Our Lady of Everything

by Susan Finlay

  Today, however, Margaret not only put her rosary back in her pocket, but also her duster, before shuffling all the way upstairs to what was still Eoin’s room, in which Kathy had installed her new computer; and which now meant that, even though Eoin wasn’t able to ring or write to her as often as he would have liked, she could still write to him and he would still get it – instantly.

  Margaret sat down and turned on the computer which, as if by magic, Kathy had linked up to the even more magical, or possibly devilish, Internet, and then she did as Kathy had done and typed ‘www.gmail.com’ into the navigation bar. Next she entered the email address that Kathy had set up for her, which was ‘margaretoshea1929@gmail.com’, into the little box beneath it, followed by the password that she had chosen for herself, which was ‘12345’, and then she began to compose her first email:

  Dear Eoin,

  I hope that you are keeping well and making the most of the sunny weather. Kathy tells me that you are travelling to another camp – will it be beside the sea again, like Basra, or will it be in the desert, or even in the mountains? Will they let you take your dog with you, or does he have to stay back at the base? I could knit a coat for him if you’d like. Danny, Padraig and Sinead have all asked to be remembered to you, and next week Father Jonathan will say a mass for your safe return.

  Please take care,

  Nana X

  Which translated as:

  Dear Eoin,

  My knees ache, my head aches, my heart aches, and regardless of whether or not I wear my hearing aid the whole world sounds like static.

  You are all I have left,

  Nana X

  Margaret blinked, pressed her lips together and pressed ‘send’, making sure that what was meant to go out went out, and what was meant to stay in stayed in, even if that meant that what little was left of her was now set all atremble. Then she bowed her head and said another Hail Holy Queen, her voice breaking, only very slightly, as she neared the end: ‘. . . And after this our exile, show unto us the blessed fruit of thy womb, Jesus, Oh merciful, Oh loving, Oh sweet Virgin Mary! Amen.’

  Amen – which she did not know had come from ancient Aramaic, via ancient Greek, via ancient Latin to England to Ireland and back again, but which she still translated as ‘so be it’. Oh merciful, Oh loving, Oh sweet Virgin Mary, who is also the Holy Mother, the Holy Virgin, Our Lady of Sorrows, Grace, Light, Mercy, etc., after this, our exile . . .

  ‘So be it,’ said Margaret, out loud, and then turned off the computer.

  She stood up again, and the sudden rush of blood to the head made her dizzy. She held out one arm, palm flat against the wall, and waited until the feeling had passed, and then, when she was just about right again, she shuffled back down the stairs and carried on with the cleaning. The clock on the wall was still ticking. There were still thirty-one crosses hanging over the little blue figure, and also a garden of roses; just as there were still November and December, waiting behind them, although no January or February, which, when they came, would bring other flowers . . .

  The clock continued ticking while Margaret went over to the cupboard underneath the stairs and removed the hoover, and then removed the carpet brush from the extension tube so that she could get into all the cracks. It carried on ticking as the noise of the machine whirred above it, and she began to crawl around the little patterned room sucking up the nonexistent dirt. It carried on ticking when she stopped and rubbed her knees again, which now ached even more than usual, and then when she stood up again, the sudden rush of blood to the head made her dizzy. Again. And again she held out one arm, palm flat against the wall, and waited until the feeling had passed, and then, when she was just about right again, the clock’s big and small hands jolted into the middle of the day.

  Margaret sat down on the edge of the settee and began to say The Angelus, which she now said, as well as all four sets of all five mysteries, interspersed with the extra prayer requested by the Blessed Virgin at Fatima, and numerous Hail Holy Queens, at twelve o’clock and six o’clock each day.

  ‘Amen,’ said Margaret, again, and as she stood up the sudden rush of blood to the head made her dizzy.

  She took out her hearing aid but could still hear the clock, which was still ticking – slightly faster than a heartbeat and far too fast for any more prayers, and then she decided that she would make herself a cup of tea and maybe even have a biscuit. And then she would carry on with the cleaning.

  Leviticus

  STANISŁAW KWIATKOWSKI LIFTED THE LID on the large iron casserole dish and inhaled the smell of golonka, which was Polish for pork knuckle. He could see that the meat was nearly ready, and that when his wife came to serve it, it would fall away, loose and tender from the bone, and ah yes, he thought, in a way that for him was almost dreamily, the one, the only thing worth missing about Poland is the food . . .

  ‘Stańko! You’ll ruin it if you keep on peeking,’ said Iwona, in Polish.

  She slapped him sharply on the arm, and in response Stanisław replaced the lid and turned instead towards the fridge.

  ‘And it’s too early for a beer.’

  ‘It’s never too early for a beer.’

  ‘That’s debatable.’ Iwona leaned in and sniffed his tee-shirt. ‘And you need to change your clothes.’

  Stanisław raised his eyebrows, but his wife was too absorbed in the golonka to notice. Then he ambled slowly up the stairs. He peeled off his bright yellow, ‘In Case of Emergency Break Dance’ tee-shirt and dumped it in the dirty laundry basket, splashed some water under his arms, and selected another bright green one that read ‘I’m with Stupid’, next to an arrow.

  He went back down into the kitchen and kissed Iwona on the cheek.

  ‘Better? Acceptable?’

  ‘Acceptable. Just.’

  Iwona picked up the casserole dish and carried it into the front room, along with the plates that had been warming in the oven. She was just about to sit down next to Stanisław when, as if thinking better of it, she moved her seat slightly to the left, so that the arrow on his tee-shirt now pointed to the casserole dish and not to her.

  ‘I’m not stupid.’

  ‘I wouldn’t have married you if you were stupid,’ said Stanisław, taking his first mouthful of golonka, ‘or if you couldn’t cook.’

  ‘Or sew, or play the accordion. I’m like a Polish geisha.’

  Stanisław looked at his blonde, well-kept wife, who kept him well also, and laughed with amusement and pleasure. He tore a piece of bread from the loaf in the middle of the table and cut a piece of butter that was thicker than a thick piece of cheese. He thought about how England was not only his home but the home that he and Iwona had made for each other, and yet he knew that if he said, ‘England is my home’, or even ‘England is the place where my wife and I have lived all our adult lives’, let alone tried to explain that his daughter spoke Polish with an English accent and English with a Nottingham accent to anyone other than another immigrant then they would look at him like he was raving . . .

  He sopped up what remained of the golonka with the bread, while pushing what remained of the golonka-soaked potatoes into his mouth. Then he looked up at the picture of Pope John Paul II and said, ‘I’m worried about Kasia.’

  Iwona tutted and scraped the remnants of her dinner back into the casserole dish. ‘You’re always worried about Kasia. But she is already five years older than I was when we got married.’

  ‘I know. I was just thinking that.’

  Iwona tutted again and began to stack their empty plates together. ‘Well then. She is old enough to make her own decisions. I certainly was.’

  ‘You were yes. You knew how to fight for what you wanted. But Kasia . . . ’ Again he looked at the picture, thinking firstly of Eoin, and then of the photograph on the cover of The Economist. ‘I just don’t want her to be disappointed, that’s all.’

  Iwona piled the plates on top of the casserole dish and went back into the kitchen, returning a few minutes later
with two cups of very strong tea. She handed one to Stanisław and said, ‘I like Eoin. I think that he and Kasia make a nice couple.’

  Stanisław took his cup and repositioned himself on the settee. ‘I don’t dislike Eoin.’

  ‘Don’t you?’

  ‘I neither like nor dislike him.’ And then, as if this unconscious reference to Dave’s migrant scoring system had somehow pushed the memory of him to the forefront of Stanisław’s mind, ‘I like Dave.’

  ‘Dave?’

  ‘The guy who took her for a beer.’

  ‘But she hardly knows him!’

  ‘But I hardly knew you. I just knew that I loved you and that was enough.’

  ‘Oh Stańko, really.’ Iwona slapped his arm again and then removed the tissue paper parcel, upon which Stanisław had inadvertently placed his cup of tea. ‘I think that was a little different.’

  ‘Different how?’

  ‘A different country. In many ways.’

  Stanisław looked at her and sighed. The tissue paper parcel, he now realised, contained two yards of Koniaków lace. It was only a matter of time before the date would be set and the church would be booked, and then the whole world as he knew it, the whole tiny world in which he was now obliged, against his better judgement, to form some sense of hope, would have changed forever.

  ‘But Dave lives in West Bridgford,’ he said, despondently.

  ‘And we live in Sneinton. And your Kasia’s not such an innocent as you like to think, just as Eoin’s not so worldly wise.’

  ‘I never said that Eoin was wise.’

  ‘And I say he’s not stupid.’

  Her eye moved back to Stanisław’s tee-shirt and, remembering the arrow, she got up and sat back down on the other side of the settee.

  ‘You know that Józek never joined the party?’ Stanisław continued.

  ‘And nor did I if you remember rightly?’

  ‘Of course I remember. But what about all the people we knew who did? Who said that it didn’t matter because they were still the same person. But they weren’t the same person. Even if the party itself didn’t change them, everybody else’s reaction to it did. And it made them become them, while we stayed us. And then they had to act like them, and then they hated us. When we were in Poland—’

  ‘I can hardly remember Poland,’ said Iwona, still in Polish. ‘Or why I didn’t join the party. Or even what the party means. Now do you want another cup of tea?’

  ‘No, you don’t want to remember Poland, which is different,’ said Stanisław, glaring at the tissue paper. ‘And what I would like is a beer.’

  Numbers

  MEGHANA BUDANNAVAR SCANNED THE EVENING Post Classifieds office until she located Kathy, who looked up from behind her computer screen and pointed at the Stop the War Coalition badge, which was pinned to her sweatshirt collar. She raised her own hand to wave back, only before she had the chance to do so Judy took hold of her arm.

  ‘Oh, I’m okay thanks,’ said Meghana, noticing the tartan tin that Judy was carrying, ‘I had a sandwich on the way.’

  For a moment Judy looked puzzled, and then, as if seeing the tin for the first time, laughed.

  ‘Oh no, not that. Something even better.’

  ‘Really?’

  Meghana tried not to sound too incredulous. Although she had little doubt that there were indeed better things available than Judy’s souvenir shortbreads, she couldn’t help but think it unlikely that they were to be found in the Free Ads section.

  ‘Yes. I’ve had you moved to Family Announcements.’

  ‘Well that’s very kind of you but, err . . . ’

  ‘Now don’t start being all silly and polite about it.’ Judy gave her arm a gentle squeeze. ‘We all do what we can.’

  Meghana looked back over at Kathy and scowled and shrugged her shoulders, before then sitting down beside Aaeesha, who continued to flick through Heat. Then she put her headset on and typed ‘www.blueyonder.co.uk’ into the navigation bar – except that the little green light on the switchboard lit up straight away. Reluctantly she clicked onto the Family Announcements screen, and pressed ‘answer’.

  ‘Hello, Evening Post Family Announcements. Meg speaking how can I help you?’

  ‘Alright duck. I want to have a bereavement printed.’

  Meghana began to type into one of the Family Announcements boxes.

  ‘And could I have the name of the deceased?’

  ‘Iris.’

  ‘And could you tell me Iris’s surname?’

  ‘Bradley.’

  ‘Okay, I’m just going to read that back to you using the phonetic alphabet to check that I’ve got the correct spelling. That’s Iris – India, Romeo, India, Sierra – Bradley – Bravo, Romeo, Alpha, Delta, Lima, Echo, Yankee. Is that right?’

  ‘What’s a lima?’ said the voice on the other end, ‘Is it a llama?’

  ‘It’s the capital of Peru. Is that the correct spelling?’

  ‘Yes duck.’

  ‘And what message would you like to leave for Iris?’

  ‘Oh right, hang on . . . ’ The noise of heavy breathing now filled up both of Meghana’s ears. ‘Just give me a minute, okay?’

  ‘Take your time.’

  Meghana broke off a piece of the shortbread.

  ‘Err, okay duck, I’ve found my piece of paper, let me read it out to you – much-loved sister-in-law and favourite Auntie who always made us smile. A genuine woman who we will always love and remember. Goodnight Iris, God bless. Love Jack, James, Tracey, Mick and families xxxx.’

  Meghana continued to type into the Family Announcements screen while Aaeesha kept flicking through Heat.

  ‘And would you like any artwork?’

  ‘Sorry duck?’

  ‘Some people like to have a picture of something, like an urn, or angels or something, to go next to the obituary.’

  ‘Oh right . . . ’

  ‘It doesn’t cost any extra.’

  ‘Oh right, well then you might as well chuck in a couple of angels.’

  ‘Okay, two angels.’

  ‘Yes duck.’

  Meghana clicked onto the artwork box and selected two angels, which on closer inspection weren’t actually angels, because the very cheap art package that the Evening Post had bought did not contain any angels, only cupids from a previous valentine package with zeros attached to their heads. Part of her thought it wasn’t right that the recently deceased should be immortalised by a symbol that was possibly classical, or possibly even capitalist, instead of a Christian one – even though she herself had never been a Christian – but another bored or rebellious part of her thought well, what the hell did it matter?

  Family Announcements constitutes the largest section of the Nottingham Evening Post’s Classified Advertisements (even though it isn’t, strictly speaking, advertisements), and consists, primarily, of obituaries, many of which are illustrated with an amalgamation of classical and capitalist imagery. My study explores the ways in which the incorporation of these economic symbols impacts upon the religious landscape of the East Midlands area through a case-by-case approach . . .

  ‘Now let me just read that back to you. “Bradley, Iris. Much-loved sister-in-law and favourite Auntie who always made us smile. A genuine woman who we will always love and remember. Goodnight Iris, God bless. Love Jack, James, Tracey, Mick and families xxxx.” And then two angels. Is that right?’

  ‘Yes duck.’

  ‘It’ll be in tomorrow night’s paper. Thank you. Goodbye.’

  Meghana pressed ‘end call’ then clicked back onto www.blueyonder.co.uk and typed ‘meginthefield’ into the username box, followed by ‘methefieldstudy’ into the password box beneath it. She saw that there was one new message from Dave, which she opened:

  Dear Post-Meg,

  I am emailing you from my brand new laptop (!!!). Check this out: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=w_BkcCPOd5M

  And let me know if you fancy a drink later.

  Love, Dave Workshop<
br />
  Which translated as:

  Dear Post-Meg,

  I am emailing you from my brand new laptop (!!!). Check this out: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=w_BkcCPOd5M

  And let me know if you fancy a drink later.

  Love, Dave Workshop

  Because nothing in my life ever changes, thought Meghana, resentfully. Yet, as there wasn’t anything else lighting up the switchboard, she clicked on the link, and a video of a hooded, kneeling man appeared. At first glance it was so like all of the other awful images that had been filling up the Internet that she automatically placed it too in the category of violence, and accordingly her immediate response was to gasp out loud.

  ‘What the fuck?’ said Aaeesha, leaning over her shoulder. ‘I-I-I don’t understand.’ And then she realised that the man wasn’t actually being tortured; rather he was wearing a hood, or more specifically a monk’s habit, and that it was this detail alone that resembled the news.

  Meghana looked more closely and saw that the man was kneeling down in order to rearrange the letters on a scrabble board while five other men, on five different TV monitors, each chanted the words of a different pop song. What looked like incense sticks were burning in a jam jar, and a strange purple symbol had been painted on the floor. The caption underneath it read, ‘A kaos magik ritual involving video-conferencing and the use of discordiant images, sounds and smells.’

  ‘Don’t worry, it’s just Dave being an idiot,’ said Meghana.

  ‘Then why do you hang out with him?’

  ‘Because I’m a different but compatible type of idiot.’

  ‘Right . . . ’

  ‘What I mean is—’

  ‘Do you know what I’d love to try?’ came Judy’s voice from behind them, and in response Meghana immediately clicked back onto the Family Announcements screen.

  ‘No,’ she said, attempting to look busy. ‘Please tell me.’

  ‘Some Indian sweets. I’ve heard that they’re absolutely delicious.’

  ‘Well, yeah, I mean you get different types in different areas.’

  ‘Made with sweetened milk and pistachios and—’