The Rev J Clarence McGonigall, a creation of columnist Ron Ferguson, featured in a popular Life and Work fictional series. Clarence, now a long-retired minister, returns this month for a special Easter story.

COVER

“IT’S a sair fecht,” muttered the old man as he stumbled along with the aid of his stick, followed by his arthritic three-legged dog.

“I think I’ll struggle to get back to the house in one piece.”

The Reverend J Clarence McGonigall, the retired but far from retiring minister of Inversnecky North, linked with Scunner South, linked with Trachle (Continuing), linked with Havers Memorial, was speaking to his ancient mutt, Squeegee.

Like her master, Squeegee had seen better days: for instance, the years when she had four working legs. She had lost a limb in Scunner when she instinctively ran after a speeding car from which the driver had thrown a scone.

Mind you, the ever-resourceful Squeegee had turned the situation to her advantage: she had quickly developed the kind of pathetic look that would get a scone at any door. Clarence had noticed that Squeegee exaggerated her limp when she approached a house.

“You could win an Oscar with that act,” Clarence told Squeegee.

“You could get a Creative Scotland grant for doing your limping gig at the Edinburgh Festival. Seeing we are in the season of Lent,” Clarence went on, “maybe you should give up scones for a while.”

Squeegee pretended she hadn’t heard what her master was saying.

When they got back home, Clarence busied himself with household chores: next, he put the soup on – tinned mushroom soup. It tasted alright. Squeegee stared at Clarence while her master morosely ate his lunch. Why was his beloved pet doing that? It suddenly dawned on Clarence that not for the first time – he had forgotten to give Squeegee her breakfast. Clarence sighed. Then he fell asleep.

The truth is that the Reverend J Clarence McGonigall wasn’t a domestic animal at all. Housekeeping wasn’t his thing, never had been. But what was his thing? That was the question that haunted him in the wee small hours. He would lie awake for ages, agonising over his current situation. After all, he wouldn’t see 85 again. His sight wasn’t what it was – he had been on the waiting list for cataract operations for some time.