Sunday morning, he woke up in bed with a strange woman in a sleazy Paddington flat. Badly hungover, he left quietly and wandered the London streets aimlessly. Tired and dispirited, he entered a church and sat down. There was a young minister in the pulpit giving a sermon on brotherly love. The logical reasoning and the poetic language appealed to Gavin rather than the subject matter and he left that chapel with an idea about his future path. He had been a keen boxer at university. He started going to the gym again and gave up the alcohol. When he was back to peak fitness, he gave notice at the Times and went back to Scotland. He went to Edinburgh and obtained a journalist’s interview with the Moderator of the Church of Scotland. It became obvious to the Moderator that the questions were more personal than those for a normal newspaper article. “Why are you really here, Mr Hamilton?”
“I’m sorry, sir. Is it that obvious?” Gavin then told him about his cathartic experience in London. “I think I want to be a minister but I’m not sure. I don’t really know enough about it. I thought if I talked to the top man I might find the answer. I’m sorry if I’ve misled you.”
The Moderator smiled. “Mr Hamilton, I’ve been a minister for 45 years and there’s not a day passes without me doubting my decision. I’m afraid I can’t make up your mind for you, but I’ll tell you what I can do. We run a school in Togo, West Africa. The minister in charge there is severely overworked. There’s a job there as his assistant. We can’t pay much but the experience may just prove to be your ‘road to Damascus’. A year there, then you either become one of us or resume your journalism with no hard feelings. What do you say?”
That was 10 years ago. The year in Africa convinced him to become a man of the cloth. He came home to Glasgow,
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