The Strange Promotion of Miss Araminta Pringle

He sat despondently in his study, surrounded by piles of paperwork. The stuff was on his desk, in piles on the floor, everywhere. Most of it had come from the Kirk's new custom-built headquarters in Livingston.

Things were so bad, he even yearned for the good old days of the former Church of Scotland's headquarters at 121 George Street. He had never thought he would see that day.

For the Reverend J. Clarence McGonigall, minister of Inversnecky North, linked with Scunner South, linked with Trachle (Continuing), linked with Havers Memorial, the year of Our Lord 2009 brought no cheer. Two years after the privatisation of the Church of Scotland, things had simply got worse.

What bothered him most about the Kirk -- or The Presbyterian Church (Scotland) as it was now known -- was its relentless 'modernization' on marketing lines. The very thought of it made him weary. Next year he would retire, and it couldn't come soon enough.

The other thing Clarence couldn't abide was the pervasive church management-speak. Following a report by management consultants, the church had been broken up into three separate self-contained 'growth' divisions -- baptisms, weddings and funerals -- under the overall direction of a Chief Executive. The sale of 121 George Street and the Assembly Hall on the Mound had raised a substantial sum, which was used to fund the appointment of Regional Growth Directors.

Clarence had sighed when short-term contracts for ministers were introduced. His own ministries had each lasted for more than fifteen years, and he had felt he had only begun to get anywhere after the first seven years.

How he hated these endless retraining conferences addressed by enthusiastic young men who had themselves been trained in America! They spouted meaningless verbiage while endlessly grinning. It was all too much.

The avalanche of paper threatened to submerge him. Three-year reviews. Training manuals. Marketing tools. ('Clergypersons must identify their "product" and look at its selling points,' said one report.)

The final straw for Clarence had been the notion of payment by results. When he had first heard of the idea, he had been sure it was a spoof.

'Are we going to have targets for weddings and funerals?' he had joked to Aggie, his wife of forty years.

He joked too soon.

Clarence himself had been at the PC 'convention' in Livingston at which the matter was discussed. He felt completely out of his depth.

What used to be the Kirk's General Assembly had turned into a bonding session for religious sales operatives. The metrical psalms, abandoned as 'yesterday's tunes', had been replaced by mind-numbing, sentimental, religious songs and choruses. The cringe-making words were displayed on large screens.

And the whole thing was so high-tech! Clarence felt like a dinosaur. Only once had he felt moved to speak -- the very event rendered him speechless -- and when he had stumbled to the microphone to make his protest against the new 'targets' system, he felt at a loss.

In order to activate the mike, he had to put a special electronic card in a slot. In his confusion, Clarence had put in his Visa card instead. The convention sniggered.

'These are the kind of people who are holding back progress in the church,' muttered one young teeshirt-wearing minister.

Payment by results was approved with acclaim.

'Not before time,' added the mutterer, looking towards Clarence.

A specially-bound PC report -- recorded delivery -- gave the instructions. 'Clergypersons' were given annual targets for baptisms, weddings and funerals. Ministers who met their targets by Easter would be rewarded by bonus payments of up to £1,000.

And that is when the trouble started.

          *   *   *

'Clarence,' said Aggie plaintively, 'we need a new sofa. This one came out of the ark. It's falling to bits.'

Clarence hadn't noticed.

'We could pay it up,' added Aggie, knowing full well that her husband had never got into debt in his life. He would rather starve.

The minimum stipend had been reduced in recent years, to encourage ministers to work for the bonuses. Life was hard.

'Clarence,' went on Aggie plaintively, 'are you not due a bonus?'

Sitting helplessly in his study, Clarence, reflected on how ministers had become functionaries. Bonuses! Still, he owed it to Aggie to check.

From the mound of papers from Livingston -- all headed with The Presbyterian Church (Scotland)'s bright new yellow 'Mr Happy' logo -- Clarence eventually fished out a paper about bonuses. Eventually it dawned on him that he was only one short of his target for funerals.

Less than a week till Easter.

That very afternoon, he was due to visit Miss Pringle, a ninety-year-old parishioner who had been president of the Woman's Guild. She had also been the bane of the Reverend J Clarence McGonigall's life. And she was poorly.

Clarence needed a drink. He poured himself a large dram, then put on his overcoat.

          *   *   *

It was about half past four in the afternoon when the two policemen called at the manse. The younger one was embarrassed and apologetic. The older man, Sergeant Raymond Bunion, was a leading Baptist layman who had always regarded Presbyterians as soft on sin, and soft on the causes of sin.

'I'm sorry to trouble you, sir,' said the young policeman, 'but we need to ask you some questions about Miss Aramanta Pringle.'

'What about her?' asked the minister,

'I'm afraid, sir, that she's dead.'

'She can't be,' interjected Mr McGonigall, irrationally. 'I saw her only an hour or so ago, and she was alive.'

'You were the last one seen leaving the house,' said the older cop.

'You're not suggesting ...' the minister's voice trailed away.

'I'm not suggesting anything, Mr McGonigall. But we have inquiries we must make.'

'Bloody offficious Baptist,' muttered the minister, not quite under his breath.

'Sir, can I ask if you have been drinking?' asked the teetotal policeman.

'Only a dram. No, two drams. I had one when I came in. I always needed a dram after visiting that old battleaxe.'

'Oh,' said his interrogator, looking very grave, yet pleased with himself at the same time. 'Did you have reason to wish Miss Pringle dead?'

'Often,' replied the minister.

'Isn't it the case,' went on Bunion, 'that Presbyterian ministers have a bonus scheme? That if you reach your target, you'll be given more money?'

'Have you been reading seditious Presbyterian literature, Sergeant Bunion?' inquired the minister. 'Yes, I must admit, this lunacy has come from my church.'

'How many more funerals do you need in order to get your bonus?' inquired Clouseau McBunion, meaningfully.

'One.'

'I think, sir, you'd better come with us to the station.'

Aggie came in as they were leaving.

'What's going on?' she asked.

'The Baptist tendency wish to give me total immersion in the river. They have drugged me. Call the police. By the way, did you know that Miss Pringle is dead?'

'Does that mean we'll get our new sofa?' asked Aggie.

'Miss Pringle has been murdered, and I'm the chief suspect.'

'Oh, no,' said Aggie, a sob catching in her throat. 'I didn't want the sofa that badly.'

The two policemen looked at each other, then led the minister away.

          *   *   *

The Reverend J. Clarence McGonigall was released the next day, without charge. DNA testing showed that blood spotted on the carpet belonged to Miss Pringle's nephew, who stood to inherit a lot of money.

Under pressure from his employers, the young man had got into deep financial trouble after being too ambitious with a couple of business deals. His aunt's money was coming to him anyway. She had always spoken longingly about heaven, so he decided to do her a favour by promoting her to glory more speedily than she had anticipated.

The funeral took place on a grey Good Friday. Clarence gave Miss Pringle a kindly and generous sendoff. Although she had given him a hard time, he knew that judgment belonged with God, not with him.

The following Monday evening, Clarence stood up decisively in the middle of the television news, and switched off the set.

With a determined look on his face, he marched purposefully through to the study, and gathered up all the papers on his desk and his study floor. He set down the papers in piles on the living room floor, and one by one put them on the fire, laughing manically.