“Okay. And your point is?”
“Blind faith.”
“Sorry?”
“When the reward is big enough, people are prepared to believe anything. It’s a bit like religion, I suppose.”
“What do you mean?”
“People who believe in God. You’re promised eternal life and all that jazz, and despite there being absolutely no reason to believe any of it, people do.”
“Never thought of it like that.”
“So, is that what you have, doll? Blind faith?”
“Um, I guess so.”
“Not the same as trust though, is it?”
This is getting a little deep, and uncomfortable.
“Where are you going with this, Clement?”
“Nowhere. Just passing the time.”
I have no interest in pursuing this subject and check the map on my phone.
“We take a right turn, about fifty yards ahead.”
Clement nods and we continue onwards.
We turn into Murray Street and it’s a far cry from the urban sprawl of Camden Road. It’s a wide avenue lined with grand, semi-detached townhouses, painted a variety of pastel shades.
“Some money round here, doll.”
“All Saints is just around the corner, so let’s hope so.”
We turn left and the scenery becomes greener. There’s a small park to our right, dotted with mature trees and planted borders. Beyond the wrought iron railings, a handful of the local residents are taking advantage of the open space: a father and his young son kicking a plastic football, a couple sitting chatting beneath a tree, and a few loners perched on benches, reading.
“According to the map, the church is at the end of this road.”
Nerves arrive, and I’m now that little girl again, standing at the top of the water flume and staring down a dark hole. I have the same fears about what comes next, but circumstances dictate I have no option but to face those fears. The only difference is I have a man at my side this time, rather than one waiting at the end with a towel.
“You alright, doll?”
“I’m okay,” I mumble with little conviction.
“You don’t look it. You shitting yourself?”
“A little nervous maybe.”
“Don’t be. What’s the worst thing that could happen?”
“I dread to think. I’m a terrible liar and I’m worried the priest will see right through me.”
“Don’t lie then. Just play a part.”
“Eh?”
“Think of your favourite film, your favourite actor. They’re just pretending to be somebody else. Roger Moore pretends to be James Bond in Live and Let Die. Sophia Loren pretends to be Anna Jesson in Brief Encounter. You’re just playing a part in there, doll.”
It’s not the worst bit of advice I’ve ever received. I’ve spent most of my adult life acting out my role as a bride-in-waiting, so it won’t be that much of a stretch. It’s a shame the role of an actual bride has always eluded me.
“Thank you, Clement.”
“Any time.”
We reach the end of the wrought iron railings, and the spire of All Saints Church comes into view beyond a cluster of trees.
With my heart beating a little faster, we turn into a narrow lane and pass under the lychgates.
Clearly much older than the two Victorian churches we visited earlier, All Saints is far more in keeping with the sort of church I’d want to be married in. Beyond the softer architecture, the walls are constructed of sandy-coloured blocks and intricately carved stonework, rather than carbon-stained brick. Most impressive of all is the bell tower, with a black and gold clock face positioned just below the belfry.
It’s a beautiful little church, and we are not the only ones there to admire it.
“Shit. Who are this lot?” Clement grumbles.
He’s referring to a group of a few dozen people, loitering just outside the main doors. Tailored suits, hats, and some gorgeous dresses — the attire of choice for wedding guests.
“It’s Saturday, so I guess it’s a wedding.”
“Great. Guess we’re gonna have to wait till they’ve cleared off.”
“Let’s sit down. My feet are killing me,” I say, pointing to a bench in front of the stout holly hedge, screening the church from the road.
We cross a patch of scrubby grass and sit down.
From our position we have a clear view of the main doors, some thirty yards away. The crowd are all facing the doors, chatting and laughing as they presumably wait for the bride and groom to make their grand exit as husband and wife.
On cue, the bells begin to toll.
“Well, that’s one thing we know for sure,” I shout. “They definitely employ bell ringers.”
Clement rolls his eyes and shuffles across the bench so we can hear each other above the chimes.
“Yeah, and let’s hope this is where Harry Cole did his thing.”
We sit back and wait.
Amongst the greenery, it feels good to be away from the noise and the grime of central London. I still feel filthy, and my feet are throbbing, but our unplanned break is welcome.
I tip my head back and close my eyes, the sun’s tepid rays warming my face. My heart rate slows, and as I try to put all my worries to the back of my mind, I begin to relax a little.
I should have known better.
“Bloody hell. Doll, did you see that?”
My head snaps forward and I squint at Clement.
“What? What is it?”
“You didn’t see them?”
“See who?”
“The groom and the best man. They walked out of the church and…” His voice drops to almost a whisper. “They only kissed each other, doll. A proper, full-on kiss.”
He turns to face the church doors and points, open mouthed. “Look! They’re at it again. What the hell is the bride gonna make of that? And why is everyone cheering?”
“Clement, there is no bride,” I chuckle.
“What? It’s not a wedding?”
“No, it’s a wedding, but there’s no bride. And that’s not the best man, it’s the groom. I don’t know if there’s a specific term but both men are grooms.”
“I don’t get it.”
“They’re a gay couple.”
“Poofs? Getting married? No way.”
“Yes, way, and don’t use that word. It’s offensive.”
“Jesus wept,” he groans. “Who gets to decide which words are offensive nowadays?”
“Typically, people on Twitter.”
“Who?”
“It’s complicated.”
He shakes his head. “What do you call them now then? You know…men who prefer a bit of cock?”
His terminology throws me for a second. I can’t decide if it’s offensive, or just brutally factual.
“Erm, nothing. They’re just men who happen to be gay. It’s no big deal, Clement, and neither is the fact those two have just got married, so stop staring.”
Clement’s earlier words, about playing a part, clatter to the front of my mind. If he himself is putting on an act, his shock at seeing the couple kiss was worthy of an Oscar. He did appear genuinely shocked.
He continues to stare at the happy couple, now surrounded by well-wishers, smiling and swapping kisses.
“Clement, you’re still staring. Have you never seen a gay couple before?”
“Jesus, doll, course I’ve seen poof….sorry, gays before,” he fires back. “I lived in London, not in bleedin’ ignorance. Some of the blokes I did jobs for were gay — suppose that’s why they hired me. Some folks weren’t so tolerant of gays back then, and they dished out a shitload of grief. Maybe that’s why the closet seemed a safer option.”
“Okay. It’s just you seem a little shocked.”
“Not shocked, just surprised how normal this all seems to everyone. It’s like blokes have always married other blokes, as if it’s nothing new.”
“I guess it’s not real
ly new, well, not in this country.”
Clement doesn’t answer and we sit in silence as the crowd sees the couple to an awaiting car. With the two grooms on their way, the guests quickly follow. Within five minutes we’re alone in the church grounds.
Knowing our challenge is now imminent, my nerves return.
“I suppose we should head on in then?” I sigh.
“Not yet. Need to wait for the bell ringers to leave. Can’t really check the place out if they’re still messing around with their bells.”
“Of course. Good point.”
It’s only postponing the inevitable but I’ll take another five minutes of sitting here doing nothing. Clement appears equally content just to sit in silence and soak up our surroundings.
The minutes tick by and my nerves get the better of me. I feel compelled to distract myself with small talk.
“Where in London did you live, Clement?”
“Grew up in a boys’ home, Kentish Town way.”
“That’s where St Luke’s is, isn’t it?”
“Yeah.”
I don’t think Clement really wants to chat, but I persist.
“Can’t have been much fun, growing up in a boys’ home.”
“Not really.”
“If you don’t mind me asking, why didn’t they find you a foster home, or a family to adopt you?”
“They did try, but somebody messed things up for me.”
“Who?”
“Adolf Hitler.”
“Hitler? What did he do?”
“Directly, nothing. Indirectly, the second world war kicking off when I was a nipper didn’t help.”
“You grew up during the war?”
“Told you. I was born in 1935, so yeah.”
“What was it like?”
He turns to face me. “Are you shittin’ me? What do you think it was like?”
“Sorry. I’m just curious.”
He runs a hand through his hair and stares up at the clock tower. My nerves build, but not so much I want to question Clement any further.
Another minute passes and he puffs his cheeks out, exhaling a long breath. Keeping his gaze fixed on the church, he mumbles two words.
“Tommy Baker.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Tommy Baker. He was my best mate at school.”
“Okay,” I reply hesitantly, unsure where he’s going with this.
“It was his seventh or eighth birthday, can’t remember which. His mum organised a party at their house and Tommy invited every boy in our class — except me.”
“I thought he was your best mate?”
“He was, but his mum didn’t like me — thought I was a bad influence on him. She didn’t want me at Tommy’s party.”
“That’s harsh.”
“Maybe. Anyway, I remember the day of the party. All the boys in our class were excited, talking about it all bleedin’ day. I sat at the back of the classroom and just kept my head down. Didn’t talk, didn’t listen. Shed a few tears though, couldn’t help it.”
I feel a lump bob in my throat.
“The moment the bell rang, I was out of that classroom like a rat up a drainpipe. Couldn’t stomach hearing any more about the bloody party. I went back to the boys’ home and picked a fight with one of the toughest kids there. He gave me a right battering; only stopped when an air-raid siren went off.”
“Jesus, Clement. Why?”
“Distraction. Better to feel the pain of a good hiding than feeling sorry for myself about Tommy’s party.”
“I honestly don’t know what to say.”
“Some things happen for a good reason, doll.”
“How so?”
“I was gonna bunk off school the next day but I was on a final warning. I was a pretty bright kid and didn’t mind school. Certainly didn’t wanna get kicked out. So, I walked in the next morning, thinking how I’d have to listen to the other boys harping on about how great the party was. As it turns out, I didn’t have to worry about it.”
“Why not?”
“There was just me and one other kid at registration.”
For the first time since he began his tale, Clement turns to face me.
“The Luftwaffe delivered their own birthday present to Tommy’s house. Direct hit. The only reason I wasn’t alone at registration that morning is because the other kid had thrown up an hour before the party and his mum wouldn’t let him go. All the other poor sods were blown to bits.”
Over the years, I’ve read many novels with unexpected twists. The end of Clement’s tale is in a different league.
“I…that’s awful.”
“Yep. Does that answer your question, doll?”
“My question?”
“You wanted to know what it was like, living through the war.”
I suddenly feel foolish. Such a glib question in hindsight, like I’d asked Clement what his ham and cheddar toastie was like. But beyond my foolishness, I’m struggling to reconcile Clement’s seemingly genuine recollection of such a tragic event and the simple fact it can’t possibly be true.
There really isn’t anything I can say, so I don’t.
We sit in silence again, until we hear chatter from beyond the church door.
“Heads up, doll.”
Three men and a woman, all pension age, wander out of the church and make their way across the lawn towards the car park.
“That’s gotta be them, don’t you reckon?”
“I think so.”
“Right. Time to go to work.”
Clement slowly gets to his feet, but my legs are less cooperative and I remain seated.
“Come on, doll,” he says, looking down at me.
From my seated position, his sheer size reminds me of the giant in Jack and the Beanstalk, least the way I once imagined him. One thing I can’t imagine is this giant ever being a fragile little boy, sobbing his heart out in a wartime classroom. But I guess if he can move on from that, real or otherwise, I can deal with a minor act of subterfuge.
I get to my feet.
“Ready when you are.”
21
The interior of All Saints doesn’t deliver much in the way of surprise. Rows of wooden pews, stone columns, stained glass windows — a cookie-cutter church, in almost every respect. It does feel much grander than the interior of St Michael’s, though. Might be down to the money in the local neighbourhood. Maybe the poorer areas get budget churches, and the wealthy get a scaled-down version of Westminster Abbey. I’m not sure how these things work.
A figure dressed in black is mindlessly collecting hymn books from the pews as we step towards the aisle.
Clement coughs to signal our presence and the figure turns around, a warm smile breaking on her face. The black top is actually a cassock, complete with white dog collar.
“Oh, hello there,” she chirps. “Sorry. I was miles away.”
She eases herself from behind the pew and strides down the aisle towards us.
“I’m Reverend Claire,” she says.
In my head, I had imagined spinning my lies to a man. Now I’m facing a different challenge — a woman, not much older than me. This changes the dynamic slightly.
I take a breath to steady my nerves but I still have to physically force the words out. My first lie, and possibly the biggest stretch, certainly in my mind.
“Good afternoon, Reverend. I’m Beth, and this is my fiancé, Clement.”
I read somewhere that people tend to avoid eye contact when lying. I do the opposite, and stare straight into her pale green eyes. There’s not a flicker to suggest she doesn’t believe me.
“No need for titles, Beth. Most of my parishioners just call me Claire.”
“Right, okay…Claire. You have a lovely church here.”
“It’s quite something isn’t it? I’ve been here four years and it still fills me with joy every time I walk through the door.”
To prove her point, she lets her gaze drift above our heads. A few seconds of
awkward silence ensue.
“So, what can I do for you?” she asks, snapping back to reality.
I wait for Clement to explain our fictitious marriage plans.
Silence.
Claire continues to smile at us, tucking an errant strand of auburn hair behind her ear.
I flick my elbow a fraction, barely noticeable, but enough to nudge Clement into action.
“You’re…a woman,” he eventually booms, his voice echoing around the empty church.
“Well, I have a uterus, breasts, and I’m quite partial to shoes, so I suppose I must be,” Claire retorts, an undercurrent of sarcasm in her voice.
“But…women…”
“Sorry, Claire,” I interject. “Clement has been…um, away for a while. He’s still acclimatising to life in modern Britain.”
“Okay, so it’s not a problem, me being a woman?”
Clement doesn’t answer. I look up at him and frown, willing him to look at me, but his eyes are fixed on Claire.
I flick my elbow again.
“Yeah, no. It’s…err, all good darlin’,” he finally splutters.
“Splendid. So, what brings you to All Saints this afternoon?”
Clement clears his throat and finds some composure. “We’ve just moved into the area and we wanna tie the knot, don’t we, doll?”
I nod, and flash Claire what I hope is a sincere smile.
“That’s great news. Congratulations, and welcome to Camden,” she replies enthusiastically.
“What we need to do is pop into the vestry and book an appointment for you to come in. I’ve got to be somewhere else within the hour, otherwise we could have gone through the process now.”
“No, an appointment is fine, Thank you,” I squeak.
“Let’s get you booked in then. Step this way.”
Claire turns and leads us down the aisle. As we follow, Clement grins at me and offers his arm, as a father might before walking his daughter down the aisle. I’m sure he meant it in jest, but to me it feels more like a cruel taunt. I shove his arm away.
We reach the end of the aisle and Claire steps through a low doorway to the left of the altar.
“Mind your head,” she calls over her shoulder, presumably to Clement.
He stoops through the doorway. I don’t.
We enter a narrow corridor which leads to the vestry; to all intents and purposes an office. We follow Claire into a ten-foot-square room and the claustrophobia I felt on the Underground returns with a vengeance.
Who Sent Clement? Page 18