The Stickman's Legacy

by Benjamin Appleby-Dean

  "Yes," Mary lied. This was the most she'd got out of her mother in years. "But what kind of person was he? How did you meet him?"

  "He was quiet, always thinking about something. Worried about us, he said. We met –" Diana broke off again. "We met at a party. I know it sounds silly, but there you go."

  "A party?" Mary was rewarded by seeing her mother slip away, back towards the past.

  "Yes, down in London with your Grandfather's friends - strange bunch, I think they were Masons or something. I only went because your grandmother begged me - she said she couldn't possibly cope with them by herself." Diana actually laughed. "It was in this stuffy old stone hall, and most of the people there were much older, but they kept whispering in the corners and I got the horrible sense that they were laughing at me."

  She put the book down. "Just as I was in danger of running away, there he was. I'd never seen him before, but he said he'd been looking for me." Diana looked back to Mary again. "I suppose that sounds strange now, but it felt oddly sweet at the time."

  With that her smile faded and her shoulders stiffened. Her silence asked if that was everything.

  Mary sat, hesitated, but couldn't stop the words spilling out.

  "So why did he leave?"

  She could hear herself from years before, asking in innocence.

  "Don't," said her mother, but Mary asked again: "Why?"

  "Not now." Diana was trembling. "Not today, can't you see that? This isn't the time."

  "You don't know." Mary stared accusing.

  Her mother's hands were angry little knots. "Stop. It."

  Eyes locked. Words streamed from Diana's mouth. "It's all very well standing there thinking you're so clever not caring what you do to me, how you made me worry yesterday like always. You're so caught up in your own head never thinking of others, and now he's dead and I can't have a moment's peace from you without these questions. Are you happy now? Well?"

  "Mum –"

  "Get out. Go and break something, see if I care."

  With that she crumpled to the sofa, white-faced and shaking. Mary bit her tongue, left as quietly as she could.

  That night, Mary dreamed.

  She was walking along a rough path, stones bedded in the soil. A tunnel of trees surrounded her. The path ahead curved until she couldn't see the end of it, only unbroken greenery.

  It was warm, so thick and itchy that she felt her skin would flake off. Insects drifted through the air, turning golden in the sunlight. Despite the suffocating heat, Mary made herself speed up, pushing into a half-run.

  Something else was running behind her. She could hear footsteps in time with hers, heavy and long-legged. As she sped up so did they, keeping pace yet somehow drawing closer.

  Mary half-glanced over her shoulder. She only saw a hint of what followed her, a shadowy movement of great size.

  Breathing hard, Mary sprinted, the path shifting beneath her feet, and yet the footsteps grew closer and tapped faster. With one last fierce effort, she rounded the corner and saw the path stretch to its end, where -

  - it -

  - was now ahead of her stooping low, wooden-legged wooden-bodied, face swollen gigantic and so close to hers they almost touched -

  As Mary hurtled forward, the world exploded into light.

  The bedclothes were twisted around her arms and legs, sweat-sticking to her. The curtains made shadow-shapes across the ceiling.

  Mary's chest felt tight, the bedding bundled across it. She struggled upright, and breathed deep.

  Chapter Two

  It was too early. Mary sat where she was for some time, watching the sunlight flicker across the wall. The clock counted on, and eventually the numbers glared so fiercely that she got out of bed to avoid seeing them.

  She could hear muffled thuds and footsteps from below, Diana moving about.

  Mary had half-dressed before she remembered what day it was, and pulled jeans and t-shirt off again to be kicked into the corner. She opened the wardrobe and dug deep until she found a long black skirt and a smart white top. Mary dumped both of these across the bed and sat on the floor, staring at them.

  She was still there when Diana came knocking at the door.

  "I'm not going." Mary savoured the words, as warm and clear as the day outside.

  Her mother sat on the bed instead of replying, smiled weakly at her.

  "I'm not going." Mary said it forcefully this time, and Diana placed her hands on Mary's shoulders and tugged her forward, cradling Mary's head against her knees. She sighed, but still said nothing.

  Mary felt babied by this, pulled back and stood up. Towering over her mother, the warm feeling left her for good. "Why are we doing this, Mum? How does him being dead change anything for us?"

  Another sigh. "It's a way of moving on, Mary. I know it doesn't change anything right now." Diana's hands twisted in her lap.

  Mary took a step back. "I don't need to move on."

  "Look, the funeral's for our benefit not his, don't you see? I know you're angry at him, but you'll find that saying goodbye helps." Diana looked pleading up at her.

  Mary forced a laugh. "No, Mum, I'm not angry. I don't remember him! How could I be angry about that?"

  "You're the one who's angry, who won't ever talk about it," she continued, seeing her mother shrink back. "Was I shouting at you, yesterday?"

  Mary let the words sit for a moment. "It's you, Mum, not us. Today's only about what you need."

  Diana shuddered, put her face in her hands. Her voice was unsteady. "If - if so, Mary, then I need you to be there." She rose and shuffled out the room, pausing at the doorway. "Please?"

  As Mary came downstairs, grudgingly dressed, she heard tyres grinding on gravel. The family had begun to arrive.

  She felt light-headed, hollow inside, and steadied herself on the banister as her mother opened the door. Uncle William filled the doorway, and the sunlight fled.

  "Morning, Diana." He took Mary's mother in his arms, but only for a moment, and his expression wobbled when he looked behind to Mary.

  "Poor old girl." He smiled, showing his teeth. "How're you holding up?"

  Diana looked to Mary, then realised this was meant for her. "I'm managing."

  "Good." Uncle William didn't say words so much as intone them. He squeezed into the hall, revealing the rest of his family on the doorstep. "And how about Mary, hey?"

  Mary nodded, silent. She looked over the three of them - Uncle William straining against his tight-fitting suit, Aunt Sarah neatly dressed and staring at the carpet, and Terry looking back at her with a half-smile on his face.

  William went back to ignoring her. "We got here first, I see. Timothy's driving Mother up, they won't be long. How about a drink while we wait?"

  Mary's mother jumped. "Oh. Yes, of course, I'm sorry. Do sit down." She ushered them into the front room, looking pleadingly back at Mary until Mary followed.

  William sat on the sofa, making the springs creak in chorus, and Sarah perched beside him with her bag on her knees while Terry sprawled in the armchair. Mary sat beside the coffee table and examined the book balanced spread-paged upon it, Diana's usual corpse-cover and cracked spine.

  Diana tidied the book away and left for the kitchen, leaving heavy silence behind her.

  Sarah coughed. "So Mary, how's school?"

  "Finished." Mary no longer had anything to look at besides her relatives, but her aunt was focused on her handbag, picking at thin leather with dark-painted nails.

  Terry laughed, mock-interest on his face. "Not long out, yeah? Know what you're doing next?"

  "Do you?" Mary stared undaunted at her cousin, and Terry stopped smiling.

  The silence crept back and none of them looked at each other. William took a newspaper from his pocket and disappeared behind it. The back page was covered in ball-point opinions, articles corrected and headlines fixed.

  Mary's mother came back with the tray, and the room filled with paper-crackling and the delicate click of china
. The moment stretched. When the doorbell finally rang, it blew stuffiness and tension from the room like so many cobwebs.

  Diana ran to the hall and came back with Grandmother Lucy hobbling at her heels. Uncle Timothy was supporting his mother by the arm, and he smiled apologetically at the company. "Hello, hello! There was an accident at that turn-off near the woods, and it caused the most dreadful jam. I do hope we haven't kept you all waiting."

  Mary's grandmother struggled free from his arm and sat down on the high-backed chair. "Hello William, Sarah, Terry," she said, looking over each in turn as she named them. She held out her arms. "Diana, my dear, come here."

  Mary's mother did so with embarrassment, and Lucy patted her on the back, making little soothing sounds. "My poor, poor, child," she crooned.

  Lucy then turned to Mary, who got up wearily and let herself be cradled in the old woman's arms. Her grandmother smelled of strong acid soap, and it had turned her skin rough and her embrace scratchy.

  Lucy turned to the cups on the table, and clucked her tongue. "I'm glad you didn't wait for us," she said.

  Timothy patted her on the shoulder, moving forward. "Now, mother, they were waiting. I can see no-one's drunk a drop."

  He greeted William and Terry first, clasping their hands, and gave Sarah a peck on the cheek. Upon reaching Diana, his smile faded and his voice dropped, and he took both her hands between his. "I'm so sorry."

  Mary then found him in front of her. "Poor Mary," Timothy said, giving her a quick tight hug and pinning her arms.

  William stirred restless and rose to his feet, towering over his brother. "How long do we have?" Another toothy smile. "We don't want to be late to church, eh?"

  "William, do sit down." Lucy was tutting under her breath. She had poured herself a cup of tea, perching the saucer on the arm of her chair. "I'm all out of breath, you know."

  William sank down again, displacing cushions. "Sorry, mother." He leaned to offer her the sugar bowl. Sarah had abandoned her bag and was passing cups round, careful and prim as if showing Mary's mother how to do it.

  Mary shifted on her cushion. The clock on the sideboard was moving impossibly slowly, the hands taking a year to the second. She turned to look through the window, and the air was still and the sunlight turned to syrup.

  The lane up to the Parish Church of St Barbara was winding and narrow, and the cars got stuck halfway up. They were sleek black things that Grandmother Lucy had insisted on hiring, made with wide city streets in mind.

  Everyone walked uphill to the lich-gate. The road had dried to powder, and the pallbearers had to shuffle along with all the dignity they could muster.

  A figure in black-and-white walked down to meet them.

  "Hello, John," said Mary's mother.

  "Hello, Mrs Martin," said the Reverend John Swales, one hand fiddling with his collar. "My deepest sympathies to all of you." His eyes swept the group, their dusty shoes and sweaty faces, then came back to Diana. "Sorry about the ah, pathway - we've been trying to get it widened for years, but the diocese won't –"

  A rumbling cough from William.

  "Sorry, sorry." John Swales winced as if something had bitten him. He was young, and scrupulously neat. "How are you feeling? Are we all right to get started?" He was still talking to Diana. Mary had been right - this day was all about her.

  They all squeezed into the churchyard and followed the gravel path, vicar ahead and coffin bumping along behind. Reverend Swales' voice was like a recording, second-hand feeling in every word:

  "I am the resurrection, and the life: he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live, and whosoever liveth and believeth in me shall never die."

  The procession entered the church, and the glare of the sun was cut off by stone and shadows.

  As her eyes adjusted, Mary noticed with surprise that two strangers, a man and a woman, were already seated in the pews. The man was sitting at the back, and looked young, with dark hair that flowed around his ears. His features were striking, but his clothes were muted and sensible.

  The woman, who was far away from him in the middle, was almost perfectly round. She looked like nothing so much as a lump of dough squeezed into a dress, and she wore a thick black coat despite the warm air flooding into the church.

  There was the faintest of thuds as the coffin was set down. The bearers placed themselves discreetly at the side of the church, heads bowed by careful degrees and hands precisely together. Words kept coming from the priest at the front, flowing over everyone's heads.

  The rest of the family were crowding into the front pew. Mary sat as close to the side as she was able, and something rustled under her. She discovered a thin paper booklet, and left it on her lap.

  With the words "Grace and mercy be with you", Reverend Swales finally stopped talking. He polished his glasses on his scarf, his gaze moving across the Martins. Mary met his look, unblinking, and it seemed to her that he moved a little quicker afterwards.

  "Well, hello again to everyone." He put his glasses back on and clasped his hands. "After the first prayer, Diana," and he inclined his head towards her, "will be reading a short tribute to her late husband. Then we'll carry on as set out in the order of service."

  The vicar returned to his formal voice. "We have come here today to remember before God our brother Jeremy," he set off, and Mary let her attention wander around the inside of the building. It was a small church, made of old and faded stone. Towards the back, a large placard and a rack of leaflets clashed with the ancient pillars and arches.

  Mary looked down at the floor. It seemed older even than the walls, and the flagstones were rough and uneven, worn away by centuries of feet. Little shards of mica glittered up at her. She remembered History lessons a few years ago - how the Roman ruins nearby had been raided for stone, and churches and roads built upon the bones of older settlements.

  Most of her family had eyes fixed forward, but Terry returned her look and smirked. She could glimpse the two strangers out of the corner of her eye, but couldn't think how to see them better without making it obvious.

  She looked at the booklet in her lap instead. The paper was stiff, a washed-out shade of red. On the front cover was a line-drawing of a man, and below it was a title.

  ‘In memory of Jeremy Spindle’ it said. Mary felt a shock behind her eyes, a stab of amazement at discovering it here, now. Her father's last name: one more thing Diana had never told her.

  By the time she looked up again her mother was going to the lectern. Diana leaned heavily on the carved wood, and it was several seconds before the words came.

  "I... hadn't seen Jeremy for a long time." She hesitated again. "I - I still don't know why he left, and that made me angry for such a long time, so angry that I tried to forget him in every way I could."

  Her eyes found Mary.

  "When he was here, I loved him." Diana sounded uncertain, and her voice only steadied when she carried on.

  "But when he was gone I loved him all the more, because I knew then how much I was missing. He was always such a thoughtful, careful man, and never upset or cross. Though he never said it, I know that he loved Mary and I because I could see it in the way he was, the way he looked out for both of us."

  Her voice was shaking again. "I believe, now, that he must have left for the same reason, that he was caring for us by doing so. Even if–” Diana's hand covered her mouth. "– even if I wish he'd told me why."

  Anything more was lost, and she stumbled back to her seat.

  John Swales smiled at Mary's mother. "Let us pray," he began again. "As children of a loving heavenly Father..."

  There was no music, Mary noticed. The organ was vacant in a corner, and no hymns were listed in the booklet in her hands. Had her mother wanted it that way, or had the idea come from somewhere else? Had her father wanted his funeral to be as quiet as his life?

  "Jeremy Spindle," she breathed. Her mother's descriptions from the other day had grafted onto her own blurry memory o
f his face, but she couldn't quite fit the two together, face to name.

  "Amen." Mary chased the word, barely managing to join the others in saying it.

  The morning stretched on. Mary huddled in the pew and let the service wash over her. Each of her uncles went up in turn to read. William spoke loudly and awkwardly, while Timothy half-whispered as if he were trying to keep the words for himself.

  Finally Reverend Swales mounted the pulpit, taking each step with slow emphasis. He took a deep breath, leafing through the papers in front of him, and his eyes went wide. His smile was rigid, painted on, and he stumbled over his words.

  "Love." He paused. "Love is a powerful thing, but it's a strange one, too." He took his glasses off, put them back on again.

  "It's love that's brought us here today, of course, and the reason we mourn those who have passed on. That emotion is the - ah - the strongest emotion between people, the greatest bond, and so it causes us the greatest sadness at times like this."

  If Mary squinted, she could make out his eyes flickering up and down the paper.

  "But there's more to love than pain and -" here a page turned "- connection between one another. Love is at the heart of our beliefs, at the way we relate to God and God to us. The difference is that God, loving us so greatly, doesn't mourn at funerals."

  He peered over the top of his glasses. "Doesn't that seem strange? If God loves us as we love our families and our friends, why doesn't he mourn us when we die?"

  The priest was trying to inject feeling into his words, to build up to something, but his voice wobbled. Mary couldn't work out what was bothering him.

  "For that matter, what is that love? We're told that it's unconditional, but what does that mean? Isn't love a kind of judgement, a choice? Doesn't the fact we choose to love someone say that they're different, that they're special? What good is a love that doesn't discriminate, that's offered to us regardless of whether there's any value to us or not?"

  Even spoken awkwardly as they were, the words were confrontational. Mary glanced sideways, but her relatives were blank-faced and her mother's was still buried in her hands.