by Mavis Cheek
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, self-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.
'Florence Parker was an extraordinary woman’ Lilly said. She slurred, swallowed, and added, 'How I wish I could dance.'
Father Bryan, settling himself down in a fine, carved chair, nodded appreciatively. His raised his eyes to the coffered ceiling, and was pleased that even the broken were welcome in his church. No squints for him. He looked very holy and let his mind drift in the pleasure of it all.
Lilly gathered herself. 'Very extraordinary’ she said. 'And such a piece of work as one could hope never to see again.'
The congregation shuffled - as if perplexed. Surely that was wrong...?
Patrick felt Audrey's hand seek his again and he took hers gratefully. He squeezed, hers stayed still. He dared to raise his eyes to the Madonna. She was back to being a Queenly Maiden again with the child tucked safely in her arms. That was something to be thankful for. But he did not have long to be thankful before Lilly's voice quavered out, stronger than it ought to be.
'She had a good husband’ said Lilly. Father Bryan drifted off. 'And she ruined him.' She flung out her knobbly old hand and pointed a twisted, shaking finger at the coffin. 'Her. That one.' Her laugh, for one so frail, was rich. It echoed around the shocked silence and even the candles seemed stilled by it. There was a shuffling, someone dropped a hymn book and bent to pick it up, but otherwise nothing stirred. This, they seemed to be saying, was more like it. Father Bryan sat on, smiling up at the smoke-dimmed panels of the Angelic Host and clouds with
saints soaring upwards. Their eyes, too, were fixed on the above.
Patrick closed his and waited for the uproar but none came. Only the silence of the assembled who could not - no, not one of them -quite believe that they had heard such a thing.
'Florence-bloody-Parker’ went on Lilly a little indistinctly, but not indistinctly enough, 'rotted his teeth with her baking - where she got the sugar from in rationing we'd all like to know - and rotted his heart too. Pretended it was the immaculate conception. George didn't feature, Oh no, nothing to do with him, Patrick wasn't - not even allowed to hold him - called it love - mother love ...'
Father Bryan nodded benignly.
'Mother love. Cracked love more like it’ Lilly said contemptuously. And you, Patrick Parker, should be ashamed of yourself for letting her take you away from your dear, dead father.' She raised a bony, mottled finger. 'He gave you everything you know . . . Everything you've got now was down to him and his dear, clever hands.'
Father Bryan, mishearing, nodded at the idea that Florence had given her son everything with dear, clever hands. It was certainly what she told him in their little private talks. Father Bryan could have been a bishop if he'd had a mother like that.
Lilly's voice continued, 'Nothing clever about Florence. She had no special gifts. No - it was George with the talent - who passed everything on. Little models he used to make, lovely things . . .' Lilly drifted off for a moment, remembering. "That's where you got the knowledge from, my lad - so don't think you did it all on your own. And little thanks he got for it. None, actually. This man - this selfish stuck-up builder bugger couldn't even cry at his own dad's funeral until he took a bit of drink down the wrong way . . .' Lilly stopped. She was worn out by the effort and the rush of vengeful adrenalin.
This time they knew they had heard right and the congregation responded accordingly with a communal intake of breath, and an almost-hiss as it was let out.
Father Bryan went on appearing to listen devoutly but was in truth now caught up in the mental picture of how well he might wear his mitre and hold his crook. He was running an interesting conundrum through his mind. Outside it was drizzling with rain. Now - if he were a bishop he could expect someone to hold an umbrella for him during the external ceremony. But for him to request it, a mere priest, would be considered too proud. But surely once a bishop you were supposed to be even more humble? If you were a bishop and it was raining you should be glad to go out and get soaked to the skin and never count the cost. The higher you rose, the wetter you should get. But no. He sighed and adjusted his surplice, which was as ornate as he dared to wear for Coventry. The real reason bishops stayed dry was not to do with holiness, actually. The real reason was the embroidery on the cope and whatnot. It would be ruined and that would be hundreds of pounds down the pan. If not thousands. All those widows' mites. Which brought him back to Florence. He'd have to go out there soon, rain or no rain. Maybe it would stop and be a little miracle for him. He prayed for that and began staring downwards, preparing himself for feeling unpleasantly damp.
Patrick turned his head with difficulty and found himself staring into Audrey's veiled eyes. She, it must be said, had lost some of her cool in the heat of the experience. 'Lumme,' she said. And then even more softly, 'Lumme. I never thought she'd go that far ...'
Patrick was too far gone himself to consider this statement odd.
Lilly continued, tiring now, her voice getting more and more indistinct, until she came to saying, 'So I've come to say it for George. He was a wonderful man and he didn't deserve any of it. She was a very bad woman and good riddance to her. I'm nearly done.'
The congregation began shuffling their feet, moving in their seats, rumbling with dismay. Patrick wondered what the fuck he should do? What was the protocol when someone decided to give an anti-eulogy? He looked at the priest who appeared to be transfixed now by the ancient tiles of the floor, as if enraptured with what he heard. He looked up momentarily and nodded once, and smiled encouragingly, in Lilly's direction, aware that she had gone quiet. He gestured with his palms upward that she should speak up, up, up.
So Lilly did. With amazing strength given how weak she really was. Nothing like getting the bit between your teeth, as she told her minder afterwards, for the Finale. She dabbed at the wet corners of her mouth and eyes and went on, 'And she was so pleased about it, Florence was. Not having to do what a wife should and letting me do it instead. Thought she controlled both of us. Well - she didn't. And I want you all to know that George was wonderful, wonderful and -' She broke off. Very tired now, tears trickling down her cheeks. 'And I am very happy to say that Florence Parker did not die a happy woman. And I will.'
Patrick went into a numb little corner of hell. It occurred to him that he might die, too, which would be handy for the undertakers and the crazy priest - two for the price of one - two for the - then a voice broke through the pain barrier and called him back to life.
A voice. Her voice. His saviour. Audrey.
"That's quite enough now, Lilly dear
'Oh no, it's not.'
'Oh yes, I think it is.'
Audrey took both handles and spun the chair around - Lilly appeared to genuflect in her chair towards the Host - in fact, she was so shaken by the whirl that she bounced. As she was wheeled past
Patrick's pew she pointed her finger and said, 'He was a wonderful man, your father, Patrick Parker, and you should always remember it.' Then, thank God, the wheelchair screeched past and was silent.
Father Bryan, coming to, stood up and smiled benignly. He walked towards the altar steps rubbing his hands. Outside he could see that the drizzle had stopped. A thin sun was glimmering through. He was blessed after all, and now he could look forward to the next bit -there just was something impressive about a burial, and he was extremely good at them. He put himself at the foot of the altar, in the place where the pale shaft of sunlight was at its brightest and he beamed at everybody.
Thank you Lilly,' he said. 'De mortuis nil nisi bonum.' Latin, how he loved the sound of it.
Audrey, half pleased, half scared, put Lilly very firmly back at her pew. She had summoned her so that she could make Florence do a turn or two in her grave. Not the full Dervish.
Father Bryan held out his arms as if he would embrace them all. 'Hymn number three hundred and sixty,' he said, and while they were riffling he lifted up his voice and his chin and spoke to the rafters ringingly, 'All is feeble shadow - a dream that will not stay; Death comes in a moment, and taketh all away...'
At which point he was shocked to hear a reedy voice pipe up, 'Bloody Good Job Too.'
Father Bryan lowered his eyes from the rafters in time to see the elegant woman from the front pew put one hand over poor Lilly's mouth, and another over her own, and both appeared to be laughing. Hysterical women. He thought of the Magdalene at the sepulchre.
'Oh,' said the triumphant Lilly later, as they pushed her out behind the long trail of coffin followers. 'But it was worth it. I tell you it was worth it in cartloads
'Get her away from here,' said Patrick through clenched teeth. It was all he needed to have a scandal at his own mother's funeral.
'Don't catch your death,' was Lilly's parting shot, as her minder, much excited at the interest, wheeled her once round the gaping hole in the ground before taking her, shaking but exhilarated, away.
How refreshing, some thought. For how many so assembled in churches and chapels throughout this good Christian land, gathered together to see off the last of a fellow human, have not wished - just once - that someone would tell the truth? Certainly the minder thought so. He had been up for it all along. You don't get very good wages, after all, so there has to be something in it for a grade three council helper class two. After all said and done. 'Were you laughing?' asked Patrick.
'Patrick,' said Audrey, 'how could you suggest such a thing?' Patrick chose to believe her. He needed her too much to do otherwise.
When the earth had been thrown and the hands shaken -
those who wished to do so - and they were many, given Patrick's fame - they made their animated way to the house and ate and drank well. Thank God the press were banned from the service, thought Patrick, and he practically hugged the guzzling priest.
Peggy rang to see how Patrick was managing. Patrick said he was not managing at all well. He was still feeling very roughed up by the service. ‘I suppose you hated my mother, too,' he said.
There was a silence, and then an 'Oh' and then a non-committal 'Hrnrnm', which he took, irritably, to be assent.
The difficulty with true influenza is that it leaves one feeling weak and low and Peggy had hoped for something along the lines of 'How are you feeling?' Instead of how she might be feeling about his mother. Instead of denying her true feelings for Florence (unspeakable) and doing the Peggy-usual ('She was Wonderful'), Peggy just said that fateful Tfaimm.'