Patrick Parker's Progress (29 page)

'Poor you -' she said, in a soft, sweet voice. With just a trace of a south London accent. 'Alone at such a time.'

Patrick did not know what to say. The hand holding his squeezed gently again.

'My wife -' he muttered helplessly. 'My son and daughter -'

'So I heard
’
she said. 'Shame. But I'm here now.'

"Thank you
’
he said, confused. It was familiar yet unfamiliar, that voice, the phrasing.

Behind them came the faint sound of squeaking wheels and a faint voice, but one which was quite distinct in that hushed gathering, saying, 'He should have married her. She'd have given Flo a run for her money. Not that silly bitch he ended up with . . .' Before someone said, 'Hush, hush
...'
just as the organ and choir began with 'Lead us, Heav'nly Father, Lead us
...'

Patrick was literally and metaphorically lost for words. What with wondering if he had heard right, and the proximity of the woman who now took her hand from his and picked up a hymn book from the shelf in front of him. She removed one black glove and flipped through the book's pages with confident fingers, manicured and painted with dark, blood-coloured polish, the sight of which gave him a frisson, despite the solemnity of the occasion. When she had found the right page she handed it to him and nodded encouragement. He opened his mouth and sang. He sang, 'Who are you and do I know you
...?'
To which she merely replied, 'O'er the world's tempestuous sea
...'

Father Bryan spoke warmly about the good qualities, the bounty, Florence bestowed on her family and community. The various readings were given with tremendous feeling by the various members of the congregation designated to do so. None of them had been on anything more than hassock-bumping acquaintance but they gave it all they'd got anyway. Patrick found the floor riveting.

A short stocky man with a toothbrush moustache began with an extract from
Pilgrim's Progress
subtitled, as he boomingly announced, 'From this world to that which is to come.' The selected passage -made by his mother,
his mother -
Patrick found peculiarly disturbing: 'Then I saw in my dream, that when they were got out of the wilderness, they presently saw a town before them and the name of that town is Vanity; and at the town there is a fair kept, called Vanity Fair
...
It is kept all the year long. It beareth the name of Vanity Fair because all that there is is there sold, or that cometh thither is vanity, as is the saying of the wise
...'
He could only think his mother was going through some terrible mental crisis about herself in her final months
...
He was rather glad, after all, that the patronising priest had banned the press.

Throughout the proceedings Patrick either stood in a daze, with the woman in black standing next to him, her hand tucked in the crook of his arm, or sat in a daze with the woman in black's hand tucked in his. If he stole a look at her face, the profile seemed a little familiar and he liked the way just the ends of her mouth curled in a hint of a smile. But who was she? If this intimacy was meant to comfort, it merely disturbed. So much so that when it came to his moment to stand up and speak he nearly missed the summons.

'It's you now,' said the woman sitting next to him, breathing in his ear. 'You will be fine.' And up he went.

It was only when he was a few sentences into his maternal eulogy that, facing the woman in black front-on so to speak, he realised who it was. There was just something very familiar in the way she tilted her chin as she looked up at him. Good God, it was Little Audrey.
Little Audrey
blonde. Transformed. The last time he had seen her, he remembered, she was naked and weeping on his bed. He was astonished - and very relieved. Well, she'd done all right for herself after all. He had said so at the time - he also remembered saying that she'd get over it - and she obviously had. Well, well - she was a very sophisticated-looking Little Audrey nowadays. Elegant and
expensive.
Also a lot younger-looking than he might have expected . . . Mind you, he managed to think, despite speaking aloud about something completely different, mind you, he wasn't too badly kept for his age either . . . He breathed in and continued 'My mother was always there for me, quick to praise
...'

From somewhere in the congregation a voice muttered, 'Shame
’
and he guessed it was the intruding Lilly. Her and Audrey - both uninvited. Odd, very odd.

He wondered how these women managed it. Did they have second sight or something? Or perhaps that's what funerals did? Brought out the past? He searched the congregation to see if his ancient, pickled, Stetson-toting father-in-law had managed to forsake the Ram and get there, but no sign of him. Peggy's mother had gone to the Great Fashion Show in the Sky a couple of years ago. His Dearly Beloved Mother was up there in the front resting in her coffin. There was no one to take offence, or indeed remember that there might be any offence to take by the presence of Audrey. It was quite - interesting - exciting - that she had turned up, out of the blue. He had a sudden thought - his whole family was down in London with the flu - and - well - he was free
...
It was a thought so cheering that he found himself giving quite a noticeable chuckle - just as he reached the more solemn part of his eulogy. The bit about his mother sacrificing so much to get him where he was today. Ha-ha was not really the right way to punctuate such a statement so he quickly interjected the bit about his mother saying that since his birth had apparently single-handedly brought about the razing of Coventry - it seemed the very least and most appropriate thing he could do to turn himself into a builder-upper
...
The congregation tittered (though Lilly seemed to give a very faint boo) and he put his mind back to the task. Father Bryan's glittering eye was upon him. He must do well.

Back in his pew he gave Audrey a look that asked if she approved. Her expression behind the veil was difficult to read but she gave him a little nod which he took to be approval. Suddenly he wanted her approval very much. Damn it - he wanted
somebody's.
There was no one else here who appeared very keen to give it. Father Bryan rose to the pulpit and read the Prodigal Son. 'As requested by our dear, departed friend and mother
Florence
Mary' - he seemed to relish the announcement, staring into Patrick's very soul. He was going to go off the deep end with it, Patrick could tell, and to feel Audrey's hand in his was balm indeed. As the opening words rang out, Patrick could not stop himself from making a low moan. He remembered the story from school, more or less; he knew what was coming. The penny dropped. He realised, suddenly, what all this was about. His mother, God damn her, had taken offence .
..
Sorry, sorry, he found himself muttering in prayer, sorry, sorry, I did not mean to say that, My Lord.

'What man of you, having an hundred sheep, if he lose one of them, doth not leave the ninety and nine in the wilderness, and go after that which is lost, until he find it.
..'
Father Bryan looked him right
in
the eye. Audrey's squeezing hand helped. Oh, how it helped. Patrick looked right back. With a woman like her holding his hand, he felt he could conquer such prejudice.

‘I
don't know why she always liked this so much,' he whispered as Father Bryan rang the beautiful rafters and shook the round, old bosses with 'Father, I have sinned against Heaven, and in thy sight, and am no more worthy to be called thy son
...'

Squeeze, squeeze, squeeze went Audrey.

Patrick squeezed back. He had a sudden flash of memory of her cycling in very short shorts. Wildly inappropriate.

Somehow the happy ending of the parable
-'...
It was meet that we should make merry, and be glad; for this thy brother was dead and is alive again; and was lost, and is found' - made very little impact compared to the sinful nature of the rest of the story
...
'But as soon as this thy son was come who hath devoured thy living with harlots, thou hast killed for him the fatted calf
...'
Patrick could barely get the idea of
harlots
out of his mind after that. The Bible was an unfortunate choice of book for spiritual matters sometimes. Audrey went on squeezing his hand, wafting her perfume; or was he squeezing hers?

He raised his eyes to the Madonna, who gazed down at him soft-eyed. Even she was beginning to adopt a faintly lascivious leer as he shifted uncomfortably on the pew. Audrey's scent had something of the musky feral about it - or it had now - though when he smelled it before it seemed wholesome and flowery and pure. It wasn't even as if Peggy would be waiting to warm the bed after all these rituals
...
He had expected, really, some kind of acknowledgement by the priest of his own achievements - the dead woman's son is a very great man - something like that. He felt slighted. After all, half the people here in the congregation had only come to goggle at him. He was no fool. His mother had never been as popular as all that.

Audrey turned and smiled at him gravely. He watched her damp lips part, and looked away. Bang, smack into the Madonna's eyes. She, he was appalled to see was alive with erotic desire. Practically throwing the baby out of her arms to get at him. If not the entire congregation. This was all absolutely wrong - he was even beginning to find her
wimple
seductive -
Stop, stop, stop,
he cried inside.
Stop.
He was so busy getting his brain back into a semblance of sanity that he did not notice the order of service had changed. What should have been a roistering finale as printed in the order of service - and most incongruous for the soaring arches and incense laden air - was chosen by Florence to be one in the eye for Chapel. It was one of her favourite hymns from girlhood - when the world looked as if it might be a wonderful place.

Give me the old time religion,

it was good for the prophet Daniel,

it was good for the Hebrew children,

it was good for sinking Peter,

it was good for Paul and Silas,

it was good for sister Mary,

it was good for brother Noah,

it was good for our old Mothers,

it was good for our old Fathers,

it is good when we're in trouble,

it is good when we are dying.

It will land us in safe glory
...

But it was no finale. The loud and joyful rhythm gave way to the sound of a wheelchair moving slowly, with celebratory screeching, down the aisle. Father Bryan was beckoning. Any shred of erotic desire left Patrick as he looked round. Lilly was on the move and
advancing. Pushed by a dim, sel
f-important-looking youth with a baseball cap placed widdershins over a horrible, thin ponytail. Audrey, neck straight, shoulders back, turned towards the noise and nodded encouragingly at the occupant. Lilly, lolling and smiling, gave a thumbs-up sign as she passed. Patrick gave another little moan. Now what?

Father Bryan was ready and skipped lightly down the altar steps towards her for all the world as if he were a television compere with a roving mike. Patrick hoped he would stop her - some kind, quiet word, firm but courteous - but instead the fierce-eyed priest leaned down, suddenly dove-like, to hear what she was saying. There was, Patrick thought, something of a Titian Pope about it - the very ear of God being corrupted. Father Bryan nodded to what was said and took the handles of the chair from the hands of the helper - Patrick assumed he was about to march her back to her place - but no. He watched in horrified amazement. Instead of sending her back down the aisle, the good Father guided the wheelchair around - it shrieking like a banshee - so that its occupant faced outwards at the base of the altar steps. Lilly would speak. He would be ill.

'Old friends such as Lilly here,' said Father Bryan with warm gesture of congregational embrace, 'have come to speak and have the right to do so. For they
chose
whom to love
...
A son is
born
to do so, it is of no consequence to him. But a friend makes the
choice.
So, speak, Lilly - and have your say. Let out your praises and let the rafters ring with them.'

Lilly smiled, horribly, and bent to kiss his ring finger, which he seemed to enjoy.

'Oh my God,' said Patrick quite audibly. Given what was about to follow he could only call upon his Maker. But his Maker seemed not to be at home
...
Given the expression in the eyes of his father's onetime mistress, what the rafters were about to ring with was unlikely to be much to do with praises at all.

Lilly settled her wobbly little hands in her lap. There were those in the congregation who thought the trembling came from her stroke, there were those who thought it came from her nervousness. It occurred to no one - except Patrick - that its source might be anger.