This Is All (49 page)

‘I’d prefer it if you felt able to call me Philip.’

‘And I’d like you to call me Julie.’

‘Well, Julie. You’re not a golfer, are you, by any chance?’

She was so startled he saw his answer in her face.

‘No. Pity. A passion of mine, I’m afraid. Though I’m not as adept as I used to be. What about crosswords?’

Ms M. shook her head. ‘But I like words.’

Old Vic’s head drooped, he looked at his dog, which, as if knowing without opening its eyes, waved its tail at him a couple of times.

‘Well,’ said Granddad, ‘I thought you might like to see the part of Mummy that Mummy left behind so that you know she really has gone. And so you can say goodbye to her. But only if you feel brave enough.’

I didn’t want Granddad to think I wasn’t brave, and if even just part of Mummy was here, I wanted to see her. But I couldn’t make myself say anything. It all seemed so strange it was too much for words. So I just nodded and hugged Betsy and stared at the floor.

Granddad got up and sat me in his chair and said, ‘Wait here a minute.’

I huddled into myself with Betsy.

When Granddad came back, he held out a hand and said, ‘Come with me. We’re going to say goodbye to Mummy.’

He drove me to what I thought was a shop. I didn’t know what kind of shop, I hadn’t been there before and I couldn’t read properly yet. Inside, it looked like an office. There was a woman behind a desk and a man dressed in black who looked as old as Granddad.

‘Cordelia,’ said Granddad, ‘this is Mr Richmond.’

‘Hello, Cordelia,’ said Mr Richmond. ‘I hear you’ve come to say goodbye to your mummy.’

I didn’t say anything and clung on hard to Granddad’s hand and hid behind his legs.

‘You’re sure about this?’ Mr Richmond said to Granddad.

‘In the midst of life,’ Granddad said. ‘It’s no good pretending things aren’t the way they are.’

‘And George?’

‘You leave George to me.’

‘On your head be it, then,’ Mr Richmond said, and I wondered what it was that would go on Granddad’s head, as I knew he was not fond of hats.

‘She’ll manage,’ Granddad said, and to me, ‘She’s a brave little girl, aren’t you?’

I said nothing.

Wanting to be helpful, Ms M. said, ‘Did you have something in mind?’

‘No no! But I find it easier to talk when doing something else. Don’t you?’

Light dawned. ‘O, I see. You wanted to say something to me?’

‘Not really. Only … three months … but you never come to Sunday services.’ He gave a nervous laugh. ‘As the vicar I suppose I ought to ask.’

She’d expected this at some point.

‘In all my ministry,’ he went on, ‘more than thirty years, no one, I mean no one so young, has assisted the way you have, but not attended on Sunday. It’s quite a puzzle.’

‘I’m not sure why I do it,’ Ms M. said. ‘I like the words. And reading the parts from the Bible. But I don’t know. I just like it.’

He gave her his boyish smile. ‘Well, my dear, not to worry. Just wanted to ask. Till tomorrow, then?’

And off he went.

She turned up to Sung Evensong next Sunday, as much out of curiosity (so she told herself) as to please Old Vic. It wasn’t at all the same being just another member of the congregation of (she counted) thirty-six mostly oldie women. She liked the ritual with colourful vestments and incense – she didn’t know enough yet to call it ‘high church’ – and she enjoyed singing the hymns. But there was a twenty-minute sermon by a visiting priest on the subject of ‘the women who helped Christ so selflessly’ that was badly delivered and so condescending that her toenails curled and she couldn’t decide whether to be cross or to smile. Of course, as a newcomer she was noticed. Before she could escape, Mrs Topping took her arm and steered her to the likes of ‘Miss X, who arranges our flowers so beautifully’, and ‘Mrs Y, the indefatigable secretary of our Mothers’ Union’, and ‘Mr Z the sacristan’, informing each one sotto voce, ‘Julie

Mr Richmond opened a door and led us into a corridor where everything was white and chilly and the air smelt sweet and sour and thick and heavy, like the kind of flowers that made my tummy feel ill. I tried not to breathe too much.

We stopped by a door.

Granddad said, ‘I think I’d better carry you.’ And picked me up.

I didn’t mind at all. It was a comfort to be held by him, and I could hide my face on his shoulder if I didn’t want to look.

The room was small and like a chapel. But what I saw at once was a coffin in the middle of the room, standing on shiny metal trestles. I clung onto Granddad all the harder with one hand and held Betsy up to my face with the other so that I could hide my eyes behind her.

Granddad carried me into the room and stood at the side of the coffin. He didn’t say anything, didn’t try to make me look, just held me tight and waited.

I didn’t want to look, I wanted to leave that place and be taken home. I closed my eyes and pressed Betsy’s face against them. But another part of me, a deeper part, wanted to look and knew that I must.

I let out a big sigh. Granddad stroked my back and patted me with his big rough hand. This gave me courage. I wanted to be brave, I wanted to look, in order to please Granddad and not disappoint him.

I removed Betsy and opened my eyes.

The coffin was open. All I could see inside was Mummy’s head lying on a pillow, as if she were in bed with the clothes pulled up to her chin. It was Mummy’s face, but also it wasn’t. It looked like the faces of Barbie dolls, made of shiny plastic, not skin. Hard, not soft. Cold, not warm. Never moving. With staring eyes that never blinked. Not real faces. Mummy’s eyes were closed, but not like she was asleep. She wasn’t there. I knew – I
felt
– she wasn’t there.

I began to cry. Not blubbering. Not wildly. Not

assists Father Philip at weekday Evensong, you know!’ at which Julie could hear the swell of raised eyebrows in the ‘Ohs?’ and ‘Ahs!’ of the women who helped so selflessly, including Mr Z.

Sunday Evensong became a habit too. Her mother asked if she’d had boy trouble, her father whether she was going soft in the head. Her friends told her she must be weird.

It sounded a bit odd to me as well, I told her, not like the Ms Martin I knew.

‘We’re talking twenty years ago,’ she said. ‘I was only sixteen. D’you think you’ll be the same twenty years from now?’

‘Probably not,’ I said. ‘But I don’t understand. I mean, why did you do it?’

‘Not because of a
why
. Because of a
who
.’

People do things, she said, because of other people far more often than they do them for
reasons
. That’s why they like heroes and why they talk about their idols and their role models. Think of the major religions, she said. Think of the Christians – followers of Christ. Think of the Buddhists – followers of Buddha. The Muslims – followers of Mohammed. The Confucians – Confucius. Christian priests preach the same beliefs, the same ideas, about God, but which churches have the biggest congregations? The ones with charismatic priests. Think of politics. Same thing. When do political parties, political ideologies, flourish? When they have leaders who excite the public. Ideas –
reasons
– are only powerful when they’re made attractive by people with powerful personalities. The
reasons
most people give for their beliefs and for what they do are afterthoughts. They are literally
thought up
afterwards. They’re nothing more than justifications. Excuses. People believe what they believe because someone has persuaded them they are right. And because they
want
to believe them.

inconsolably. A ripple of sobs which started in my feet and came up through my tummy and my chest and struggled through the bottle-neck of my throat and came out of my mouth in gasps and bolts and out of my eyes in flowing tears and down my nose and into my mouth in salty runs.

Mr Richmond said something I didn’t take in.

Granddad said, ‘She’s okay.’

I turned my face into his chest and held him round the neck with both arms.

We remained like that for some time, I have no idea how long, until Granddad said, ‘Want to go home?’

I nodded.

He turned to leave.

There are moments, especially when we are children, when something inside us, something we know nothing about, takes charge and makes us act without thinking. As Granddad turned to go I pushed myself away from his chest and held Betsy out towards Mummy, and wriggled to stop Granddad, but could say nothing.

Mr Richmond said, ‘I think she wants to put her dolly in.’

‘Ah!’ said Granddad, and to me, ‘You want to leave Betsy with Mummy?’

I nodded.

Granddad leaned down, holding me so that I could lay Betsy beside Mummy’s head. As I did so, the back of my hand brushed her face. It was cold unlike any cold I had ever felt. It shocked me so much I dropped Betsy and clung to Granddad, hiding my face in his chest again.

We left the room and the shop and when we reached Granddad’s car I wouldn’t let go. So he walked along the street and into a park, where he sat on a bench by a pond with me on his knee still clinging to him, but the sobs were finished and the tears reduced to a drizzle like rain after a heavy downpour.

After some time, when I was calm again and the drizzle had

‘So … what? You became a Christian because of Old Vic?’

‘Yes.’

‘Doesn’t seem to me he was much of a hero, not a charismatic role model at all. Just the opposite.’

‘That’s the point.’

‘Sorry?’

What I had to understand, she told me, was that she didn’t like heroes, didn’t like role models, and never had. As for
idols
. Forget it! All of them, from pop idols to god idols, she’d always instinctively felt were bad news. She thought charismatic people with powerful personalities were dangerous. And in her opinion none was more dangerous than a powerful religious leader. People with powerful personalities always want power over other people. They inspire fans. But remember, she said, that
fan
is short for
fanatic
. Religious and political fanatics believe they are right and everybody who disagrees with them is wrong. They are self-righteous, arrogant and intolerant. They try to force their beliefs down everybody else’s throats. That’s why they are the main cause of wars. You only have to study history to know that. Always beware of true believers, she said. Always distrust people who have no doubts about themselves and no doubts about what they believe and what they do.

Old Vic wasn’t a hero, wasn’t a powerful role model, wasn’t the slightest charismatic. That’s why she liked him. He never tried to force anything on her, least of all his faith. He didn’t try to convert her. He wasn’t a brilliant preacher. His church wasn’t fashionable and the regular members of his congregation were mostly old people who’d always gone to St James’s. They liked Old Vic because he always listened to them rabbiting on, never rushed them or put them off. He visited them when they were sick, was always ready to help in ordinary practical ways, however menial, when they needed it. And as important as anything else, he didn’t want to change (in fact, he refused to change) the old-fashioned religious

dried up and I had relaxed and was snuggled against Granddad, who was hugging me gently, Granddad said, ‘Mummy is never coming back. You understand that, don’t you?’

I nodded. And I did, I knew.

‘But always remember,’ Granddad went on, ‘you’ve still got Daddy and Aunty Doris and me, and we love you more than we love anyone else and always will. And we will do everything we can for you. So you’re not alone. Mummy’s gone, and that’s very very sad. But one thing’s for sure. She wants you to be happy. I know, because she said it to me just before she went. She wants you to be happy for her sake as well as for your own. You see, Cordelia, your mummy has died. Everybody dies one day. I’ll die one day. You’ll die one day. But before that, till we die, we’re alive. And that’s what matters. Being alive. And we have to be as alive as we can be and not let sadness or anything else spoil life for us.’

He was silent for a few minutes, then said, ‘I don’t know if you understand what I’m saying. But I think you do. Somewhere inside you. And I know you’ll remember what we’ve done this morning for the rest of your life. And one day, you’ll be pleased we did it. That’s why I took you to say goodbye. So you’d know, and so you’d remember, and so you’d feel good about it when you grow up.’

He was quiet again.

‘It was lovely of you to leave Betsy with Mummy. You gave her something you treasured. That was a beautiful way to say goodbye. You’re a good girl, and I love you very much.’

He lifted my face from his chest, where I’d heard his words coming to me as if from a deep well, and kissed me on the brow, and smiled at me, and said, ‘Let’s go home.’

I didn’t know till recently that Dad and Granddad had a terrible row because of what Granddad had done. Doris took Granddad’s side. But Dad wouldn’t be persuaded it was right. The row was so bad that Dad didn’t speak to Granddad for

rituals and the ancient English words they were used to. The funny thing was that even the most fuddy-duddy members of the congregation, like Mrs Topping, thought Old Vic a bumbling old fuddy-duddy, but though they enjoyed grumbling about him or making fun of him, they liked him all the more for that.

I said, ‘So you became a Christian because Old Vic was a fuddy-duddy.’

She laughed. ‘Let me tell you a story.

‘A long time ago, I mean one thousand five hundred years ago, in the north of England at a place called Jarrow, near the mouth of the Tyne, there was a monastery. Those were the days when monasteries were the universities. Monks could read and write, whereas most people, even powerful people, couldn’t. One day a young boy came to the monastery wanting to be a monk. He was far too young to join, but he was so keen and so clever and so insistent that the monks took him in and allowed him to live with them till he was old enough to start his training.

‘Soon after he arrived a terrible epidemic devastated the population. Perhaps it was cholera or perhaps it was something like the flu we still suffer from and which would kill many of us if we didn’t have modern medicine to protect us. Whatever it was, the disease killed one monk after another. By the time it was over there was only one very old monk and the young boy left alive.