In life eternal trusting, we – to thy safe keeping leave our dead.
He looked to Alec, who nodded a grudging respect amid the louder acclamation.
*
In the dwindling days of that summer they gathered at Alec’s bungalow, under the sober supervision of Armstrong’s Undertakers Ltd. Bill was one of six who bore the coffin out into the street, Alec’s Langley Park mates Hughie and Tommy among the others. Carefully they lowered and passed the casket into the compartment of a horse-drawn hearse, tethered to two placid pit-ponies dressed with black plumes.
Alec had fallen by his own garden-gate, angina pectoris the stealthy killer, and left behind no instructions for his interment. Bill addressed the needful formalities with a certain grousing scepticism. ‘There’s nee point the Church putting a mark on a man in death when it never laid a finger on him while he was living.’ Yet he recalled one matter on which his father had been most specific, and that was cremation. ‘He always said to me, “From naught I came, and to naught I’ll return.”’ It was then a simple matter for Bill and Audrey to agree that the minister of Langley Methodist Chapel, one Charles Casson, should preside.
Lined up in a pew with his family, wearing the scratchy suit in which he had been confirmed, John found that the austerity of the Methodist service appealed to him. Yet he could not shake the obdurate suspicion that it did not quite become his grandfather, a man who had been so very much alive. There was no changing the protocol, though, not now. And when bade to do so, the congregation stood as one to sing ‘Abide with Me’. They remained on their feet as Casson offered a prayer.
‘Merciful God, we commend our brother Alexander to your perfect mercy and wisdom, for in you alone we put our trust.’ All eyes settled upon the oaken casket set squarely upon the catafalque. ‘Forasmuch as our brother has departed out of this life, we therefore commit his body to the elements – ashes to ashes, dust to dust – trusting in the infinite mercy of God, in Jesus Christ Our Lord.’
Staring at that coffin, John felt an inner hollow he had carried all day now fast filling up with panic. For it seemed to him, very suddenly, that this whole function had been far, far too orderly – indeed premature, remiss – to have arrived so starkly at its terminus. It was in the stillness of this fraught moment that Casson raised his head from a seemingly ruminative pause. ‘I heard a voice from heaven saying, “From henceforth, blessed are the dead who die in the Lord.” “Even so,” says the Spirit. “For they rest from their labours.”’
At John’s side Bill nodded gently. A hatchway opened slowly in the wall behind the catafalque, and the belt-driven mechanism began to convey the coffin by inches toward its final destination.
Bill drove the family to the Working Men’s Club where it was arranged that all friends and well-wishers be made welcome. To John’s surprise the reception was a concertedly jolly affair. Everybody got drunk, or attempted the feat. His father, meanwhile, surprised him, for there were a few jokesters among the gathering and Bill consorted freely with them at the bar, joining in a loudly disputed game of darts. It dawned upon John that Bill had a social circle all of his own, some kind of sodality drawn from work and the local cricket club. After he had sat watching their game awhile, it was big rubicund George Bell who staggered away from the oche and offered his darts to John, insistent that ‘the lad couldn’t do worse’.
‘You’ll miss your granddad then, son?’ Bell remarked as they loitered together, his arrows swapped for a large Bushmill’s. John nodded mutely. Bill stepped in, seemingly desirous of speaking for his son. ‘Aye, they were proper pals, him and his grandda. Weren’t you? Went off to the Big Meeting together not three month ago.’
‘Aye, aye?’ Bell winked. ‘All the comrades together, eh?’
‘Well, he’s a lefty, this one, see,’ said Bill. ‘Young communist. Fancies that Russia’s a little workers’ paradise.’
‘Aww, divvint be telling us that,’ groaned George.
John was riled by the seeming slur. It was perfectly true that he had borrowed a Pelican paperback of The Communist Manifesto from the library, and had expressed interest in nearby Chopwell village where the streets were rechristened in honour of great Soviet personages – Lenin Terrace, Marx Avenue. But in these pastimes he felt sure he was merely tugging at a red thread that had attracted his eye. ‘I never said I was a communist,’ he murmured.
‘Good job and all, son,’ said George. ‘Mind you, your dad mouths off but they’re a bit lefty in his union, all them posties.’
‘Dad’s not a postman.’
‘Quite right, son, he’s an engineer. But his union lumps in with the posties and the clerks and the lasses what do the switchboard.’
John looked from the bumptious Bell to his father. It might have been no more than the effect of his suit jacket removed and shirt sleeves rolled – that and the boozy jocularity – but Bill wore a combative look. ‘Well, speaking of commies, you should know, John, his lot used to have commies running their bliddy union.’
That sounded wildly unlikely to John, yet Bell held up his hands. ‘Oh aye. Twenty years back. National leadership, mind.’
‘What, real communists?’
‘That’s what they called themselves,’ Bill uttered between his teeth. ‘All fixing ballots in their favour, like. What do you think of that, eh, John? “Vote for me, you might as well, because me and me pals’ votes are worth two of yours anyhow.” That’s your communism, young John. People don’t want it so it’s got to be forced on ’em.’
John was feeling browbeaten, and found that he didn’t care to be lectured on unfairness. ‘That’s what unions are for, though, isn’t it? To stick up for people who don’t know what’s good for them.’
Bill was visibly more hotly incredulous. ‘What unions are for, son, is wantin’ more pay for less work and bleating if they’re asked to put up with it. Don’t bloody kid yourself, John, this lot these days, they’re not “socialists”. They’re bloody communists, man. Them at Ford Motor Cars wanting seventeen per cent on their wages. Bloody firemen wanted thirty. You know your mathematics, right? Figure that one out.’
‘Okay, that’s maybe quite a lot,’ John wavered.
‘Whey, John, man. They want what they see others have got, but they want it by blackmail. Not by graft. The only way they know is to hold the country to ransom, cause people as much bliddy bother as they can. They’ve not done a bliddy …’ Bill was now fighting for breath and words, as if the unfairness defied both nature and description. ‘They want what they haven’t earned, man. And bliddy Labour government, they get it an’ all. Tell you, even my dad woulda given this lot what for.’
With that, Bill stepped back to the oche and threw his arrows with vehemence.
‘Naw, you’re alright, son,’ Bell said sotto voce, clapping John’s shoulder. ‘Don’t you mind your da. He’s just a bad un for keepin’ a grudge. Principled, like, aye?’
The dregs of the afternoon decanted into the evening, and John stepped out into the small lobby of the Club to locate the men’s toilet. Seeing Bill stood alone, across the frayed carpet at the threshold of the door to the street, reminded him with a start that his father had been absent from proceedings for perhaps as much as half an hour. Tentatively John stepped in his direction. Bill glanced aside, yet seemed hardly to acknowledge the presence. His eyes were vacant, his mouth set, morose. He tapped on John’s shoulder, very lightly. Then his hand flew to his face, his palm pressed into his nose, his fingers spread across his eyes and into his silvery fringe. John heard first a groan, then a sob – the detonation controlled but no less shocking.
Chapter III
THE HOST
Monday, 16 September 1996
Gore was about his ablutions, grey morning light seeping into his cramped Oakwell bathroom. He had awoken from a senseless dream, its narrative twists already forgotten, but found himself lumbered with an equally meaningless erection. It had persisted through his rising from recumbent, and still would not rele
nt. Now, as he urinated, he bent at the knee and applied gentle downward pressure so as to steer his stream cleanly within the bowl. Wrangling thus he was reminded of the one about the relative use of a monk with a hard-on, and grunted in amusement.
His sole purpose for the day was to present himself at St Luke’s Church of England Primary School. Soaking under the showerhead, noting the falling-away of the earlier tumescence, he affirmed his resolve to go on foot, the better to further his acquaintance with the neighbourhood. He towelled himself roughly and laid out his clerical suit. Do it proper, he decided. He was not clear what respect would be afforded the cloth around Hoxheath, but folk were as well to know his business on sight.
*
The morning was dry but brisk as Gore made his way down Hoxheath Road, sidestepping chicken bones and chewing gum. As he reached a convenience store – NEWS ’N’ BOOZE, PROPRIETOR S. MANKAD – a grey-haired woman hobbled past him clasping a crutch in her right hand, her forward motion badly synchronised with the drags she was taking from a cigarette in her left. He stepped into Mr Mankad’s, intending to pick up a newspaper. Two young women in tee-shirts – a butterball blonde and a lithe, prettier brunette – chatted idly across the counter. ‘Ah says to him, “Get on with ye …”’ The females cast languid eyes over the cleric in his austere garb. Gore smiled, said nothing, attended to the news racks. Only the tabloids were on offer, so he selected a Mirror and stepped back to the counter. In front of him now was a bleary man buying four lottery tickets from the blonde, seemingly suspicious that he had not been served correctly, counting both tickets and coins, sweating dissatisfaction. Those, my friend – Gore eyed the tickets – are not about to improve matters.
Four children barrelled through the door – uniformed, satchels on backs. ‘Oi,’ the shopkeeper barked. ‘Just two of yous at a time, nee more, right?’
‘Shut up, bitch,’ piped one child, in what Gore heard as a stab at an American accent.
‘You what? See if I get hold of yee, I’ll wring yer neck.’ Indeed she was coming round the counter, paunchily formidable, and the threat drove a couple of the kids straight back out to the street. Her brunette friend slipped toward the door in their wake.
‘Listen, I’ve gorra get on, I’ll see you, eh, Claire?’
‘Eh, Lind, while I think on, can you do the morra afternoon?’
‘Aw, Claire, I canna man, sorry, listen I’ll see ya?’
Returning to her station, vexed, Claire beheld Gore with reproving eyes as she took his coins.
*
Hoxheath Community Park offered Gore a plausible short-cut and so he strode down a gravel path between tree-hemmed lawns. The municipal flower beds were meagre, maple and birch trees sadly denuding. Yet there was a pleasing hush, the buzz of the high street traffic quelled. Midway down the path Gore heeded cries and exhortations emanating from three boys, teenagers, bashing a football back and forth against the wall of a redbrick public convenience, whereon black graffiti professed MIGHTY MOUSE, NUFC and FUCK OF YOU BASTARD.
‘What a gurl!’
‘Offside, man!’
‘Whey bollox, how can ah be, Mackaz man?’
Nearing, Gore saw that one boy – tubby, slower to shift – was hugging the wall, acting as goalie, and somewhat forlornly as his pals hammered in shots from close range, much too fierce for the lad to risk flapping a hand at. Watching the bounce of the ball, the boys lustily giving chase, Gore felt a keen urge for a kickabout. Be careful what you wish, he thought, as another snapshot ricocheted off the wall and raced into his path. Instinctively he trapped and side-footed the ball back toward the boys. The one nearest to him stooped, picked it up and bore it back to him. He was a stout lad, his nose hooked, cheeks plump and ruddy, hair clippered close, every inch the pint-size juvenile Geordie.
‘Oi mistah, will ya tak’ a quick corner for us? Just quick, like?’
Why not? Gore jogged twenty feet or so hence to a suitable angle, spilled the Mitre ball onto the grass and dragged it to a prime spot.
‘Eh man! On the heid!’
From a short run-up Gore struck the ball crisply with the outside of his right foot. It hung and bent in the air, and the other boy, back to the wall, leapt to meet it, clearly intending a bravura scissors kick. He failed to connect and fell rudely on his backside.
‘Ahhh!’ said his friend, Gore’s new acquaintance. ‘You’re shit!’
Gore decided it was time for him to jog onward.
‘Sorry, Fatha. Not you, like.’
‘My name’s John.’ He waved as he went on his way.
*
His watch read 9 a.m. He had timed the walk nicely, even allowing for the unscheduled stops, and yet he found himself thwarted at the final hurdle. St Luke’s – a modern redbrick construction with a pitched roof of grey polycarbonate panels – was protected by iron fencing all round its perimeter, no point of access apparent. Gore had tramped the full length of three sides before finally he saw a gaggle of children running through a gate toward a fibreglass portico. He hastened his step and fastened himself to the shoulder of one diminutive pupil, thus passing under a plain crest proclaiming FAITH HOPE CHARITY, and through glass doors. Within he was met by a familiar mingled odour – bleach, Tupperware, sour milk, unwashed hair. A bell was ringing, small bodies rushing around his knees, but one plump lady – ginger and slightly cross-eyed – was approaching him from the relative quiet of a corridor to his left.
‘Rev’rend Gore? I’m Alison, I’ll take you to Mrs Bruce.’ She led him back from whence she had come, glancing over her shoulder. ‘Your pal’s here already? I just asked him to step out.’ She gestured toward a waiting alcove at the end of the corridor, by a red door marked PRINCIPAL. Jack Ridley was poised awkwardly half-in and half-out of a hinged glass panel, trying to nurse an enamel mug of steaming tea whilst filling a pipe.
‘How do, John. Smoker’s corner, this.’ He gestured out of doors toward a doleful man in jacket and tie pacing the patio, taking joyless pulls on a cigarette. But this he dropped and stamped upon quickly, and Gore turned, hearing the same sharp heels on linoleum behind him. A woman in a suit was bearing down, mid-forties, her features small and sharp, her hair fiercely coloured reddish-brown.
‘That’s five after nine and all safely stowed but you, Ian. Get on your way there, eh?’
The shifty teacher pressed past Gore, tugging on his loose necktie.
‘I’m Monica Bruce, Reverend. Pleased to meet you.’
‘John. Likewise. This is Jack Ridley – my churchwarden, so to speak.’
‘How do,’ Ridley grunted. ‘I should say I was just lookin’ at that bit bother you’ve got out there.’ He pointed past the glass, beyond the sprawl of concrete playground, toward a derelict stone building that overlooked it, cordoned by plastic barricades and KEEP OUT signage.
‘The old school?’ said Monica. ‘Aye, we’ve had to close off that bit playground. Slates falling off the roof, see.’
‘Well, I can see about getting that fixed for you,’ said Ridley.
‘Oh no, it’s a long-term problem, that. We want to develop it, see. You can get this or that money, if you can be bothered. It’s just the forms are all thirty pages long. I get weary.’
Ridley might have heard her, but his expression was unchanged. ‘Well, I’m saying, I can see about getting it fixed for you.’
Monica patted Ridley’s arm lightly. ‘Well thank you, Jack, but it’s about more than just a roof. Shall I show you’s then? The hall and whatnot?’
They followed her, Gore endeavouring to stay apace, Ridley more dilatory in their wake. ‘I hope you don’t mind,’ Gore offered, ‘my intruding on your premises like this.’
‘Hardly. We serve the same master, don’t we? Anyhow – I’ll see that you’re made to pay for it.’
Gore smiled. There was something bracing and sceptical about this woman that made the taking of offence redundant.
‘The only thing from my angle,’ she continued, ‘is how long you’re
here. Not wanting shot of you, you understand. Not when you just fetched up.’
‘It’s a moot point,’ he shrugged. ‘I’m on probation. If enough people come and keep coming, maybe they’ll build me a church. Then I’m out of your hair.’
‘Ah, but how many’s enough?’
‘Enough that I don’t feel I’m wasting my breath. Just not so many as I can’t remember their names.’
They had reached the assembly hall. Not bad, Gore reckoned. Presentable powder-blue walls, cherry-red linoleum, scuffed but not shabby, tramlines taped out for badminton. Windows down the length of one long wall, on the other an array of mounted and felt-covered display boards, each consecrated by age-group to pinned-up paintings of smiling suns, bacon-rasher skies, fluffy clouds and suchlike. There was no stage but an upright piano was pushed into a corner. A lectern stood lonesome in the midst of the floor, and they ambled toward it.
‘Mrs Boyle – Alison? – she plays the piano for us. She’ll do the same for you. We always have a hymn at morning assembly.’
‘Nice,’ Gore murmured. ‘You take your duties seriously.’
‘Oh, it’s the least we can do. Some of the parents, I daresay they still think a church school can make their kids behave. Like we were Jesuits. That’s the image, but, isn’t it? Discipline. Tradition. And not such a mix, to be honest – backgrounds and that?’
Ridley grunted.
‘Don’t get me wrong, I want us all to get along. But I’m not daft about how people look at things.’
Considering his reply, Gore saw that Monica was peering past him. ‘Oh blimey, now here’s a right one.’
Gore turned. Toddling up the length of the hall, with an oddly pronounced, near-comical swagger, was a boy of maybe six years in age – a little tow-headed tank of a kid, pink-cheeked, his lower lip protuberant, bearing in his hand a sheet of colouring paper. Pretty mouth he’s got, thought Gore. Monica clacked down upon him, her own cheeks colouring. ‘What are you doing out of the classroom, Jake Clark?’
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